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Showing posts from March, 2015

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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People where you live, the little prince said, grow five thousand roses in one garden... Yet they don't find what they're looking for... And yet what they're looking for could be found in a single rose... It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.

For years I was convinced I had read this story and did not like it one bit. As it turns out, the story I had been thinking of was The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde, which I do find unpardonably boring. The moment I realized The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is a novella, described by many as a children's fantasy that serves as an adult's spiritual fable, I wanted to pick it up. This was about a year ago. I read it today as the first book for my favourite not-challenge, Once Upon a Time, an annual event in its ninth year, hosted by Carl at Stainless Steel Droppings.
Summary: The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry isthe story of a little boy who leaves the safety of his o…

Random musings on reading and writing horror fiction

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(The image, which doesn't scare me but whatever, is courtesy of hyena reality - good name! - at FreeDigitalPhotos.net.)
Many people seem interested to know if horror writers believe in ghosts. Horror writers are known to skilfully evade such questions. I find the line of thought mostly irrelevant. I don't think one needs to believe in ghosts to write horror. Horror is not about ghosts. It may star ghosts, but so could romance (Have you not seen Ghost?) or any other genre. Horror is about people. To write good horror, I think, it should suffice to believe in fear.
Stephen King says it makes him uncomfortable when people ask him why he writes horror, because it's not a question you'd ask detective fiction writers or romance writers - they ask him that because there's something nasty about horror. In the same interview he says that he sometimes answers the question with a flippant, "I was warped as a child." which of course is not saying anything - many part…

Postcard, a poem by Margaret Atwood

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This year I'm experimenting a little with the blog, and writing about poems is something I want to try. This is not a poem I have spent months dwelling over, reciting and loving. It is a poem I stumbled across the other week, on Poem Hunter, during one of my usual guilty-pleasure John-Donne-reading-sessions. 
Postcard by Margaret Atwood:

I'm thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitoes
& their tracks; birds, blue & elusive.

Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it's called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their head…

Gut gegen Nordwind / Love Virtually by Daniel Glattauer

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Write to me Emmi. Writing is like kissing, but without lips. Writing is kissing with the mind.
It begins by chance: Emma Rothner, a married woman, accidentally writes a couple of emails to Leo Leike. Being polite, he replies, and Emmi writes back. A few brief exchanges are all it takes to spark a mutual interest in each other, and soon Emmi and Leo are sharing their innermost secrets and longings. (No, it's nothing like You've Got Mail.)
The greatest comfort of the virtual world is the chance to spin yourself constant convenient fictions: an email acquaintance, a Twitter friend, a blogger crush. Emmi and Leo's emails perfectly capture the fun of every online relationship. In the beginning, they are cutely unselfconscious. The initial exchanges are teasing and flirty, both trying to outsmart the other while projecting a tailored image of themselves, not altogether disconnected from the truth, but still only a silhouette of their real self.
Soon, piece by piece, Leo fashions…