#Fifty Years Ago: A Memoir

[lensandpenpress]

"Alas! No help for me now; I am on the Mississippi, and must go it."

The Berlin was picked up by aptly named ‘tug’ boats, that tugged it through sandy shallows to the deeper water of the main channel. Then one tug headed back out for another incoming ship and one “began its hard task, towing us up against the current to New Orleans, 107 miles distant.” My 2017 exploration was a reverse course – downriver from Baton Rouge to meet my guide, Richie Blink (Delta…

[bitter69uk]

“Cinderella with a husky voice …”: sultry, smoky-eyed and ash blonde Lizabeth Scott (née Emma Matzo, 29 September 1922 - 31 January 2015) was born on this day 102 years ago. Possessor of a distinctive throaty voice described by John Kobal as sounding “as if it had been buried somewhere deep and was trying to claw its way out”, the underrated Scott was the most haunting and enigmatic of forties and fifties film noir actresses. (For many years, she was bedeviled by adverse comparisons to her doppelganger, the more famous Lauren Bacall). I’ve screened three of Scott’s films at the Lobotomy Room film club to date (Too Late for Tears (1949), Desert Fury (1947) and Pitfall (1948)) and it’s been gratifying to see audiences fall under her spell. I’d argue Scott is the last great “undiscovered” golden age Hollywood star (shamefully, The British Film Institute has never done a season of her films). Scott was famously reclusive in her later years, rarely granted interviews and her private life is shrouded in mystery. Author and filmmaker Todd Hughes’ 2022 memoir Lunch with Lizabeth – in which he affectionately recalls his friendship with the prickly and complicated Scott - does much to crack the enigma. Pictured: portrait of Scott from 1947.

[leveragehunters]

I was going through my great grandfather's memoirs (born 3 March 1880) and came across this part, which feels eerily similar to our current times:

Our biggest handicap was the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918. With men off sick we were lucky to have 50 staff. Some would come back and more would go off. I was off two weeks myself. There were many deaths in the city.   The war was over and the men were returning from France. We were working a fifty hour week. With the men returning, the trend was to repress wages and frown on a reduction of working hours. My responsibility had been increased so as I was next to the superintendent. This was fine, except my wages were the same as the day I started. They said, "You are doing a good job, but with the men returning that is all we can pay you." There was general upset. The returned men were dissatisfied with the wages offered, not only with our company and the warehouse business, but with what was being offered in general.

He then goes on to explain how they met with the Trade and Labour Council to form a union and present their demands (which were union recognition, basic wage of $180.00 a month, an eight hour day in a year's time, and a two year contract), but it all went to hell because of spies reporting back to the bosses and scabs who refused to honour the strike.

After the second day they flooded back like sheep. At Ashdown the travellers and buyers worked the warehouse without interruption of service. The strike was a washout. I was out of a job!

The night before the strike was scheduled to start the bosses even resorted to the closest they had to social media 105 years ago.

The Evening paper carried an advertisement, by all companies concerned, advising that all employees absent from work for three days, would be discharged.

(The memoirs are 180 typed pages, so I may post more bits as they catch my eye)

[certifiedcallahanstan]

The memoir of a horny fangirl (H.C Series)

Pairing: Hazel Callahan x Fem!reader

College AU

Summary:

After a two years of studying abroad in Australia for marine biology you return back to your college for your senior year, everything is how you remember it..

Josie and Isabel moved in together.

P.J is still horny as ever.

but one thing is different..Hazel is a professional baseball player.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Angst!!, Confident Hazel (bc she’s got as fuck), Fuck boy Hazel but not really, Sometimes insufferable reader, eventual smut

This is a slow burn series, there will smut but not in the first chapter

Chapter 1-

You had been in Australia at a marine biology internship for the the past two years of university. You were excited to see at your friends, really you were but after three cancelled flights, two delays and having to sit next to a fifty something year old man who snores could’ve sent the plane down, you were really excited to just lay in your bed and sleep. Your friends however had other plans.

Isabel, Josie, Stella-Rebecca, Brittany, Hazel and P.J had gotten a extra key to your apartment from your parents (which you didn’t even know they had), and had spent five hours furnishing it with balloons, streamers, printed out pictures of sea animals and a big banner that says “welcome home mate”.

To say you were surprised was an understatement, as soon as your hand twisted the door knob and pushed the door open, cheers erupted from your friends and choruses of “welcome back” and “damn how did you get even hotter” filled the room.

As you take in the scene of your friends' enthusiastic welcome, you can't help but feel overwhelmed with warmth and happiness. Despite the exhaustion from your journey, their energy is infectious. Your heart swells with affection for each of them, especially as Isabel, and soon everyone else tackles you in a hug.

well everyone except P.J that is, she just kind of presses her lips together and tilts her head towards you in acknowledgment, never being one for affection.

After everyone has gotten their hugs in you can’t help but notice one face is notably absent, you scan the room for the shaggy haired brunette but she is nowhere to be seen, stirring a mix of emotions within you.

You try to push aside any feelings of disappointment , focusing instead on the joy of being reunited with your friends after such a long time away.

Everyone settles on the couch, Isabel and Josie cuddled together, they’ve been together close to three years which warmed your heart. Stella-Rebecca gushed about how she got asked to do her first ever run way show, and Brittany had officially signed a deal with a celebrity to help promise her jewelry business. And P.J had finally lost her virginity, which came from a slightly tipsy Stella-Rebecca leading to a slightly more annoyed P.J. You chose to leave it alone.

You’re curled up on the couch listening to all of your friends conversing when you hear your apartment door open.

Your heart skips a beat as you turn to see the familiar figure entering the room. The shaggy-haired brunette, the one you've been eagerly awaiting, finally arrives, and a rush of emotions floods over you (it’s just because you haven’t seen her in a while, you swear).

Despite trying to play it cool, you can't hide the smile that spreads across your face as she joins the group. It's as if the puzzle is finally complete with their presence, and you feel a sense of contentment settle over you.

“Sorry i’m late” she huffs out as she sets her backpack on the table by your door “Practice ran late”

"It's alright, we're just glad you're here," you reply, trying to hide the relief in your voice. You gesture for her to join you on the couch.

She graciously accepts the gesture and sits by you and you can’t help but notice how different she looks. When you left two years ago she was still the shy awkward girl you knew from highschool who wouldn’t stop talking about star wars and bomb making.

As you take in her transformation, you're struck by how stunning she looks. Gone is the shy, awkward girl you once knew, replaced by this confident, stylish version of herself. The way she carries herself, the subtle accessories that accentuate her outfit—all of it adds to her allure.

She still had the same mullet rocker hairstyle but her facial features seem to have gotten sharper and her muscle’s definitely more defined (not that you were looking because you definitely weren’t)

Your heart patters as you hear Brittany gasp and look at you “Did Hazel tell you about making the team?!”

