Amy H. Sturgis's Blog, page 156
November 4, 2011
Steampunk Narration and a Glimpse of The Hobbit
My latest unabridged narration for StarShipSofa, which is of Nicole Kornher Stace's story "To Seek Her Fortune" (from
Clockwork Phoenix 3
), is now available to stream or download on the latest episode of the podcast. If you listen, I hope you enjoy! (A full list of links to my unabridged dramatic readings is here.)
The latest behind-the-scenes blog from The Hobbit shows some instantly identifiable moments from the novel, including a wonderful (and moving) glimpse of Bilbo when he's climbed to the top of the oak in Mirkwood. .
"Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea - any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good-bye!"
- Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit
The latest behind-the-scenes blog from The Hobbit shows some instantly identifiable moments from the novel, including a wonderful (and moving) glimpse of Bilbo when he's climbed to the top of the oak in Mirkwood. .
"Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea - any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good-bye!"
- Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit
November 1, 2011
Happy November!
It's November! Happy birthday to
![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380451598i/2033940.gif)
ithiliana
, and happy early birthday to
amedia
,
madkestrel
,
crackferret
,
actourdreams
,
coppervale
,
st_crispins
, and
kishkuma
. May all of you enjoy many happy returns of the day!
It's sweater weather in the mornings here, so it's perfect that my mother made and sent Virginia some lovely new sweaters (and scarves!) for her daily walks.
It seems that the Gryffindor colors inspire a noble pose:
The Slytherin look, however, leads to blowing raspberries:
End of picspam! ;) More photos are here.
"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
ithiliana
, and happy early birthday to
amedia
,
madkestrel
,
crackferret
,
actourdreams
,
coppervale
,
st_crispins
, and
kishkuma
. May all of you enjoy many happy returns of the day!It's sweater weather in the mornings here, so it's perfect that my mother made and sent Virginia some lovely new sweaters (and scarves!) for her daily walks.
It seems that the Gryffindor colors inspire a noble pose:
The Slytherin look, however, leads to blowing raspberries:
End of picspam! ;) More photos are here.
"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
October 31, 2011
Happy Halloween!
The day is here, my friends! We made it! Happy Halloween, Happy Samhain, and (slightly early) Happy Día de los Muertos!
Thank you so much for joining me in my month-long holiday celebration. I truly hope you've enjoyed it. I have!
Extra thanks to those of you who sent Halloween v-gifts for my LJ. They put a huge smile on my face!
Please stop by, grab a virtual latte or cider or hot cocoa, a candied apple or some roasted pumpkin seeds, or even a goblet of blood and a plate of brains, and say hello!
If you haven't checked out the Halloween posts of Book Chick City or any of the other participants in Countdown to Halloween, you have time to catch up on all the goodness today! As always, you can find all of my past Halloween posts here.
[image error]
Text of the Day: What can I say? This is my favorite. I hope you enjoy "Hallowe'en in a Suburb" by H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937).
The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
And the harpies of upper air,
That flutter and laugh and stare.
For the village dead to the moon outspread
Never shone in the sunset's gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
Where the rivers of madness stream
Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.
A chill wind weaves through the rows of sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
For harvests that fly and fail.
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic throne,
And looses the vast unknown.
So here again stretch the vale and plain
That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
Sprung out of the tomb's black maw
To shake all the world with awe.
And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
Shall some day be with the rest,
And brood with the shades unblest.
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
Of horror and death are penned,
For the hounds of Time to rend.
Thank you so much for joining me in my month-long holiday celebration. I truly hope you've enjoyed it. I have!
Extra thanks to those of you who sent Halloween v-gifts for my LJ. They put a huge smile on my face!
Please stop by, grab a virtual latte or cider or hot cocoa, a candied apple or some roasted pumpkin seeds, or even a goblet of blood and a plate of brains, and say hello!
