Rebecca Moll's Blog, page 11
July 11, 2019
First Man in Rome by Colleen McCullough, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
The First Man in Rome
Ever played “King of the Hill?”
Well, if you had the skinned knees to prove it, then you understand the question. What is probably now considered an unfair, barbaric childhood game, it pretty much sums up what it took to be the First Man in Rome. Spoils to the victor. Woe to the losers.
Far from a history buff, a novice student of the ancient world and all things Roman, I wholeheartedly recommend Colleen McCullough’s First Man in Rome as a perfect starting point for venturing into this fascinating, ancient world. With maps to illustrate, an extensive glossary, and great artistry in character, McCullough makes this one smooth journey.
Upon finishing The First Man in Rome, my second book of McCullough’s masterpiece Roman series, my first being the last of the series, Caesar’s Women, I am now completely hooked. The Grass Crown awaits.
I find the parallels to today all too painfully clear. 2,000+ years hasn’t really changed us, human nature being just that, nature. Wrath, greed, lust, envy. Murder, mayhem, and war. And, war. And, war. Sometimes, even love. The dog and pony show of today’s politics is nothing new. Men still fight men, claw their way to the top, secure footing upon the backs of the fallen, all to be crowned the victor.
King of the Hill. The First Man in Rome. A fleeting attainment. A precarious position. For it is upon reaching the top that all sides are exposed.
Yet, like splintered fractions of refracted light there is more, so much more. Dignitas, honor, a man’s moral compass, a venerable elevator that holds man high, estimable. Esteem. The high road. The only road to greatness, to attain and retain the most coveted glory of all.
It is said, all roads lead to Rome. I, for one, am enjoying the journey. What about you? Up for a little “King of the Hill?” Come on, why the hesitation? Spoils to the victor and all that.
Dust off your sandals, slip into your tunic, strap on your helmet and breastplate, grab a spear and shield, and get into formation. No, the purple bordered toga will have to wait. So will the wine, the women, the lofty Palatine residence full of slaves, the triumphal march through the gates of Rome. With McCullough penning the way, you will never forget those noble Romans.
The legions are leaving. Let’s go!
Ever played “King of the Hill?” Well, if you had the skinned knees to prove it, then you understand the question. What is probably now considered an unfair, barbaric childhood game, it pretty much sums up what it took to be the First Man in Rome. Spoils to the victor. Woe to the losers.
Far from a history buff, a novice student of the ancient world and all things Roman, I wholeheartedly recommend Colleen McCullough’s First Man in Rome as a perfect starting point for venturing into this fascinating, ancient world. With maps to illustrate, an extensive glossary, and great artistry in character, McCullough makes this one smooth journey.
Upon finishing The First Man in Rome, my second book of McCullough’s masterpiece Roman series, my first being the last of the series, Caesar’s Women, I am now completely hooked. The Grass Crown awaits.
I find the parallels to today all too painfully clear. 2,000+ years hasn’t really changed us, human nature being just that, nature. Wrath, greed, lust, envy. Murder, mayhem, and war. And, war. And, war. Sometimes, even love. The dog and pony show of today’s politics is nothing new. Men still fight men, claw their way to the top, secure footing upon the backs of the fallen, all to be crowned the victor.
King of the Hill. The First Man in Rome. A fleeting attainment. A precarious position. For it is upon reaching the top that all sides are exposed.
Yet, like splintered fractions of refracted light there is more, so much more. Dignitas, honor, a man’s moral compass, a venerable elevator that holds man high, estimable. Esteem. The high road. The only road to greatness, to attain and retain the most coveted glory of all.
It is said, all roads lead to Rome. I, for one, am enjoying the journey. What about you? Up for a little “King of the Hill?” Come on, why the hesitation? Spoils to the victor and all that.
