Results Are In: Pablo Neruda Was Not Poisoned [HUFF POST BOOKS]
However, his family is not convinced.
For more on this story, go here.
“Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.”-Orson Welles
Sylvia Plath is best remembered for the sharp-edged precision of her poetry: word-vessels that are hard, clear, and passionate examples of literature’s trickiest form. Her style, although of minor importance to both literary historians and laypersons, remains fresh and appealing fifty years after her death. The timeless quality of Sylvia’s wardrobe is easy to emulate, and personalize.
Four Seasons, Five Photographs, Forever Stylish:
A crisp white tee, corset belt, and floaty high-waisted skirt is the perfect outfit for the windy days of spring. She finishes it off simply with lipstick and a hairpin. Typewriter: optional. [This is my favourite photograph of a writer caught in the act of writing. I've always envied the imagined comforts of working in a garden setting. Sun-on-skin; light, earth-tainted breeze; a lounge chair to sink wearily into for moments of reflection; a glass of lemonade nearby--just out of frame; birds in trees. Sylvia kicks that fantasy up a few rungs by being so perfectly attired, and so full of creative concentration.]
The architectural details at the top make this bathing suit a gem. Clean lines and a good fit can turn a basic, sporty garment into something unforgettably elegant. If I had one of these in every colour, I would live at the beach. Wouldn’t you? [It's funny how certain summer days are inexpressibly golden, when words fall off of tongues unspoken and melt on the air like dissolving grains of sand. The whole of the world, for a split second, seems beautiful and warm. Contentment emerges, as fleeting as a skittering crab. Sylvia's expression here is surely one of those moments captured and entombed by a photograph. Serenity is the best adornment.] Continue reading
“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.”-John Donne
The Eighth of September by Pablo Neruda
This day, Today, was a brimming glass.
This day, Today, was an immense wave.
This day was all the Earth.
This day, the storm-driven ocean
lifted us up in a kiss
so exalted we trembled
at the lightning flash
and bound as one, fell,
and drowned, without being unbound.
This day our bodies grew
stretched out to Earth’s limits,
orbited there, melded there
to one globe of wax, or a meteor’s flame.
A strange door opened, between us,
and someone, with no face as yet,
waited for us there.
Seamus Heaney, Irish Nobel Prize-Winning Poet, Dies at 74 [courtesy PEOPLE]
Seamus Heaney Dead: Irish Nobel-Winning Poet Dies in Dublin [courtesy HUFF POST BOOKS]
“I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.”-Edna St. Vincent Millay
The creator of Wuthering Heights, and some truly fabulous poetry, was born on 30 July 1818. She was the weird sister, and for that I love her even more.
A QUOTE: “If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.”-Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
SOME WORKS: Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; Wuthering Heights