I saw this on another blog and thought it would be a fun thing to do.
1. Which book, most recently, did you not finish?
The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky, English translation. His novels are ultimately rewarding, but my can they be hard work; I made it to half-point and then just quietly gave up.
A human being should be entirely beautiful: the face, the clothes, the soul and the thoughts.
– Anton Chekhov
What a luxury a cat is, the moments of shocking and startling pleasure in a day, the feel of the beast, the soft sleekness under your palm, the warmth when you wake on a cold night, the grace and charm even in a quite ordinary workaday puss. Cat walks across your room, and in that lonely stalk you see leopard or even panther, or it turns its head to acknowledge you and the yellow blaze of those eyes tells you what an exotic visitor you have here, in this household friend.
– Doris Lessing, On Cats
G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown stories are some of the most original detective stories I’ve read. I didn’t always find them 100% plausible – sometimes the mysteries are solved with pure intuitive leaps that seem a tad too far-fetched – but there’s no denying they have an atmosphere and style all of their own, not to mention Father Brown himself, an unassuming, shrewd, empathetic, endearing character. My favourite passage from the entire series is the speech he gives to the thief Flambeau in The Flying Stars:
I want you to give them back, Flambeau, and I want you to give up this life. There is still youth and honour and humour in you; don’t fancy they will last in that trade. Men may keep a sort of level of good, but no man has ever been able to keep on one level of evil. That road goes down and down. Many a man I’ve known started like you to be an honest outlaw, a merry robber of the rich, and ended stamped into slime. I know the woods look very free behind you, Flambeau; I know that in a flash you could melt into them like a monkey. But someday you will be an old grey monkey, Flambeau. You will sit up in your free forest cold at heart and close to death, and the tree-tops will be very bare.
I’ve just re-read The Collected Dorothy Parker. To be honest I prefer her short stories over her poems, partially because poetry is such a particular form I find I need to concentrate much more in order to take it in. Especially with the poetry written in my second language. But she sure wrote some sharp poems and her sarcastic/cynical wit is totally up my alley.
Indian Summer
In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.
But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!
Being a recovering people-pleaser, this does resonate with me quite a bit.
Some of my favourite Discworld quotes:
Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don’t seem to have the knack.
– Guards! Guards!
Holy Cow! by Sarah MacdonaldI’m usually not a huge fan of travel books – to me they can often feel like sitting through a stranger’s long tedious slideshow of What I Did on My Holiday. This author though spent some time actually living in the country, and India always fascinated me (and ok, I really liked the colourful book cover). I’ve been to India about nine years ago, and if I hadn’t travelled to Egypt a couple of years previously I’d probably have found it as much of a culture shock as Sarah did on her first trip. It leaves her absolutely hating India and she swears to never return again; however when her partner moves to India for work she follows him to New Delhi and tries to make a life there.
Terry Pratchett passed away today. I’ve known about his Alzheimer’s for years but despite everything I was always hoping he’d be with us for a while longer, certainly longer than 66 which is no age to die at all. And while Alzheimer’s is a tragedy for anyone, how much more cruel it is to happen to one of the sharpest, brightest minds in writing.
I’m reading Ian McEwan’s Amsterdam right now. I’ve got many favourite authors that I love for various reasons, but McEwan is a writer whose command of English language just makes me pause and go, damn this man can write.
This passage really stuck with me, partly because of some personal things going on in my life that made me reflect on people and relationships:
We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white.
yggdrasille.com 