Yeehah! We got us a book club!
You want to meet the real me now?
Mal ,'War Stories'
We're Literary 2: To Read Makes Our Speaking English Good
There's more to life than watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer! No. Really, there is! Honestly! Here's a place for Buffistas to come and discuss what it is they're reading, their favorite authors and poets. "Geez. Crack a book sometime."
Connie Neil - Jul 13, 2004 4:49:38 am PDT #5080 of 10002
brillig
Amy - Jul 13, 2004 4:55:33 am PDT #5081 of 10002
Because books.
Yay for a book club! Now to figure out what I'll recommend...
Lilty Cash - Jul 13, 2004 5:02:00 am PDT #5082 of 10002
"You see? THAT's what they want. Love, and a bit with a dog."
Huzzah! I gots me a recommendation all picked out.
erikaj - Jul 13, 2004 5:55:58 am PDT #5083 of 10002
Always Anti-fascist!
I would have...do I have to come up with Questions to Ponder and junk? And do they have to be classics?
Connie Neil - Jul 13, 2004 6:02:25 am PDT #5084 of 10002
brillig
I've got two recommendations. How do we start this?
brenda m - Jul 13, 2004 6:02:43 am PDT #5085 of 10002
If you're going through hell/keep on going/don't slow down/keep your fear from showing/you might be gone/'fore the devil even knows you're there
Nope and nope.
§ ita § - Jul 13, 2004 6:03:48 am PDT #5086 of 10002
Well not canonically, no, but this is transformative fiction.
You start it when the thread is created, I'm figuring. And that'll have to wait until the naming stuff is resolved in !Kafka.
joe boucher - Jul 13, 2004 11:46:16 am PDT #5087 of 10002
I knew that topless lady had something up her sleeve. - John Prine
It's a ghost town here today. I guess everyone's busy reading the second chapter of Gatsby.
Connie Neil - Jul 13, 2004 11:53:18 am PDT #5088 of 10002
brillig
We're setting up housekeeping in the new Book Club thread
Jen - Jul 13, 2004 12:15:24 pm PDT #5089 of 10002
love's a dream you enter though I shake and shake and shake you
I'm in a maudlin mood, and this poem made me cry. YmaudlinityMV.
"The Writer" by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where the light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
Edited to add: If the "dazed starling" is a reference to _Lolita_, this poem just got a whole lot grimmer.