Re: What are you reading?
Posted: Sun Aug 11, 2013 10:04 am
aeonrevolution wrote:Just started trying to read House of Leaves. Wish me luck.
It's never too late to stop doing bad things.
aeonrevolution wrote:Just started trying to read House of Leaves. Wish me luck.
D.o.S. wrote:futuresailors wrote:And you're Irish! Home of probably the only Great Writer of the past century.
James Joyce is rad, but 1913-2013 has a whole host of Great Writers.
Lots of great writers for sure, but i think the criteria for getting them caps is influencing the course of literature . Alright, and I guess Faulkner makes the cut.D.o.S. wrote:aeonrevolution wrote:Just started trying to read House of Leaves. Wish me luck.
It's never too late to stop doing bad things.
futuresailors wrote:And you're Irish! Home of probably the only Great Writer of the past century.
Cormac McCarthy wrote:Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

jfrey wrote:Reading the Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn series by Tad Williams. Halfway through book 2 so far. It's good but has frustratingly long slow parts.
Twangasaurus wrote:jfrey wrote:Reading the Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn series by Tad Williams. Halfway through book 2 so far. It's good but has frustratingly long slow parts.
Yeah, I kind of felt the same about the Otherland series.
kbithecrowing wrote:So I finally finished The Road. The last paragraph is so beautifully crafted.Cormac McCarthy wrote:Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
dubkitty wrote:A Distant Mirror by Barbara Tuchman, a history book about life in the "disastrous" 14th century when plague, war and all forms of awfulness were at a peak. i've read it before, and it always makes me feel better about my current circumstances.