If you haven't checked out the Halloween posts of Book Chick City or any of the other participants in Countdown to Halloween, you have time to catch up on all the goodness today! As always, you can find all of my past Halloween posts here.
[image error]
Text of the Day: What can I say? This is my favorite. I hope you enjoy "Hallowe'en in a Suburb" by H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937).
The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
And the harpies of upper air,
That flutter and laugh and stare.
For the village dead to the moon outspread
Never shone in the sunset's gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
Where the rivers of madness stream
Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.
A chill wind weaves through the rows of sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
For harvests that fly and fail.
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic throne,
And looses the vast unknown.
So here again stretch the vale and plain
That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
Sprung out of the tomb's black maw
To shake all the world with awe.
And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
Shall some day be with the rest,
And brood with the shades unblest.
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
Of horror and death are penned,
For the hounds of Time to rend.
October 30, 2011
Halloween Countdown, Day 30
Tomorrow is the big day, my friends!
Don't forget to check out the comments here in response to my poll about favorite spooky poetry. My friends have great taste, and there are some wonderfully haunting verses posted.
If you're looking for some appropriate holiday listening, the latest episode of StarShipSofa features Mike Allen's (
time_shark
)'s post-apocalyptic Lovecraftian Mythos tale "Her Acres of Pastoral Playground" (originally published in 2010's Cthulhu's Reign) as well as an interview with the author.
Here's another great photo from the brilliant
lizziebelle
:
<
Text of the Day: Today's story is "Man-Sized in Marble" (1893) by E. Nesbit (1858-1924).
Excerpt:
Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the "rational explanation" which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.
Read the complete short story.
Don't forget to check out the comments here in response to my poll about favorite spooky poetry. My friends have great taste, and there are some wonderfully haunting verses posted.
If you're looking for some appropriate holiday listening, the latest episode of StarShipSofa features Mike Allen's (
time_shark
)'s post-apocalyptic Lovecraftian Mythos tale "Her Acres of Pastoral Playground" (originally published in 2010's Cthulhu's Reign) as well as an interview with the author. Here's another great photo from the brilliant
lizziebelle
:<
Text of the Day: Today's story is "Man-Sized in Marble" (1893) by E. Nesbit (1858-1924).
Excerpt:
Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the "rational explanation" which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.
Read the complete short story.
October 29, 2011
Halloween Countdown, Day 29
The Harry Potter Fest 2011 was fantastic, all eleven hours of it! Travis Prinzi was a brilliant guest, Hawthorn and Holly gave a fabulous concert, and of the twelve teams that competed in the trivia contest, those who won first and second place were made of students from my seminar! Well done, everyone! We enjoyed owls and quidditch and lots of Hogwartsian food and drink, as well. You can see my pictures here.
This seemed Halloween-appropriate. You always knew I was a bit "off," didn't you?
Here's one of
lizziebelle
's wonderful photos I always return to around Halloween:
[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's short story is "The Music on the Hill" by Saki (1870-1916 ).
Excerpt:
There was a sombre almost savage wildness about Yessney that was certainly not likely to appeal to town-bred tastes, and Sylvia, notwithstanding her name, was accustomed to nothing much more sylvan than "leafy Kensington." She looked on the country as something excellent and wholesome in its way, which was apt to become troublesome if you encouraged it overmuch. Distrust of townlife had been a new thing with her, born of her marriage with Mortimer, and she had watched with satisfaction the gradual fading of what she called "the Jermyn-Street-look" in his eyes as the woods and heather of Yessney had closed in on them yesternight. Her will-power and strategy had prevailed; Mortimer would stay. Outside the morning-room windows was a triangular slope of turf, which the indulgent might call a lawn, and beyond its low hedge of neglected fuschia bushes a steeper slope of heather and bracken dropped down into cavernous combes overgrown with oak and yew. In its wild open savagery there seemed a stealthy linking of the joy of life with the terror of unseen things. Sylvia smiled complacently as she gazed with a School-of-Art appreciation at the landscape, and then of a sudden she almost shuddered.
