Olivia

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Little Children by Tom Perrotta
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Louisa Brady
Louisa Brady is on page 541 of 816 of A Little Life
Olivia and 5 other people liked Christine's review of Turtles All the Way Down:
Turtles All the Way Down by John Green
"Reading this was a bit like reading a very long tumblr post. John Green really knows his audience, I guess. It's also the third YA romance book I've read in a row where the young male love interest is not only fascinated by astronomy but also has..." Read more of this review »
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Barefoot by Elin Hilderbrand
Barefoot
by Elin Hilderbrand (Goodreads Author)
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Found this at a used bookstore in Mexico City with the rare English-langugae book mixed in. Really enjoyed it and now want to read more by her.
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Barefoot by Elin Hilderbrand
Barefoot
by Elin Hilderbrand (Goodreads Author)
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How to Party with an Infant by Kaui Hart Hemmings
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Olivia has completed the 2017 Reading Challenge
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Emily Dickinson
“I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes;
I wonder if It weighs like Mine,
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the Date of Mine,
It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if They have to try,
And whether, could They choose between,
It would not be, to die.

I note that Some --
gone patient long --
At length, renew their smile.
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil.

I wonder if when Years have piled,
Some Thousands -- on the Harm
Of early hurt -- if such a lapse
Could give them any Balm;

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger Pain
By Contrast with the Love.

The Grieved are many,
I am told;
The reason deeper lies, --
Death is but one
and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.

There's Grief of Want
and Grief of Cold, --
A sort they call "Despair";
There's Banishment from native Eyes,
In sight of Native Air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the Cross,
And how they're mostly worn,
Still fascinated to presume
That Some are like My Own.”
Emily Dickinson, I'm Nobody! Who Are You?

E.M. Forster
“It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.”
E.M. Forster, A Room with a View

William Blake
“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.”
William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Langston Hughes
“Sometimes a crumb falls
From the tables of joy,
Sometimes a bone
Is flung.

To some people
Love is given,
To others
Only heaven.”
Langston Hughes
tags: luck

David Foster Wallace
“If what's always distinguished bad writing--flat characters, a narrative world that's clichéd and not recognizably human, etc.--is also a description of today's world, then bad writing becomes an ingenious mimesis of a bad world. If readers simply believe the world is stupid and shallow and mean, then [Bret] Ellis can write a mean shallow stupid novel that becomes a mordant deadpan commentary on the badness of everything. Look man, we'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.

Postmodern irony and cynicism's become an end in itself, a measure of hip sophistication and literary savvy. Few artists dare to try to talk about ways of working toward redeeming what's wrong, because they'll look sentimental and naive to all the weary ironists. Irony's gone from liberating to enslaving. There's some great essay somewhere that has a line about irony being the song of the prisoner who's come to love his cage… The postmodern founders' patricidal work was great, but patricide produces orphans, and no amount of revelry can make up for the fact that writers my age have been literary orphans throughout our formative years.

We enter a spiritual puberty where we snap to the fact that the great transcendent horror is loneliness, excluded encagement in the self. Once we’ve hit this age, we will now give or take anything, wear any mask, to fit, be part-of, not be Alone, we young. The U.S. arts are our guide to inclusion. A how-to. We are shown how to fashion masks of ennui and jaded irony at a young age where the face is fictile enough to assume the shape of whatever it wears. And then it’s stuck there, the weary cynicism that saves us from gooey sentiment and unsophisticated naïveté. Sentiment equals naïveté on this continent.

You burn with hunger for food that does not exist.

A U. S. of modern A. where the State is not a team or a code, but a sort of sloppy intersection of desires and fears, where the only public consensus a boy must surrender to is the acknowledged primacy of straight-line pursuing this flat and short-sighted idea of personal happiness.”
David Foster Wallace

41972 NYU Creative Writing Program — 12 members — last activity Jan 03, 2011 02:15PM
The NYU Creative Writing Program, among the most distinguished programs in the country, is a leading national center for the study of writing and lite ...more
207703 Butt Buddies Book Club — 50 members — last activity Jan 25, 2017 06:05PM
Hey everyone! This is a group for all the Girls With Guts readers out there! We can decide on a book each month, or match up with others who have simi ...more
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