Elizabeth Harding's Blog, page 4
November 14, 2014
On the cusp of the Kindle era – a look back in…nostalgia?
I have two Kindles: a keyboard Kindle and a Kindle Fire. And I would never be without one or the other as they are small and handy enough to pop into my small, handy handbag. The smallness and handiness of my handbag is the result of a sudden realisation at some point that it was extremely inconvenient to drag around a large bag that had, somehow accumulated all on its own the stock of a small charity shop.
In doing so it had also acquired the characteristic of a Tardis. So it was an act of self-discipline that made me buy a handbag (shoulder-bag really) that was really quite small. The present bag is the third generation of such models of compactness. But what I hadn’t realised at the time of the great revelation was that this reticule was, in the very near future, going to accommodate a wing of a very personal library. And so it happened. And I’ve never looked back.
It has of course changed the status of the second-hand bookseller. But not destroyed it. Second-hand bookshop owners are a strange, motley breed, very often having been surgeons or marine biologists or gardeners before opting out, or opting sideways as it were. They can talk about many different subjects and will, given the chance.
It is the atmosphere of polymath scholarliness coming from both sellers and customers that pervades their shops. There is something about a second-hand bookshop that is sane, unhurried, leisured, giving the reader space and time to think and breathe as well as browse. And yes, of course you can browse in a regular bookshop but because of their ‘shelf-life’ policy, many bookshops have the atmosphere of a grocer’s shop.
I used to go to the bookshop owned by an American, Barry Klinger. Barry died a few years ago but in the thirty years he had been selling books he'd become an institution. He was one of those Americans who had drifted around Europe and washed up almost by chance on the shores of the Netherlands.
Even if he had not been erudite, you could still have called him an egg-head as that physical description suited him remarkably well as he sat at the counter next to the entrance greeting customers as they came in. If I went into the shop for a browse I would also go for a chat and, very occasionally, a moan. Yet whatever I had to say, although it was met with sympathy, it was always accompanied by a sharp analysis of what I was really going on about.
I knew him only superficially but I realised that he was not always an easy person to get on with. He cared little about what people thought of him, or so it seemed. He was capable of having a rant himself, once bitching about his mother ‘who doesn’t know or care where I am or whether I’m alive or dead.’ Once, when I told a friend I was going to pop into the bookshop she said, ‘Oh yes, an old sparring partner of mine from Berkeley’ and took me off to another bookshop as she didn’t feel in a mood to spit fire at Barry.
I don't think he was a typical second-hand bookseller because there is no typical example of this species. But whichever bookshop I was browsing in I always came away with books I had not considered buying before but suddenly seemed a good idea. So often have I come across a book I needed – just by chance.
However, you do have to be careful. I once bought a couple of books at another second-hand bookshop in Amsterdam and as they didn't have a specific book I needed I went to a regular bookshop nearby. This was some years ago and they still had a turnstile that peeped as I went in but I thought nothing of it. I looked for my book, didn’t find it and so went again through the turnstile. It peeped again. I stopped.
One of the assistants said very tetchily, ‘It did that when you entered.’ I walked off thinking they really ought to get their turnstile fixed. I must be a real country cousin because it was only when I was on the train back home did I realise that the books I had bought must have originally been stolen, then sold on.
For some time now there has been a mood of crepuscular melancholy at the demise of the second hand bookshop. Their days are numbered we are told, an all because of Internet selling and the birth of the Kindle or other e-reader. But does the message have to be so doom-laden?
Yes, I buy Kindle books but I also buy books through Amazon Marketplace, which is, in a way, a cyberspatial second-hand book fair. Living where I do, I find it extremely convenient to order books in this way and I would like to take issue with the assertion I often hear and read that the Internet means the death of businesses like Barry's. Need it be so?
I don't know if Barry Klinger used the Internet for selling. I don't think he did. Books just seemed to flow in and out of their accord, almost osmotically. But isn't using cyberspace simply a matter of adapting and surviving? I have bought books from sellers who have second-hand bookshops in Britain, America and different countries in mainland Europe.
Only last week I bought a book that has been out of date since 1960 from a man who has a small bookshop in Virginia, the week before a book from another small bookshop in the Scottish Highlands. These are only two examples of the many bookshops that are surviving because of internet selling. And there are many out-of-date books lurking around in back rooms that would otherwise never see the light of day, never be browsed or pounced upon by readers who had almost given up hope at finding what they wanted.