Read the complete short story.
This seemed Halloween-appropriate. You always knew I was a bit "off," didn't you?
Here's one of
lizziebelle
's wonderful photos I always return to around Halloween:[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's short story is "The Music on the Hill" by Saki (1870-1916 ).
Excerpt:
There was a sombre almost savage wildness about Yessney that was certainly not likely to appeal to town-bred tastes, and Sylvia, notwithstanding her name, was accustomed to nothing much more sylvan than "leafy Kensington." She looked on the country as something excellent and wholesome in its way, which was apt to become troublesome if you encouraged it overmuch. Distrust of townlife had been a new thing with her, born of her marriage with Mortimer, and she had watched with satisfaction the gradual fading of what she called "the Jermyn-Street-look" in his eyes as the woods and heather of Yessney had closed in on them yesternight. Her will-power and strategy had prevailed; Mortimer would stay. Outside the morning-room windows was a triangular slope of turf, which the indulgent might call a lawn, and beyond its low hedge of neglected fuschia bushes a steeper slope of heather and bracken dropped down into cavernous combes overgrown with oak and yew. In its wild open savagery there seemed a stealthy linking of the joy of life with the terror of unseen things. Sylvia smiled complacently as she gazed with a School-of-Art appreciation at the landscape, and then of a sudden she almost shuddered.
Read the complete short story.
October 28, 2011
Halloween Countdown, Day 28
Today I'm off to take part in the day-long Harry Potter Fest 2011! I hope to see some of you there.
Here's one last haunting photo from Pere Lachaise, Paris:
[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's text is an eerie supernatural novella by Vernon Lee (pseudonym of Violet Paget) first published in 1886: A Phantom Lover: A Fantastic Story. Set in a Kentish manor house, the story concerns a portrait painter commissioned by a squire, William Oke, to produce portraits of himself and his wife, the eccentric Mrs. Alice Oke, who bears a striking resemblance to a woman in a mysterious, seventeenth-century painting... Cue the spooky music!
Excerpt:
I seemed to see that sanguine sunset, washing like a sea of blood over the heather, to where, by the black pond and the wind-warped firs, there lay the body of Christopher Lovelock, with his dead horse near him, the yellow gravel and lilac ling soaked crimson all around; and above emerged, as out of the redness, the pale blond head covered with the grey hat, the absent eyes, and strange smile of Mrs. Oke. It seemed to me horrible, vulgar, abominable, as if I had got inside a madhouse.
Read the complete novella.
Download an unabridged narration from Librivox.org.
Here's one last haunting photo from Pere Lachaise, Paris:
[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's text is an eerie supernatural novella by Vernon Lee (pseudonym of Violet Paget) first published in 1886: A Phantom Lover: A Fantastic Story. Set in a Kentish manor house, the story concerns a portrait painter commissioned by a squire, William Oke, to produce portraits of himself and his wife, the eccentric Mrs. Alice Oke, who bears a striking resemblance to a woman in a mysterious, seventeenth-century painting... Cue the spooky music!
Excerpt:
I seemed to see that sanguine sunset, washing like a sea of blood over the heather, to where, by the black pond and the wind-warped firs, there lay the body of Christopher Lovelock, with his dead horse near him, the yellow gravel and lilac ling soaked crimson all around; and above emerged, as out of the redness, the pale blond head covered with the grey hat, the absent eyes, and strange smile of Mrs. Oke. It seemed to me horrible, vulgar, abominable, as if I had got inside a madhouse.
Read the complete novella.
Download an unabridged narration from Librivox.org.
October 27, 2011
Halloween Countdown, Day 27
I've done several "special segments" in the past during my Halloween countdowns, and while I don't want to repeat myself, I'd like to point out a few favorites, for those who might have missed them:
* Remembering the graveyard of St. John's Episcopal Church in Providence, RI, where Lovecraft and Poe walked.