Your eyebrows knit in confusion as you turn and look at hazel “no..what team?”

The brunette rubs her ring adorned hand on the back of her neck “it’s really no big deal-“

“No big deal?!” P.J interrupts smacking her hands on the couch “You got signed with the mother fucking NBA!”

Your eyes widen in shock as the news sinks in. The NBA? you swear you could feel your panties dampen. You knew she liked watching baseball and was pretty good at it, but you’ve never gotten to see her play. The thought of her in a baseball uniform makes you unusually horny.

You quickly snap out of your momentary distraction, realizing everyone is waiting for your response. Blushing slightly, you smile, "That's incredible, Hazel! Congratulations!" Your voice carries genuine excitement and admiration.

Her excitement is contagious, and you find yourself beaming along with her. You offer her a congratulatory hug which she happily obliges to.

As everyone converses and gets slightly more tipsy you and hazel sit by each other conversing and you realize how much you’ve missed this.

“I can’t wait to see you in action Miss NBA all star”

Hazel huffs out a chuckle tracing the rim of her cup and you can’t help but notice how prominent the veins are in her hand.

“I actually have a game this weekend. You should come” she smiles and licks her bottom lip in a way that should be illegal. You sensed a hint of flirtatiousness in her voice but you chalked it down to both of you being a little bit more than tipsy.

“Of course Haze” You smile as you squeeze her free hand “you know i wouldn’t miss it for the world”

“OH MY GOD I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG” Isabel screeches and she pulls a stunned hazel up and starts screaming the words to “HOT TO GO”

As the night winds down and it's just you and Hazel left as she helps you clean up the mess that has consumed your apartment. The intimate setting allows your feelings for her to surface, even if only in the privacy of your thoughts.

You’ve always kind of had a thing for Hazel, the way she was always so kind to everyone even if they didn’t deserve it. How she could make jokes at the perfect time, and the fucking smile of hers.

You’re consumed in your thoughts as “living on a prayer” softly fills your apartment when you hear Hazel say something.

“Sorry” you say looking up from the trash bag you were tying and looking to her “what was that”

“you’re always in you’re own world aren’t you” she chuckles which causes the apples of your cheeks to turn pink “I said it’s good to see you again, it hasn’t been the same without you”

“Yeah, it's good to see you too," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "I've missed our late-night clean-up sessions."

And it’s true, Hazel was always the one to stay after and help you clean up after any kind of event.

An hour later everything is in its place and As Hazel gets ready to leave, you feel a pang of reluctance, not wanting the night to end just yet. "Hey, Hazel," you say, your voice a little softer than before, "thanks for helping out tonight, and for everything, really." You offer her a genuine smile

Hazel returns your smile, her gaze lingering for a moment longer than usual. "Anytime," she replies, her tone equally sincere. "And hey, don't forget about the game this weekend. I'll save you a seat." With a playful wink, she heads towards the door.

You watch her go, feeling a mixture of emotions swirling within you. As the door clicks shut behind her, you're left alone with your thoughts once more, the echoes of the night's events lingering in the air.

————————————

You didn’t see Hazel for the rest of the week, which left you restless and longing for her presence. Each day passed with a sense of anticipation for her baseball game on Saturday.

As the days went by, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled in the pit of your stomach. You missed her more than you cared to admit.

As Saturday rolled around, you sat with them at Josie's house, Isabel was standing in a pile of clothes, determined to find you, quote on quote “the most pussy dripping outfit” and after what seems like an eternity she throws a tank top and short blue denim shorts to you and smiles.

You pick up the articles of clothing and laugh slightly. As you slip into the tank top and shorts, you can't help but feel a surge of confidence wash over you. Sure, the outfit may be on the more revealing side for a baseball game, but you can't deny that you look good in it. With a playful smile, you give Isabel a nod of approval and Josie whistles.

“Hazel isn’t going to be able to focus on the game seeing you” she says “and i mean this in the least offensive most feminist way, your tits look amazing” she huffs out as she gives you the “ok” hand symbol

"Thanks, Josie," you reply with a grin, feeling a warmth spread through you at her words.

With a final adjustment to your outfit, you three head to the stadium and Isabel grabs your hand and drags you to the VIP seating, As you approach the group, you're greeted by Annie, Sylvie, P.J, and Brittany, who are deep in conversation.

“I’m just saying” Sylvie huffs out in between handfuls of popcorn “If god didn’t make weed for people to smoke, what did he make it for“

“Not for you to get high off of and run into a rive butt ass naked!” Annie screeches

"Hey, everyone," you greet the group with a smile. "What's all this about running into rivers naked?" You raise an eyebrow, feigning curiosity as you take a seat among them.

Annie chuckles, shaking her head. "Long story," she replies, shooting a playful glare at Sylvie. "Let's just say Sylvie here had a little too much fun with nature last summer."

Sylvie shrugs, grinning sheepishly. "Hey, it was a dare," she defends herself, reaching for another handful of popcorn.

Soon enough the players start to take their positions on the field, your heart skips a beat when you spot Hazel on the pitcher's mound. The sight of her, with black eye paint under her eyes, which is enough to make you come undone on the spot.

With bated breath, you watch as she lifts her leg up and delivers the first pitch, her focus and determination evident with each movement. As the game progresses, you find yourself cheering louder and more enthusiastically with each play, feeling a sense of pride swell within you with every pitch she throws.

You can feel the anticipation in the air as the score remains neck and neck. Then, in the final moments, Hazel winds up and delivers the winning pitch, sending the ball soaring with precision and determination.

A collective roar erupts from the crowd as the ball connects with the catcher's mitt, signaling victory for Hazel's team. Cheers and applause fill the stadium as fans jump to their feet.

Josie pumps her fist in the air, her infectious energy spreading to the rest of the group.

And for the first time you realize how many girls are wearing Callahan jerseys and you hear a couple screaming “marry me” and “fuck me hazel”, even seeing a few flashing her and you can’t help but feel a pant of jealousy.

Despite knowing that Hazel is just basking in the admiration of her fans, seeing others openly express their attraction to her stirs up feelings of insecurity within you. You hadn’t realized how popular Hazel was until now.

—————————————

Josie declared an obligatory house party after the game, so soon enough her house was filled with drunk college students.

Music thumped through the speakers, laughter echoed in every corner, and the scent of alcohol lingered in the air. You search for Hazel, not being able to have seen her after the game due to the numerous interviewers surrounding her.

You spot her surrounded by girls hanging off of her. You meet her gaze and you can’t help but notice how her eyes travel to your cleavage and the smirk that adorns her face before she turns her attention back to the girls. Isabel comes up to you and bumps your shoulder “fun day huh?”

