About
I'm Sam, 31, I live close to DC. I like arty stuff, pop culture, good food. I wish I had more time to read. I wish I traveled more. I need to drink more wine. I don't get to listen to enough music. I'm trying to catch up.Some amateurish pictures I've taken myself are here .
Collecting interesting articles here .
I rarely get personal.
But I like email (probably a generational thing): sam88mph at gmail
Following
(via goldenfiddle)
Austin Grossman, Soon I Will Be Invincible
(I enjoyed this book, but thought Dr Horrible covered a lot of the same ground in a much more effective way)
before Wes Anderson:
Fantastic Mr. Fox by Roald Dahl, with
illustrations by Donal Chaffin c.1970 Knopf
(via Vintage Kids’ Books My Kid Loves)
(via grindlebone)
Greatest book ever.
It is the end of all the good things in the world.
brought to you by LUE
BREAKING NEWS: Literature is dead.
Good God. This is depressing.
Maybe English 261 is a course on how *not* to write. Book 1 of 4 would of course be the DaVinci Code.
“Finch wants his white, male jurors to do the right thing. But as a good Jim Crow liberal he dare not challenge the foundations of their privilege. Instead, Finch does what lawyers for black men did in those days. He encourages them to swap one of their prejudices for another.”
“Imperial is like Robert Caro’s The Power Broker with the attitude of Mike Davis’s City of Quartz, if Robert Caro had been raised in an abandoned grain silo by a band of feral raccoons, and if Mike Davis were the communications director of a heavily armed libertarian survivalist cult, and if the two of them had somehow managed to stitch John McPhee’s cortex onto the brain of a Gila monster, which they then sent to the Mexican border to conduct ten years of immersive research, and also if they wrote the entire manuscript on dried banana leaves with a toucan beak dipped in hobo blood, and then the book was line-edited during a 36-hour peyote séance by the ghosts of John Steinbeck, Jack London, and Sinclair Lewis, with 200 pages of endnotes faxed over by Henry David Thoreau’s great-great-great-great grandson from a concrete bunker under a toxic pond behind a maquiladora, and if at the last minute Herman Melville threw up all over the manuscript, rendering it illegible, so it had to be re-created from memory by a community-theater actor doing his best impression of Jack Kerouac. With photographs by Dorothea Lange.”
Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters.
From here.
Someone needs to follow this up with “Wuthering Heights and the Wolfman”.
Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
Whine Whine Whine. This is why I only got 100 pages in.
(via ashlynisawesome)
Yes. I have tried so hard, too many times to count, to get into this book, and to no avail. I can’t do it. I’ll never make it more than 100-odd pages in either.
Ditto. I always feel bad about it, too. I’ll have to stick to Charlotte instead.
If you stick with it Wuthering Heights changes course halfway through, and becomes a totally different story. It’s like the From Dusk Till Dawn of Bronte novels.
From here