* You've heard of the "werewolves of London," but what about the "vampyres of Tulsa"?
* My tribute to L'Inconnue de la Seine ("the unknown woman of the Seine") and her "death mask."
* A celebration of Varney the Vampire.
* My retrospective on The Phantasmagoria.
This photo fascinates and chills me. I think it's the hollowness of the angel's eyes.
[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's text is the haunting short story "A Thousand Deaths" by Jack London (1876-1916).
Excerpt:
I had been in the water about an hour, and cold, exhausted, with a terrible cramp in my right calf, it seemed as though my hour had come. Fruitlessly struggling against the strong ebb tide, I had beheld the maddening procession of the water-front lights slip by, but now a gave up attempting to breast the stream and contended myself with the bitter thoughts of a wasted career, now drawing to a close.
Read the complete short story.
* Remembering the graveyard of St. John's Episcopal Church in Providence, RI, where Lovecraft and Poe walked.
* You've heard of the "werewolves of London," but what about the "vampyres of Tulsa"?
* My tribute to L'Inconnue de la Seine ("the unknown woman of the Seine") and her "death mask."
* A celebration of Varney the Vampire.
* My retrospective on The Phantasmagoria.
This photo fascinates and chills me. I think it's the hollowness of the angel's eyes.
[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's text is the haunting short story "A Thousand Deaths" by Jack London (1876-1916).
Excerpt:
I had been in the water about an hour, and cold, exhausted, with a terrible cramp in my right calf, it seemed as though my hour had come. Fruitlessly struggling against the strong ebb tide, I had beheld the maddening procession of the water-front lights slip by, but now a gave up attempting to breast the stream and contended myself with the bitter thoughts of a wasted career, now drawing to a close.
Read the complete short story.
October 26, 2011
Halloween Countdown, Day 26
Here's another gorgeous photo from Pere Lachaise, Paris:
[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's short story is "The Weird Violin," published in the December 1893 issue of Argosy by an unknown author.
Excerpt:
Amongst the carefully-arranged violins was a curious old instrument the like of which the virtuoso had never seen before, and at this he now stared with all his eyes. It was an ugly, squat violin, of heavy pattern, and ancient appearance. The maker, whoever he had been, had displayed considerable eccentricity throughout its manufacture, but more especially in the scroll, which, owing to some freak, he had carved into the semblance of a hideous, grinning face. There was something horribly repulsive about this strange work of art, and yet it also possessed a subtle fascination. The violinist, keeping his eyes upon the face, which seemed to follow his movements with fiendish persistency, slowly edged to the door, and entered the shop.
The attendant came forward, and recognising the well-known performer, bowed low.
"That is a curious-looking fiddle in the window," began the artist, at once, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the fiend.
"Which one, sir?" inquired the attendant. "Oh, the one with the remarkable scroll, you mean. I'll get it for you." Drawing aside a little curtain, he dived into the window-bay, and produced the instrument, whose face seemed to be grinning more maliciously than ever.
Read the complete short story.
[image error]
Text of the Day: Today's short story is "The Weird Violin," published in the December 1893 issue of Argosy by an unknown author.
Excerpt:
Amongst the carefully-arranged violins was a curious old instrument the like of which the virtuoso had never seen before, and at this he now stared with all his eyes. It was an ugly, squat violin, of heavy pattern, and ancient appearance. The maker, whoever he had been, had displayed considerable eccentricity throughout its manufacture, but more especially in the scroll, which, owing to some freak, he had carved into the semblance of a hideous, grinning face. There was something horribly repulsive about this strange work of art, and yet it also possessed a subtle fascination. The violinist, keeping his eyes upon the face, which seemed to follow his movements with fiendish persistency, slowly edged to the door, and entered the shop.
The attendant came forward, and recognising the well-known performer, bowed low.
"That is a curious-looking fiddle in the window," began the artist, at once, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the fiend.