You tear your eyes away from Hazel and smile “Yeah it was the best, i didn’t realize haze was so popular though, i mean i swear i saw a girl faint when she came out”

Isabel laughs as she grabs another cup from the kitchen counter “Yeah Hazel is like..the gay awakening for every girl across America”

You hum in acknowledgment as you turn your focus back to where Hazel is..or was, and you notice she is walking towards you.

As Hazel makes her way toward you, your heart skips a beat, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. You can't help but notice the way her eyes linger on you for a moment before she joins you, the smirk on her lips not escaping your notice.

She’s dressed in a black tank top and blue washed jeans with a silver chain glistening around her neck and you can’t help but wonder what it would look like with her head between your thighs.

"Hey," she says, pulling out of your frankly embarrassing day dream, her voice warm as she approaches. "Sorry about the crowd back there. It's been a bit hectic with all the interviews and fans."

You smile, trying to hide the flutter in your chest as you meet her gaze. "No worries," you reply, mustering up a casual tone. "Looks like you've got quite the fan club."

She shrugs as she messes with the red cup in her hand, her eyes scanning your outfit, still the same one that you had worn to the baseball game.

"You look great," she says, her voice genuine as she meets your gaze, you chew on your bottom lip as she whispers in your ear, “how did you know my favorite color was red”

a shiver runs down your spine at the proximity of her breath. Her words catch you off guard, and you can feel your cheeks flush with warmth. You spot Josie with her eyebrows raised and a shit eating grin on her face.

"I, uh, didn't know," you admit, feeling a flutter of excitement at her whispered confession. "I just... wore what I had."

Hazel's lips curl into a playful smirk as she leans back, her gaze locking with yours. "Well, it suits you," she says, her voice low and teasing. "Red looks good on you."

Since when did Hazel get so fucking good at flirting? You shift your standing position, pressing your thighs together as arousal sweeps over you.

“Hazel!” a drunk P.J calls out as soon as you were about to respond “Do shots with me”

Hazel hesitates before muttering “duty awaits” and giving you a two finger salute and she makes her way to the drunk blonde

"Sure, duty calls," you reply with a forced smile, trying to push aside the twinge of longing that tugs at your chest. With a final glance in Hazel's direction, you watch as she makes her way over to P.J, the momentary connection between you fading into the background as the party continues to unfold.

You find yourself leaning against the wall in a secluded hallway, not because you don’t like the party but because Sylvie keeps trying to challenge you in a game of “who can eat the most edibles”

Footsteps pat against the floors and you let your gaze look to see who was coming to disturb your peace only to find out it was a smiling Hazel.

“Trying to hide from me already?” she chuckles out as she stands infront of you and you can smell her cologne from here.

“Oh yeah” " you reply with a playful smirk, leaning back against the wall. "But I guess you found me."

Hazel chuckles, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she leans in closer, her cologne enveloping you in its intoxicating scent.

“I feel like i’ve barely had any time to talk to you” your words slightly slurred from the alcohol as you look at her.

a frown takes over her face as she tilts her head "Yeah, it's been pretty hectic," she admits, her voice tinged with regret.

You can’t help but notice how good she looks right now with her hair messy and the slight shine from sweat.

Now you wouldn’t call yourself a particularly bold person, but you’re also three vodka cranberries and four shots deep so logic isn’t really on your side right now.

you press your arms closer to your body making your cleavage your prominent as you push your lips out into a fake pout “maybe you can make it up to me”

Hazels eyebrows furrow as she brushes some hair from your face “What do you need?”

There’s her sweet oblivious Hazel, it’s comforting to know she hadn’t totally changed.

You’re about to respond when you feel acid in your throat. With a panicked gasp, you shove Hazel out of the way and rush to the bathroom, your hand clamped over your mouth as you desperately try to contain the rising bile.

As you reach the toilet, your stomach lurches, and you double over, emptying its contents into the bowl Through the haze of nausea, you vaguely register P.J’s concerned voice, asking if you're okay.

Obviously fucking not.

As the worst of the nausea passes, you lean back against the bathroom wall, feeling drained and shaky. Isabel grabs all of your belongings and drags you up from the floor as she takes you home.

——————————————

As you’re curled up in bed about to drift off to sleep your phone pings and you groan.

You swear to god if it’s Annie sending another fucking puking gif you will take her church shoe and shove it so far up her ass.

As you flip your phone over you see that instead of a lewd gif, it’s a message from Hazel.

“I hope you’re doing okay, i’ll bring over some soup tomorrow :)”

You can’t help the smile that spread across your face as you drift off into a peaceful sleep.

Until you got another ping.

This time it was from an unknown number which was odd because you swore you’ve blocked all the scammers.

In the message is a singular photo. a photo containing a petite red head pressed up against hazel, and as she zooms in she realizes their lips are interlocked.

stupid fucking stupid is the only thing you could think of.

With a heavy sigh, you block the number before sending hazel a message and tossing your phone across the room, burying your face in your pillow falling asleep with a tear streaked face.

“don’t bother. i’m fine.”

[thelostprincess-ru]

''And yet, what is held up as the ideal of physical womanhood today — the perky full breasts, tiny waist, perfectly rounded behind, large eyes, tiny nose, full lips, thick hair, and smooth skin —  are the attributes of a teenager.

...I sold calendars with my mostly unclothed body to men who were old enough to be my father, when I was just growing into that exposed body. I didn’t know any better. What teenager does? I was a part of a well-​­oiled machine set in motion long ago. As a child, I didn’t question the rules. Now, as a woman in her fifties...I’ve come to find out I’m still supposed to look like the girl who doesn’t know what a penis is.

The danger isn’t just in setting up that impossible beauty standard. It’s in what that standard represents and demands of women. Which is that we not only look like girls, but act like them too. If the ideal woman is seventeen, then the ideal woman is naive, malleable, inexperienced, and undiscerning. The ideal woman is not a woman. She’s a girl.'' -Excerpt from Paulina Porizkova's memoir, No Filter, lamenting on her years spent as a supermodel and what it taught her of the girlhood-womanhood experience

[hpowellsmith]

March Reading

I read a lot of books this month, and had great luck with how much I enjoyed them! Favourites are bolded.

