I drop a sheet in water and without wringing it out lay it in a pile along my bed between me and the wind. I put one end over my feet and draw the other under and over my head and leave the rest a few inches from my body. The sharp evaporation makes it icy cold and interposes a little wall of cold air between me and the fierce wind. When it dries I wake up and repeat the process. This evening Sir Percy and I went out motoring at 7 but it was too hot.
The wind shrivelled you and burnt your eyeballs. They say it does not last very long like this — inshallah! And even when the subjects vary, they can only begin to hint at the vast variety of things Gertrude Bell wrote in her life. Not just letters by the tens of thousands but also diaries, archaeological guides, hundreds of position papers for the British government, and eight published books.
Georgina Howell quotes from a tempting range of these writings in the course of A Woman in Arabia , giving readers a much fuller picture of Bell in the process, if also making the interested reader wonder why the whole thing is only a little more than pages long when it could easily have been three times that length without risking the inclusion of a single boring sentence. An enlarged edition might be something to consider. As it is, perhaps A Woman in Arabia should be seen more as a supplement to Selected Letters of Gertrude Bell and vice versa rather than a replacement for it.
A Foot in the Mouth by Paul B. Janeczko: | chingpategeke.gq: Books
We are camped within sight of Hayil and I might have ridden in to-day, but I thought it better to announce my coming and therefore I sent on Muhammed and Ali and have camped in the plain a couple of hours or so from the town. We finished with the Nefud for good and all yesterday — and to-day we have been through a charming country — charming for Arabia — of great granite rocks and little plains with thorny acacia trees growing in them and very sweet scented desert plants. We passed a small village or two, mud houses set in palm gardens and all set round with a mud wall.
I hope the Hayil people will be polite. We are within sight of Hayyil and I might have ridden in today but I thought it better to announce me auspicious coming! We had … a most delicious camp in the top of a mountain, Jebel Rakham. I climbed the rocks and found flowers in the crevices — not a great bounty, but in this barren land a feast to the eyes … Yesterday we passed by two more villages and in one there were plum trees flowering — oh the gracious sight! From a little rock above my tent I have spied out the land and seen the towers and gardens of Hayyil, and Swaifly lying in the plain beyond, and all is made memorable by Arabia Deserta.
I feel as if I were on a sort of pilgrimage, visiting sacred sites. And the more I see of this land the more I realize what an achievement that journey was. The credit of European civilization is gone. Over and over again people here have said to me that it has been a shock and a surprise to them to see Europe lapse into barbarism. I had no reply — what else can you call the war? How can we, who have managed our own affairs so badly, claim to teach others to manage theirs better?
Lawrence is writing in the papers. Every jot and tittle of official work is done in Arabic; in schools, law courts, hospitals, no other language is used. The experience of reading back and forth between the volumes is delightful; it reads back in to Bell something of her curious chameleon quality, which is a different thing from being multifaceted, and which is often the first quality to be steam-pressed out of a conventional linear biography.
In a way, especially for a writer as prolific and self-aware as Bell was, this may be the truest form a biography could take.
To the people queuing up outside the secretariat in Baghdad, she was more than an administrator; she was someone they could trust. She spoke their language and had never lied to them. Her friends are left desolate. Now if the nabobs at Penguin could be convinced to do a nice reprint of the Selected Letters …. The All-Pervading Melodious Drumbeat remains the only complete biography of Ra Lotsawa that is available to us, and the primary source that Tibetans for generations have turned to for the story of his life. The text is thus essential for understanding the legend of this notorious master of Buddhist sorcery and how through his many tribulations and triumphs he came to popularize his unique transmission of the Vajrabhairava tradition in Tibet.
Magic has always been deeply embedded in Buddhist thought and has long been tied inextricably to conventional Buddhist forms of ritual action. This vital dimension of Buddhism, however, is not often acknowledged or to often ignored. In his relentless quest for money and power and, when occasion warrants, to instruct the masses on the path to enlightenment , Ralo has more encounters with bandits and super-villains than the Avengers in a really bad week.
