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Started by Zombie Kaczynski, January 25, 2009, 02:44:46 AM

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kevin

a history of the winchester repeating rifle, by somebody or other

covers the factory histories, but not the recent production.
dare to know.

maritime

https://www.economist.com/obituary/2022/06/02/lester-piggott-had-only-one-aim-in-view

QuoteLester Piggott had only one aim in view
The best flat-racing jockey of the 20th century died on May 29th, aged 86
 
The cheekiest thing Lester Piggott ever did in racing happened during the Grand Prix de Deauville in 1979. A bit over a furlong from the finish he dropped his whip, so he did what he had to, and stole another. His right hand went out, as he drew alongside at full gallop, towards the left hand of Michel Lequeux, and plucked his whip away. Thus armed, he whipped a path to the finish line.

This combination, exquisite balance and ruthless will, typified his whole career. He won 4,493 races in Britain, including 30 Classics. Among them were eight St Legers, six Oaks, five 2,000 Guineas, two 1,000 Guineas; and, nine times, the Epsom Derby, then the world's foremost race on the flat. When he won it first, in 1954 on Never Say Die, he was just 18; when he reached his ninth, in 1983, he set a record that still stands. At Royal Ascot, usually in front of the queen, he rode 116 winners. All these were on the flat, but he excelled at hurdles too, winning 20 from 56 rides. Eleven times he was Champion Jockey, with the most wins in a season.
 
Racing pundits said he thought like a horse, and there was some truth in that. He knew how horses felt. As an only child, and partially deaf, he had found it hard from childhood to make friends and get on with people. As an adult he was mostly silent, "Old Stoneface" as some called him, but he could mumble a good riposte if he wanted to. And with horses he had an understanding. He had grown up with them, his family involved in racing and training on both his father's and his mother's side, and at seven had been lifted onto his first racehorse to feel the raw quivering power of it. He could be almost eloquent as he described the secret of his riding: how, because a horse could not change the centre of gravity that lay behind its shoulders, he would adjust his own centre of gravity at every second and with every stride.

To achieve that he first starved his body, keeping it roughly two stone below his natural ten-stone weight: dry toast for breakfast, scraps of protein, no carbs, until his frame, tall for a jockey, was lean as a rake. Then he hit on the idea, when he was still a schoolboy racer, of shortening his stirrups and perching high above the saddle, almost bent in two. There, even at speed, he could keep his balance like a circus rider. Most other jockeys tried to copy him, but he was the first. Having mastered that extraordinary technique, he would then "encourage" a horse, as he thought of it, by laying on the whip in the last stages with a ferocity that could shock spectators, as when he bludgeoned his mount Roberto past Rheingold to win the Derby by a short head in 1972.

Yet it did not always work. Despite his 1979 whip-stealing he came second in that race, later relegated to third, to his disgust. You went out to win. That philosophy was his father's, whom he trotted after round the stables in the same flat cap and jacket: win, win, win. He won his first real race at 12, at Haydock Park, and was set like an arrow from then on. As a teenager he was often penalised for bumping other riders; he cut them up, they cut him up back. There were fewer cameras in those days. At Royal Ascot in 1954, when he was 18, he was suspended by the Jockey Club for reckless riding ("nothing really"). He was also ordered to leave his father's stable and serve his apprenticeship somewhere else.

This made no difference to his attitude. He was never a complacent stable jockey, content to do what trainers or owners wanted. He knew horses, and a rider like him did not need instructions. His best seasons were with Noel Murless, a royal trainer, in the late 1950s and Vincent O'Brien in the 1970s, but he left both in bitterness and, each time, went freelance. For him the only point of a stable connection was to find and ride the fastest horse. If that horse threw him, as one did at Longchamp, giving him a hairline skull fracture and headaches for years, he would be back riding, and winning, much sooner than doctors recommended.
About his mounts he was not sentimental. "He's a good horse" was his highest praise. Even the famous cruising Nijinsky, on which he won the Derby in 1970, "never felt as good to ride as he was". He liked Petite Etoile, a grey filly, for her flying speed as she won two Coronation Cups; The Minstrel, a brave little chestnut, because he triumphed in the Derby with no fear of the whip. On the gallops, rather than carefully assessing how much exercise the horses needed, he just wanted to test their best speed. When an exceptional mount appeared, he insisted on riding it in the next big race—no matter whether it was being kept for another jockey, or not. "Jocking off" was his speciality, and he felt no compunction about picking up the phone to plead his case to the owner.