Of course there are disadvantages. The seller might not want to be bothered packing and posting. And he might miss chatting with the customers, although with a shop he still has his ‘real’ customers. All this is true. Nevertheless, it isn't always convenient to visit a shop in person, especially if you have to make a real journey.
And there can in fact be distinct advantages in postal selling. I have had and still have some lively e-mail correspondence with sellers. And is this sort of thing such an innovation? The manner of selling, through the internet is certainly new. But didn’t expats in days gone by used to send for books, the seller packing and posting them? And didn’t seller and customer very often exchange letters? If I can help a second-hand bookseller keep his business alive and at the same time acquire a book I’ve wanted for some time, it’s fine by me.
The fact that, owing to second hand bookshops and to the e-reader, reading material is more easily accessible can only be a good thing. Books, in whatever form, are up and on the march. I rather like the idea of a mass migration of books, not Displaced Books but rather wandering books, that travel from place to place as they are needed, like the peripatetic scholars of old.
An institution that is as old as the printing press can survive and flourish when it adapts itself to twenty-first century needs. Being aware of shifts in the way we see the world, and listening to warnings about an impending Dark Age make us aware that we have to not just salvage our intellectual heritage but to keep it alive and in motion.
In doing so it had also acquired the characteristic of a Tardis. So it was an act of self-discipline that made me buy a handbag (shoulder-bag really) that was really quite small. The present bag is the third generation of such models of compactness. But what I hadn’t realised at the time of the great revelation was that this reticule was, in the very near future, going to accommodate a wing of a very personal library. And so it happened. And I’ve never looked back.
It has of course changed the status of the second-hand bookseller. But not destroyed it. Second-hand bookshop owners are a strange, motley breed, very often having been surgeons or marine biologists or gardeners before opting out, or opting sideways as it were. They can talk about many different subjects and will, given the chance.
It is the atmosphere of polymath scholarliness coming from both sellers and customers that pervades their shops. There is something about a second-hand bookshop that is sane, unhurried, leisured, giving the reader space and time to think and breathe as well as browse. And yes, of course you can browse in a regular bookshop but because of their ‘shelf-life’ policy, many bookshops have the atmosphere of a grocer’s shop.
I used to go to the bookshop owned by an American, Barry Klinger. Barry died a few years ago but in the thirty years he had been selling books he'd become an institution. He was one of those Americans who had drifted around Europe and washed up almost by chance on the shores of the Netherlands.
Even if he had not been erudite, you could still have called him an egg-head as that physical description suited him remarkably well as he sat at the counter next to the entrance greeting customers as they came in. If I went into the shop for a browse I would also go for a chat and, very occasionally, a moan. Yet whatever I had to say, although it was met with sympathy, it was always accompanied by a sharp analysis of what I was really going on about.
I knew him only superficially but I realised that he was not always an easy person to get on with. He cared little about what people thought of him, or so it seemed. He was capable of having a rant himself, once bitching about his mother ‘who doesn’t know or care where I am or whether I’m alive or dead.’ Once, when I told a friend I was going to pop into the bookshop she said, ‘Oh yes, an old sparring partner of mine from Berkeley’ and took me off to another bookshop as she didn’t feel in a mood to spit fire at Barry.
I don't think he was a typical second-hand bookseller because there is no typical example of this species. But whichever bookshop I was browsing in I always came away with books I had not considered buying before but suddenly seemed a good idea. So often have I come across a book I needed – just by chance.
However, you do have to be careful. I once bought a couple of books at another second-hand bookshop in Amsterdam and as they didn't have a specific book I needed I went to a regular bookshop nearby. This was some years ago and they still had a turnstile that peeped as I went in but I thought nothing of it. I looked for my book, didn’t find it and so went again through the turnstile. It peeped again. I stopped.
One of the assistants said very tetchily, ‘It did that when you entered.’ I walked off thinking they really ought to get their turnstile fixed. I must be a real country cousin because it was only when I was on the train back home did I realise that the books I had bought must have originally been stolen, then sold on.
For some time now there has been a mood of crepuscular melancholy at the demise of the second hand bookshop. Their days are numbered we are told, an all because of Internet selling and the birth of the Kindle or other e-reader. But does the message have to be so doom-laden?
