So, Robin didnt' tag me, but I wanted to do this thingy from her blog anyway:
1. Grab the nearest book. If you are currently reading something, that'll be fine too.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your Blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet I know that is what you were thinking!
6. Tag 5 people
"Newcharlie sighed and looked out over the block. "Whatever."
"I felt real old when he said that, like I'd spent all my life standing in that doorway trying to get him to listen to me. My head felt heavy, and the sun was too bright in my eyes. When I closed then, Mama was there again, holding the leaf out to me."
It's from Miracle's Boys by Jaqueline Woodson. I just finished another book by her as well, but it's less than 123 pages long (they're teen fiction)
This book was chosen by the library to be some sort of Minneapolis reading club book - like what if everyone in the city read the same book? we could all talk about it with random strangers I guess. I really like the idea, though I doubt I'll talk about the book to anyone I don't already know.
I'm about to return this book to the library
(PS - I'm not into the tagging thing, you're all tagged if you want to be, not if you don't!) comment here and let me know if you do it)
peace
Pam
3 comments:
Hey, Pam,
I decided to cheat, because I'm a cheater. I grabbed the nearest book, and sentences 6-9 on page 123 just didn't cut it. They weren't even worth retypying. Though the book was great--Robert Stone's "Dog Soldiers."
So I decided to grab the nearest book of poetry, and struck gold. It was Pablo Neruda's "Residence on Earth," the amazing poem "Disaction."
==
They are the feet and the clocks and the fingers/and a locomotive of dying soap,/and a bitter sky of soaked metal,/and a yellow river of smiles.
Everything reaches the tips of fingers like flowers,/and fingernails like lightningbolts, withered armchairs,/everything reaches the ink of death/and the violet mouths of tax stamps.
Let us weep for the death of earth and fire,/swords, grapes,/the sexes with their tough realms of roots,/the alcohol ships sailing among ships/and the perfume that dances at night, on its knees,/dragging behind a planet of perforated roses.
With dog's suits and stains on our brows/let us fall into the depths of the papers,/into the anger of enchained words,/into demonstrations tenaciously defunct,/into systems wrapped in yellow leaves.
Come with me to the offices, to the uncertain/smell of ministries, and tombs, and postage stamps./Come with me to the white day that is dying/screaming like a murdered bride.
==
[Okay, so I went one sentence over. All that was left was the last stanza, and it's so good I couldn't stop. Also, I didn't post it on my blog, but yours, since I don't keep a blog, really. I'm such a cheater.]
P.S. If you read Spanish (I don't, sadly), here's the whole poem online:
Click
Hey James
Thanks for this. It's a shame (to me) that you don't have a blog. But then, my own personal jury is still out on the subject of whether blogging is worthwhile....
I have only recently discovered Neruda, he's really quite amazing.
I just barely kinda read spanish, and hope eventually to try to read it in the link you provided. I think reading poetry in the original language is so important, and yet there are so many original languages to learn!
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