Brute: Stories of Dark Desire, Masculinity & Rough Trade - ed. Steve Berman

A collection of dark erotica stories about queer men: a variety of horror, thriller, and character studies. Some didn't entirely land for me as they were just a bit too gruesome for me to entirely enjoy, but I did love 'Dark, Firm, and Dry' by Rien Gray, 'Dick Pig' by Ian Muneshwar, and 'The Boy Who Went Forth To Learn What Fear Was by LC Von Hessen'; 'Suitcase Sam' by Tom Cardamone was horrific enough to disturb me afterwards. There were a few trans guy protagonists but amid a lot of lovingly-described gigantic cis men, trans men didn't get described as objects of desire; it made me realise how much I'd like to read more erotica or steamy romance where a trans man is written in the lavish/idealised/thirsty way a lot of the cis men were in this collection. It was also interesting that most of the protagonists were strongly submissive; it's sparked off a lot of offline conversations about erotic fiction and depictions of kink therein, and my own thoughts about how I write erotic scenes (though I don't consider what I write intensely kinky). I'd enjoy writing more about this subject but I'm not sure Tumblr is the place for it; maybe a blogpost one day?

Love Kills Twice - Rien Gray

I adored this high-heat F/NBi romantic suspense book. The characters were hot and appealing, with a lot of substance and groundedness to them along with it. The plot was tight and I devoured the whole thing at top speed. Much recommended!

The Salt Path - Raynor Winn

A memoir about a fifty-year-old farmer and her husband who became homeless and walked England's South West Coast Path. Powerful and evocative in places: I enjoyed it, though some of the descriptions and dialogue of the people encountered melted into one another a bit. I'm realising that I rather like these people-hit-rock-bottom-and-walk-in-the-wilderness-about-it books. They always inspire me to look outward and get outdoors, albeit in a lower-key way.

The Eye in the Door - Pat Barker (reread)

This was quite nostalgic for me, because I read it a long time ago (before the first in the series, actually). I like elements of it more than Regeneration - getting to know Billy Prior better, the city scenes, depiction of queerness and homophobia beyond what Siegfried Sassoon talks about in Regeneration, some of the socialist politics and class consciousness - but the main plot hadn't fully stuck with me. I think I see why: there are several long sequences that I found hard to focus on, and some of it is a bit strange, veering into depictions of multiple-personality-disorder that have been pretty debunked nowadays. Still, I enjoyed revisiting it. The sense that William Rivers is on the verge of breakdown feels palpable and gripping.

Love Bleeds Deep - Rien Gray

Justine and Campbell are on a not-so-idyllic not-exactly-honeymoon in France, growing accustomed to life together and the combination of enjoying a private life and Campbell's deadly occupation. This doesn't shy away from the psychological damage both leads have suffered, while also showing exactly how much they mean to each other. Again I loved it just as much as the first one.

Love Burns Bright - Rien Gray

So many romance books focus on the sexy getting-together part, and sequels don't always keep the spark going. But this series is so good for that and for keeping the emotional connections between the gorgeous characters. In this one, we meet Justine's family, which is already fraught as Justine wasn't in a position to be in touch with them for a long time - but things soon get complicated. I loved it.

A Love So Dark - Rien Gray

Such a good finale for an amazing dark queer romance series! The relationship between Justine and Campbell is beautifully drawn and as hot as ever - no weird misunderstandings or other relationship-drama nonsense - but their situation is anything but settled as some consequences from earlier books come back to haunt them. What a fantastic series this is! Some of the books I've read about nonbinary characters treat them as learning opportunities, or as nice best friends, or as a vehicle for positive rep, and I can't tell you how refreshing it is to see a fully-formed, hot, flawed, adult nonbinary character making their way through excellent thriller plots. I love Campbell and Justine and I'm sorry to see them go, but it was an amazing ride with them.

Valerin the Fair - Rien Gray

A beautifully-written fantasy novella, the first in the Out of True series about sapphic knights. The details are so lovely - they remind me of what I loved about the prose style in Spear by Nicola Griffith - and the intimate scenes are stunning. You can download this for free, so if this sounds like your cup of tea, do give it a look!

[mask131]

The book of all books

If you are an avid reader, if you are a book lover, if you are a recurrent visitor of libraries and bookshops, if you are a collector of rare books, or if you are a fan of the hilarious literary comic strips of @myjetpack​ , this book is for you and I cannot advise you enough to try to read it at least once.

“The City of Dreaming Books”. A wonderful, hilarious, fascinating, bizarre fantasy adventure created by famous German author and illustrator Walter Moers. I read it in French, but an English translation exists - and you, lucky English-speakers, can even read the sequel to this wonderful novel, “The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books”, which is currently unavailable to non-German speaking Frenchies like me. Of course, if you can read German, I also suggest you try to enjoy these marvelous tomes in their original language - but even if you do not understand the text the bizarre, crazy, demented but deeply charming and hypnotizing illustrations of Moers are enough to plunge you into a twisted, inventive, genius world of puns, obsessions, beauties and treacheries. 

What is the story of “The City of Dreaming Books”? It is quite simple. They are the memoirs of an elderly lindworm scholar, Optimus Yarnspinner, retelling the greatest adventure he lived in his youth (I am using the English translations for the names - given everything is a pun in this world, the names change from language to language - in French it is Hildegunst Taillemythes, Hildegunst Myth-carver, and in German Hildegunst von Mythenmetz). As a young dinosaur-man of barely 77 years, Optimus is an avid bibliophile and aspiring author, who, on the death-bed of his mentor, inherits a manuscript. Not any manuscript: the manuscript of the best novel ever written in the history of the fantasy world of Zamonia. Reading this breaks you soul, makes you feel every emotions in the most intense way possible, and leaves you a forever changed being. 

This discovery prompts Optimus to search for the mysterious author of this manuscript - a brilliant young man that was last seen decades and decades ago, trying to have his novel published, in a town called Bookholm, where Optimus goes to investigate. Begins a exploration and investigation tale in this grand city at the center of the book industry, a quest of unnerving discoveries, hilarious encounters, heart-breaking tragedies, goofy plot twists and sordid crimes, in the beating heart of the literary arts - in the City of Dreaming Books, where reading can kill, and authors can become gods... or devils. 

The most intense pleasure brought by this novel is the universe of the titular City, the fabulous, fantastical, mind-blowing creation of Bookholm (Bouquinbourg in French, Buchhaim in German), a fantasy city that is all about books. Five hundred second hands bookshops, a million or so semi-legal book shops, with six hundred different publishing houses, fifty-five printing businesses and twelve paper factories. It is the city where all young authors go to get published, where all famous authors go to be recognized, praised and criticized, where all old authors go to die. All the books of history passed at one point by this wonderful city, where all the shops are centered around reading.

The opticians only give prescriptions for the best reading-glasses. All the alcohol and drugs sold are designe to enhance the reading experience. The pastries are shaped like books, the wood-carvers specialize in building bookshelves and book-holders, every pub has a public reading instead of an happy hour, and there are entire shops merely selling bookmarks. Linguists work in laboratories, dissecting words like animals, and book-binders are this city’s equivalent of trained surgeons. Scientists of Bookholm even go as far as to practice their psychological or biological projects in relation to literature - such as how one species’ literature was influenced by their biology, or the reverse. There are no big sports match - but rhyming competitions in literary salons. And the firemen are excepted to save the books first, the people afterward. 

