And life is good.
Snowed off and on all day today, but nothing really stuck, and now we get this glorious sunset.
I loved the way the sun was shining on the beautiful fall leaves, so I took my best friend for a walk and took some photos. This is truly the best time of the year for me. Right now I’m drinking some delicious cider and enjoying the evening. Can’t wait to snuggle down with Opie and read a good book. And that’s my Saturday night.
“Powerful winds that crack the boughs of November! – and the bright calm sun, untouched by the furies of the earth, abandoning the earth to darkness, and wild forlornness, and night, as men shiver in their coats and hurry home. And then the lights of home glowing in those desolate deeps. There are the stars, though! – high and sparkling in a spiritual firmament. We will walk in the windsweeps, gloating in the envelopment of ourselves, seeking the sudden grinning intelligence of humanity below these abysmal beauties. Now the roaring midnight fury and the creaking of our hinges and windows, now the winder, now the understanding of the earth and our being on it: this drama of enigmas and double-depths and sorrows and grave joys, these human things in the elemental vastness of the windblown world.” – Jack Kerouac
“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was – I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
Anyone who knows me, knows that The Beat Generation, and Kerouac in particular, are a huge part of what shaped me in my late teens and early 20s. For me, that era, those poets and writers, are a part of my soul. Sometimes when I’m reading Kerouac, it’s like he’s pulled my most personal feelings out of my heart and put them into words, in such a way that I never could. I find comfort in him and them, and they are the grandfathers I never had, my greatest teachers, my closest friends. This time of year I’m especially prone to them, so here’s a poem Kerouac wrote about my favorite month: October.
There’s something olden and golden and lost
In the strange ancestral light,
There’s something tender and loving and sad
In October’s copper might.
End of something, old, old, old…
Always missing, sad, sad, sad…
Saying something…love, love, love…
Akh! I tell you it is October,
And I defy you now and always
To deny there is not love
Staring foolishly at skies
Whose beauty but God defies.
For in October’s ancient glow
A little after dusk
Love strides through the meadow
Dropping her burnished husk…
- Desolate Angel: Jack Kerouac, The Beat Generation and America (newrepublic.com)
- The many phases of Jack Kerouac (beatworldbeatitude.wordpress.com)
- A possible understanding of the Beat Generation. (beatworldbeatitude.wordpress.com)
- Walking Haiku by Jack Kerouac (silverbirchpress.wordpress.com)
It’s finally here! And I feel it. It’s a chilly morning out there and the trees are spotted with orange and yellow. I’m enjoying my pumpkin spice coffee and pumpkin loaf for breakfast, pumpkin-marshmallow scent is in the Scentsy, and I’m about to find a scary movie to watch while I get some work done. YES.
Step up to the challenge! It’s easy! Post your challenge then click on others to check out theirs, you may find another book for your TBR list!
- Grab the book you’re currently reading (or recently read)
- Open to a random page
- Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page NO spoilers allowed! Choose passages void of spoilers. The goal is to entice, yet not ruin the book for others!
- Share the title & author, so that other participants can add the book to their TBR lists if they like your teasers!
- Last and but not least, link up your post using the InLinkz below so that others participants can check out your post! You must link up in order to get your participation entry point! You MUST enter using the InLinkz to get your point .
****THIS CHALLENGE IS OPEN ONLY FOR 24 HOURS!!!!***** A new challenge will be posted tomorrow. 🙂
I’ll be using one of my favorite books of all time. We’re talking top 3. When I recommend this book, I try to explain the magic and beauty of it, but I always find myself failing to accurately portray just HOW special it is. There’s no better way to convey the feeling and depth of a book you love to someone than sharing passages from it. So this challenge it awesome.
From One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and since it’s a long one, I’m counting it as two passages. The way Gabo writes, it’s kind of hard to find short passages. Read the book, and you will see.
Pietro Crespi lost control of himself. He wept shamelessly, almost breaking his fingers with desperation, but he could not break her down. “Don’t waste your time,” was all that Amaranta said. “If you really love me so much, don’t set foot in this house again.” Ursula thought she would go mad with shame. Pietro Crespi exhausted all manner of pleas. He went through incredible extremes of humiliation. He wept one whole afternoon in Ursula’s lap and she would have sold her soul in order to comfort him. On rainy nights he could be seen prowling about the house with an umbrella, waiting for a light in Amaranta’s bedroom. He was never better dressed than at that time. His august head of a tormented emperor had acquired a strange air of grandeur. He begged Amaranta’s friends, the ones who sewed with her on the porch, to try to persuade her. He neglected his business. He would spend the day in the rear of the store writing wild notes, which he would send to Amaranta with flower petals and dried butterflies, and which she would return unopened. He would shut himself up for hours on end to play the zither. One night he sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crespi then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta. On November second, All Souls Day, his brother opened the store and found all the lamps lighted, all the music boxes opened, and all the docks striking an interminable hour, and in the midst of that mad concert he found Pietro Crespi at the desk in the rear with his wrists cut by a razor and his hands thrust into a basin of benzoin.