Dust off your sandals, slip into your tunic, strap on your helmet and breastplate, grab a spear and shield, and get into formation. No, the purple bordered toga will have to wait. So will the wine, the women, the lofty Palatine residence full of slaves, the triumphal march through the gates of Rome. With McCullough penning the way, you will never forget those noble Romans.
The legions are leaving. Let’s go!
June 17, 2019
The Day Trader by Stephen W. Fry, Mark W. Tavani (Editor), A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
If you enjoy reading in the fast lane, love protagonists that make you wish you could throw the punches, bad guys that deserve what they get and then some, then Stephen Fry's The Day Trader is for you.And although the pace doesn't lend to reflection, the story is anything but a Sunday drive through the country. Ins and outs, ups and downs, like day trading, the complex world of publicly traded corporate business is matched with a whole host of possible villains, multiple story lines, a complex labyrinth of narrow lanes & winding roads. Yet, in the end, you arrive at your destination, the conclusion, regardless of what stocks were picked, what was wagered, whether you won big or lost it all. Even the craftiest of readers will be surprised.
Take a risk and jump in the fast lane, The Day Trader will keep you guessing right up until the road runs out.
June 11, 2019
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
Sometimes life is so hard, all you can do is walk.
One step at a time.
Endearing, heartbreaking, revealing, uplifting. With each foot fall, each step towards Berwick-upon-Tweed Harold's past opens and closes, the future pulls. There is a secret within the journey, a healing, revealing, painful, heart-wrenching. Buried deep at the onset, reborn at the end, it is within, amongst, alongside, and awhile that Harold's heart discovers the secret and begins the process of healing.
One step at a time.
With each encounter, each pin upon the map, we learn about one life, one simple man, Harold Fry. There are millions of Harolds, millions of journeys, millions of hearts, all searching.
One step at a time.
Come along, turn to page one, take the first step and join the journey. Soon, you will find its not upon embarking, nor upon reaching the end, but within, amongst, alongside where the secret lay. No worries, plenty of time to catch up, fall in place. That's the beauty of it. Love knows no boundaries.
One step at a time.
Endearing, heartbreaking, revealing, uplifting. With each foot fall, each step towards Berwick-upon-Tweed Harold's past opens and closes, the future pulls. There is a secret within the journey, a healing, revealing, painful, heart-wrenching. Buried deep at the onset, reborn at the end, it is within, amongst, alongside, and awhile that Harold's heart discovers the secret and begins the process of healing.
One step at a time.
With each encounter, each pin upon the map, we learn about one life, one simple man, Harold Fry. There are millions of Harolds, millions of journeys, millions of hearts, all searching.
One step at a time.
Come along, turn to page one, take the first step and join the journey. Soon, you will find its not upon embarking, nor upon reaching the end, but within, amongst, alongside where the secret lay. No worries, plenty of time to catch up, fall in place. That's the beauty of it. Love knows no boundaries.
May 30, 2019
Memoir of Hungary 1944-1948 by Sandor Marai, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
It has become habit, that as I near the end of a book, I slow down, give time for my thoughts to come together, and to allow for my reaching the end to concur with ample time to put those thoughts to paper. I do suppose that the given day of this occurrence does influence my concluding thoughts, as well as, my age at the time, recent events in my life, what is happening in the world, even, as Heidelberg theorized, my mere observation. There are several favorites that I have read many times, at different times in my life over the last forty years, and yes, my understanding is not only different with each reading in breadth, but also depth. It is an observation, that although clearly subjective, I vainly attempt to keep as objective as possible.
This undertaking of observations and the observations of observations, at its most elementary, is a "toothpick" framework of how I see Sandor Marai's Memoir of Hungary. A rendering of the world he saw, his Hungary, his language, the Hungarian spirit, and the effects of not only Nazi and then Soviet occupation, but the indifference of the rest of the world to the plight of his people during the years 1944-1948. How he felt, what he thought and his ruminations regarding those feelings and thoughts. His encounters and conversations with fellow Hungarians, and the ruminations thereof.
