Ned Hayes's Blog, page 156
August 28, 2013
"She read books quickly and compulsively, paperback after paperback, as if she might drift away..."
- Jane Hamilton (via bookphile)
"Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash."
- Leonard Cohen
from the novel Sinful Folk
”The sound of a...
from the novel Sinful Folk
”The sound of a distant ocean covers me with surf, that tide that bears me back eternally into the past, back to the place where I was born.
People come through the whiteness, through the bright light, but all of them are ghosts. The day before he died, my mother did something inexplicable. She took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea. The thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the breaking rhythm never ceasing. My mother waited until we were out of sight of land. She squinted against the bright sunlight, making sure of our isolation. And then she taught me something: strange words in a foreign tongue, a lilting sing-song rhythm to it.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
August 27, 2013
HOW THE STORY OPENS:
"In the end, I listen to my fear. It keeps...
HOW THE STORY OPENS:
"In the end, I listen to my fear. It keeps me awake, resounding through the frantic beating in my breast. It is there in the dry terror in my throat, in the pricking of the rats’ nervous feet in the darkness.
Christian has not come home all the night long.
I know, for I have lain in this darkness for hours now with my eyes stretched wide, yearning for my son’s return.
Each night that he works late, I cannot sleep. I am tormented when he is not here—I fear that he will never return. I lie awake, plagued by my own fears of loss and loneliness.
But my fears have never come to pass.
So on this night, I tell myself that the sound I hear is frost cracking, river ice breaking. I lie to my own heart, as one lies to a frightened child, one who cannot be saved.
All the while, I know it is a fire. And I know how near it is.
First, I could hear shouts and cries. Then there was the sound of rapid running, of men hauling buckets of water and ordering children to help.
A house burns.”
— opening lines from the novel Sinful Folk
August 26, 2013
How you had to do copy-paste in Old Medieval manuscripts...
How you had to do copy-paste in Old Medieval manuscripts (from booksnbuildings)
See this comment from aleyma:
Marginal figure pulling over a block of text that was accidentally omitted from the main text. From a copy of The Regiment of Princes by Thomas Hoccleve, made in England, 1411-32 (source).
before copy/paste?
August 25, 2013
We step into the forest. Sound carries far here in the trees....
We step into the forest. Sound carries far here in the trees. Snow slides off a tree, some creature shuffles through the wood, branches snap. Out of the corner of one eye, I see the flash of colored feathers. A yellowhammer. Black eyes flickering in hedgerow, tiny breast plumped out in yellow livery, streaked with colors rich and brown. Calling in winter song:
– a little bit of bread and no cheese –
– a little bit of bread and no cheese –
Moments later, the bracken flutters, a shadow darts into the wood. Deep in the forest now, I can hear a low voice that wends back and forth, whispering in secret.
— from the forthcoming novel Sinful Folk
August 24, 2013
"I can see her now. On the day we take the forest path to the...
"I can see her now. On the day we take the forest path to the deep stream beside the alder copse. There a plover calls in the deep woodsy stillness, and then a pair of martins dart across the over-grown path. Through the trees can be seen the thick and fast-moving line of flowing water, a steep bank beneath our feet and flowering at the edge of the water, the purple loosestrife and meadowsweet of spring."
— from the (forthcoming) novel SINFUL FOLK
August 23, 2013
“Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I wipe my...
“Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I wipe my face with a handful of straw and look out on the floating ice.
The day before she died, my mother did something I still don’t understand. She took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea—the thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the rhythm never ceasing.
My mother waited until we were out of sight of land. She squinted against the bright sunlight, making sure we were alone. And then she taught me something: strange words in a foreign tongue, a lilting singsong cadence to it.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
