pete
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i can only listen to techno or riddims or bach violin concertos while reading, shit like that. anything with lyrics just distracts from the page.
Book Porn
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i can only listen to techno or riddims or bach violin concertos while reading, shit like that. anything with lyrics just distracts from the page.
Fata Morgana
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Guilty.
http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a97/foxkitsune/tumblr_mo6l00ir8U1qlny4mo1_500_zps66bf8bb9.jpg
Although I do read them eventually. I think it's nice to have a choice in your own home.
http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a97/foxkitsune/tumblr_mo6l00ir8U1qlny4mo1_500_zps66bf8bb9.jpg
Although I do read them eventually. I think it's nice to have a choice in your own home.
pete
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what are you reading currently?
Fata Morgana
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pete
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last thing i read was "naked" by david sedaris.
but the past few months i've been studying for licensing exams so haven't done any 'fun' reading in a while :-(
Fata Morgana
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Aah bummer.
I'm struggling to concentrate at the mo but I've been in a reading frenzy for months.
I fancy something meaningless and easy to read. Might go look up some of Sean's old threads...
pete
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Aah bummer.
I'm struggling to concentrate at the mo but I've been in a reading frenzy for months.
I fancy something meaningless and easy to read. Might go look up some of Sean's old threads...
i know whereof you speak, been there many times.
my go-to books for cleansing the palate, so to speak, are pulp-fiction crime novels. james patterson works pretty well, for me
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Angela Carter
http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a97/foxkitsune/angela-carter-1976_zpsccc85af4.jpg
I love this woman's stories.
A little of the cold air that blows over graveyards always goes with him, it crisps the hairs on the back of my neck but I am not afraid of him; only, afraid of vertigo, of the vertigo with which he seizes me. Afraid of falling down. Yet when he shakes out those two clear notes from his bird call, I come, like any other trusting thing that perches on the crook of his wrist.
The Erl King
http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a97/foxkitsune/angela-carter-1976_zpsccc85af4.jpg
I love this woman's stories.
A little of the cold air that blows over graveyards always goes with him, it crisps the hairs on the back of my neck but I am not afraid of him; only, afraid of vertigo, of the vertigo with which he seizes me. Afraid of falling down. Yet when he shakes out those two clear notes from his bird call, I come, like any other trusting thing that perches on the crook of his wrist.
The Erl King
Fata Morgana
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And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders; I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur.
— Angela Carter, from The Tiger’s Bride
— Angela Carter, from The Tiger’s Bride
Fata Morgana
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"I will tell you what Jeanne was like. She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off."
Angela Carter
Angela Carter
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"There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer." - The Bloody Chamber
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If I strung that old fiddle with your hair, we could waltz together to the music as the exhausted daylight founders among the trees; we should have better music than the shrill prothalamions of the larks stacked in their pretty cages as the roof creaks with the freight of birds you’ve lured to it while we engage in your profane mysteries under the leaves.
The Erl King
The Erl King
Fata Morgana
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The Snow Child
Midwinter - invincible, immaculate. The Count and his wife go riding, he on a grey mare and she on a black one, she wrapped in the glittering pelts of black foxes; and she wore high, black, shining boots with scarlet heels, and spurs. Fresh snow fell on snow already fallen; when it ceased, the whole world was white. ‘I wish I had a girl as white as snow,’ says the Count. They ride on. They come to a hole in the snow; this hole is filled with blood. He says: ‘I wish I had a girl as red as blood.’ So they ride on again; here is a raven, perched on a bare bough. ‘I wish I had a girl as black as that bird’s feather.’
As soon as he completed her description, there she stood, beside the road, white skin, red mouth, black hair and stark naked; she was the child of his desire and the Countess hated her. The Count lifted her up and sat her in front of him on his saddle but the Countess had only one thought: how shall I be rid of her?
The Countess dropped her glove in the snow and told the girl to get down to look for it; she meant to gallop off and leave her there but the Count said: ‘I’ll buy you new gloves.’ At that, the furs sprang off the Countess’s shoulders and twined around the naked girl. Then the Countess threw her diamond brooch through the ice of a frozen pond: ‘Dive in and fetch it for me,’ she said; she thought the girl would drown. But the Count said: ‘Is she a fish, to swim in such cold weather?’ Then her boots leapt off the Countess’s feet and on to the girl’s legs. Now the Countess was bare as a bone and the girl furred and booted; the Count felt sorry for his wife. They came to a bush of roses, all in flower. ‘Pick me one,’ said the Countess to the girl. ‘I can’t deny you that,’ said the Count.
So the girl picks a rose; pricks her finger on the thorn; bleeds; screams; falls.
Weeping, the Count got off his horse, unfastened his breeches and thrust his virile member into the dead girl. The Countess reined in her stamping mare and watched him narrowly; he was soon finished.
Then the girl began to melt. Soon there was nothing left of her but a feather a bird might have dropped; a bloodstain, like the trace of a fox’s kill on the snow; and the rose she had pulled off the bush. Now the Countess had all her clothes on again. With her long hand, she stroked her furs. The Count picked up the rose, bowed and handed it to his wife; when she touched it, she dropped it.
‘It bites!’ she said.
Midwinter - invincible, immaculate. The Count and his wife go riding, he on a grey mare and she on a black one, she wrapped in the glittering pelts of black foxes; and she wore high, black, shining boots with scarlet heels, and spurs. Fresh snow fell on snow already fallen; when it ceased, the whole world was white. ‘I wish I had a girl as white as snow,’ says the Count. They ride on. They come to a hole in the snow; this hole is filled with blood. He says: ‘I wish I had a girl as red as blood.’ So they ride on again; here is a raven, perched on a bare bough. ‘I wish I had a girl as black as that bird’s feather.’
