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I'm an independent bookseller, so please forgive me if I chatter about books. They're almost all I have.

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powells:

Our CEO Miriam Sontz took up the #ALSicebucketchallenge from Strand Book Store to raise awareness and money for ALS! Robin Lopez, our favorite book-loving member of the Portland Trail Blazers, and our neighbor Mike Vincent from Doc Martens, you’re next!

Wait wait wait.

The Strand is part of this? The Strand, the bookstore that, in the fall, in New York, turns outdoor sprinklers on homeless individuals to drive them off of its sidewalk at night. Class. Such class.

Reblogged from powells with 18 notes | Permalink

wordbookstores:

Tonight in BK, John Bemelmans Marciano traced the history of the metric system versus the customary system. It’s not as even as you might think!

Perry Farrell has really diverse interests.

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wavepoetry:

The latest book of poems and (soma)tic rituals by CAConrad and a stunning book of essays by Garrett Caples just rolled in to town. ECODEVIANCE and Retrievals will be on sale at the end of the month.

Psyched.

wavepoetry:

The latest book of poems and (soma)tic rituals by CAConrad and a stunning book of essays by Garrett Caples just rolled in to town. ECODEVIANCE and Retrievals will be on sale at the end of the month.

Psyched.

Reblogged from wavepoetry with 19 notes | Permalink

henryhates:

The Collected Poetry and Selected Prose of John Milton

Modern Library; 1942

TLDR: Teenaged Milton wrote a poem about his dead niece, but in true teenager/Milton fashion it’s heavy on mythology, light on actual grief, and somehow even scoldy. What a cock. It’ll mess your kid up and bore her at the same time. Five screams.

Note: I’m trying out something new this time—a rating system. As you see above, Henry gave this book five out of five screamfaces. What does that mean? It’s compiled using a complex algorithm based on the projected cost of future therapy attributable to this book, immediate discomfort with the sound of the prose, and whether my kid had gas while I read it to him. Precision science, this. Basically, more screams means this book is more likely to do your own child irreparable harm in the near and long term. 

Henry hates the poetry of John Milton. No, not the sweet space battles with kick-ass angel cannons. Not the righteous railing against God. Not the demon names. That stuff rules and even Henry, at two months, is attuned enough to his inner Metal to recognize it. He doesn’t have much in the way of hand control yet but I swear I’ve seen him try to throw up those horns.

No, we never even made it to Paradise Lost

That’s because the first poem in this collection—I don’t know if this is true of the 2007 re-edit from Modern Library—is about the death of Milton’s two-year-old niece. GRAB THAT TORN BLACK ONESIE SHROUD AND BUCKLE ON UP HANK, IT’S TIME FOR SOME LITERARY BABY MOURNIN’

Milton most likely wrote the poem “On the death of a fair infant dying of a cough” when he was nineteen though it was only published two years before his death, and at that time (and likewise in my edition) he marked it as being written when he was seventeen. Reading the poem, you want, for the sake of Milton’s legacy, for it to have been composed as early as possible. It’s terrible, is my point. It’s a poem by a teenager. It’s a poem by a kid trying to mourn, but getting caught up in his own lyric. He’s a sad young literary man failing at even the ‘sad’ part of the thing. James Hanford wroteMilton is seeking elevation rather than forcefulness of expression, and he as yet knows no way to attain it save by abounding in the aureate rhetoric of the age.”

The opening line is wonderful, I’ll admit:

"O fairest flower no sooner blown but blasted"

Then Milton talks about Apollo, then he compares this dead baby to an angel sent with a purpose, which is a bit Hallmark-ey, but a comfort perhaps. And then, in the last stanza, he goes Full Gross:

Then thou the mother of so sweet a child

Her false imagin’d loss cease to lament,

And wisely learn to curb her sorrows wild;

Think what a present thou to God hast sent,

And render him with patience what he lent;

This if thou do he will an offspring give,

That till the world’s last end shall make thy name to live.

I think at that point Hank and I were both screaming in rage.