The other great charm of this novel being the whimsical, medieval bestiary-like, borderline-surrealist fantasy world it takes place in. Zamonia is a recurring setting of Moers, who wrote other fantasy books taking place in this “time of myths and legends” supposedly taking place millenias and millenias before the history of the world as we know it today - when there was more continents than today, and when mankind was but a planetary minority believed to be more legend than reality. In this book every character is unique, ranging from talking animals, humanoid reptiles, yetis and giant worms to extremely alien and cartoonesque species that could be coming out of a UFO. Being familiar with the Germanic European folklore can help, since many mythological and fairytale creatures can be found back in those pages (the very protagonist is a lindworm, and in other places German bogeymen such as the rye-wolves can be encountered). All of course, with the unique and strangely superb illustrations of Moers, of which I offer you a quick sample. 

But let’s return to the books! Because this book is about books, all books, and literature, and book-selling, and the love and hate of books. Everything is described with such lavish details and such an imaginative mind - it is the most book-loving fantasy work I have ever read. And it is not without its dark side... Because in this world, there are demonology books, and cursed books, and trap-books designed to kill those that open them, and poisoned pages straight out of “The Name of the Rose”, and obscure literary-alchemists practicing strange editing experiences in the depths of the night, summoning golems of paper and demons of inks... And many of these forbidden and dangerous books are locked up in the catacombs below the city, a gigantic and ancient labyrinth that is regularly visited by the Book-Hunters, terrifying and deadly warriors trained to survive the treacherous paths and many deadly traps of the catacombs, so talented in their quest for books they can identify the nature of a tome merely by its smell. 

Because the catacombs of Bookholm are filled with some of the most precious treasures one can imagine. Books of times so ancient they are forgotten ; first editions thought to be lost to the world ; manuscripts that never saw the printing press ; prints with typos so rare they become worth a lot of money... These are precious treasures for a city where dubious dwarfs sell the blood of authors under their coat, and where the finest and most renowned book-shops sell books the same way high-class, luxury-brand clothes sell their products. 

And even beyond books, Moers keeps sliding here and there absolutely fantastic little stories, fleshing out the world - ghost legends and fairytales and imaginary geography - to keep us entertained while our sympathetic but also very unfit for adventure (he is a young author after all) has to make his way throughout scheming critics, bloodthirsty book-hunters, excentric dragon-witches, toasts of bees, haunted wines and criminal book-collectors.

And all that I describe... IS BUT THE FIRST PART OF THE BOOK!

I do not dare say more of it, out of fear of spoiling the surprise for you - but if you are a bibliophile, go check this beautiful novel. Let yourself sink in a world where books are law, justice, art, food, drugs and life, let yourself sink into a fantasy adventure with an ordinary bibliophile and aspiring author as a hero for once, and fall deep, deep into the depths of the labyrinthine catacombs of the books that dream but never die... 

[nordleuchten]

La Fayette's eye colour

A while ago I stumbled over this post where different passages from secondary sources were compiled in order to determine La Fayette’s physical appearance. These different books quote him as having blue, brown or green eyes of varying shades. Since three different eye colours is a bit much for one person and since I rather confidentially answered a question about La Fayette’s eye colour in the past, I thought it worthwhile to revisit the topic.

I had based my original answer on the existing portraits painted of La Fayette. In portraits taken from life (or portraits that were direct copies of portraits taken from life) we see him with distinctively brown eyes.

I hope we all can see why I thought brown eyes were the forgone answer to the question. But it appears that I was wrong. This time I also turned to the memoirs of Jules Germain Cloquet, La Fayette’s close friend and family physician. He wrote:

His head was large; his face oval and regular; his forehead lofty and open; his eyes, which were full of goodness and meaning, were large and prominent, of a greyish blue, and surmounted with light and well-arched, but not bushy eyebrows.

Jules Germain Cloquet, Recollections of the Private Life of General Lafayette, Baldwin and Cradock, London, 1835, p. 8.

We see that Cloquet was certain that La Fayette’s eyes were not brown but blue. But there is more. Here is the excerpt of a passport given to La Fayette on April 20, 1822:

Daniels, M. F. (1972). The Lafayette Collection at Cornell. The Quarterly Journal of the Library of Congress, 29(2), 95–137. http://www.jstor.org/stable/29781504 (05/02/2023).

I think there is rather little evidence to back the claim that La Fayette had green eyes. While I feel more inclined to believe the written sources, I am also confused as to why so many artists, over the span of roughly fifty years, painted La Fayette with brown eyes. I do know that the lighting and the angle can have a huge impact at the colour you perceive … but still?

Unknown title [La Fayette as a teenager], by unknown artist, 1773 or earlier

Unknown title [Portrait of La Fayette on the occasion of his wedding], by unknown artist, 1773/1774

Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette, en uniforme de l'armée continentale by Charles Wilson Peale, 1779

Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert Motier, Marquis De Lafayette by Charles Wilson Peale, 1779/1780

Washington, Lafayette & Tilghman at Yorktown by Charles Wilson Peale, 1784

Marquis de Lafayette by Ary Scheffer, 1822

Portrait of Lafayette by Ary Scheffer, 1823

Marquis de Lafayette by Samuel Finley Breese Morse, 1825

Portrait of Marquis de Lafayette by Samuel Finley Breese Morse, 1826

Portrait of Lafayette as an old man by Louise-Adéone Drölling, 1830

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"[Once in solitary confinement] you start thinking about what to do now. A false sense of energy and hope seizes hold of you. Wasn't it my friend Laurie who devised about fifty different things you can do in a cell to keep your mind occupied? I can only remember two of them. [I could do] exercises. ... but it doesn't keep you going for long. Oh then, there's the Bible. Why not make up your mind to start reading it from beginning to end? Or make a study of one book? The book of Job? The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. But Job wasn't in solitary confinement. Good God, he wasn't even in prison, the lucky soandso.

You start reading, but you find you can't concentrate. Your mind wanders away to the people outside. I suppose the V.J. [Visiting Judge, who ordered punishments like solitary confinement] is looking forward to sitting down to a nice lunch. Meat and white bread and pastry, I'll bet. I hope it ties knots in his guts. Jesus Maria. How did you ever let yourself get in this position? And you make a resolution then. Never again. If it ever looks that you might get arrested, rather shoot your way out. They took you away, the police did, and locked you up. And now the screws have done it again. Take him away and lock him up. Theme song of all authority for 1,900 years. And getting worse now. Take the derelict away and lock him up.

Outside, in the world which you left behind you ages ago, there are people actually walking about the streets wondering what they'll have for lunch, worrying about some silly business problem, thinking what a time they're going to have that night with some girl. Girls, my God. While you squat here, like some bloody animal in the half-dark.

