Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Snippets of Now...because I don't have time for anything more than a few snippets.

Thesis paper. 12 pages long. 'Nuff said.

Rilla of Ingleside. My escape.

Graduation pictures...somewhat fail...somewhat awesome.

Snow predicted. Phooey.

Graduation dress picking-out-time. Must. Find. Perfect. Dress. Or not.

Braces soon. Yay! Dork summer.

Harmony Hill anticipation. Too soon.

Red Badge of Courage. Blah.

Iron &  Wine discover. Love.

The Valley of...Indecision. Life after graduation.

Texas trip memory sustenance. Maybe they'll last till Harmony Hill.

Anthropologie open in Mtown! Woopee!

Sun, please come back. I love you and miss you.

Sleep...come to me. Thanks. Sincerely, Eleanor.


Sunday, January 10, 2010

I want to walk through a field in Italy with George Emerson.




“It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.”


She could not understand him; the words were indeed remote. Yet as he spoke the darkness was withdrawn, veil after veil, and she saw to the bottom of her soul.


“Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along—especially the function of Love”.


Thursday, October 22, 2009

On the inside cover of the dustjacket...

Already being greeted with extraordinary acclaim---the astonishing, profoundly moving memoir of a man afflicted by locked-in syndrome, a state of virtually total paralysis that leaves the victim, in the author's own wors, "like a mind in a jar."

In 1995, Jean-Dominique Bauby was the editor in chief of French Elle, the father of two young children, a forth-three-year-old man known and loved for his wit, his style, and his impassioned approach to life. By the end of the year he was also the victim of a rare kind of stroke to the brain stem. After twenty days in a coma, Bauby awoke into a body that had all but stopped working: only his left eye functioned, allowing him to see and, by blinking, to make clear that his mind was unimpaired. Almost miraculously, he was soon able to express himself in the richest detail, blinking to select letters one by one as a special alphabet was slowly recited to him, over and over again. In the same way, he was eventually able to compose this extraordinary book.

By turns wistful, mischievous, angry, and witty, Bauby bears witness to his determination to live as fully inm his mind as he had been able to in his body. He explains the joy, and the deep sadness of seeing his children and of hearing his aged father's voice on the phone. In magical sequences, he imagines traveling to other places and times; of lying next to the woman he loves. Fed only intravenously, he imagines preparing and tasting the full flavor of delectable dishes. Again and again he returns to an "inexhaustible reservoir of sensations," keeping in touch with himself and the life around him.

Jean-Dominique Bauby died two days after the French publication of his book. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a lasting testament to life.




Read it. It's well worth your time.