In search of wins he travelled round the country, from racecourse to racecourse, riding through muck and rain, to win the Champion Jockey title, even though he got nothing for it. It peeved him intensely that in 1963 he lost the title by one race, on the last day of the season, to the great Australian jockey Scobie Breasley, and he made sure he won it for the next eight years. Money, though, was also an obsession. His mother had stressed the importance of getting cash and hanging on to it. If anyone asked him for any, he liked to joke that they were talking into his deaf ear. He gambled, too, and in 1985, after he had retired to be a trainer, he was found to have evaded tax for a decade and a half, which earned him a sentence of three years in jail.

It was all a great waste of time, he thought. The greatest waste was that, adding prison to retirement, he was out of the saddle for almost five years. Meanwhile, the racing world had expanded to take in America and even Hong Kong. He had bristled at the arrival in England of Steve Cauthen from the States in 1979, though he came to respect him. And in 1990 he staged his own remarkable comeback in the Breeders' Cup Mile at Belmont Park, New York.

He was 54, 42 years older than when he had lifted his first cup at Haydock. For a while, on Royal Academy, he dawdled at the back of the field. Then he picked up speed and finished, by a neck, ahead of everyone else. Confident as ever, plucking the sting of age and disgrace, he won, as he had to. He said it was the most satisfying ride he had ever had.

Kiahanie

Odyssey, Fagle translation. Son is reading The Lord of the Rings to his daughter, so to provide a balanced education I am reading Homer to her. Lots of words for her to hear, and the rhythm appeals to her.

I know it's backwards, but the Iliad is a bit rough in places and I don't think she is ready for that yet.
"If there were a little more silence, if we all kept quiet ... maybe we could understand something." --Federico Fellini....."Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation" -Jellaludin Rumi,

Kiahanie

Joan by Katherine J Chen. The reviews make it sound like Joan of Arc, superwoman, not St.Joan. Looking forward to being lost in the middle ages.
"If there were a little more silence, if we all kept quiet ... maybe we could understand something." --Federico Fellini....."Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation" -Jellaludin Rumi,

kevin

the complete short sories of ernest hemingway.

hemingway was a master at some things, and an annoying incompetent at others.

some of his stuff is published now from manuscripts that he never finished. some of it, like th egarden of eden, is damned good.

some, like islands in the stream, is good in parts and painfully bad in others.

he was a mixed blessing.

i have given my teenage number three son a collection of his short stories, and a hard copy of for whom the bell tolls, which i consider his finest work.
dare to know.

Shnozzola

#1205
.....the premise of sci-fi author Blake Crouch's new novel, "Upgrade".

"The book, which now has a film adaptation in the works, follows Logan Ramsay, who works for the Gene Protection Agency to root out criminals using gene editing illegally. He's also the son of a brilliant scientist who accidentally caused a mass-casualty famine when she tried to eradicate a leaf disease in China's rice paddies using experimental gene technology.

Ramsay finds himself at the center of a plot to upgrade humanity in order to save it from extinction when he's infected with a virus that rewrites huge swaths of his DNA. His genetic makeover gives him ultra-ramped-up memory and focus, perfect control over his autonomic nervous system, the ability to sense micro-changes in other humans, and a method for walling off emotion. But the upgrade has darker implications for the world when he unravels its creator's intentions."
https://www.cnn.com/style/article/blake-crouch-upgrade-scn-culture-queue/index.html

Also slowly reading Metaxas's Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Ironically, the myriad  of "god" beliefs of humanity are proving to be more dangerous than us learning that we are on our own, making the way we treat each other far more important

maritime

Chess and chess strategy books:
The Complete Chessplayer, Fred Reinfeld
The Amateur's Mind, IM Jeremy Silman

and two on the way:
Irving Chernov's The Chess Companion
Winning Chess Strategies, Yasser Seirawan

Dexter

Have you read "The Pride and sorrow of chess"? It is about Paul Morphy. 
"Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road"
― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Kiahanie

Quote from: maritime on July 20, 2022, 04:18:41 AMChess and chess strategy books:
The Complete Chessplayer, Fred Reinfeld
The Amateur's Mind, IM Jeremy Silman

and two on the way:
Irving Chernov's The Chess Companion
Winning Chess Strategies, Yasser Seirawan

Also recommend Pawn Power by whoever.
"If there were a little more silence, if we all kept quiet ... maybe we could understand something." --Federico Fellini....."Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation" -Jellaludin Rumi,

maritime

Quote from: Dexter on July 20, 2022, 01:23:21 PMHave you read "The Pride and sorrow of chess"? It is about Paul Morphy.

