Of Proust: squelching shape-up shoes. Dangit! Needing to go and buy heavy cream for the chilled quiche. A.S. Byatt: dealing with smog-sickness on a GerOf Proust: squelching shape-up shoes. Dangit! Needing to go and buy heavy cream for the chilled quiche. A.S. Byatt: dealing with smog-sickness on a German bus, annnnd I finally basted myself with the mustard (if confused by 'the' in bold, see your funds for traveling details. You'll understand when you eat it). Jane Austen: I had a black eye. My first. And I was grumpy, so, I put her on the shelf and forgot to read her until the last minute. My best bookmark? Yeah, the book had a retribution nom-nom-nom session.
There are many, many others I can remember in my 'firsts.' And yes, I believe remembering the firsts is essential to literary development. Or at least, memory retension. I forgot about the browning butter next to the no-hope-in-hades-you-can-save-it scalded roux. But I somehow never misplace the who, what, where, when, why, if, and, although, or because of my first times.
Poor Annette, she will be forever tied with deer refuse (berries can't get any earthier). I read The Silver Kiss with my plump tween legs swinging down from the comfy camp chair I was half-slumbering in. As a future addendum, I note that this was to be the decent for me from 'good' books for a while. Silver Kiss was my first succubus novel (if they even deserve to be called novels. The idea ain't that new). The concept of snapping things so easily, like mantis thin pencils, was not an idea that my soft head was able to dispel for a while. It was so alluring, to think that there was this fictional being who lived as long as haters permit.
Oh! the poor defenseless creature! Sticking it out though rumors arose of six fingers, a myriad of warts. Such a woman was destined to be a lady of ro Oh! the poor defenseless creature! Sticking it out though rumors arose of six fingers, a myriad of warts. Such a woman was destined to be a lady of royalty running amok. Such an interesting career of choice, that dripping of charm for the king's stately arm (ouch, it seems my father's adoptive speech of Lear is getting to me). Mechanically obsessed with the Tudors, it was the main consumption of my summer and well into winter days. The 'callous' gossipy whisps of dialogue about this woman seemed to devour entire texts. "A hedge witch no doubt." "A staunch supporter of herectics, says the very carriage of herself!"
I had this brash assumption that I was not, or no longer, a precocious reader. It seems to be I took partiuclar delight in antagonising and correcting one of my elders. A ripe old veteran, who was held in the highest of regards, had the nerve to call my belief in certain royal's behaviors an act of immature frivolity. That insufferable man! It was always a plot, a scheme. Having the nasty habit of a hot temper mingled with the inclination to shout "Subterfuge! Fudging!" I disliked the man deliciously (swear it's true!). But, he taught me something invaluable. Question everything. A Sherlockian dream come true, rest his stone-turning soul. ...more
Her skin was supposed to be like skimmed milk. A bit of peach blush in the apples of her cheeks. Victorian lips with a slight bow. But somehow, after Her skin was supposed to be like skimmed milk. A bit of peach blush in the apples of her cheeks. Victorian lips with a slight bow. But somehow, after reading, well, wolfing this down, it didn't matter. Byatt could have an unformed twin fused to her side and I would still be stupified. I picked this up because of my obscene fascination with Merlin. How jealously I looked at the uniform and sometimes not so uniform art pieces with a woman wrapped around his little finger. Why did those artists need to make him look so desperate and mournful in that piece?? More importantly, why did Byatt have to use my favorite Merlin piece for her title. Darn her. It sparked a new shelf bewitchment. Raphaelite. Pre-Raphaelite art. Pre-Raphaelite literature. Pre-Raphaelite anonymous things no one ever picked up afterr 1978. It is infuriatingly so much sexier than
on vacation: had to take book back from flirty kid who thought that I was a kid but was ticked off by my not being a kid. Huh. Wasted wooing. Greateron vacation: had to take book back from flirty kid who thought that I was a kid but was ticked off by my not being a kid. Huh. Wasted wooing. Greater sorrows in life.....more
Dismally short, The Awakening entwines it's quiet mist of anxiety around our hearts when we first meet Mrs. Edna Pontieller. A beautiful, twenty-eight
Dismally short, The Awakening entwines it's quiet mist of anxiety around our hearts when we first meet Mrs. Edna Pontieller. A beautiful, twenty-eight year old, she is adored by many, but a romantic cast-off of her husband (good thing there were so many cuties around). When she begins with some art, just a little dabble and taste, Edna's senses are becoming steadily and creepily wild. Nature and her seductive caresses are pulling at her heart and body, and this time, she does not refuse.
Reminding me of something my own uncivilized Cherokee grandmother (proud to the end of her) would have done if she had stayed married to one of her many husbands. Freeing the soul had a price in Edna's world though. Why, if a woman left her home now and went off with some hunk the husband wouldn't have banished her out of his life forever because of social issues. He would have taken her back because the neighbors had better things to gossip about. Like Desperate Housewives, or Glee.
A personally touching writer, Chopin entered my hand, and in my train of thought. Now Beyond the Bayou, The Story of an Hour, and The Awakening will follow me into the crevices I will one day make that silent dissent into (my coffin is going to be Sunflower yellow, woot!). She even found a way into a dedication....more
Reading this was like hearing the 15 songs I loved in my childhood all at once. It sparkles as a coming-of-age tale, and that could be because it is aReading this was like hearing the 15 songs I loved in my childhood all at once. It sparkles as a coming-of-age tale, and that could be because it is a novel with destination on the brain. God I love those. Almost more than I love coats made from puppies. *grins*...more