Marai opens the door to his most inner thoughts during that time, his feelings, hopes and despair, and the very evolution of his mind and heart as he vacillated over staying or leaving his homeland. It was not so much a question of "to stay or not to stay" but in essence, truly, "to be or not to be". Shakespeare, once again, timeless. The world does not speak, nor understand Hungarian. For a writer, especially a prolific one, such as Marai, with over 46 books, leaving his country renders him mute. It was only with the realization that Communism also rendered him mute, for even his silence was dangerous, spoke volumes, that Marai chose the world over his homeland.
Ancient stories portray monsters, tell epics of inhumane creatures that attempt to conquer and obliterate, and man's fight for survival. Beasts and machines, aliens. These faceless, nameless monsters, devoid of compassion instill fear, hatred, and the desire to kill. As the tale continues, man, like David against Goliath, overcomes immense odds and conquers his oppressor. Man not only chooses, but attains his destiny and in doing so, man triumphs machine, proving, that Humanism, the very spirit of God our creator, is alive and well.
But, what if the monster, the inhumane, faceless, nameless creature that tears asunder and plunders your very world is not alien, but a monstrous conglomeration of fellow humans, even fellow countrymen? Betrayal enters the equation. What if the pursuit of this human constructed monster, this regime, is all in the name of "the people"? Deceit enters the equation. And what if the pursuit is so simplistic, so narrow in focus that it defies logic, ignores the very idea of the complexity of human thought, a dogma where "one shoe fits all"? Stupidity enters the equation. Betrayal + Deceit + Stupidity = ?
I am not sure there is one answer, although after reading Memoir of Hungary, I could venture to say, "communism". However, I would rather say what it is NOT. Betrayal, deceit, and stupidity is NOT love and understanding, it is not compassion, it does not nurture, forgive, absolve, or empower. In fact, the combination, virus-like, renders a people faceless, nameless, spiritless, hopeless, human-less.
Yet, somehow, despite this lethal combination, this viral, inhumane machine of oppression, there were those who held, however feebly, to the tenuous threads of humanness, who held fast to the belief that man is a possibility, who fled their oppressor and lived to tell their story. Sandor Marai was one such individual, one such "I" who lived to tell, wrote to inform, opened his heart to share.
It is only since the early 1990s that Marai's works have been translated to English. I, for one, am grateful for his thoughts, his observations, his observations of his observations.
Memoir of Hungary is one for my permanent shelves, one I will revisit in the future, again, and again.
This undertaking of observations and the observations of observations, at its most elementary, is a "toothpick" framework of how I see Sandor Marai's Memoir of Hungary. A rendering of the world he saw, his Hungary, his language, the Hungarian spirit, and the effects of not only Nazi and then Soviet occupation, but the indifference of the rest of the world to the plight of his people during the years 1944-1948. How he felt, what he thought and his ruminations regarding those feelings and thoughts. His encounters and conversations with fellow Hungarians, and the ruminations thereof.
Marai opens the door to his most inner thoughts during that time, his feelings, hopes and despair, and the very evolution of his mind and heart as he vacillated over staying or leaving his homeland. It was not so much a question of "to stay or not to stay" but in essence, truly, "to be or not to be". Shakespeare, once again, timeless. The world does not speak, nor understand Hungarian. For a writer, especially a prolific one, such as Marai, with over 46 books, leaving his country renders him mute. It was only with the realization that Communism also rendered him mute, for even his silence was dangerous, spoke volumes, that Marai chose the world over his homeland.
Ancient stories portray monsters, tell epics of inhumane creatures that attempt to conquer and obliterate, and man's fight for survival. Beasts and machines, aliens. These faceless, nameless monsters, devoid of compassion instill fear, hatred, and the desire to kill. As the tale continues, man, like David against Goliath, overcomes immense odds and conquers his oppressor. Man not only chooses, but attains his destiny and in doing so, man triumphs machine, proving, that Humanism, the very spirit of God our creator, is alive and well.