Or in the country. Actually in the country near birds and trees. Grumbling about having to milk cows. It's almost unbelievable. They ought to throw their arms round the cows' necks and hug them for the privilege of being free to milk them. Of being free to touch them. Of being free.

I'm so tied to my farm, writes one cow-cocky in the paper, that the only difference between it and a concentration camp is the height of the boundary fence.

You damn fool, you crazy bastard, you lying hound. You can go out and eat grass, can't you? You can drink the milk, you can get down on your knees and suck the cow's teats? You can do anything, you fool, you're FREE.

Try sitting in a cell in semi-darkness reading the Book of Job on an empty stomach. Try praying to God for the minutes to go, just a little quicker. Try having the smell of your own pisspot in your nostrils night and day. Try waiting through interminable hours for night to come so as you can steal a little enjoyment from a smoke as thin as the lead in a lead pencil; hoping to God a screw won't pass by and smell you out. Try being a derelict in solitary confinement. Try getting into such a degraded state that a bit of cheese, shoved under the door by a friendly cleaner, seems like one of the miracles of Christ. Try those things just once. Then get down on your knees again, but instead of sucking teats, thank God you're alive and on the right side of the walls."

- Ian Hamilton, Till Human Voices Wake Us. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1983 (first published by private subscription, 1953). p. 65-66.

[I've read a lot of prison memoirs this year, with many more to come. This may be one of the best. Hamilton was a conscientious objector in New Zealand-Aotearoa during World War 2, a pessimistic socialist humanist, a playwright, and sheep farmer. This may be one of the best, just raw but well-directed anger, utter contempt for polite New Zealand settler society and for what he viewed as a growing bureaucratization and dehumanization of society. I thought this bitter anger directed at people who use metaphors of imprisonment lightly to describe minor incovencies.]

[lensandpenpress]

"The Mouths of the Mississippi"

Thursday, December 14, 1848, Hogan’s ship approached the continent. As the outflow of the Mississippi River reached the Berlin, he wrote: To a person from the British Isles, the United States, as seen at the mouths of the Mississippi, is a mockery of sublime anticipations. This is possibly my favorite sentence of all the sentences in both memoirs. Encapsulated in those five words (“a mockery of…

[bitter69uk]

“Cinderella with a husky voice”: sultry, smoky-eyed and ash blonde Lizabeth Scott (née Emma Matzo, 29 September 1922 - 31 January 2015) was born on this day 101 years ago. Possessor of “a voice that sounded as if it had been buried somewhere deep and was trying to claw its way out”, the underrated Scott was the most haunting and enigmatic of forties and fifties film noir actresses. (For many years, she was bedeviled by unfavourable comparisons to her doppelganger, the more famous Lauren Bacall). I’ve screened three of Scott’s films at the Lobotomy Room film club so far (Too Late for Tears (1949), Desert Fury (1947) and Pitfall (1948)) and it’s been gratifying to see audiences fall under her spell. I’d argue Scott is the last great “undiscovered” golden age Hollywood star (shamefully, The British Film Institute has never done a season of her films). Scott was famously reclusive in her later years, rarely granted interviews and her private life is shrouded in mystery. Author and filmmaker Todd Hughes’ 2022 memoir Lunch with Lizabeth – in which he affectionately recalls his friendship with the prickly and complicated Scott - does much to crack the enigma. Pictured: Scott in the 1951 film Two of a Kind.

[pineapple-coffee]

Unfit To Lead: Thoughts On Growing Up, Queer History, And Feeling Unprepared

A short essay, written by Elliott (@pineapple-coffee, aka me)

(As context, I am a bisexual, genderqueer/gender questioning individual. I use they/she pronouns.)

In every community, there are elders. These elders pave the pathway for the generations that come after them—creating literature, sharing stories verbally, and educating the new generations on history and culture. Elders are essential beings in all communities, and their presence cannot be understated. Without those who came before us, history is lost, and the new generations, who will one day teach others, will have nothing to go on.

So what do you do if your elders died in the AIDS epidemic of the 80s? What do you do when queer history is often so underrepresented, so rarely accessible without proper guidance? Where do you go from there?

That's not to imply that there aren't elders. I know a man online named Ian—early 20s, not quite "old"—who taught me about queer cowboy culture, both of the Old West and of the modern day. Through video essays and documentaries, I learned about the true lives of notable figures, such as Oscar Wilde and Eleanor Roosevelt, instead of their more sanitized media portrayals. Thanks to queer artists and educators on social media, I proudly display a sticker of a green carnation on my laptop, still using it as a queer signaling device even over 120 years after Wilde's death. But most of the elders that I've looked up to online have two things in common: they're younger—typically between 21 and 40—and I know them only online. Rarely in my life have I physically met a queer person over the age of fifty. Only one person immediately comes to mind.

This came to a panicky culmination a few weeks ago when I realized, "Oh, damn. I'm nearly old enough to be considered a 'queer elder.'"

This thought freaked me out. I'm a young adult. I have so much to learn. I don't have a lot of elders to teach me. I've only ever been to one Pride festival in my life. Yet, to the youngest pre-teens out there who are just coming into their identities, I might be perceived as someone older and wiser.

Let me be abundantly clear: queer rage is the most powerful emotion that I have ever experienced. My queer elders did not "fail" me or anyone else—the government did. It was the government who let my queer siblings die slowly, whilst they did nothing but spit in the faces of the queer community and take the chance to spread their visceral hatred. Every day, I am filled with rage that generations of queer people have been ripped away due to the neglect of the government. I mourn the artists, musicians, partners, siblings, and activists who passed away. Every single AIDS victim deserves to tell their stories.

In my melancholy, I turned to the Internet. And through the Internet blogs, decades-old archives, and unsanitized history books, I found community.

I am thankful. I am grateful to those who archive gay and trans magazines, newsletters, zines, and adult magazines. I am grateful to those who survived, who share their stories about queer culture in memoirs and blog posts. I am grateful to those who keep history documented and make detailed accounts of each subculture and pivotal moment. I am thankful for those who create queer and trans sex education, relationship advice blogs, and provide information for trans people who want to physically transition. I am grateful to the AIDS Memorial for keeping memories alive. I am thankful for queer lawyers who debunk the nitty gritty details of anti-queer and anti-trans legislation so that everyone can understand the letter of the law.

I’ve learned about the culture of gay and lesbian bars. I learned about the Hanky Code, Hays Code, and Flower Codes. I learned about pre-Internet queer dating, the ways that people lived, and the subcultures that exist within queer communities. I learned about the brave trans women of color who gave us our rights through protests and riots. I learned, and I learned, and I learned. And at some point during my learning, I found myself with tears streaming down my face.