Yes, I buy Kindle books but I also buy books through Amazon Marketplace, which is, in a way, a cyberspatial second-hand book fair. Living where I do, I find it extremely convenient to order books in this way and I would like to take issue with the assertion I often hear and read that the Internet means the death of businesses like Barry's. Need it be so?
I don't know if Barry Klinger used the Internet for selling. I don't think he did. Books just seemed to flow in and out of their accord, almost osmotically. But isn't using cyberspace simply a matter of adapting and surviving? I have bought books from sellers who have second-hand bookshops in Britain, America and different countries in mainland Europe.
Only last week I bought a book that has been out of date since 1960 from a man who has a small bookshop in Virginia, the week before a book from another small bookshop in the Scottish Highlands. These are only two examples of the many bookshops that are surviving because of internet selling. And there are many out-of-date books lurking around in back rooms that would otherwise never see the light of day, never be browsed or pounced upon by readers who had almost given up hope at finding what they wanted.
Of course there are disadvantages. The seller might not want to be bothered packing and posting. And he might miss chatting with the customers, although with a shop he still has his ‘real’ customers. All this is true. Nevertheless, it isn't always convenient to visit a shop in person, especially if you have to make a real journey.
And there can in fact be distinct advantages in postal selling. I have had and still have some lively e-mail correspondence with sellers. And is this sort of thing such an innovation? The manner of selling, through the internet is certainly new. But didn’t expats in days gone by used to send for books, the seller packing and posting them? And didn’t seller and customer very often exchange letters? If I can help a second-hand bookseller keep his business alive and at the same time acquire a book I’ve wanted for some time, it’s fine by me.
The fact that, owing to second hand bookshops and to the e-reader, reading material is more easily accessible can only be a good thing. Books, in whatever form, are up and on the march. I rather like the idea of a mass migration of books, not Displaced Books but rather wandering books, that travel from place to place as they are needed, like the peripatetic scholars of old.
An institution that is as old as the printing press can survive and flourish when it adapts itself to twenty-first century needs. Being aware of shifts in the way we see the world, and listening to warnings about an impending Dark Age make us aware that we have to not just salvage our intellectual heritage but to keep it alive and in motion.
August 5, 2014
ww1
Yesterday was the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. I'm a little uncomfortable about its 'celebration'. Because there does seem to be an atmosphere of subdued celebration rather than commemoration about it all. It´s been long planned and the built-in solemnity seems a little .....stage-managed.
Yet I don't want to appear churlish or cynical about it. I have written a fair number of poems about my grandparents' war. Yet surely the participants must have the final and perhaps only say about it all.
Yes, there are no veterans still living now who actually took part. But words remain and I think the shortest and most poignant poem of that time was one by Ungaretti:
I Soldati
Si sta come
d'autunno
sugli alberi
le foglie
Yet I don't want to appear churlish or cynical about it. I have written a fair number of poems about my grandparents' war. Yet surely the participants must have the final and perhaps only say about it all.
Yes, there are no veterans still living now who actually took part. But words remain and I think the shortest and most poignant poem of that time was one by Ungaretti:
I Soldati
Si sta come
d'autunno
sugli alberi
le foglie
June 2, 2014
English writers?
There’s been a bit of a kerfuffle about British Education Secretary Michael Gove’s alleged remarks (he says he didn’t make them, or not in that way) about shoving American literature aside in the GCSE syllabus to allow space for more English works. But what indeed are English books?
It set me wondering, if in the light of the discussion it wouldn’t be a bad idea to concentrate on the more culturally deracinated authors. Or, if that sounds too negative, the authors who have found their inspiration beyond the shores of Albion (now doesn’t that sound grand?). After all, American literature was founded on deracination until it settled and found an identity, indeed several identities of its own (who, for example can describe the quirky Southern underclass better than Carson McCullers?)
But let’s look at deracinated writers - Jean Rhys was by all accounts every inch an English lady yet she was born in Dominica, brought up by servants and thought herself a black woman in a white body, an oddity no matter where she landed. And this shows in her writing.
And what about Lawrence Durrell who live only for short periods in England and produced such gems as The Alexandria Quartet? Yet he also wrote books more accessible to pupils – Bitter Lemons for example.