As soon as he completed her description, there she stood, beside the road, white skin, red mouth, black hair and stark naked; she was the child of his desire and the Countess hated her. The Count lifted her up and sat her in front of him on his saddle but the Countess had only one thought: how shall I be rid of her?
The Countess dropped her glove in the snow and told the girl to get down to look for it; she meant to gallop off and leave her there but the Count said: ‘I’ll buy you new gloves.’ At that, the furs sprang off the Countess’s shoulders and twined around the naked girl. Then the Countess threw her diamond brooch through the ice of a frozen pond: ‘Dive in and fetch it for me,’ she said; she thought the girl would drown. But the Count said: ‘Is she a fish, to swim in such cold weather?’ Then her boots leapt off the Countess’s feet and on to the girl’s legs. Now the Countess was bare as a bone and the girl furred and booted; the Count felt sorry for his wife. They came to a bush of roses, all in flower. ‘Pick me one,’ said the Countess to the girl. ‘I can’t deny you that,’ said the Count.
So the girl picks a rose; pricks her finger on the thorn; bleeds; screams; falls.
Weeping, the Count got off his horse, unfastened his breeches and thrust his virile member into the dead girl. The Countess reined in her stamping mare and watched him narrowly; he was soon finished.
Then the girl began to melt. Soon there was nothing left of her but a feather a bird might have dropped; a bloodstain, like the trace of a fox’s kill on the snow; and the rose she had pulled off the bush. Now the Countess had all her clothes on again. With her long hand, she stroked her furs. The Count picked up the rose, bowed and handed it to his wife; when she touched it, she dropped it.
‘It bites!’ she said.
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The bought a first edition American version Jules Verne 20,000 leagues tonite on pawn stars, one of only maybe fifty to exist.
Fata Morgana
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I'm trying not to buy any more books at the mo because I'm going to Hay-On-Wye in three weeks (a town FULL of bookshops) so am saving myself for a massive blow out there.
I can't bloody wait.
I can't bloody wait.
blackleggings
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Please take pictures. It's really like this?
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/76/Hay_on_Wye_Bookshop2.JPG/800px-Hay_on_Wye_Bookshop2.JPG
Fata Morgana
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Yes absolutely! I went years ago and pretty much orgasmed on the spot once I parked up. Most of the books there are cheap, in some like the pic you posted there's usually just an Honesty Box or something and you take what you want. I'll take me camera this time.
oggbashan
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I used to sell books to Hay-On-Wye bookdealers because they could make a profit even on my retail prices.
Before I started bookdealing, I went there with my wife. When we left our car was so full that we couldn't see out of the back window and the suspension was complaining.
Fata Morgana
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That “Old Book Smell” Is a Mix of Grass and Vanilla
By Colin Schultz
Smell is chemistry, and the chemistry of old books gives your cherished tomes their scent. As a book ages, the chemical compounds used—the glue, the paper, the ink–begin to break down. And, as they do, they release volatile compounds—the source of the smell. A common smell of old books, says the International League for Antiquarian Booksellers, is a hint of vanilla: “Lignin, which is present in all wood-based paper, is closely related to vanillin. As it breaks down, the lignin grants old books that faint vanilla scent.”
A study in 2009 looked into the smell of old books, finding that the complex scent was a mix of “hundreds of so-called volatile organic compounds (VOCs) released into the air from the paper,” says the Telegraph. Here’s how Matija Strlic, the lead scientist behind that study, described the smell of an old book:
A combination of grassy notes with a tang of acids and a hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness, this unmistakable smell is as much a part of the book as its contents.
By Colin Schultz
Smell is chemistry, and the chemistry of old books gives your cherished tomes their scent. As a book ages, the chemical compounds used—the glue, the paper, the ink–begin to break down. And, as they do, they release volatile compounds—the source of the smell. A common smell of old books, says the International League for Antiquarian Booksellers, is a hint of vanilla: “Lignin, which is present in all wood-based paper, is closely related to vanillin. As it breaks down, the lignin grants old books that faint vanilla scent.”
A study in 2009 looked into the smell of old books, finding that the complex scent was a mix of “hundreds of so-called volatile organic compounds (VOCs) released into the air from the paper,” says the Telegraph. Here’s how Matija Strlic, the lead scientist behind that study, described the smell of an old book:
A combination of grassy notes with a tang of acids and a hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness, this unmistakable smell is as much a part of the book as its contents.
blackleggings
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Please take me. I'll fly out next week.
Fata Morgana
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Ha! That's our aim too. I'm going with my best mate and she's a massive reader too, we want the boot and the back seat full of them.
There's nothing better than stopping for a lovely lunch and looking at your new/old books whilst waiting for your food to arrive. One of life's greatest pleasures.
Fata Morgana
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Only if you scrunch up tight and don't take up book room in the car!
P.S. We will be singing in stupid voices all the way there and back for 5 hours. You might want to be sedated for both journeys.
blackleggings
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I'm short. I'll be fine.
I teach kindergarten for a living, so I know how to sing in stupid voices.
Fata Morgana
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I'm short. I'll be fine.
I teach kindergarten for a living, so I know how to sing in stupid voices.
Oh you'll be okay with us then! We do revert back to that age. Probably because we were at school together, mentally we've never grown out of that mindset when we're together.
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