“I mean not try to analyze everything to death for once, if possible. Especially me.”
— J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey
There are nine requisites for contented living:HEALTH enough to make work a pleasure; WEALTH enough to support your needs; STRENGTH enough to battle with difficulties and forsake them; GRACE enough to confess your sins and overcome them; PATIENCE enough to toil until some good is accomplished; CHARITY enough to see some good in your neighbor; LOVE enough to move you to be useful and helpful to others; FAITH enough to make real the things of God; HOPE enough to remove all anxious fears concerning the future.
Long before their spirited epistolary rivalry,
Freud (bottom left) and Jung (bottom right)
used to hang out.
Public domain image via Wikimedia.
This is lovely:
Contemporary artists, illustrators and designers celebrate Roald Dahl
– the best thing since The Graphic Canon.
August 11th 1897: Enid Blyton born
On this day in 1897 the famous British children’s writer was born in East Dulwich. Blyton’s books have enjoyed enduring popularity, selling over 600 million copies worldwide.
Her most famous works include the character of Noddy, The Famous Five series and the Secret Seven series. Blyton died in 1968 aged 71 in Hampstead, England.
I can’t exactly describe
how I feel but it’s not
quite right. And it
leaves me cold.
War is peace.
Freedom is slavery.
Ignorance is strength.
George Orwell, Ninteen Eighty- Four
published in 1949.
We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.
The ultimate irony is that my new novel (West of Babylon) is only available in electronic form. I didn’t merely get hoisted by my own petard—my petard fell on me and shattered my skull. There will be zero chance I’ll ever see anybody reading my book. Zero. It will never, ever happen. I will never be able to sign anyone’s copy. (There won’t be a copy!) I’ll never experience the sheer delight (it has almost reduced me to tears) of walking into a bookstore and seeing a novel I wrote prominently displayed on a table in the front (or rotting away in the H section on a shelf next to Ernest Hemingway and Herman Hesse). There will be friends of mine who, because they’ll never buy an e-reader, will never read the book at all.
But what’s crucial, what gives me some infinitesimal measure of hope, is that this book I wrote and slaved over every day and obsessed over for years will still be out there. Wafting in the either, zipping across USB cables, flickering on screens, bubbling up to the surface of the world. The book will be somewhere.
Novelist and former “dead-tree loyalist” Ted Heller surrenders to the ebook era.
Meanwhile, Patti Smith poignantly admonishes otherwise.