#russell hoban

[psikonauti]

Russell Hoban (American,1925-2011)

Joan Baez, 1962

Casein on board

[ultrakeencollectionbreadfan]

With Bluey going on hiatus, it got me thinking of shows that could fill the void. And then I thought to myself, why not an adaptation of this book series? It could easily be America's answer to Bluey, for a wide variety of reasons. Of course, whoever made it would have to play their cards right.

[sabinahahn]

"He was thinking what a long and wide thing time is, to have so many happenings in it.” ― Russell Hoban, Soonchild

Playing with leftovers of a recent project.

[picturebookshelf]

Best Friends for Frances

Original Edition: 1969 -- This Edition: 1994 Story: Russell Hoban -- Art: Lillian Hoban

[aaronsrpgs]

book I finished / book I started

[syndeticism]

"No," said the child. "We used to dance." "But now we walk," said the father, "And behind us an enemy walks faster."

— from The Mouse and His Child by Russell Hoban

You wouldn't believe how important these mice are to me tbh.

[intotheclash]

È tutto così difficile. E naturalmente tutti quelli che sono più grandi di me tentano di mangiarmi, ed io mi do sempre un gran da fare per mangiare tutti quelli che son più piccoli. Così non mi resta molto tempo per meditare.

Russell Hoban - Il topo e suo figlio

[thehappyscavenger]

Books Read May 2023

My Phantoms by Gwendoline Riley

I keep hearing great things about Riley who I think is way better known in the UK than in North America. I believe My Phantoms was more of a crossover hit. It’s about the narrator, a middle aged London woman, and her awkward semi-estranged relationship, especially with her mother. It reminded me a lot of My Name is Lucy Barton in that the trauma is kind of vague but there is this nostalgic sense of pain overlaying the whole thing. Really liked this.

Turtle Diary by Russell Hoban

Loved this. It’s about two middle-aged strangers in London, a lonely book seller and a lonely children’s book author, who each come to the conclusion they need to free the turtles at the London aquarium. Short and sweet and sharp. Hoban isn’t a writer I’ve heard of before this but apparently he’s pretty well know in the U.K. Will def be reading more of him.

Biography of X by Catherine Lacey

A fictional biography of the artist X written by her widow, journalist C.M. Lucca. I had some mixed thought mostly positive feelings about this one. The background is an alternate history of the U.S. imagining a world in which the South willing segregated and the North became more liberal which I found fascinating. What didn’t work for me was Lacey re-purposing some real artists quotes to build up X, an iconoclastic artist. It was a bit weird to see quites I understood used like that. Still worth a read. Also my first book of 2023 that was published in 2023. 

Friday Black by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah

LOVED THIS. A set of speculative fiction stories set in America. These are dark and often funny. I was kind of surprised I never heard of this before (I discovered this on a whats that book reddit post) and it was an NYT best seller. Totally up my alley. 

Search by Michelle Huneven

This is a fictionalized memoir supposedly written by a fictional memoirist and food critic as she joined her Universalist Unitarian’s search committee for a new minister. I thought this would be cuter than it was, about found family and oddballs but it’s something darker and more complex than that, about how groups are flawed, change is slow, and not everyone has pure intentions. Very interesting. I will be picking up more of Huneven for sure. 

An amazing month for reading choices! Possibly my best of 2023. 

[deermouth]

I gone to where Gransers head wer on the poal. His eyes wer closd his mouf wer shut. I said, 'Granser wil you tel?'

Lissening him then the words come to me: What if its you whats making all this happen? What if every thing you think of happens?

Riddley Walker, Russell Hoban

[joshcockroft2]

Linger Awhile – Russell Hoban

18.2.2024

[billlaotian]

[bennettmarko]

[monica-writing]

Juzzle, Would, Brudge

Tell me Writer, how hard do you love a good list?

Tell me Writer, how hard do you love a good list? Up the hill I went, Seeing every blade of grass and every pebble very clearly. Then I was in among the trees where the air seemed made of shadows and the spaces were all twisty. The trees were all somehow crippled-looking, wrong in their shapes. The ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen branches and all kinds of rubbish: rusty tin cans,…

[sabinahahn]

"There is," said the marzipan pig, "such sweetness in me!"

"The Marzipan Pig" by Russell Hoban is one of my favorite books. During the pandemic, @pgoedi from @communitybookstore read it and I drew it. Found it again and wanted to share it. This makes me want to draw live again. It is such a nerve racking thing and so fun!

[ochoislas]

LA CASA VACÍA

Donde el viento solitario mueve los cardos del cerro, turba el titilar yerbas que dejan el tiempo afuera, se alza muda y gris la casa donde ya no vive nadie.

Entrando por vidrios rotos toda sazón e intemperie susurra junta en los cuartos: tibios chubascos de estío pudren las hojas de otoño, comban tablones de enero

En el papel de la sala, entre alimonadas flores, queda sombra macilenta del reloj que dio las horas. Ya no señala ese espectro el tiempo donde latiera.

En los peldaños ni un paso turba el sol polvoroso, posan sombras taciturnas, cara vuelta a la pared, atentas al mudo toque del reloj que ya no está.

«¡Ya son las doce de nunca!» vibra el carillón fantasma, y las sombras pantomima mueven lento a contraluz. Pero nadie las ha visto si toca: «¡Dos de jamás!».

Ni un ojo las vio bailando sus rasos negros siniestros bajo la opacada luna, al son de muda cadencia de nunca en la madrugada.

*

THE EMPTY HOUSE Where the lone wind on the hilltop Shakes the thistles as it passes, Stirs the quiet-ticking grasses That keep time outside the door, Stands a house that’s gray and silent; No one lives there any more.

Wending through the broken windows, Every season and its weather Whisper in those rooms together: Summer’s warm and wandering rains Rot the leaves of last year’s autumn, Warp the floors that winter stains.

In a papered hall a clock-shape Dim and pale on yellowed flowers, Still remains where rang the hours Of a clock that’s lost and gone. And the fading ghost keeps no-time On the wall it lived upon.

On a stairway where no footsteps Stir the dusty sunlight burning Sit the patient shadows turning Speechless faces to the wall While they hear the silent striking Of that no-clock in the hall.

“Dawn of no-time! Noon of no-time!” Cries the phantom echo chiming, And the shadows, moving, miming, Slowly shift before the light. But no eye has seen their motion When the clock says, “No-time night!”

No eye has seen them dancing In their blackness fell and bright, To a silent tune In the dark of the moon When the clock sings no-time night.

Russell Hoban

di-versión©ochoislas

[culturevulturette]

The Sparrow Hawk 

Wings like pistols flashing at his sides,  Masked above the meadow runway rides,  Galloping, galloping with an easy rein.  Below, the field mouse, where the shadow glides,  Holds fast the small purse of his life, and hides. 

Russel Hoban