“I stole the yellow bird …”
I stole the yellow bird
That lives in the devil’s sex
He will teach me how to seduce
Men, stags, double-winged angels,
He will remove my thirst, my clothes, my illusions,
He will sleep,
As for me, my slumber runs along the rooftops
Mumbling, waving, making violent love,
With cats.
—Translated from the French by Emilie Moorhouse
- The Power of the First Link: The quote uses the metaphor of a chain (made of iron or gold, thorns or flowers) to show that everything that follows—the good (gold/flowers) and the bad (iron/thorns)—stems from that initial, pivotal moment, linking everything together.
- This sentiment reflects the protagonist Pip's realization about how his entire life's trajectory changed after his first encounter with the eccentric Miss Havisham on a particular "memorable day," leading to his "great expectations".
We May Finish A Book, But That Book Is Never Quite Finished With Us
“My books are teachers but also companions who know more than I do, and who in the long run wish me well. I would no sooner get rid of them than I would an old friend.” - NPR
The World Is In A Reading Slump. These Podcasts Might Help
Reading is down “thanks in large part to the number of digital distractions competing for our limited attention.” Ironically, these podcasts might help fix that. - The New York Times
Mass Market Paperback Books Are Disappearing
The World’s Supply Of Frankincense Is Running Low
Like maple syrup, frankincense is harvested by tapping the sap of a tree, in this case several varieties of the Boswellia tree, which grows in the Horn of Africa. Those trees — all wild; for whatever reasons, nobody farms Boswellia — are threatened by climate change, pest infestation, local conflict, and, above all, overharvesting....
New year, new books: quite a few publications have published 'coming-in-2026' lists; see, for example:
- 12 books you need to read in 2026 at the BBC
- Books to look out for in 2026 Γ’€“ fiction at The Guardian
- The 31 Most Anticipated Books of 2026 at Oprah Daily
- PEOPLE Picks Our Most-Anticipated Books of 2026
- The 36 Most Anticipated Books of 2026 at Time
- The 58 books to look out for in 2026 at The Times
- Most anticipated books of 2026 at USA Today
- 23 Books We Can't Wait to Read in 2026 at Vulture
Eurotrash -- Christian Kracht's novel of wealth, history, and guilt
Siri Hustvedt
Weather Markings
The list of small deformities passed unrecorded
In the stupor of heredity,
Like our weather,
Clouding over the tiny barn
Where he said he saw Judas hanging
Behind the old tractor
But it was the Swensby boy in a blue and yellow plaid shirt
And no note.
He went screaming Judas into the cornfield
And couldn’t be hushed until evening.
Oh God the failure of prayers in the idiot days
Of summer behind the goldenrod,
Dusty on my hands; scattering doubts like the dandelions
Turned white and blown to seed—
More doubts and more prayers
Asking God not to hide his face:
The face of our weather, immense and old,
Covering the sky with clouds to smother the moon:
A small oval, like the small pale face of Jesus
In the blue book on the table with one unsteady leg.
Look at the sky, Marit,
Look at the bland green behind the leaves’ paralysis
In the minutes when panic is suspended
In an estranged color,
Before the cellar door is raised
And we descend into the air
Preserving canned goods,
Before the prayers in the damp on the cold concrete
And long before the rain.
Inga with a withered hand waves it over the uprooted maple
Where the swing hung for twelve years
And where we played the fields were an ocean
And the tree a ship,
Before the mosquitoes came at about nine
And we fled in to cards or stories upstairs:
Matching suits as one moth tries the screen
And flies for the bulb
A puny tremor of white over the grey mattress
Where you sat naked on a Friday that summer.
I fingered the scar on your hip in the empty house
And whispered anyway:
Our clandestine music in muggy weather
During a walk
Past the still green grapes and the clothesline
With one pair of socks and an apron;
Belated spectres of surprise in the night,
Belonging to no one, except the heat
And our tipsy inclination.
Those hours were unmartyred,
Almost unspent,
Requiring the same effort as a dream
When the scenery becomes illegible,
And I forgot the ache of familiarity in the outlines
Of the rainwater barrels and the pump
And I concentrated on the stars,
The dot to dot of the big and little dipper.
But they began to die as the storm
Gathered for the drowning.
Turn off the lights so I can’t see your face,
Hide your prints made in the mud
With your bare feet between the zinnias and the columbine
So they never reach morning,
And let me have your scent only.
When the hidden sun was just giving pink to the sky
You pressed me into a corner behind the door
And traced with your finger
The large violet birthmark on the left side of my face.
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