I have not but it looks interesting. Thanks for the recommendation.

maritime

https://www.economist.com/culture/2022/07/21/the-wonder-of-lim-yun-chans-performance-of-rach-3
QuoteStill standing at her podium, the distinguished conductor Marin Alsop wiped away a tear. She says she cannot remember the last time she cried onstage, but she was far from alone in feeling moved by the artistry of Lim Yun-chan. Ms Alsop had just conducted the 18-year-old South Korean pianist in Rachmaninoff's "Piano Concerto No. 3" in Fort Worth, Texas—a performance that last month helped make him the youngest-ever winner of the prestigious Van Cliburn International Piano Competition. A video of his mesmerising interpretation of "Rach 3", as the piece is known by pianophiles, has been viewed more than 5m times on YouTube.

Some classical musicians and aficionados think artists ought to have more experience of life before tackling works that demand emotional maturity, whether late Beethoven piano sonatas or Rach 3. Daniil Trifonov, a superb Russian pianist, decided not to perform the concerto early in his career because he didn't feel ready to convey its intensely passionate arc. But despite his youth Mr Lim "is an old soul", reckons Ms Alsop, as well as a "phenomenal talent" with "jaw-dropping technique", which complements "an innate musicality that is hard to fathom". He also has a fearsome work ethic: Mr Lim explains that his usual practice routine stretches from around 1pm until the following dawn.

A pianist and conductor as well as a composer, Rachmaninoff wrote the 40-minute concerto in 1909 and gave its premiere during a successful American concert tour in the same year. He practised on a cardboard keyboard during the long voyage from Russia. Other pianists of his generation were intimidated by Rach 3, which was mostly ignored until it was championed in the 1930s by the Kyiv-born pianist Vladimir Horowitz (whose recordings of it Mr Lim cites as an inspiration). Gary Graffman, an American pianist who is now 93, has said he regretted not learning the concerto when he was "still too young to know fear".

Rach 3's formidable reputation was reinforced by "Shine", a film of 1996 about David Helfgott, a troubled Australian pianist played by Geoffrey Rush (who won an Oscar); in the movie, Helfgott collapses from nervous exhaustion at the end of the concerto. It is a wildly emotional, lyrical piece that reflects the Russian romantic tradition, which Rachmaninoff continued as his peers experimented with avant-garde sounds. (Stravinsky began the groundbreakingly dissonant "The Rite of Spring" in 1911.) Some scholars have noted echoes of folk and liturgical music in the melancholic d-minor melody that opens Rach 3 and resurfaces throughout, though the composer denied any such influences, claiming the tune wrote itself.

Mr Lim plays this melody with a mournful dignity. At the beginning of the video he sits almost completely still, his hands barely moving over the keys. This initial restraint allows him to slowly build tension as the music ebbs and flows, until he renders the fiery climax of the third movement with exhilarating speed and force. Played by inferior musicians, Rachmaninoff's cascading notes often become a blur, but Mr Lim makes each crystalline, purposeful and often startlingly beautiful. After only two rehearsals, he and the accompanying Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra evince the chemistry of longtime collaborators. Their seemingly intuitive give-and-take imbues the complex score with an increasingly urgent pulse.

He was one of three pianists to take on the piece in the finals of the Cliburn, which bucked current trends and invited young pianists from Belarus and Russia to compete. Anna Geniushene, a Russian who has expressed solidarity with embattled Ukraine, won silver; Dmytro Choni, a Ukrainian, claimed bronze. (The contest is named after an American pianist who won the International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow at the height of the cold war.) But the headline news was the music itself. Anyone needing a break from doom-scrolling is advised to join the millions of listeners enthralled by Mr Lim's Rach 3.

kevin

dare to know.

LoriPinkAngel

My college roommate could play that
Ah, but I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now...  -Bob Dylan

maritime

#1213
Subscribed to The New Criterion. Can be read online though I prefer the hardcopy so anticipating its delivery. 

Have a copy of The Perfectionists by Simon Winchester. Finished Wildest Alaska (Lituya Bay and Fairweather Fault history). Order in for George Gilder's Life After Capitalism, out Oct 22. Irving Chernev's The Chess Companion included E. B. White's "The Hour of Letdown", pretty funny. Also includes a few Morphy games that I read and followed on the board, and Bobby Fischer's 1956 match/win (at 13) with Donald Byrne. Had to start over several times; learning to read the notations (not the a-h/1-8 style).

