July 18, 2014
"Culture is fundamental. Literature saves you. Cinema saves you."

Léa Seydoux

(Source: rabbitinthemoon)

July 5, 2014
Literary Maps

14

Recognize this land from literature?

Regular readers of this blog will know that I have a fascination with maps. Having picked up a degree in literature along the way, those two mix very nicely in literary maps.

I don’t know what the first book was that I encountered that had a settings map inside of it. It might have been a Pooh book. I liked having a sense of the places in the book. It reminded…

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Filed under: books literature maps 
June 10, 2014
"That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong."

—    F. Scott Fitzgerald

June 4, 2014
Vonnegut on the Shape of Stories

Kurt Vonnegut draws for you the Shapes of Stories. 


Still need help? Okay, then here is how to write a short story.


May 2, 2014
Writing, at its best, is a lonely life

Writing, at its best, is a lonely life

Papa

Ernest Hemingway at his home in Cuba, the Finca Vigia, 1954

Ernest Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954. He told reporters when it was announced that Carl Sandburg, Isak Dinesen and Bernard Berenson were more worthy.

But the cash award was good and he was going through one of his many bouts of depression and recovering from two consecutive plane crashes that had nearly…

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May 1, 2014
"For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed."

— Ernest Hemingway - Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech

April 4, 2014
Does diagramming it make it clearer for you?

Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.

Does diagramming it make it clearer for you?

Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.

March 10, 2014
The Pequod and the Rachel
It was the Pequod that pursued Moby-Dick,but in the end Melville wanted usto remember that it was the Rachel,searching again for her own missing children,who came upon Ishmael - yet another orphan.

The Pequod and the Rachel

It was the Pequod that pursued Moby-Dick,
but in the end Melville wanted us
to remember that it was the Rachel,
searching again for her own missing children,
who came upon Ishmael - yet another orphan.

October 9, 2013
Author versus English teacher

Author versus English teacher

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Filed under: humor literature 
September 14, 2013
With occasional excursions into the DeepWeb and out to Long Island, Thomas Pynchon, channeling his inner Jewish mother, brings us a historical romance of New York in the early days of the Internet, not that distant in calendar time but galactically remote from where we’ve journeyed to since.
Will perpetrators be revealed, forget about brought to justice? Will Maxine have to take the handgun out of her purse? Will she and Horst get back together? Will Jerry Seinfeld make an unscheduled guest appearance? Will accounts secular and karmic be brought into balance?
On Sept. 17, six days and 12 years after the [9/11] atrocity, we get from Thomas Pynchon a precious freak of a novel, glinting rich and strange, like a black pearl from an oyster unfathomable by any other diver into our eternal souls. If not here at the end of history, when? If not Pynchon, who?
Reading Bleeding Edge, tearing up at the beauty of its sadness or the punches of its hilarity, you may realize it as the 9/11 novel you never knew you needed. Who else but Pynchon can indict the sins of power while giving the sinner noogies of love? Who else could invent, as the name for a Queens strip club, Joie de Beavre? Who you gonna call when a screaming comes across the sky?”
http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2013/09/thomas_pynchon_s_bleeding_edge_reviewed.html

With occasional excursions into the DeepWeb and out to Long Island, Thomas Pynchon, channeling his inner Jewish mother, brings us a historical romance of New York in the early days of the Internet, not that distant in calendar time but galactically remote from where we’ve journeyed to since.

Will perpetrators be revealed, forget about brought to justice? Will Maxine have to take the handgun out of her purse? Will she and Horst get back together? Will Jerry Seinfeld make an unscheduled guest appearance? Will accounts secular and karmic be brought into balance?

On Sept. 17, six days and 12 years after the [9/11] atrocity, we get from Thomas Pynchon a precious freak of a novel, glinting rich and strange, like a black pearl from an oyster unfathomable by any other diver into our eternal souls. If not here at the end of history, when? If not Pynchon, who?

Reading Bleeding Edge, tearing up at the beauty of its sadness or the punches of its hilarity, you may realize it as the 9/11 novel you never knew you needed. Who else but Pynchon can indict the sins of power while giving the sinner noogies of love? Who else could invent, as the name for a Queens strip club, Joie de Beavre? Who you gonna call when a screaming comes across the sky?”

http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2013/09/thomas_pynchon_s_bleeding_edge_reviewed.html

image

September 12, 2013
"“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, or you wouldn’t have come here.”"

— Lewis Carroll

August 29, 2013
"And I longed desperately to really live for once, to give something of myself to the world, to enter into a relationship and battle with it."

— Hermann Hesse (Demian)

(Source: iamcharliesangel)

August 20, 2013
"It is easy to see things in retrospect. But I was ignorant then of everything but my own happiness, and I don’t know what else to say except that life itself seemed very magical in those days: a web of symbol, coincidence, premonition, omen. Everything, somehow, fit together; some sly and benevolent Providence was revealing itself by degrees and I felt myself trembling on the brink of a fabulous discovery, as though any morning it was all going to come together–my future, my past, the whole of my life–and I was going to sit up in bed like a thunderbolt and say oh! oh! oh!"

from The Secret History by Donna Tartt

August 4, 2013
"I’m not brave any more darling. I’m all broken. They’ve broken me."

Ernest Hemingway (A Farewell To Arms)

(Source: iamcharliesangel)

July 29, 2013
"I can’t think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without interruption, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world there’s no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."

Starts out nice and then gets creepy. Good old Franz Kafka (The Castle)

(Source: iamcharliesangel)

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