Tag Archives: Reading

The Dead Writers Round-Up: 21st-25th October

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  • Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born on 10/21/1772. “Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests.”
  • Jack Kerouac died on 10/21/1969. “My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.”
  • Kingsley Amis died on 10/22/1995. “If you can’t annoy somebody, there is little point in writing.” (Lucky Jim)
  • Sarah Josepha Hale was born on 10/24/1788. “There is something in the decay of nature that awakens thought, even in the most trifling mind.”
  • Denise Levertov was born on 10/24/1923. “Images/split the truth/in fractions.”
  • Geoffrey Chaucer died on 10/25/1400. “There’s never a new fashion but it’s old.”
  • Frank Norris died on 10/25/1902. “The function of the novelist…is to comment upon life as he sees it.”
  • John Berryman was born on 10/25/1914. “The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he’s in business.”
  • Mary McCarthy died on 10/25/1989. “We are the hero of our own story.”

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[All images are courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and are in the Public Domain.]

 

Daily Diversion #55: An Irish Souvenir

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I’m easy to buy for; just ask my mother. She returned from Ireland a few days ago, laden with gifts. Lots and lots of bookish things for her daughter, and normal souvenirs for everyone else. My favourite:

Plays Unpleasant by (George) Bernard Shaw

Plays Unpleasant by (George) Bernard Shaw. The Penguin looks like he is performing on a balance beam created by the shadows of the easel. I notice weird things.

I love PENGUIN BOOKS editions. The little mascot is so kicky and adorable, and the design is clean, fresh, modern, and instantly recognizable. Iconic. My mom unearthed an original 1946 printing of Shaw’s Plays Unpleasant in some random bookstall in Ireland. I’m saving it for November and clear, cold nights. Steaming cups of chili and cinnamon laced hot chocolate. Fuzzy knee-high socks. Quilts and clear heads. Darkness. The stage is set, in my head; the actors are rehearsing, the director is taking notes. Opening night is creeping up: Widowers’ Houses, The Philanderer, Mrs. Warren’s Profession. Bliss is waiting in the wings.