ISBN 13: 9780141187594
He and his brothers and followers are accosted almost everywhere they go and, as in this sudden battle while on a pilgrimage to India, Ralo almost always proves victorious, displaying a wide array of superpowers:. The temples with all their gods laughters booming like thunder. The temples with all their gods collapsed into tiny pieces and every one of the Hindu attackers fainted and slumped to the ground. When they awoke from their stupor, they saw that the temple foundations, gods included, had been reduced to ashes. He also performs miracles with ease, often merely for the amusement of friends and onlookers, as when he transmutes water into an unending supply of beer getting fewer chuckles: that wacky time he re-animated the corpse of a dead deer.
Cuevas rounds all this bizarre, utterly gripping stuff with generous end notes and a glossary of terms, which will prove invaluable for readers who find the whole world of The All-Pervading Melodious Drumbeat bewildering. Imagine a Gospel of St. Or at least try to imagine such a thing.
- Lifes Ever Changing Emotions : A Collection of Poems.
- Poems to Speak, Sing, and Shout.
- A Foot in the Mouth.
Some Penguin Classics seem particularly to invite the Deluxe treatment, and for a host of reasons good and bad, the poetry of Robert Frost is certainly one of those. The answer to this question is complex.
But one aspect of it is simple: Frost became a public figure in a way no other American poet has managed, or even come close to managing. His goodwill was courted not just by scholars and other writers but by presidents and senators.
To appreciate how extraordinary this was, try to imagine a contemporary American poet being directed to Russia by President Obama and securing a tete-a-tete with Vladimir Putin. Readers bought his works in numbers that would today be respectable for a fairly popular novelist, but that for a poet in the first half of the twentieth century were well beyond staggering. The hosting duties are taken up this time around by Magic for Beginners author Kelly Link, who reveals in her Introduction that The Bloody Chamber is for her one of those books:.
I keep extra copies in the cupboard where we stockpile books that I can then, extravagantly, give away to whoever seems most in need of them. The train slowed, shuddered to a halt. Lights; clank of metal; a voice declaring the name of an unknown, never-to-be-visited station; silence of the night; the rhythm of his breathing, that I should sleep with, now, for the rest of my life.
And I could not sleep. I stealthily sat up, raised the blind a little and huddled against the cold window that misted over with the warmth of my breathing, gazing out a the dark platform towards those rectangles of domestic lamplight that promised warmth, company, a supper of sausages hissing in a pan on the stove for the station master, his children tucked up in bed asleep in the brick house with the painted shutters … all the paraphernalia of the everyday world from which I, with my stunning marriage, had exiled myself.
On moonless nights, her keeper lets her out into the garden. This garden, an exceedingly sombre place, bears a strong resemblance to a burial ground and all the roses her dead mother planted have grown up into a huge, spiked wall that incarcerates her in the castle of her inheritance. When the back door opens, the Countess will sniff the air and howl. She drops, now, on all fours.
Crouching, quivering, she catches the scent of her prey. Delicious crunch of the fragile bones of rabbits and small, furry things she pursues with fleet, four-footed speed; she will creep home, whimpering, with blood smeared on her cheeks. She pours water from the ewer in her bedroom into the bowl, she washes her face with the wincing, fastidious gestures of a cat. I found the book effortlessly better and more beautiful than I remembered from the earlier reading a lifetime ago, and this sturdy new paperback only enhanced the pleasure.
Penguin Modern Classics: Him With His Foot in His Mouth: & Other Stories
The front inside flap shows an ornate key, and the back inside flap shows an elaborate keyhole. Some Penguin Classics mark a melancholy succession, and works in translation are particularly vulnerable to this. Rieu Homer, the Dorothy Sayers Divine Comedy , and so on — begin to feel almost imperceptibly dated around the edges.
But such things are delaying actions only; generally speaking, every age tends to demand its own translations of the canon.