But, what if the monster, the inhumane, faceless, nameless creature that tears asunder and plunders your very world is not alien, but a monstrous conglomeration of fellow humans, even fellow countrymen? Betrayal enters the equation. What if the pursuit of this human constructed monster, this regime, is all in the name of "the people"? Deceit enters the equation. And what if the pursuit is so simplistic, so narrow in focus that it defies logic, ignores the very idea of the complexity of human thought, a dogma where "one shoe fits all"? Stupidity enters the equation. Betrayal + Deceit + Stupidity = ?
I am not sure there is one answer, although after reading Memoir of Hungary, I could venture to say, "communism". However, I would rather say what it is NOT. Betrayal, deceit, and stupidity is NOT love and understanding, it is not compassion, it does not nurture, forgive, absolve, or empower. In fact, the combination, virus-like, renders a people faceless, nameless, spiritless, hopeless, human-less.
Yet, somehow, despite this lethal combination, this viral, inhumane machine of oppression, there were those who held, however feebly, to the tenuous threads of humanness, who held fast to the belief that man is a possibility, who fled their oppressor and lived to tell their story. Sandor Marai was one such individual, one such "I" who lived to tell, wrote to inform, opened his heart to share.
It is only since the early 1990s that Marai's works have been translated to English. I, for one, am grateful for his thoughts, his observations, his observations of his observations.
Memoir of Hungary is one for my permanent shelves, one I will revisit in the future, again, and again.
May 16, 2019
84 Charing Cross Road by Helen Hanff, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
There exists a long list of individuals that I wish I could traverse time to meet. Spend an hour or two over coffee, ask a litany of questions, and hopefully, listen, really listen. Abraham Lincoln, Mary (mother of Jesus), Eleanor Roosevelt to name a few.
I now have a name to add to the list, Helene Hanff.
Perhaps it's her whit, or maybe her straight- shooting style, or even her strong taste in reading material. More so, her absolute absoluteness about things which she felt strongly. Books are not to be kept and put on a shelf, never to be re-read, but, if worthy, and I'm sure the process was eye-of-the-needle, read over and over, over one's lifetime.
Although with a less than stellar record of such literary works as that which Ms. Hanff has devoured, I, too, keep only those I wish to read again. And, read again, I do. There is a very different take-away upon reading The Grapes of Wrath or say, The Catcher in the Rye, when a young adult vs middle-age, or even a not-so-middle-anymore-but-not-yet-a-senior-for-God's-sake adult. In addition, thanks to my wonderful memory, there are whole passages that I re-read anew, almost, as if, for the first time :)
Non-fiction at it most endearing, a snap-shot of mid-20th century Americana, an insight to the post-war strife of Londoners, this epistolary collection is a wonderful read.
And even though I am more than 20 years too late to meet the venerable Ms. Hanff, I have a copy of 84 Charing Cross Road, a hot cup of coffee, my early morning reading hour, and the great fortune to listen, really listen to what she had to say.
Life is good.
I now have a name to add to the list, Helene Hanff.
Perhaps it's her whit, or maybe her straight- shooting style, or even her strong taste in reading material. More so, her absolute absoluteness about things which she felt strongly. Books are not to be kept and put on a shelf, never to be re-read, but, if worthy, and I'm sure the process was eye-of-the-needle, read over and over, over one's lifetime.
Although with a less than stellar record of such literary works as that which Ms. Hanff has devoured, I, too, keep only those I wish to read again. And, read again, I do. There is a very different take-away upon reading The Grapes of Wrath or say, The Catcher in the Rye, when a young adult vs middle-age, or even a not-so-middle-anymore-but-not-yet-a-senior-for-God's-sake adult. In addition, thanks to my wonderful memory, there are whole passages that I re-read anew, almost, as if, for the first time :)
Non-fiction at it most endearing, a snap-shot of mid-20th century Americana, an insight to the post-war strife of Londoners, this epistolary collection is a wonderful read.
