Easy to see that naught save sorrow could bring a man to such a view of things. And yet a sorrow for which there can be no help is no sorrow. It is some dark sister traveling in sorrow's clothing.

I also read Day of Tears by Julius Lester and had issues with that too. Thing is...
it's special because it's a novel told in dialogue and jumping back and forth with time, so effort deserves commendation, but the main problem I have with it is repetition - the story line and language of the novel seems already-written, like a pale imitation of William Faulkner or Cormac McCarthy. The metaphor of rain was lovely but dished out one time too many - really. First time, it was lovely (rain as 'hard as sorrow,' 'God's tears, etc.') but after a while it stuck to the reader too much. And in the bad way. I do not mean the story was not well built, but I do think it could have been more special, written with thicker language, and its message not too 'obvious' to make it a deeper piece of writing. Especially when the grandmother speaks of the school report - that was unnecessary. Could have been tucked away like a treasure expected. This would enhance the message, which is terribly important. So in all, this novel had a few gems but they could have cooperated better as a whole. For better connections with the slave trade horrors, go read Chains, I've heard it's quite good.

Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.

Midway through annotating first batch of quotes! Currently working my way through
The Black Keys' Brothers album. Think I lost my slip of paper with all important page numbers in The Crossing and Cities of the Plain. Anyway, after those, I read The Chrysalids by John Wyndham. Plot is okay - character development way flawed - the characters seem built for something they wouldn't do, based on their original description, which is very disappointing. Yes, easy to read and Wyndham was commended for that but really, plot was missing major chunks of quality quote-grinding or bed-rock basing. It could have been a richer, better book in general. Plot is there but it needs gap filling. You cannot write a book and insert an 'oh by the way' along the way to make up for a lost comment. Because then what it leads up to becomes too obvious. No hidden literature anecdotes and nothing to dig for. Just everything with potential of digging strewn on the surface. Sad to say that most of the nice language was taken from quoting the Bible, presumably. The idea of the story was fine as well, so it really is a small shame. So, I'm calling this book a hopeful disappointment - maybe a play or movie could turn it into something more entertaining. Should be commended at least for readability, though, I could zip through it comfortably.

Science Saved my Soul

Despite the horrible score I got on my science test...

This is a beautiful mix, true and lovely:

There Is No Shame In Reality from Be_T_Vo on 8tracks.

and this is a Laura Marling interview. I quite like the way she phrases her words!

http://www.spin.com/articles/laura-marling-often-thinks-about-death-and-german-water-nymphs

Today was the last day for borrowing fiction books from the library so I seized 3 just in case:

On Cats by Doris Lessing (Have been meaning to read for ages)
The Chrysalids by John Wyndham (Reminds me of Brave New World which I just finished - will maybe write a review during summer)
Day of Tears by Julius Lester (A novel in dialogue! Exciting)

On top of that, I need to collect all quotes from The Crossing and Cities of the Plain AND post about them too so be expecting all those...

Better start reading!

Finchel Forever

Super speedy post before I dash off to bed - Glee was magical!
Bawled at this:

And have this on repeat. It's better than the original! Both Cory and Lea killed it -
especially Cory.

But not this one

Somewhere in the Amazon rain forest I suppose
there is a magnificent spider - shelled like iron
fused with sun-hot magnesium - and embellished
with a soft fur of cyan blue, sunset red and fiery
orange. Such a beast exists and its eight razor limbs
jail a helpless prey twisted into this path by
some anonymous fate as black and blind as itself.
An attempt for fleeing is only a second-long illusion
before the forefront pincers have stabbed the
senseless ant silent. Yes, somewhere a spider has
executed this feat.

But not the one that scrabbled on my window sill
- eight flailing sticks like a broken ballerina, only
a crumb - iota - grain - modicum of withered dust.
Squashed by the howling night wind by the speed
of a car. It spun like a tumbleweed and adhered itself
to the man-made shine of a car door.


Somewhere in the Amazon rain forest I suppose
there is a magnificent spider - but not this one.