"Which one, sir?" inquired the attendant. "Oh, the one with the remarkable scroll, you mean. I'll get it for you." Drawing aside a little curtain, he dived into the window-bay, and produced the instrument, whose face seemed to be grinning more maliciously than ever.
Read the complete short story.
October 25, 2011
Halloween Countdown, Day 25
Thanks to everyone who took part in yesterday's poll. If you haven't and you'd like to do so, please do! I invite everyone to read the terrific answers thus far.
Check out these photos from the new book Haunted Air, which chronicles Halloweens from 1875 to 1955 with remarkable (and eerie!) pictures. What fantastic atmosphere in these amazing photos! David Lynch wrote the introduction and Geoff Cox the afterword. What's not to love? (Thanks to![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380468642i/3017852.png)
wellinghall
.)
Always tactful, is our someecards:
Now, I must return to an old favorite (an annual tradition, even!): a very spooky U.K. Public Information Film from 1973 meant to warn children about the dangers of playing near water. I think it is worthy of repeated viewings, especially during the Halloween season. The creepy narration by Donald Pleasence and the Grim Reaper-esque appearance of "The Spirit of Dark and Lonely Water" make this - to my mind at least - a horror classic in its own right. Remember: he'll be back...
Text of the Day: Today's short story is "Each Man Kills" by Victoria Glad, which originally appeared in the March 1951 issue of Weird Tales.
Excerpt:
Now that it's all over, it seems like a bad dream. But when I look at Maria's picture on my desk, I realize it couldn't have been a dream. Actually, it was only six months ago that I sat at this same desk, looking at her picture, wondering what could have happened to her. It had been six weeks since there had been any word from her, and she had promised to write as soon as she arrived in Europe. Considering that my future rested in her small hands, I had every right to be apprehensive.
Read the complete short story.
Check out these photos from the new book Haunted Air, which chronicles Halloweens from 1875 to 1955 with remarkable (and eerie!) pictures. What fantastic atmosphere in these amazing photos! David Lynch wrote the introduction and Geoff Cox the afterword. What's not to love? (Thanks to
wellinghall
.)Always tactful, is our someecards:
Now, I must return to an old favorite (an annual tradition, even!): a very spooky U.K. Public Information Film from 1973 meant to warn children about the dangers of playing near water. I think it is worthy of repeated viewings, especially during the Halloween season. The creepy narration by Donald Pleasence and the Grim Reaper-esque appearance of "The Spirit of Dark and Lonely Water" make this - to my mind at least - a horror classic in its own right. Remember: he'll be back...
Text of the Day: Today's short story is "Each Man Kills" by Victoria Glad, which originally appeared in the March 1951 issue of Weird Tales.
Excerpt:
Now that it's all over, it seems like a bad dream. But when I look at Maria's picture on my desk, I realize it couldn't have been a dream. Actually, it was only six months ago that I sat at this same desk, looking at her picture, wondering what could have happened to her. It had been six weeks since there had been any word from her, and she had promised to write as soon as she arrived in Europe. Considering that my future rested in her small hands, I had every right to be apprehensive.
Read the complete short story.
October 24, 2011
Halloween Countdown, Day 24, and POLL!
Today's the equivalent of "Open Mic Night" here at the Countdown to Halloween...
POLL TIME: What's your favorite spooky poem? Please post it in the comments for everyone to read! Thanks!
I'll kick things off with a few personal favorites...
"Oil And Blood"
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1913)
I tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.
But under heavy loads of trampled clay
Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;
Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.
"The Grey Thing"
by Stephen Crane (1871-1900)
There is a grey thing that lives in the tree-tops
None knows the horror of its sight
Save those who meet death in the wilderness
But one is enabled to see
To see branches move at its passing
To hear at times the wail of black laughter
And to come often upon mystic places
Places where the thing has just been.
"The Warning"
by Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1914)
Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk... as strange, as still...
A white moth flew... Why am I grown
So cold?