Dexter

"Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road"
― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

maritime

Not sure how to insert an image in this new forum format. Trying out the float option - right.
Left

Dexter

#1216
An absolutely amazing game. He sacrifices his queen, knowing that by doing so he will force a win in 6 moves. Audacious and incredible.
"Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road"
― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

maritime

17. ....  Q x B!
Chernev remarks that "Morphy took twelve minutes over this move...."

maritime

#1218
https://www.economist.com/obituary/2022/09/07/issey-miyake-saw-clothes-in-a-completely-new-way

QuoteIn 2016, an elderly woman sent Issey Miyake a sheet of washi paper. It had been hand-made by her in Shiraishi, in northern Japan, from the inner bark of the gampi tree or the paper mulberry bush. Once soaked in water and dried in the sun, the fibres were tougher than those of wood pulp. For a thousand years washi had been used for everyday clothes, toys and priests' vestments; there had once been dozens of factories in Shiraishi. Now the only provider was this woman, who thought Japan's most famous designer might like a sample for his archive. But he did not store it away. His first thought was, what can I make with this?, and his first act was to pin it into the rough shape of a kimono jacket. All clothing in ancient times had started like this, as a simple rectangle of woven stuff from a hand-loom. That simplicity remained the touchstone from which his ideas sprang.

The world saw him as a fashion designer, a highly successful one, the name behind a brand that has around 300 stores worldwide and offshoots into scent, bags and furniture. But fashion itself did not interest him, nor the fame of a name. He hid from the commercial side, leaving that to well-trained deputies, while he stayed as a small cog of creativity, playful but self-effacing, travelling constantly to see local textiles and materials and, over much tea-drinking in his design laboratories, inspiring the team of daring minds he had gathered round him.

A designer's work, he kept insisting, was neither elitist nor frivolous. He was engaged in monozukuri, the art, science and craft of making things, and his vivid colours and extraordinary shapes had a serious purpose. He wanted his clothes to work in real life and to bring people joy. (Fuku, clothing, sounded much like the word for happiness.) That was no small aim. Yet he had to argue his case hard, first as a student who had no chance, as a Japanese male, to study clothing design, and then as a young designer, who had to go to Paris to learn his trade with Laroche and Givenchy when he found no encouragement and no respect at home.

As a maker he cared about every part of the process, from yarn to fabric to machinery. Almost anything could be turned into clothes. He used rattan, bamboo and paper, all of which had been tried in Japan long before, but forgotten. Recycled plastic and bottle caps, with an ingenious tweak in the process to soften their brittleness, were woven into shirts that he wore himself. Yarns derived from petrochemicals, rayon and nylon, were useful rather than despised. He actively favoured polyester, the fabric he used for his "Pleats Please" range, which when heat-pressed in layers of paper produced pleats that never crushed or lost their edge, fitting and swirling as beautifully after weeks in a suitcase as on the very first day of wearing. He had tried silk, but it hadn't worked.

Most fascinating, to him, was the way clothes worked with the human body and the space that lay between fabric and living skin. His clothes were not finished until they were being worn, lived and moved in, just as music was unfinished until it was played. Even his Bao Bao bags, wildly popular constructions of polyvinyl triangles on a hard mesh, changed shape as they were filled and adjusted themselves to the wearer. He moulded his fabrics to bodies in ways that looked hard and sculptural but were flexible and soft, making customers feel cocooned and courageous both at once. As a child he had wanted to be an athlete or a dancer, and on the catwalks of Paris and New York models sometimes danced in his clothes, to reinforce the point.

In Paris, witnessing the student revolt of 1968, he decided that his clothes should be not just for the upper bourgeoisie, but for everyone. (His prices were not exactly mass-market, but reasonable for haute couture.) That principle also lay behind "A Piece of Cloth" (A-POC), a computer-controlled process that produced tubular pieces of polyester jersey, woven from a single thread, which each customer could cut into their own seamless clothes. In 1999 his models launched the idea by parading in one continuous piece of red cloth, each robed slightly differently but all swathed together, like the ribs of a fan.

