In case you missed this last night, I vlogged again. This time, gin & tonics and Threads of the Heart by Carole Martinez. It’s a great book. And I am marginally entertaining when talking about it. Also, it’s really hot.
(Source: shes-reading-again)
Drinks with Rachael - Ep. 2 - Allergic to Zombies (by Rachael Berkey)
Zombies are the worst. Allergies suck too.
The Great Gatsby Presented Entirely Through Margin Notes
Previously: Chapter 1
Chapter 2
ash imagery
eyes billboard
to NYC w/ Tom
walk into a brick building
Wilson’s eyes —>
Tom’s mistress
vitality, despite dull looks
even Wilson is covered in ash
in a cab
tries to assert his superiority
Myrtle + George Wilson
Their apartment
Myrtle’s mother
company arrives
what he describes is little (eyebrows) but telling
how Myrtle’s behavior changes
Fitz. is mocking artists
Chester McKee
Catherine saying that they should divorce.
Lucille + Chester McKee
why Myrtle married George
when she realizes it’s not going to work
like before: privy to lots of information
hears things, but never asks to hear them
such a cliche, but she doesn’t think so
The schedule of the rapid socialite
Tom hits her.
Because tapestries are more important than the problem
He leaves w/ Chester
Jim and I went through high school together - meaning my all-girls school and his all-boys school were buddies - and I’m kind of really looking forward to re-experiencing The Great Gatsby through his marginalia. Yay books!
I did this thing.
Please tell me how big my ears are. I can’t stop thinking about it.
I promise to be better next time.
*runs to hide*
I wrote this. Because sometimes I just can’t come up with lists and I just really need to read a lot of books all at the same time and really fast. And then I write things like this.
WE DIDN’T HAVE HARRY POTTER WHEN I WAS A KID, OKAY?
So I wrote this.
"A sure sign of a good book is that you like it more the older you get."
– Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (via literaryescapist)
(via fuckyeahreading)
"I am always concerned when people, finding out that I am a writer, apologise and say, “I’m not much of a reader actually. I know I ought to, but I just don’t seem able to find the time,” and then go on to tell me how they feel obliged to finish any book they begin. Well, of course, I say, you will be reluctant to open one in the first place, knowing what it might entail. It isn’t meant to be like that, I assure them. If you begin a book and you don’t like it, just throw it away. Or take it round to a charity shop. It’s like going to a party: some people you linger with, knowing you get on. Some people you exchange greeting with and move on fast. It’s nothing against them. They’re just not your kind of person. It’s the same with books. You must be prepared to discard. And though you may feel it’s a waste of money not reading a book you don’t get on with, that’s like not opening the windows when the weather turns warm for fear of wasting the central heating. So, as I say, now is a good point to abandon the book. You have my permission - even my encouragement."
One could as well have chosen
that life of supermarket carts
junked in the backyard,
where you stand and wait
with your mechanic’s hands
and a bare chest
in summer, light
behind you jammed into the picture,
its code undecipherable
even by the camera,
so steep and dense its
dreaming smeared on the warped
boards of the toolshed, makeshift
cinder path, and what once must have been
grass of a lawn now given way
to automobile parts and that complication
of wreckage, brutal and casual
at once, whose talent it is to attach
itself to us in California
or to those lives in other places
we accede to.Where evening finds us
I cannot name yet; these are lives
best seen, or dreamt, beneath that sun
of backyard chaos
and indeterminate nourishing power,
that sun of rusting crankshafts,
of beached headlights, where you wait
for what shall not be named yet in this poem,where evening finds us,
should it find us,
on a second-hand mattress whose bent springs
jangle when the wind lies right,
those mechanic’s hands
to small avail
against the infinite
machine turning
the stars on over California,
the dark no doubt insisting moonlight
color chaos silver soon in backlots
where supermarket carts
and auto bodies
await, if we are gifted,
restoration at our hands
(and we are gifted),
we who, beneath that daylight etched
like anniversaries on the calendar
nailed to the toolshed wall,
wait for what has not disclosed its name,
neither in California
nor in this life of bleached,
unlikely places.Herbert Morris, “These Are Lives”
Photography Credit Lluís Tudela
God I love The Paris Review.
I left the house without a book today.
It was horrible.
I had to ride the subway both ways listening to something and not reading.
IT HURT SO MUCH.