And of course there is Anais Nin, who was of Cuban-Danish descent, lived in Paris, later in the US, and who wrote in English. Using the double-diary form (a ‘public’ and a parallel secret dairy) she created the most original and brilliantly evocative roman fleuve, a form not usually found in English literature. I do wish more people would recognise her work as such. And to adapt this for schools? Why, simply choose two dates and study what is written in between.
And what about Indian writers? I believe Anita Desai’s books are already in the GCSE syllabus? But how does she fit in to a comforting 'English' scheme?
The key is language. If an author writes in English then s/he should be seen as an English writer. It's that simple. Are you listening Mr Gove?
It set me wondering, if in the light of the discussion it wouldn’t be a bad idea to concentrate on the more culturally deracinated authors. Or, if that sounds too negative, the authors who have found their inspiration beyond the shores of Albion (now doesn’t that sound grand?). After all, American literature was founded on deracination until it settled and found an identity, indeed several identities of its own (who, for example can describe the quirky Southern underclass better than Carson McCullers?)
But let’s look at deracinated writers - Jean Rhys was by all accounts every inch an English lady yet she was born in Dominica, brought up by servants and thought herself a black woman in a white body, an oddity no matter where she landed. And this shows in her writing.
And what about Lawrence Durrell who live only for short periods in England and produced such gems as The Alexandria Quartet? Yet he also wrote books more accessible to pupils – Bitter Lemons for example.
And of course there is Anais Nin, who was of Cuban-Danish descent, lived in Paris, later in the US, and who wrote in English. Using the double-diary form (a ‘public’ and a parallel secret dairy) she created the most original and brilliantly evocative roman fleuve, a form not usually found in English literature. I do wish more people would recognise her work as such. And to adapt this for schools? Why, simply choose two dates and study what is written in between.
And what about Indian writers? I believe Anita Desai’s books are already in the GCSE syllabus? But how does she fit in to a comforting 'English' scheme?
The key is language. If an author writes in English then s/he should be seen as an English writer. It's that simple. Are you listening Mr Gove?
May 30, 2014
Epiphanies
Epiphanies - volume four of the quartet The Exiled Bell is now available on Kindle.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Epiphanies-Ex...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Epiphanies-Ex...
May 23, 2014
Tuintonen Festival
Tomorrow, Saturday May 24, the Tuintonen Music Festival at Watergang will take place. For those of you who will be in or around Amsterdam, make a note. 12 noon - 17.00.
As I mentioned earlier I shall be giving a poetry reading while Jim Fulkerson plays the trombone in between poems.
As I mentioned earlier I shall be giving a poetry reading while Jim Fulkerson plays the trombone in between poems.
May 15, 2014
Fourth volume of The Exiled Bell
Just tarting it up now, to make it suitable for reading on Kindle.
A week on Saturday, May 24, 2014 I shall be giving a poetry reading at the Tuintonen Music Festival at Watergang, just outside Amsterdam. James Fulkerson, composer and trombonist will I will be performing together at 16.00 in the church. Let's hope the weather is kind.
A week on Saturday, May 24, 2014 I shall be giving a poetry reading at the Tuintonen Music Festival at Watergang, just outside Amsterdam. James Fulkerson, composer and trombonist will I will be performing together at 16.00 in the church. Let's hope the weather is kind.
March 28, 2014
And now, a true story.........
In the year 1890 or thereabouts, a young man, fifteen years old, found himself alone in the middle of Haarlem in the Netherlands. Having to break off his education, he had recently returned from the Dutch East Indies with his widowed mother. His father had been an officer in the Dutch army but had not left his family very well provided for. Well, it was either that or his mother wasn’t very good at handling money and was generally inept.
The upshot of this was that one day they found themselves penniless and homeless. They needed somewhere to stay and the boy’s mother, thinking they would be able to do it alone, separately, gave the boy just enough to find himself lodgings for the night. He took the money and went into town. However with the general optimism of youth and perhaps even believing in a certain providence, he spent the money, not on a bed for the night, but on a theatre ticket.
That ticket was for a production of Hamlet – in German. The boy knew nothing about Shakespeare’s plays and he certainly didn’t know any German. But he went along anyway. And that evening, something happened that made looking for lodgings a trivial way to spend his time.