The first pieces of A-POC were produced on a disused machine that had once made fishing nets. Though he claimed to know nothing about machines, such chance discoveries delighted him. An older process could be used to realise a futuristic idea, technology as much as art. While tradition inspired him, optimism and nagging dissatisfaction drove him on, towards a time when gender in clothes could be forgotten, anyone could wear anything (as men could, and did, wear his pleats), recycled fabric became the norm, and pattern-makers, sweatshops and middlemen disappeared from the world of fashion.

His fixation on the future also had a deeper cause. In August 1945, at the age of seven, he saw the blinding red flash of the atomic bomb exploding over his city, Hiroshima, and the black rain that followed. He was just going back to class after morning assembly; instead he had to run home, desperate to find his mother among the crowds of panicking and burning people. She had survived, but was so badly burned that she died three years later. He himself was soon lamed by osteomyelitis, a disease caused by radiation. Among the striding and dancing models in his free and easy creations he walked with a broad smile, and with a limp.

This story lay hidden until 2009. He did not want to be known as the designer who had survived Hiroshima. The focus had to be shifted away from destruction, towards creation; away from shadows, to the light. As a young man struggling to survive in the blasted city, he had taken up painting, using his fingers because he could not afford brushes. On his way to classes he would pass the city's twin Peace bridges, East and West. The designer Noguchi Isamu, who later became his friend, had built concrete balustrades for them. Those on the West bridge ("To die, to depart"), ended with a broken flower-stalk plunging into the ground. Those on the East ("To live, to build") ended with flowers growing, lifting their heads to the dawning sun. Live, build. Make things.

maritime

^wish I knew how to insert the photo of Issey Miyake ||smileysad||

Left off with The Perfectionists by S Winchester. Too detailed, right now.
Instead, 1/2 way thru The Psychology of Totalitarianism by M Desmet
Also, part way into Belonging by N Krug
Plus, found Roger Penrose's 2004 The Road to Reality ||grin||

kevin

dare to know.


none

Quote from: maritime on June 19, 2022, 09:38:26 PMhttps://www.economist.com/obituary/2022/06/02/lester-piggott-had-only-one-aim-in-view

QuoteLester Piggott had only one aim in view
The best flat-racing jockey of the 20th century died on May 29th, aged 86
 
The cheekiest thing Lester Piggott ever did in racing happened during the Grand Prix de Deauville in 1979. A bit over a furlong from the finish he dropped his whip, so he did what he had to, and stole another. His right hand went out, as he drew alongside at full gallop, towards the left hand of Michel Lequeux, and plucked his whip away. Thus armed, he whipped a path to the finish line.

This combination, exquisite balance and ruthless will, typified his whole career. He won 4,493 races in Britain, including 30 Classics. Among them were eight St Legers, six Oaks, five 2,000 Guineas, two 1,000 Guineas; and, nine times, the Epsom Derby, then the world's foremost race on the flat. When he won it first, in 1954 on Never Say Die, he was just 18; when he reached his ninth, in 1983, he set a record that still stands. At Royal Ascot, usually in front of the queen, he rode 116 winners. All these were on the flat, but he excelled at hurdles too, winning 20 from 56 rides. Eleven times he was Champion Jockey, with the most wins in a season.
 
Racing pundits said he thought like a horse, and there was some truth in that. He knew how horses felt. As an only child, and partially deaf, he had found it hard from childhood to make friends and get on with people. As an adult he was mostly silent, "Old Stoneface" as some called him, but he could mumble a good riposte if he wanted to. And with horses he had an understanding. He had grown up with them, his family involved in racing and training on both his father's and his mother's side, and at seven had been lifted onto his first racehorse to feel the raw quivering power of it. He could be almost eloquent as he described the secret of his riding: how, because a horse could not change the centre of gravity that lay behind its shoulders, he would adjust his own centre of gravity at every second and with every stride.

To achieve that he first starved his body, keeping it roughly two stone below his natural ten-stone weight: dry toast for breakfast, scraps of protein, no carbs, until his frame, tall for a jockey, was lean as a rake. Then he hit on the idea, when he was still a schoolboy racer, of shortening his stirrups and perching high above the saddle, almost bent in two. There, even at speed, he could keep his balance like a circus rider. Most other jockeys tried to copy him, but he was the first. Having mastered that extraordinary technique, he would then "encourage" a horse, as he thought of it, by laying on the whip in the last stages with a ferocity that could shock spectators, as when he bludgeoned his mount Roberto past Rheingold to win the Derby by a short head in 1972.

