January 30, 2009
On an entirely separate note, the horribly sad news is that two librarians from the Perrot Memorial Library in Greenwich, CT were killed in a hit and run accident Wednesday morning on their way home from the Denver ALA conference. An enormous loss to the library community and a loss beyond words, I am sure, to those who loved them.
January 28, 2009
January 27, 2009
January 25, 2009
January 24, 2009
January 21, 2009
And this around the world photoblog site is sublime armchair travel.
and here is something wonderful. Pretend.
You are right there as he swims by.
There. Don't you feel better?
January 20, 2009
January 19, 2009
January 18, 2009
January 16, 2009
January 14, 2009
January 11, 2009
January 9, 2009
Fun book - Depraved English by Peter Novobatzky and Ammon Shea - has me learning the meanings of things I don't want to be: fustilugs (an unwieldy and slovenly woman) or a quakebuttock (a trembling coward) or experience: scaphism (the practice of covering a victim in honey and strapping him to a hollow tree exposed to stinging insects...yikes) or words such as spraints which means otter feces, "An odd but memorable word. The challenge, of course, is to somehow work it into everyday conversation without sounding strained. Good luck." Obviously the amusing style of the writers makes this a fun, if at times, appalling read.
There are a surprising number of words for scatological fans and the perhaps not unsurprising number of words for sexy beastie sort of things
You will excuse me now as I need to go write an email to my husband using select favorites of my new vocabulary - it's not that I'm a spoffokins, it's just that I feel a fit of early vernalagnia coming on (and don't be a witling, for pity's sake!). Giggle.
January 6, 2009
January 4, 2009
January 3, 2009
Roger Rosenblatt is a friend of mine. He doesn't know me from a hole in the wall, of course, but he's one of those literary friends we readers have. Like some relationships, actual and not quite, our friendship comes and goes, drifting as we (okay, I) get caught up in other things. I haven't read Roger for a spell, and then there he is in the December 15th, 2008 issue of The New Yorker, which I was reading in the early morning of the second day of this new year. An essay called "Making Toast" about how he and his wife have moved into his grandchildren's home to help care for them after the sudden death of his daughter, Amy.
I have always liked his work for its intelligence, his high hitting moments of grace, his wit and his sorrow in what feels like a great fondness for the human race. I often find guidance in his writing, the kind that you get over coffee with a good friend, the one who reminds you to be the person you were meant to be. Here, he writes of something so awful that words only open the window to it, what you see in the view depends, I think, on how your life has played out so far. Yet, astonishingly, even in sharing such difficult circumstance with the kind of heartbreak that catches your breath, he still offers something, words on how to live your life, to value the passing time.
I hope everyone tracks down the issue (library, people!) and reads this essay. The book he reviewed, from where he borrows a deeply moving quote, sounds worth tracking down as well.