In a section I call authors of note, the list is admittedly subjective. I can’t help it, I’m predisposed! So, I will say a few words on my choices, but authors not on the list may creep in there, too. .Now, are you ready? Am I ready?
Vladamir Nabokov is becoming one of my favorite authors. Well, actually, he has been for awhile. He’s very easy to read, something I can appreciate. However, I enjoy challenging works, too. While I’m having trouble with Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, probably one of the reasons I haven’t picked it up lately, the book I am reading by Samuel Beckett is a pleasure. I’d say it is written in an unconventional style, but that could be an understatement. Its paragraphs, sometimes short but more often extended, the re-statement of sentences and what I think may be stream of consciousness style, are all what I like about the book. Plot, situation, and characters, recognizable objects that seem to be largely missing, are also I things I like.
Also challenging is Umberto Eco. In Island of the Day Before, I believe the island is metaphorical. Actually, I’m not sure about the entire book, which is a reason I’m having such a good time with it. The stories of Sheridan La Fanu and Edgar Allan Poe are great stories for the introduction, and maintaining, of suspense and horror. I recommend both.
Well, I didn’t cover all or the listed authors, but it’s a start. Right?
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
some authors of note
This list is according to me. I’d be interested in knowing some selections others.
Vladimir Nabokov
Umberto Eco
gabriel garcia marquez
Sheridan Le Fanu
Edgar Allen Poe
Nikolai Gogol
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Vladimir Nabokov
Umberto Eco
gabriel garcia marquez
Sheridan Le Fanu
Edgar Allen Poe
Nikolai Gogol
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Monday, January 16, 2006
Elliptical Shores
Tjis is a portion of one version of my story . . .
Elliptical Shores
Opening
The paths that led to its graves, narrow and winding, gave, for him, the cemetery its charm. As did the graves themselves – with their spare stone markers, some of which were decorated with ivy.
As he walked down one of those paths, the grave his eyes focused on brought happiness to his soul. The stone said simply,
Rebekah. She had her forever dream.
He knew someone named Rebekah once. Or thought he had.
Section One
She alighted from the carriage, and was greeted by an immediate sense of isolation. Rarified air, deep rooted and leafy trees, high but neat grass; this was why she had come here.
“It’s so beautiful here.”
“Yes,” the driver said. “Well, get back in, and I will take you the rest of the way.”
“Good,” she said, mounting the carriage. “How far?”
“Not very.”
It was more than a passing reflection , she did feel very good here. Within her sight was all that she wanted. It felt good to escape the limits of her village, so much more than she thought it would. Good to escape the often conveyed indifferences and the pettiness of its inhabitants. She felt uncomfortable with life in a community where privacy was little more than a word. The contradiction was that she did feel safe and cared for among so many who knew her.
Still, here was a place at once refreshing. Its naturalness assailed her, though she had not yet reached her destination. It was under such a spell that she again asked the driver, “How far?” and was exhilarated by his rewarding answer, “We will be upon it in moments.”
When she saw it, the shadow of the great asylum, predominant against the afternoon sky, she felt, beyond anything she thought she might have felt, her purpose, and so her soul, was shown her.
“I am,” the driver said, “as are we all, at your service.”
“Good,” she said, trying to sound as though she were not taken aback.
“Yes, it is. We’ll be served well.”
“We’ll see,” she said, forsaking further conversation for the present beauty that was hers to enjoy. Hyperbole threatened to visit her, even as the façade of the asylum, with the continued pace of the carriage, broke through the shadows. She could see its stature; such an asylum, she thought, should be imposing. For a curative atmosphere, and certainly cures were hoped for. While continuing to be impressed by the asylum’s austerity, she looked forward to be the one to offer such hope.
“We’re glad you’re with us, Miss Jenkins,” the driver said.
She smiled, but her focus on the asylum permitted no further conversation.
Standing before the asylum’s expanse, memories come easily. She was a child, and stories of lunacy were told, were believed, and were ignored. She was a girl of teenage years, her perceptions were framed and shaped by those around her. Stories of lunacy were no longer ignored but were woven into community gossip at times hurtful and cruel. She was a young woman of imagination and changing passion, stories of lunacy so much more now than the entertainments they had been. Now she was here, standing before the asylum, her freedom from perceptions formed by ignorance about to be realized. Here, she would no longer have to feel herself part of a citizenry whose care for “our unfortunates” was little more than a façade. Here, she could rejoice in letting such memories fade into the nothingness they deserved.
She regarded this as a good place, a place that ―
“Miss Jenkins.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed because of her inattentiveness.
“It is impressive, isn’t it? I’ve only achieved part of my purpose.”
She smiled, a beautiful smile. What this place needs, he thought.
“I am to introduce you to our family,” he said. “I know you will be well received.”
Guided down the well lighted halls of the asylum, the colors of the walls pleasing, she felt the informality of our family most appropriate, and was happy to tell him so. All this was somewhat surprising. She read of asylums that were stark at best and not much more than warehouses for the ill at worst. This place was refreshing; she did not want to work in one of history’s relics.
“The souls who come to stay with us,” he said, “are all here because they want to be here. We have no problems.”
“No major problems, I believe you mean?”
“Yes, I suppose you might say that.”
Do I hear annoyance? She wondered. Good, it shows I’m talking with an honest man.
“We do have our little antagonisms, but it’s like I said. We’re family here.”
“Yes. The normal annoyances of family.” God, there was that beautiful smile.