Yet it did not always work. Despite his 1979 whip-stealing he came second in that race, later relegated to third, to his disgust. You went out to win. That philosophy was his father's, whom he trotted after round the stables in the same flat cap and jacket: win, win, win. He won his first real race at 12, at Haydock Park, and was set like an arrow from then on. As a teenager he was often penalised for bumping other riders; he cut them up, they cut him up back. There were fewer cameras in those days. At Royal Ascot in 1954, when he was 18, he was suspended by the Jockey Club for reckless riding ("nothing really"). He was also ordered to leave his father's stable and serve his apprenticeship somewhere else.

This made no difference to his attitude. He was never a complacent stable jockey, content to do what trainers or owners wanted. He knew horses, and a rider like him did not need instructions. His best seasons were with Noel Murless, a royal trainer, in the late 1950s and Vincent O'Brien in the 1970s, but he left both in bitterness and, each time, went freelance. For him the only point of a stable connection was to find and ride the fastest horse. If that horse threw him, as one did at Longchamp, giving him a hairline skull fracture and headaches for years, he would be back riding, and winning, much sooner than doctors recommended.
About his mounts he was not sentimental. "He's a good horse" was his highest praise. Even the famous cruising Nijinsky, on which he won the Derby in 1970, "never felt as good to ride as he was". He liked Petite Etoile, a grey filly, for her flying speed as she won two Coronation Cups; The Minstrel, a brave little chestnut, because he triumphed in the Derby with no fear of the whip. On the gallops, rather than carefully assessing how much exercise the horses needed, he just wanted to test their best speed. When an exceptional mount appeared, he insisted on riding it in the next big race—no matter whether it was being kept for another jockey, or not. "Jocking off" was his speciality, and he felt no compunction about picking up the phone to plead his case to the owner.

In search of wins he travelled round the country, from racecourse to racecourse, riding through muck and rain, to win the Champion Jockey title, even though he got nothing for it. It peeved him intensely that in 1963 he lost the title by one race, on the last day of the season, to the great Australian jockey Scobie Breasley, and he made sure he won it for the next eight years. Money, though, was also an obsession. His mother had stressed the importance of getting cash and hanging on to it. If anyone asked him for any, he liked to joke that they were talking into his deaf ear. He gambled, too, and in 1985, after he had retired to be a trainer, he was found to have evaded tax for a decade and a half, which earned him a sentence of three years in jail.

It was all a great waste of time, he thought. The greatest waste was that, adding prison to retirement, he was out of the saddle for almost five years. Meanwhile, the racing world had expanded to take in America and even Hong Kong. He had bristled at the arrival in England of Steve Cauthen from the States in 1979, though he came to respect him. And in 1990 he staged his own remarkable comeback in the Breeders' Cup Mile at Belmont Park, New York.

He was 54, 42 years older than when he had lifted his first cup at Haydock. For a while, on Royal Academy, he dawdled at the back of the field. Then he picked up speed and finished, by a neck, ahead of everyone else. Confident as ever, plucking the sting of age and disgrace, he won, as he had to. He said it was the most satisfying ride he had ever had.
how are you gonna make a song called "the thong song" for this?
sounds boring already
how long after I type amen do I get the money?
I'm lost, if you see me you are lost also
If Jesus believed in himself he wouldn't have been Jewish.

maritime


maritime

Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
Came to mind after listening to Sister Golden Hair the other day.
Love this story.

Dexter

I finished V. It was a lot less of a task than Gravity's Rainbow. I enjoyed it.

Just downloading the works of H.P. Lovecraft onto my kobo now.

will work on a few books from this list soon
https://www.gizmodo.com.au/2022/09/10-books-you-pretend-to-have-read-and-why-you-should-really-read-them/

I have read Dune, Foundation, Dahlgren, Gravity's Rainbow and 1984.
"Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road"
― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

kevin

dare to know.

maritime

That's interesting, a Kobo (company name an anagram for book).

maritime

God and Mammon: Chronicles of American Money by Lance Morrow ||sherlock||

LoriPinkAngel

Right now I am reading John Steinbeck's Cannery Row.  I use "Libby" which is an app to check out books on line from my local library or I guess any library I get a card for.  I would like to get a card for the NYC Public Library.  I wanted to do it in person sometime when visiting the city but I guess I won't be doing that anytime soon because I broke my ankle in 2 places the other day.  I suppose I will be doing a lot more reading in the next couple months.
Ah, but I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now...  -Bob Dylan