Bibliophile Thread

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Postby eddysnake » Fri Apr 24, 2020 8:38 am

Phil Collins Not Dead Yet memoir is $1.99 on kindle today


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Postby DigitalGypsy66 » Fri Apr 24, 2020 9:14 am

Good read btw.

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Postby eddysnake » Fri Apr 24, 2020 9:25 am

I figured it would be, looking forward to it. I'm sure he has some stories to tell after hearing about the Zeppelin one

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Postby DigitalGypsy66 » Fri Apr 24, 2020 9:39 am

His audition for Genesis was interesting as well. I always think these things happen in a dingy garage or rehearsal space, but nope, Peter Gabriel’s parent’s estate. :lol:

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Postby Gaucho » Sat Apr 25, 2020 5:32 am

Los Angeles, give me some of you! Los Angeles come to me the way I came to you, my feet over your streets, you pretty town I loved you so much, you sad flower in the sand, you pretty town!

So **** you, Los Angeles, **** your palm trees, and your highassed women, and your fancy streets, for I am going home, back to Colorado, back to the best damned town in the USA - Boulder, Colorado.

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Postby Gaucho » Sun Apr 26, 2020 4:10 am

How little we know of what there is to know. I wish that I were going to live a long time instead of going to die today because I have learned much about life in these four days; more, I think than in all other time. I’d like to be an old man to really know. I wonder if you keep on learning or if there is only a certain amount each man can understand. I thought I knew so many things that I know nothing of. I wish there was more time.

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Postby Gaucho » Sun Apr 26, 2020 4:19 am

His audition for Genesis was interesting as well. I always think these things happen in a dingy garage or rehearsal space, but nope, Peter Gabriel’s parent’s estate. :lol:
Ah, dear Phillip, very kind of you to join me in the rehearsal chamber. Beautiful day, ennit? Oh, would you care for some tea and brioche? Very well. That will be all, Alfred, thank you. Now then, Phillip, let us begin and, ah, 'rock', as they say, shall we? Tally-ho.

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Postby Gaucho » Sun Apr 26, 2020 5:10 pm

Isn't it grand, isn't it good, that language has only one word for everything we associate with love - from utter sanctity to the most fleshly lust? The result is perfect clarity in ambiguity, for love cannot be disembodied even in its most sanctified forms, nor is it without sanctity even at its most fleshly. Love is always simply itself, both as a subtle affirmation of life and as the highest passion; love is our sympathy with organic life.

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Postby Gaucho » Mon Apr 27, 2020 5:36 am

I walked out of the condos onto the flat lithesome beach this morning, and took a walk in my swimming trunks and no shirt on. And I thought that one natural effect of life is to cover you in a thin layer of . . . what? A film? A residue or skin of all the things you've done and been and said and erred at? I'm not sure. But you are under it, and for a long time, and only rarely do you know it, except that for some unexpected reason or opportunity you come out--for an hour or even a moment--and you suddenly feel pretty good. And in that magical instant you realize how long it's been since you felt just that way. Have you been ill, you ask. Is life itself an illness or a syndrome? Who knows? We've all felt that way, I'm confident, since there's no way that I could feel what hundreds of millions of other citizens haven't.

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Postby shafnutz05 » Mon Apr 27, 2020 7:05 am

Thanks for these Gaucho.

I finally succumbed and ordered two books off Amazon... Ugh. I just can't do the Kindle stuff..

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Postby Gaucho » Mon Apr 27, 2020 7:08 am

You're very welcome.

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Postby eddysnake » Mon Apr 27, 2020 8:56 am

He turned the page. He said, This is writing. This is printing. This tells us of all the things we ought to know in the world.

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Postby eddysnake » Mon Apr 27, 2020 5:38 pm

Some people were born unsupplied with a human conscience and those people needed killing.

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Postby Gaucho » Tue Apr 28, 2020 5:08 am

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.

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Postby AuthorTony » Tue Apr 28, 2020 9:09 pm

One of my all-time favorites:
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”

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Postby Orlando Penguin » Wed Apr 29, 2020 2:28 am

“I’m Thinking of Ending Things” by Iain Reid. Anyone read it?

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Postby Gaucho » Wed Apr 29, 2020 5:32 am

Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within...By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere

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Postby eddysnake » Wed Apr 29, 2020 10:28 am

Read News of the World by Paulette Jiles and it was just lovely. Highest recommendation.
In the aftermath of the Civil War, an aging itinerant news reader agrees to transport a young captive of the Kiowa back to her people in this exquisitely rendered, morally complex, multilayered novel of historical fiction from the author of Enemy Women that explores the boundaries of family, responsibility, honor, and trust
.


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Postby shafnutz05 » Wed Apr 29, 2020 12:56 pm

One of my all-time favorites:
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”
Have you ever read his book about the Mann Gulch Fire? It was published after his death--I was reading about the fire on Wikipedia this morning, pretty crazy story.

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Postby Gaucho » Thu Apr 30, 2020 4:47 am

At a quarter to three the sun rose.
An hour and a half earlier the traffic had thinned out and died away, together with the noise of the last night revelers on their way home. The street-sweeping machines had passed, leaving dark wet strips here and there on the asphalt. An ambulance had wailed down the long, straight street. A black car with white mudguards, radio antenna on the roof and the word POLICE in white block letters on the sides had glided past, silently and slowly. Five minutes later the tinkle of broken glass had been heard as someone drove a gloved hand through a shop window; then came the sound of running footsteps and a car tearing off down a sidestreet.
The man on the balcony had observed all this. The balcony was the ordinary kind with tubular iron rail and sides of corrugated metal. He had stood leaning on the rail, and the glow of his cigarette had been a tiny dark-red spot in the dark. At regular intervals he had stubbed out a cigarette, carefully picked the butt--barely a third of an inch long--out of the wooden holder and placed it beside the others. Ten of these butts were already neatly lined up along the edge of the saucer on the little garden table.
It was quiet now, as quiet as it could be on a mild early summer's night in a big city. A couple of hours still remained before the women who delivered the newspapers appeared, pushing their converted prams, and before the first office cleaner went to work.

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Postby Gaucho » Thu Apr 30, 2020 4:55 am

I long for the days of disorder. I want them back, the days when I was alive on the earth, rippling in the quick of my skin, heedless and real. I was dumb-muscled and angry and real. This is what I long for, the breach of peace, the days of disarray when I walked real streets and did things slap-bang and felt angry and ready all the time, a danger to others and a distant mystery to myself.

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Postby Gaucho » Fri May 01, 2020 5:19 am

On the burning February morning Beatriz Viterbo died, after braving an agony that never for a single moment gave way to self-pity or fear, I noticed that the sidewalk billboards around Constitution Plaza were advertising some new brand or other of American cigarettes. The fact pained me, for I realised that the wide and ceaseless universe was already slipping away from her and that this slight change was the first of an endless series. The universe may change but not me, I thought with a certain sad vanity. I knew that at times my fruitless devotion had annoyed her; now that she was dead, I could devote myself to her memory, without hope but also without humiliation.

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Postby Gaucho » Sat May 02, 2020 5:40 am

At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow.

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Postby Gaucho » Sun May 03, 2020 5:21 am

Let the psychotics take over. They alone understood what was happening.

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Postby Gaucho » Sun May 03, 2020 1:14 pm

I remember when J.G. Ballard was considered science fiction.

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