Anthony Trollope by Napoleon Sarony
Robert Louis Stevenson Quote
The Literary Figures With the Weirdest Obsessions [courtesy Flavorwire]
Who do you think takes the prize for weirdness?
Our Internet is functioning again. I repeat: our Internet is functioning again! Please bear with me as I try to manipulate my professional life back to some kind of recognizable order. It might take a few days. Thank you for your patience. My readers are the best readers. Don’t even try to deny it, lovelies. This is how I feel right now, in no small part because of you…
A Gaiety Girl, 1893.
A very nice technician was able to restore our cable feed, but the goblins foiled his many heroic efforts to fix our Internet problem. The prognosis? It should be up and running by Monday afternoon. I could cry. I am going to drown my sorrows in the sweet satisfactions of a UK Kit Kat bar and a few pages of Shaw.
The Internet Goblins still have the upper hand, but not for long: everything will be fixed on Friday. I cannot wait to wholeheartedly re-join the WordPress community with deeper quality content than what I’ve been able to post these last few days. Thanks for hanging in there, dear readers. You are the best!
This is how I feel after 5 days without Internet access.
Brenda Starr, March 1947
Sylvia Plath’s New York [courtesy HUFF POST BOOKS]
Type So Hard You Bruise The Screen [courtesy HuffPost Books]
What do you think? Do you have anything to add?
Algernon Charles Swinburne died on 10 April 1909. In addition to being ever-ready for a good close-up…
…he was quite an accomplished and well-rounded writer.
QUOTE: “For winter’s rains and ruins are over,/And all the season of snows and sins;/The days dividing lover and lover,/The light that loses, the night that wins.”
SOME WORKS: Mary Stuart; The Sisters; Atalanta in Calydon; Songs of Two Nations; A Century of Roundels; A Study of Shakespeare.
A KEEPSAKE:
A Swinburne Poetry Selection at Professor Booknoodle. $25.00
It’s a true story. I know how it ends, but I can’t move forward. The last twenty pages are as weighty as a boulder, as immovable as a broken vault door. My heart refuses to face the acrid, bloody truth, to acknowledge the twisted metal and shattered dreams. His unwritten novels poke through the years like torpid headlights in a fog. Am I a horrid person for lamenting the tragedy of lost words?
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 