This buch is the prequill buch to Lorne of the Rings, where that little guy Frodjo really wants his Freckles! So what happens is Frodjo spends all his...moreThis buch is the prequill buch to Lorne of the Rings, where that little guy Frodjo really wants his Freckles! So what happens is Frodjo spends all his days counting Nicky Lane’s freckles, and you know what? There’s was so many of them that he keeps losing count! And Fruddjo says to Nicky how’d you get them things? And Nicky says dummy I was born with ‘em. So then along comes a wizard Merlin! And he that wizard gives Frodjo this magic ring made of lead. And that gave him something like freckles that was called lesions. So his friend Sharon makes him a potion, saying “Drink a couple gallons of this and it’ll give you real freckles not them oozy things” and Frodjo says “I guess so”. So there he is, drinking freckle potion all day long like some bum. And then Miss Kelly thought? Why doesn’t Frodjo go get a job, and start contributing to capitalism?? Becuz if somebody wants something then that’s called Market Value. So then Miss Kelly who is all of these peoples teacher she says “hey Frodjo I know a place you can get a job” and she gets some guy to take him to this shoe factory. They pay him all right! But it’s not even enough money to buy his freckles. So Frodjo gets sad and sits there stitchin them shoes and says “Oh if only I was lucky enough to be born with Market Value I wouldn’t have to be stitchin these shoes and man is it hot in here, where’s the windows?” Okay, that was a weird buch! Sorry!(less)
This isn’t travel writing so much as it’s landscape impressionism, the language of the babbling water of History bubbling up through porous limestone...moreThis isn’t travel writing so much as it’s landscape impressionism, the language of the babbling water of History bubbling up through porous limestone river beds of Time, spatial movement crosscutting temporal sedimentations, revealing striated depth-rings, human experience as the boring-through of such mountain-beings as Taygetus and Parnon in order to listen for the dying resonance of distant tones echoing in empty village squares, whose peals can be found recorded in obscure books in riddle tongues, the chewing of name and place-name like some sweet stone in the mouth until washed down by the pleasant burning of grappa, and the retracing of these to their source-bell, high in some dark obscure Byzantine tower, where a gatekeeper might wash the dust and sand from centuries-old frescoes, revealing blue Orpheus embracing his lyre or Europa astride Zeus the bull, where the flit of starlings in their evening arcs signify more than the woosh of their wings: they overfly silent goatherds on a darkening hill side and eye their flocks, nipping at bushes of wild thyme that scent the Lacedaemonian air along with the cleanest insurgence of sea salt being carried on a westerly wind; and all of this rendered into Patrick Leigh Fermor’s signature prose-poetry, that wanders and wanders the limits of the English language but is forever restlessly searching and moving on. Read him.
I don't know whether to read this one or Bair's, but I sure as hell ain't reading both. GR community, I beg of you, tell me what to do! Decisions are...moreI don't know whether to read this one or Bair's, but I sure as hell ain't reading both. GR community, I beg of you, tell me what to do! Decisions are so hard!(less)