He came out of the theatre with a spring in his step and a fire in his heart. In spite of his ignorance of German the linguistic and syntactical barriers had dissolved, leading him to the very root of language. He could somehow understand, through the poetry, the very essence of the play. And as he walked through the lamplit city, he had three burning interlocking intentions - to learn English, to read and get to know Shakespeare thoroughly and to become an author himself.
It’s unclear how he managed to get through that night in Haarlem, where he slept, if at all. But he did manage to fulfil those ambitions sparked by those lines of iambic pentameter uttered in German. He finished his secondary schooling in Amsterdam and went on to study English. This was in the days when not English but French was taught as a matter of course in schools.
He went to Stratford and got a job teaching French. He was involved in everything to do with Shakespeare and later, in the Netherlands and in Italy became one of the great Dutch writers.
His name was Arthur van Schendel. The name probably means little to English speakers, although some of his books were translated in his lifetime, but there is no doubt that if a teenage boy had not had that epiphany on a chilly night in Haarlem and become a devotee of Shakespeare, Netherlandish literature would be much poorer.
The upshot of this was that one day they found themselves penniless and homeless. They needed somewhere to stay and the boy’s mother, thinking they would be able to do it alone, separately, gave the boy just enough to find himself lodgings for the night. He took the money and went into town. However with the general optimism of youth and perhaps even believing in a certain providence, he spent the money, not on a bed for the night, but on a theatre ticket.
That ticket was for a production of Hamlet – in German. The boy knew nothing about Shakespeare’s plays and he certainly didn’t know any German. But he went along anyway. And that evening, something happened that made looking for lodgings a trivial way to spend his time.
He came out of the theatre with a spring in his step and a fire in his heart. In spite of his ignorance of German the linguistic and syntactical barriers had dissolved, leading him to the very root of language. He could somehow understand, through the poetry, the very essence of the play. And as he walked through the lamplit city, he had three burning interlocking intentions - to learn English, to read and get to know Shakespeare thoroughly and to become an author himself.
It’s unclear how he managed to get through that night in Haarlem, where he slept, if at all. But he did manage to fulfil those ambitions sparked by those lines of iambic pentameter uttered in German. He finished his secondary schooling in Amsterdam and went on to study English. This was in the days when not English but French was taught as a matter of course in schools.
He went to Stratford and got a job teaching French. He was involved in everything to do with Shakespeare and later, in the Netherlands and in Italy became one of the great Dutch writers.
His name was Arthur van Schendel. The name probably means little to English speakers, although some of his books were translated in his lifetime, but there is no doubt that if a teenage boy had not had that epiphany on a chilly night in Haarlem and become a devotee of Shakespeare, Netherlandish literature would be much poorer.
March 18, 2014
Season
Today I can feel the early-Spring chill that brings a kind of careful optimism. We didn’t have much of a winter this year and we are slipping into the Lenten season without much ado.
Yes, it is cold but the crocuses are giving some colour to the garden and the daffodils are making a tremulous appearance. Starlings are squabbling, and drumming on the roof, finches and blackbirds are single-mindedly making nests. It’s all go in the avian world.
Below is a poem I wrote some years ago in a season just like this. Word spread that this exotic bird had appeared among the other migrants in the lakes and I wrapped up well and cycled to see this sad, doomed creature.
Lost Flamingo
Alone, among the avocets
In the brackish water
Behind the sea dike
He stands, pink as spun sugar
On one leg, head under his wing;
He is too pink for survival,
Too doll-like, his freedom
Having brought him
One step nearer home,
One step nearer death
Even under this northern sun I feel
He would melt like icing, the cloying
Pool of sugar swilling away
Among the coots and grebes
Here it is busy as a city, waders
Probing the mud around him,
Ignoring him, the outcast,
Pariah-bird of the lake.
Wing-weary, he is too bright,
Too pink, too South American
For this reclaimed land,
These grey lakes, these heavy
Ruysdael clouds.
He is the last; soon he will gather
His strength and follow his fellows
Who were last seen disappearing
Into the thunder clouds
Over the black North Sea.
Yes, it is cold but the crocuses are giving some colour to the garden and the daffodils are making a tremulous appearance. Starlings are squabbling, and drumming on the roof, finches and blackbirds are single-mindedly making nests. It’s all go in the avian world.
Below is a poem I wrote some years ago in a season just like this. Word spread that this exotic bird had appeared among the other migrants in the lakes and I wrapped up well and cycled to see this sad, doomed creature.