And even though I am more than 20 years too late to meet the venerable Ms. Hanff, I have a copy of 84 Charing Cross Road, a hot cup of coffee, my early morning reading hour, and the great fortune to listen, really listen to what she had to say.
Life is good.
May 6, 2019
Travels with Charlie, In Search of America by John Steinbeck, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
From the forgotten bookshelves of yesteryear, John Steinbeck's Travels with Charlie found its way into my hands a few months ago. "In Search of America," the subtitle reads. A little pocketbook-sized paperback, a little yellow with age, the price in the upper left corner, 75C. Bantam Books. 1963. In the back of the book, Bantam advertises other Steinbeck novels. East of Eden 75C. Mice and Men 40C. Oh, how the times have changed.
Well, into my pocketbook it went (purse for those who find Northeastern US vernacular confusing). A constant companion when time permitted, I read Travels with Charlie much like I imagine Travels with Charlie was for the author. A little here. A little there. A slow absorption over time and place. A seeping into my sub-conscience, a slow gradient of American humanity.
The time stamp is indelible, yet, much of what is recorded on the pages of this testimonial of our great nation, continues to rings true today. In terms of technology we are light-years ahead, yet when it comes to plain old humanity, well, we are pretty much stuck in the mud. Troubles of our past are, still, our troubles of today.
I find it ironic that methods of communication are so far advanced compared to 40+ years ago, yet are we really communicating any better? Different? Yes. Faster? Sure. More often? Probably. Better? Well, that's a debate for another day.
A wise and aged Southerner whom Steinbeck had the pleasure of conversing with, Monsieur Ci Git, said in regard to reaching the end of our troubles (specifically, the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s), "It's the meanwhile that frightens me." Me, too.
I think Steinbeck had it right. A man can take a journey or a journey can take a man. Travels with Charlie is one journey that will take you, leave a little of you stuck in the mud, a little bit of you all over this great country.
Some travels are best when begun, some best when done. Some, never end, even after it is over. A journey continued changes you.
If you like tripping in the middle, love books that make you want to turn the last page and then, immediately, the first, all over again, then let Travels with Charlie take you on a journey.
Safe travels my friends.
Well, into my pocketbook it went (purse for those who find Northeastern US vernacular confusing). A constant companion when time permitted, I read Travels with Charlie much like I imagine Travels with Charlie was for the author. A little here. A little there. A slow absorption over time and place. A seeping into my sub-conscience, a slow gradient of American humanity.
The time stamp is indelible, yet, much of what is recorded on the pages of this testimonial of our great nation, continues to rings true today. In terms of technology we are light-years ahead, yet when it comes to plain old humanity, well, we are pretty much stuck in the mud. Troubles of our past are, still, our troubles of today.
I find it ironic that methods of communication are so far advanced compared to 40+ years ago, yet are we really communicating any better? Different? Yes. Faster? Sure. More often? Probably. Better? Well, that's a debate for another day.
A wise and aged Southerner whom Steinbeck had the pleasure of conversing with, Monsieur Ci Git, said in regard to reaching the end of our troubles (specifically, the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s), "It's the meanwhile that frightens me." Me, too.
I think Steinbeck had it right. A man can take a journey or a journey can take a man. Travels with Charlie is one journey that will take you, leave a little of you stuck in the mud, a little bit of you all over this great country.
Some travels are best when begun, some best when done. Some, never end, even after it is over. A journey continued changes you.
If you like tripping in the middle, love books that make you want to turn the last page and then, immediately, the first, all over again, then let Travels with Charlie take you on a journey.
Safe travels my friends.
May 4, 2019
Winter Garden by Kristin Hannah, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
There is an old saying that when a person dies, a library burns down. And for those of us who remember loved ones that lived through the early part of the 20th century, those libraries were full of amazing stories of courage, survival, triumph, heart-wrenching tragedies, and loss.