Never before had I learned the other side of history. The sides that include the radical activism via art and music, subcultures full of passionate people who yearn to share their craft, and the history that wasn’t touched by the mainstream.

I may feel unprepared to lead future generations, but the communities I have found have filled me with nothing short of euphoria. I feel proud to say that I’m queer, that I’m a fag, that I will be the elder one day. I display my Keith Haring merchandise with glee, sing Freddie Mercury’s songs at the top of my lungs, and abide by the motto that a day without lesbians really is a day without sunshine.

And in the times of uncertainty, perhaps community is the drive we all need. Whether you’re young, old, or somewhere in between, the queer community is always there to rally behind you.

Maybe being the next generation to lead others won’t be so scary after all.

[theresawritesstuff]

9

Something in the way she moves - James Taylor

And I feel fine anytime she's around me now

She's around me now

Almost all the time

And if I'm well you can tell she's been with me now

She's been with me now quite a long, long time

And I feel fine

October 2015

Stephen Colbert tapped his notecards against the desk as the cameras came back from commercial. "Hey everyone, welcome back to The Late Show. My first guess tonight is a Grammy and Pulitzer prize winning activist and a living legend in the comedy world. Please welcome… Lenny Bruce!"

The band struck up a jaunty take on an old jazz standard as Lenny shuffled out onto the stage to a standing ovation.

The older comedian looked around, waving to the balcony as if to say Aw shucks, knock it off, before making his way up the small steps to his seat.

He settled in with a grateful nod to the crowd before turning to his host. "I like what you've done with the place."

"Thank you very much," Stephen replied. "You'd been here before on the old set a few times back in the day."

"A few," Lenny chuckled, taking a sip of his water.

"So Lenny, can I call you Lenny?"

"Sure. I've learned to respond to it."

The audience chuckled at his underplayed shrug.

Colbert covered a smile before continuing, "Lenny, I want to talk about your latest memoir in just a moment, but before we get to that I want to wish you a happy early birthday."

"Oh, well thank you very much."

"You're going to be ninety next week!" his host stated, clearly impressed.

Lenny smiled. "So they keep telling me."

"How do you feel?"

Another shrug to the crowd. "I feel fine."

"You look good," Colbert offered kindly. "Very spry for a man of your age."

"Why thank you. So are you."

Colbert broke a bit with that along with the crowd.

Recovering,  he said, "You've lived a rather impressive life Lenny. If you don't mind my asking…What's your secret to longevity?"

"My wife," Lenny answered almost immediately. "Now she's spry for a man of her age!"

He smiled as the crowd laughed, continuing, "Honestly I can't take much credit. She keeps me young. I hate to think where I would have ended up without her."

Colbert acknowledged the audience briefly, "For those who might not be aware, you're famously married to the very funny and talented Midge Maisel."

The mention of his wife was met with applause, much to his satisfaction.

"Yes I am," he confirmed. "She'll be happy to hear you said she was funny first. When she first started out as a comic, you know women weren't allowed to be funny. They still were of course, but they never got enough credit for it. A lot of the old boys couldn't handle the idea. So it's a sticking point with her. She even wrote it into our vows that I never forget she's funny, as if I ever could."

"How long have you two been married?" Colbert asked.

"We just celebrated fifty three years."

Another round of applause from the audience.

His host's eyes grew wide. "Fifty three! Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"Forget turning ninety. Tell us your secrets to a happy marriage!"

"Maybe when the cameras turn off. I don't think the censors would appreciate my answer."

Colbert smirked at Lenny's coy response. "That dirty, huh?"

"Well…" Lenny shrugged innocently, earning a smattering of cheers and wolf whistles from the crowd.

He grinned a little sheepishly at his host.

"I'm sorry. I promise I will give you a straight answer or two in the time I'm here. You've been very kind having an old timer like me on. It's an old reflex you know, to deflect with a joke."

"We're very glad to have you," Colbert assured him.

"Thank you." Lenny gave the question some genuine thought. "I think the secret, if there is one really, is that Midge and I enjoy each other's company. We always have. And we're always the other's strongest supporter. Now, when we first met we were both in a bit of a dark place. Back of a cop car to be specific."

The audience chuckled at his quip.

Colbert nodded intently. "I remember reading that in her book a few years ago."

"That was a good one, wasn't it?" Lenny beamed proudly, thinking back. "I still remember that nightgown...She must have really gone for my smooth opener of hey because she bailed me out the next morning. Then I returned the favor a few days later– we were a couple of rabble-rousers back in our day– and we sort of just hit it off after that. It was a few years before we got together but I was pretty gone for her from the beginning. She offered me her umbrella once when I was caught in a proverbial *censor* storm. I talk about it a little in the book. I remember it was this small moment of unconditional kindness. She didn't think much of it at the time but that was it for me. She's always had a way of quietly bringing me out of the dark like that."

He chuckled self deprecatingly. "I've been known to be a bit of a cantankerous sort, especially in my younger days, but my buddies could always tell when I'd been around Midge. I smiled more I guess."

Colbert smiled, genuinely touched. "That's very sweet."

"Some say I've mellowed a bit as I've gotten older. I think it's just that Midge has been with me pretty regularly now for quite a long, long time. Turns out having someone who loves you around is good for your health."

"Is she here today? We could bring her out," his host suggested.

Lenny smirked, covering a laugh with his finger. "You'd get even fewer serious answers from this interview, Stephen."

Colbert shrugged. "Yeah but I'm a fan so it'd be fun for me."

Lenny grinned. "As much as she'd love to take this interview even more off the rails, she's next door having fun with the founding fathers fan club outside. What's it called? Ham for Ham?"

Colbert nodded. "That sounds right. They're doing a Hamilton lottery event. Ten bucks for a chance at front row seats."

"Oh that's nice! I like that. Give the average Joe a shot at the jewelry seats." Lenny nodded approvingly. "We'll be coming home with at least twelve more full grown adopted grandchildren by the time she's done, just so you know."

Colbert laughed. "And how many do you two already have?"

"Of our own? Let's see…" Lenny took a moment to count. "Four kids between the sum of our marriages, ten grandkids of a discernible blood relation, and our first great grandchild on the way. She's always mentoring the younger set though. That's another big thing with Midge. Giving a hand up to the next generation. Kenan Thompson calls me Zeyde Lenny, you know."

"I did not," Colbert chuckled.

Lenny nodded. "Takes great pleasure in it. Mixes it up with different voices. I'll come down from my office and hear Zeyde Lenny! at least once or twice a month. He and Midge really hit it off when she hosted SNL. He's a good egg. Funny kid."

"That's fantastic."

Colbert tapped his note card, turning to the audience. "Well folks, I'm getting the signal that we need to go to commercial. Please stick around for more Lenny Bruce as we discuss his latest memoir To is a Preposition, Love is a Verb. We'll be right back."

