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Angela Carole Brown

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Angela Carole Brown

Goodreads Author


Born
in Los Angeles, The United States
January 01

Website

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Member Since
March 2013

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2018 RECIPIENT OF THE NORTH STREET BOOK PRIZE IN LITERARY FICTION

Award-winning indie author, poet , and multimedia artist, Angela Carole Brown's newest works, released in December of 2019, are the poetry collections BONES and VISCERA, and the 100-word story collection ALEATORY ON THE RADIO, which was recently the featured work around which an entire concert of choral music was created by the Metropolitan Master Chorale of Los Angeles, entitled "Short Stories."

Angela has made her primary living as a musician and recording artist for the better part of three decades, so it's only fitting that her first literary release, TRADING FOURS, recent winner of the North Street Book Prize in Literary Fiction, would be a tale of music, as it sets itsel
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Average rating: 5.0 · 4 ratings · 4 reviews · 8 distinct works
Trading Fours

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2005 — 5 editions
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Aleatory on the Radio

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 1 rating2 editions
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The Kidney Journals: Memoir...

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2013 — 4 editions
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The Assassination of Gabrie...

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Bones

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Viscera

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The Night, the City, and Mi...

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Love, Work, and the Other T...

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More books by Angela Carole Brown…
The Razor's Edge
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Angela’s Recent Updates

Angela Carole Brown is now friends with Joshua
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Joe Joe is currently reading The Razor's Edge
The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham
" Wow! What a trip, I’m reading that too! I’ve been reading for quite some time, as I’m a slow reader and life is busy, but I’m
thoroughly into it.
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Trading Fours by Angela Carole Brown
"I have planned on reading this book for so long it's embarrassing. The worst part is it's a great read. The day in the life of struggling musicians, each having their own battle that is going on. It's a peak into the trails and tribulations of someth" Read more of this review »
Trading Fours by Angela Carole Brown
"Angela Carole Brown's bood brings us into the world of everyday working muscians, yet we witness those that have become STARS. It reveals the heartache and want of all artists at different levels of their professional success.

In the end, even the le" Read more of this review »
Wild by Cheryl Strayed
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Memoir by Ben Yagoda
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Trading Fours by Angela Carole Brown
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Angela Carole Brown is on page 61 of 314 of The Razor's Edge
The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham
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The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham
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More of Angela's books…
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ray Bradbury
“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”
Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing

Anaïs Nin
“The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.”
Anais Nin

Hermann Hesse
“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”
Herman Hesse, Bäume: Betrachtungen und Gedichte

John Barth
“My dear fellow,' Burlingame said, 'we sit here on a blind rock careening through space; we are all of us rushing headlong to the grave. Think you the worms will care, when anon they make a meal of you, whether you spent your moment sighing wigless in your chamber, or sacked the golden towns of Montezuma? Lookee, the day's nigh spent; 'tis gone careening into time forever. Not a tale's length past we lined our bowels with dinner, and already they growl for more. We are dying men, Ebenezer: i'faith, there's time for naught but bold resolves!”
John Barth, The Sot-Weed Factor




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