Back in the 1990's, Yahoo rolled out an amazing tool. It was called Geocities. You could publish your own websites, imagine that! Nowadays, this is no big deal, but in the 1990's, this was mind blowing. It was free as well. I used to have a really great website for my favorite paragraphs. I read a lot, more back then, so every time I came across a paragraph I loved, in fiction usually, I added it to my web site. I must had about 50 paragraphs posted ranging from Herman Hesse, Henry Miller and Douglas Adams. It got away from me. Life happened. In 2009, I received an email that Geocities was going away. I need to back up my website. I did not and I lost it. I don't know what going with me in 2009. I was probably very busy with work, maybe I was depressed. I just can't explain it. No excuses. It is about time I resurrect this project. I am starting with Hemingway and Conrad because those are the two works of fiction th...
Olive Kitteridge "And then the little plane climb higher and Olive saw spread out below them fields of bright and tender green in the morning sun, farther out the coast line, the ocean shiny and almost flat, tiny white wakes behind a few lobster boats --- then Olive felt something she had not expected to feel again: a sudden surging greediness for life. She leaned forward, peering out the window: sweet pale clouds, the sky as blue as your hat, the new green of the fields, the broad expanse of water ---- seen from up here it all appeared wondrous, amazing. She remembered what hope was, and this was it. That inner churning that moves you forward, plows you through life, the way the boats below plowed the shiny water, the way the plane was plowing forward to a place new, and where she was needed. She had been asked to be part of her son's life." (Random House Trade Paperbacks, Page 202 and 203)
Ironweed "When Francis opened the trunk lid the odor of lost time filled the attic air, a cloying reek of imprisoned flowers that unsettled the dust and fluttered the window shades. Francis felt drugged by the scent of the reconstituted past, and then stunned by his first look inside the trunk, for there, staring out from a photo, was his own face at age nineteen. The picture lay among rolled socks and a small American flag, a Washington Senators cap, a pile of newspaper clippings and other photos, all in a scatter on the trunk's tray. Francis stared up at himself from the bleachers in Chadwick Park on a day in 1899, his face unlined, his teeth all there, his collar open, his hair unruly in the afternoon's breeze. He lifted the picture for a closer look and saw himself among a group of men, tossing a baseball from bare right hand to gloved left hand. The flight of the ball had always made this photo mysterious to Francis, for the camera had caught the ball clutched in one...
Comments
Post a Comment