Just pretend you’ve discovered something genuinely special. Something no one else knows about. Something amazing.
It could be anything. It could be a bar or a beach or a band. Or even a book.
Do you keep it to yourself, so no one else finds out about it? Do you swear never to tell a soul, clutching your discovery to your chest for as long as you possibly can? When someone else finally discovers this special, unique thing and loves it just as much as you do…do you resent that?
Or do you love your discovery so completely that every moment it remains a secret is like torture to you? The merest thought of this mysterious thing sets your soul soaring; you can’t keep it to yourself, or you just might explode. It simply must be shared.
Continue reading “1950 – the 13 clocks ~ james thurber”
Unless I’m sadly mistaken, it seems to me that 1918 was a bit of a quiet year for literature.
Yes, Wyndham Lewis first published Tarr in 1918, but looking at a plot synopsis didn’t exactly do much for me. Intellectual people running around being intellectual? Not this week, thankyouverymuch. After tackling James Joyce a few weeks ago, I’m all intellectualled out for a while, I’m afraid.
Continue reading “1918 – a double serving of australian classics”
Some things belong in the past, and it’s there they should remain.
Don’t worry. I haven’t gone back in time and stolen the Mona Lisa. I’m not talking about time travel, the space-time continuum, or anything like that.
I’m talking about nostalgia.
Continue reading “1911 – the secret garden ~ frances hodgson burnett”
When my husband, Angus, asked me what book I was reading this week, and I told him, he gave me this look. A kind of “what’chu talkin’ ’bout?” look. He’s not as bookish as I am, and he was quite astounded to learn, after seven years of being married to me, that I’d never read this week’s book.
Continue reading “1908 – wind in the willows ~ kenneth grahame”