I think of all the lives that ended, taking libraries of silent novels and heavy hearts with them. The sense of loss and finality is overwhelming.
Yet, it is in pulling these forgotten spines from the shelves, before, in opening their covers, turning the pages, fragile with the weight of time, life, love & hate, that all is not lost. It is in opening that we live on, long, beyond.
An open book is an open heart. An open heart is love.
Kristin Hannah's Winter Garden is one woman's library, preserved. Winter Garden is about remembering, about telling before the fire starts, about sharing and bearing one's life with the next generation, and the next, and the next. No easy task, the flint lays perilously close to the strike. Anya almost takes her secrets to her grave, but, for the love of her daughters.
Love changes all.
If you like fiction that transports through time, wraps you in the beauty and tragedy of another culture, people, and their country, Anya Petrovna Winston has a story to share with you.
What books remain on dust covered shelves in your library? Go ahead, take a look, before it's too late.
I think of all the lives that ended, taking libraries of silent novels and heavy hearts with them. The sense of loss and finality is overwhelming.
Yet, it is in pulling these forgotten spines from the shelves, before, in opening their covers, turning the pages, fragile with the weight of time, life, love & hate, that all is not lost. It is in opening that we live on, long, beyond.
An open book is an open heart. An open heart is love.
Kristin Hannah's Winter Garden is one woman's library, preserved. Winter Garden is about remembering, about telling before the fire starts, about sharing and bearing one's life with the next generation, and the next, and the next. No easy task, the flint lays perilously close to the strike. Anya almost takes her secrets to her grave, but, for the love of her daughters.
Love changes all.
If you like fiction that transports through time, wraps you in the beauty and tragedy of another culture, people, and their country, Anya Petrovna Winston has a story to share with you.
What books remain on dust covered shelves in your library? Go ahead, take a look, before it's too late.
May 2, 2019
Free e-book Offer * Limited Time
In honor of all the Mothers and Mothers-to-be, Grandmothers, & Great-grandmothers, I am offering my e-books for FREE for 5 days.
Nadia Knows
The Beauty of Digging Deep
North South
For the Love of Charlie.
Beginning Thursday, May 9th (midnight) and ending Monday, May 13th (midnight).
A great gift for the women in your life. Available for multiple devices: iPad, tablet, PC, MAC, iPhone, or Android.
Visit:
https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-Moll/e...
Happy Mother's Day!
Please feel free to share :)
Nadia Knows
The Beauty of Digging Deep
North South
For the Love of Charlie.
Beginning Thursday, May 9th (midnight) and ending Monday, May 13th (midnight).
A great gift for the women in your life. Available for multiple devices: iPad, tablet, PC, MAC, iPhone, or Android.
Visit:
https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-Moll/e...
Happy Mother's Day!
Please feel free to share :)
April 24, 2019
West Virginia Farm Stories by Mary Cordelia Riffee Figgatt, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
It is hard not to give 5 stars, although this book will probably never grace the best seller list. Written between her 93rd and 100th birthday, this account is a time stamp of Americana history, an up from the bootstraps life, and a hell of a heaping of gumption. Every first world citizen should read Mary Cordelia's story, if only for the perspective and wonder at so many things of daily life in their infancy.
Thank you, Mary Cordelia, for sharing.
Thank you, Mary Cordelia, for sharing.
April 8, 2019
Old Lang Slang.... (Bring back the oldies but goodies) by Rebecca Moll
Old Lang Slang...
ret·i·cule
/ˈredəˌkyo͞ol/
noun
HISTORICAL
a woman's small handbag, originally netted and typically having a drawstring and decorated with embroidery or beading.
wikipedia
ret·i·cule
/ˈredəˌkyo͞ol/
noun
HISTORICAL
a woman's small handbag, originally netted and typically having a drawstring and decorated with embroidery or beading.
wikipedia