[totheidiot]

oh my god. i had the most profound experience that feels like it's from some lit-fic novel??

this happened two days ago and it was the day the report cards would be published. it wouldn't really matter for me; I am literally moving to another country come january and i will definitely not be sticking around for the next school year. i could fail if i wanted to and nothing would happen to me. i didn't fail, but I did very bad. was twenty-seventh in class out of fourty-seven people. I was eighteenth the previous year. so, yeah. downgrade.

my head teacher – he's our math teacher, he's been our head teacher for two years and i am pretty sure he's the first teacher who cared about me enough to actually remember my name – gives me a very disappointed look. "you did horrible this year," he tells me and I nod, but it still hurts to let him down, i suppose.

now, i ask if I can see my answer scripts because i was absent that day. he lets me and i go to the teacher's study. i take the graded paper of my math and science exam and check it. that's when the teacher comes as i was taking so long. he looks at me and then, at the paper, shaking his head. "fifty percent," he says as he points at my math paper. "what went wrong?"

i don't answer him, the real reason was probably because I was so sad because i was leaving everyone i loved but that's a stupid thing. he goes on. "and you're best friends with melody*. all your friends are bad kids and academic derelicts. your only fault is the bad company you keep."

that took me so off guard because I have always thought that the only interesting thing about me, the only thing worth keeping me around was my friends. I am not an interesting person at all, and they were the only part of me that I can wholeheartedly love. my silly little gay friend group, people who have never passed every exam, mental healths are questionable, but it was the best thing about me.

i don't know. if i ever wrote a memoir, this is a scene i know I will have to include because it's just a perfect demonstration of what people think of me vs what i think of myself. and it just means that my teacher is one of the many many many people I have let down.

[protoslacker]

Libraries are essential.

I saw a Tweet commemorating the one time that Martin Luther King, Jr. met Malcolm X fifty-nine years ago. Both had attended the Senate debate on The Civil Rights Act of 1964. Accompanying the Tweet is a photo. It's an iconic photo of the men shaking hands, but I hadn't seen it in color before. I don't know if has been colorized.

What I love very much about the photo is that Martin Luther King and Malcolm X are both smiling broadly. I have sometimes looked for photographs of them smiling, as such photos remind me of their humanity.

I hesitated to do a screenshot of the Tweet to post here because surely the photo is under copyright. Looking for whose to credit the picture  wasn't as straightforward as it should have been. I managed to discover that the photo was taken by Marion Trikosko. I clicked on a bio of Trikosko on a U.S. Department of State Web page, but the use of pronouns in the article for Marion Trikosko was inconsistent. I wanted to find out if Marion was a woman. The answer turns out to be, no, but I was glad to look some more.

He wrote book published in 2006, Trouping with Dante, Travels with Dante's Sim Sala Bim in the Golden Age of Big Illusion Shows : a True Account of My Magic Journey, a memoir of his working for Dante's show for a couple of years in the 1940s.  

Triskosko was one of the photojournalists who reported on the Civil Rights struggle. And one way that ordinary people can discover his work is that many photographs are housed in The Library of Congress. Including a photograph which was part of the sequence of photos Marion Trikosko took of Martin and Malcolm's meeting.

Public libraries are such essential institutions. Photojournalists working today are no less brave than phtojournalists working in the past. I am not sure that many have the same leeway to put some of their work into  libraries. Nowadays it seems publishers hate libraries. Public support for libraies is more important now than ever.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Last spring, when his daughters were teen-agers, Wiman became so sick that he could barely get out of bed. He was accepted into an experimental trial and became one of the first people with Waldenström’s to undergo chimeric-antigen-receptor T-cell therapy, or car-T. The treatment involves intravenous drips of the patient’s own T cells, reëngineered in a laboratory to bind with specific antigens on the surface of the patient’s cancer cells. “I don’t think anyone thought it would work,” Wiman’s friend the novelist Naeem Murr told me. The drip, Murr said, “looks like nothing, a thimble of clear nothing. But it worked, he went into a complete remission. It was miraculous.”

Although Wiman is among the most distinguished Christian writers of his generation, he is uncomfortable with the word “miracle.” But he doesn’t have an alternative description for what happened last Easter or after any of the other treatments that have kept him alive for the past nineteen years. In his new book, “Zero at the Bone,” he writes, “I had—have—cancer. I have been living with it—dying with it—for so long now that it bores me, or baffles me, or drives me into the furthest crannies of literature and theology in search of something that will both speak and spare my own pain. Were it not for my daughters I think by this point I would be at peace with any outcome, which is, I have come to believe, one reason—the least reason, but still—why they are here.”

“Zero at the Bone” takes its title from Emily Dickinson, but its subtitle is a surprising salvo for a poet: “Fifty Entries Against Despair.” The book has fifty short chapters, plus two naughts—one at the start and another at the end, each labelled “Zero”—for a total of fifty-two, like the weeks in a year or the playing cards in a deck. The entries come in varying shapes and sizes. One begins with autobiography and ends with one of Wiman’s poems, another starts with a meditation on Wallace Stevens and closes with Teresa of Ávila. Some are single poems; others, commonplace collections of excerpts from the likes of the Swiss theologian Karl Barth’s “The Word of God and the Word of Man” and the Hungarian writer Imre Kertész’s “Kaddish for an Unborn Child.”

Like nearly everything Wiman has written, the entries in “Zero at the Bone” circle or depart from or come back to his faith. Raised a charismatic evangelical, he went to church three times a week in his childhood, abandoned Christianity in his twenties, then returned to religion around the time of his diagnosis—although it was his marriage, he says, not cancer, that brought him back to God. Still, like the writings of so many of the suffering saints Wiman admires, his work seems inextricable from the death he has so far escaped. He is fifty-seven now, and he worried that he might die before “Zero at the Bone” was published, until the latest experimental treatment saved his life once again. Now he hopes that his experimental book—part poetry anthology, part memoir, part theological treatise—can help others live.

[...}

It seems to have worked: it’s difficult to square Wiman’s history of aggression and dysfunction with the man he is today. Still, he retains some of the intensity of his youth, especially in his sky-blue eyes, which he sometimes closes to think. His childhood wasn’t all violence, he feels the need to say—there was beauty, too. The beauty of language; dialects he pocketed like coins, then spent in poems about home like “Five Houses Down,” with a neighborhood junk collector whose “barklike earthquake curses / were not curses, for he could goddam / a slipped wrench and shitfuck a stuck latch.” And the beauty of mesquite trees, tumbleweeds, and dust devils, the last of which he re-creates in a narrow wisp of a poem:

of flourishing vanishing

wherein to live is to move

cohesion illusion

wild untouchable toy called by a boy

God’s top