Imagine your baby dies (NOT YOU HENRY DON’T WORRY YOU’LL LIVE FOREVER WHAT IS DEATH HA HA I DON’T KNOW GO BACK TO SLEEP) and what does your old-enough-to-know-better brother do? He sends you a poem telling you to shut up and maybe god will give you a better kid. Fuck you John. Fuck you.

image

Anyhow, henry hated this, but Milton is Milton, so if you want to have a go you can grab the newer edition here.

Sorry, Henry.

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(Source: limb-of-satan)

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Thanks, internet.
(And, yes, I fucking am.)

Thanks, internet.

(And, yes, I fucking am.)

1 note | Permalink


"The sky was night blue, with strands of day, with threads of day, feminine, seamstressy. The scissors of wind sounded as in a barbershop, and it was difficult to know if one’s own hair or the Chinese silk of the sky was being cut."Martín Adán, The Cardboard House

This passage is an inspiration, surely, for Aira’s The Seamstress and the Wind?
This, the uncertainty between allusion and and coincidence, is why literature is the closest I come to a gnostic faith.
(Both books are published in the states by New Directions because of course they are.)

"The sky was night blue, with strands of day, with threads of day, feminine, seamstressy. The scissors of wind sounded as in a barbershop, and it was difficult to know if one’s own hair or the Chinese silk of the sky was being cut."
Martín Adán, The Cardboard House

This passage is an inspiration, surely, for Aira’s The Seamstress and the Wind?

This, the uncertainty between allusion and and coincidence, is why literature is the closest I come to a gnostic faith.

(Both books are published in the states by New Directions because of course they are.)

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intrapanel:

1963 ad.

Each footlocker contains 8 waves.

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The new issue of UDP’s 6x6 contains, in this order:

Poems about rain, yes that kind of poem about rain.

Poems about bees and horses, no not that kind or, only sort of, that kind of poem about bees and horses.

Poems about divinity and snow, yes that kind of poem about divinity and snow.

Poems about film—there is only one kind of poem about film.

Poems about a moth in a glass jungle yes that kind of poem about a moth in a glass jungle.

Poems about a bird a bird a bird a bird a bird.

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"Praxis…is no longer the court of appeals against self-satisfied speculation, but for the most part the pretext under which executives strangulate that critical thought as idle which a transforming praxis most needs."

Adorno/Horkheimer, Negative Dialectics

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mcnallyjackson:

We’re so very looking forward to a cool evening next Wednesday with literary BFFs Emma Straub and Edan Lepucki. Straub’s new novel, The Vacationers, is Cristin’s “new favorite book for grownups,” and “the book girls in cute sundresses will be reading on the subway all summer” (true!). Meanwhile, Lepucki’s debut, California, has quite a few fans, too, including Sherman Alexie and Steven Colbert. Frozen piña coladas and post-apocalyptic-strength sunscreen optional. 

Well shit.

mcnallyjackson:

We’re so very looking forward to a cool evening next Wednesday with literary BFFs Emma Straub and Edan Lepucki. Straub’s new novel, The Vacationers, is Cristin’s “new favorite book for grownups,” and “the book girls in cute sundresses will be reading on the subway all summer” (true!). Meanwhile, Lepucki’s debut, California, has quite a few fans, too, including Sherman Alexie and Steven Colbert. Frozen piña coladas and post-apocalyptic-strength sunscreen optional. 

Well shit.

Reblogged from mcnallyjackson with 29 notes | Permalink

"Despite the unsettling circumstances, however, I was able to enjoy moments of privacy. Sometimes, I even had time enough to read ten pages of a book without interruption. The trunk, once so carefully packed, was now lying open on the floor. Every so often I would go to it, and pull out a book that I happened to want. Looking back on the daily schedule that I had set myself before leaving Tokyo, I decided that I had been able to complete only about one-third of the work that I should have done by then. The unpleasant feeling that I had not worked hard enough was one that I had often experienced before, though only very rarely had I ever accomplished so little as I had that summer. I was weighed down by the depressing thought that such perhaps was the normal state of things in every man’s life."

Natsume Soseki, Kokoro (1914).

This is why I love books: because something written 100 years ago in a country very far away from me still expresses a feeling I have had so many times, and that I am in fact having right now. So, just like that, I don’t feel so alone.

(via ecantwell)

Among my favorites by Soseki, and that’s saying a lot.

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