Graceling, by Kristin Cashore
Katsa raised her eyebrows.
"I'm not going to wear a red dress," she said.
"It's the color of sunrise," Helda said.
"It's the color of blood," Katsa said.
Sighing, Helda carried the dress from the bathing room. "It would look stunning, My Lady," she called, "with your dark hair and your eyes."
Katsa yanked at one of the more stubborn knots in her hair. She spoke to the bubbles gathered on the surface of the water. "If there's anyone I wish to stun at dinner, I'll hit him in the face."
Friday, September 5, 2014
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive--all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.
That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive--all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.
Montana 1948, by Larry Watson
Who knows--perhaps any region's most dramatic, most sensational stories were not played out in the public view but were confined to small, private places. A doctor's office, say. A white frame house on a quiet street. So no matter what the historical documents might say, I feel free to augment them with whatever lurid or comical fantasy my imagination might concoct. And know that the truth might not be far off.
Who knows--perhaps any region's most dramatic, most sensational stories were not played out in the public view but were confined to small, private places. A doctor's office, say. A white frame house on a quiet street. So no matter what the historical documents might say, I feel free to augment them with whatever lurid or comical fantasy my imagination might concoct. And know that the truth might not be far off.
William Shakespeare's The Jedi Doth Return, by Ian Doescher
O shall it be? the strands of Fate do seem
To wind themselves about my neck as if
To strangle me and drag me down into
The measureless, uncharted depths of my
beloved Emperor's most perfect will.
Thus shall I drown within the dark side's pull--
A murky grave to bury Vader's soul.
The rudder of my conscience runs not straight,
Thus am I tow'd along toward my Fate.
O shall it be? the strands of Fate do seem
To wind themselves about my neck as if
To strangle me and drag me down into
The measureless, uncharted depths of my
beloved Emperor's most perfect will.
Thus shall I drown within the dark side's pull--
A murky grave to bury Vader's soul.
The rudder of my conscience runs not straight,
Thus am I tow'd along toward my Fate.
The Daughter of Time, by Josephine Tey
"The point is that that every single man who was there knows that the story is nonsense, and yet it has never been contradicted. It will never be overtaken now. It is a completely untrue story grown to legend while the men who knew it to be untrue looked on and said nothing."
"The point is that that every single man who was there knows that the story is nonsense, and yet it has never been contradicted. It will never be overtaken now. It is a completely untrue story grown to legend while the men who knew it to be untrue looked on and said nothing."
The Six Days, by Anna Carolyn McCormally
But she understood. Nia had been raised by her eccentric grandmother and had experience warding off questions about her own parents, who had left her and moved to Europe when she was very young. Nia had never known them and she was nearly as touchy about it as Jamie was about his own missing mother. Maybe having this in common was what had drawn Nia and Jamie together in the first place; they had met in school and taken to each other immediately, like two broken things that together almost made a whole.
But she understood. Nia had been raised by her eccentric grandmother and had experience warding off questions about her own parents, who had left her and moved to Europe when she was very young. Nia had never known them and she was nearly as touchy about it as Jamie was about his own missing mother. Maybe having this in common was what had drawn Nia and Jamie together in the first place; they had met in school and taken to each other immediately, like two broken things that together almost made a whole.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Ifemelu's reply came an hour later, a rush of heartbroken words. I am crying as I write this. Do you know how often I wished that she was my mother? She was the only adult--except for Aunty Uju--who treated me like a person with an opinion that mattered. You were so fortunate to be raised by her. She was everything I wanted to be. I am so sorry, Ceiling.
Ifemelu's reply came an hour later, a rush of heartbroken words. I am crying as I write this. Do you know how often I wished that she was my mother? She was the only adult--except for Aunty Uju--who treated me like a person with an opinion that mattered. You were so fortunate to be raised by her. She was everything I wanted to be. I am so sorry, Ceiling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)