I get so very tired of having to talk about literature. I didn’t begin writing because I wanted to sit in a room and discuss the subjectivity in Wordsworth and Ashbery; I began writing because I had made friends with the dead: they had written to me, in their books, about life on earth and I wanted to write back and say yes, house, bridge, river, hair, no, maybe, never, forever. — Mary Ruefle (via Amber Sparks) (I saw it on HTML Giant)
I had to come up with a short description for reasons I’m not entirely clear on. But it feels like forward motion, so I’ll take it. Anyway, I wanted to share:
For two hundred years, the people of Nashville have kept a deadly secret—a werewolf hunts among them. No one has been able to kill it and few have been successful in fighting it. But the people who faced it left a record of their misfortunes. Their drawings, journal entries, and letters were collected into a volume called The Wolf’s Bane, a book that, because of the bad luck that befell its owners, became almost as feared as the beast itself. The book was rumored to contain a spell guaranteed to summon the Devil, to tell the actual story of why Sam Houston fled Tennessee, and to reveal the true natures of many of Nashville’s most prominent families. It was said that possessing the book was a curse just short of being the victim of the werewolf. And yet, for a chance to know Nashville’s hidden history, who wouldn’t risk opening those pages? This is that book.
Since Google Reader is going away, presumably because Google hates America and Superman and baseball and Mom and apple pie and the thrill of riding around in an old V-8 with a backseat as big as a couch, I’m switching to The Old Reader.
I hate it, on principle. Because I hate unnecessary change.
But I am attempting to get used to it.