Lost Flamingo
Alone, among the avocets
In the brackish water
Behind the sea dike
He stands, pink as spun sugar
On one leg, head under his wing;
He is too pink for survival,
Too doll-like, his freedom
Having brought him
One step nearer home,
One step nearer death
Even under this northern sun I feel
He would melt like icing, the cloying
Pool of sugar swilling away
Among the coots and grebes
Here it is busy as a city, waders
Probing the mud around him,
Ignoring him, the outcast,
Pariah-bird of the lake.
Wing-weary, he is too bright,
Too pink, too South American
For this reclaimed land,
These grey lakes, these heavy
Ruysdael clouds.
He is the last; soon he will gather
His strength and follow his fellows
Who were last seen disappearing
Into the thunder clouds
Over the black North Sea.
March 12, 2014
The Monuments Men
I saw the film 'The Monuments Men' last week and as I’d begun writing a story some years ago based on the doings of one of these men I thought I would find out if I had, according to my reading, got it right and whether George Clooney, again according to my reading, had got it right.
As it turned out, it was it was, in fact a simple goodies and baddies film of the sort Hollywood has been churning out since the twenties. The wicked Nazis were intent on destroying all their looted art while the virtuous American curators (they got rid of the token Brit early on) in uniform tried to stop them. It didn’t exactly reach the level of knockabout farce - which would have shown some level of skill – but it was a near thing. If we can imagine Dad’s Army with American accents put into a Kelly’s Heroes situation then the general atmosphere is set up.
Yet perhaps I’m maligning Kelly’s Heroes, which is not my intention. Now that film was a satire on the flower-power pacifism of the sixties, when it was made, transposed to the intensely bellicose forties. It worked. 'The Monuments Men' is different. I'm not even going to mention the anomalies and anachronisms as licence can be taken on occasions to make a dramatic impact, if the film is worth it. But with this one....I think it reached its nadir when the American flag was hung up at the entrance to the salt mine in which the art works had been stored to indicate to the nasty Red Army that the goods had gone. And then, the sight of Neuschwanstein Castle added to the Disney element although, ironically enough, this castle was used for art storage .
In a way, the film reminded me of the Saturday afternoon children’s cinema where we would end up throwing lollipop sticks at the screen if the film was not up to our standards. Our criticism, while crude, was direct and visceral and often resulted in a cessation of projection.
The idea behind 'The Monuments Men' was great but the film was a dud. There are so many really interesting stories around the MFAA that could have been the inspiration for a good, well-scripted film. In point of fact, what comes to mind is a television series. Anyone? In the meantime, where are those lollipops?
As it turned out, it was it was, in fact a simple goodies and baddies film of the sort Hollywood has been churning out since the twenties. The wicked Nazis were intent on destroying all their looted art while the virtuous American curators (they got rid of the token Brit early on) in uniform tried to stop them. It didn’t exactly reach the level of knockabout farce - which would have shown some level of skill – but it was a near thing. If we can imagine Dad’s Army with American accents put into a Kelly’s Heroes situation then the general atmosphere is set up.
Yet perhaps I’m maligning Kelly’s Heroes, which is not my intention. Now that film was a satire on the flower-power pacifism of the sixties, when it was made, transposed to the intensely bellicose forties. It worked. 'The Monuments Men' is different. I'm not even going to mention the anomalies and anachronisms as licence can be taken on occasions to make a dramatic impact, if the film is worth it. But with this one....I think it reached its nadir when the American flag was hung up at the entrance to the salt mine in which the art works had been stored to indicate to the nasty Red Army that the goods had gone. And then, the sight of Neuschwanstein Castle added to the Disney element although, ironically enough, this castle was used for art storage .
In a way, the film reminded me of the Saturday afternoon children’s cinema where we would end up throwing lollipop sticks at the screen if the film was not up to our standards. Our criticism, while crude, was direct and visceral and often resulted in a cessation of projection.
The idea behind 'The Monuments Men' was great but the film was a dud. There are so many really interesting stories around the MFAA that could have been the inspiration for a good, well-scripted film. In point of fact, what comes to mind is a television series. Anyone? In the meantime, where are those lollipops?
February 11, 2014
Shadow Zones
And here we have it (with a roll of drums) - Shadow Zones, the third volume of The Exiled Bell.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadow-Zones-...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadow-Zones-...