The warmth of such a fine day was but one thing that invigorated her soul. Her resoluteness in coming to this place, her desire to better herself in a place where she could find purpose, was another, and one of far greater importance. The existence of such a place she found difficult to imagine, even now while she was looking at it. It was expansive, and austere, and what she thought she needed. She had a personable man to show her the asylum. She truly felt her life was on the up-turn.
She was most interested in seeing the asylum’s family, the reason why she was here, and the one member of that family who was to be her specific charge. She looked upon the challenge of such a singular thing with just enough apprehension to elicit questions. Why should she be given such a responsibility? Was she prepared for this? And, all apprehension aside, the answers were clear; her preparedness was not in question, it was the asylum’s faith in her that was worth everything.
She was meant to be here. Nothing else was to be said. Or thought of.
Proud to be accompanying such a lovely woman down these halls of her future employment, he felt a sense of the worth he was aware he possessed but lacking on so many past occasions. The reason for this, he had no doubt, was Miss Jenkins. Her enthusiasm was indeed needed in this place, but it was the decisiveness he had seen in her countenance, that he had heard in her voice, that made her presence here indispensable.
Her employment at the asylum would be challenging. The patient she was to be charged with was, he would have to say, enigmatic. A good word, perhaps the only one that did him justice.
“You provide a good tour,” she said.
“But not a complete one. That will wait for another time.”
“Really?” He couldn’t miss the sardonic quality of the pronouncement, a bit of charm he found highly agreeable.
“Until you familiarize yourself with some of our family.”
“With one in particular?”
“Yes. With the reading of his history. The history that we know of.”
“Or that he is willing to provide?”
“Yes, we think that’s probably right.”
Was this “family member” a manipulator? It seemed to her he was being described as such, and this struck her as especially attractive. That thought, attractive; a most interesting thought. One that bothered her. Just a little.
“My name’s Rebekah,” she said. “Miss Jenkins sounds so formal.”
“And formality doesn’t become you?”
“Not right now.”
“Does that extend to our family here?”
“I’d like it to. That might take some time.”
“Time. Yes, you’ll have all you want. I trust it won’t be too much.”
“It’s time I will appreciate.”
“Good. There’s much to know.”
She wanted nothing less than to immerse herself into the life of the asylum. To appreciate the trials of those living here. To prove to herself the worth she was certain she possessed. And, of equal importance to these two, to free herself from the sameness of the community she wanted little part of.
Those around her could never she her in a role such as this. Neither could she. Things have a way of changing, and so do fortunes; this was a reflection that she both desired and needed. She smiled, and she hoped her guide saw it.
“I think, Rebekah, we should see the director now,”
“That’s not you?”
“No, and I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I was feeling rather comfortable.”
“He wants to see you.
“Why? Doesn’t he know who he’s hired?
“He wants to see who he’s hired.”
“He will tell me what I need to know?”
“Perhaps more,” he said, taking her hand, to their mutual pleasure.
The Director, Rebekah thought upon her first introduction, was an amiable man. The importance of this, she could not dismiss. It meant she could work with him, not apart from him. His smile was warming, as warming as her guide, and she wondered is everyone in this asylum so friendly?
“Can I call you Rebekah?”
“Please.”
“Sit down. There are things I would like to tell you before you start with us.”
“Which will be?”
“As soon as we finish here.”
“No time to catch a breath?”
“I don’t believe you’ll want any.
Frank J. Mueller III
Elliptical Shores
Opening
The paths that led to its graves, narrow and winding, gave, for him, the cemetery its charm. As did the graves themselves – with their spare stone markers, some of which were decorated with ivy.
As he walked down one of those paths, the grave his eyes focused on brought happiness to his soul. The stone said simply,
Rebekah. She had her forever dream.
He knew someone named Rebekah once. Or thought he had.
Section One
She alighted from the carriage, and was greeted by an immediate sense of isolation. Rarified air, deep rooted and leafy trees, high but neat grass; this was why she had come here.
“It’s so beautiful here.”
“Yes,” the driver said. “Well, get back in, and I will take you the rest of the way.”
“Good,” she said, mounting the carriage. “How far?”
“Not very.”
It was more than a passing reflection , she did feel very good here. Within her sight was all that she wanted. It felt good to escape the limits of her village, so much more than she thought it would. Good to escape the often conveyed indifferences and the pettiness of its inhabitants. She felt uncomfortable with life in a community where privacy was little more than a word. The contradiction was that she did feel safe and cared for among so many who knew her.
Still, here was a place at once refreshing. Its naturalness assailed her, though she had not yet reached her destination. It was under such a spell that she again asked the driver, “How far?” and was exhilarated by his rewarding answer, “We will be upon it in moments.”
When she saw it, the shadow of the great asylum, predominant against the afternoon sky, she felt, beyond anything she thought she might have felt, her purpose, and so her soul, was shown her.
“I am,” the driver said, “as are we all, at your service.”
“Good,” she said, trying to sound as though she were not taken aback.
“Yes, it is. We’ll be served well.”
“We’ll see,” she said, forsaking further conversation for the present beauty that was hers to enjoy. Hyperbole threatened to visit her, even as the façade of the asylum, with the continued pace of the carriage, broke through the shadows. She could see its stature; such an asylum, she thought, should be imposing. For a curative atmosphere, and certainly cures were hoped for. While continuing to be impressed by the asylum’s austerity, she looked forward to be the one to offer such hope.
“We’re glad you’re with us, Miss Jenkins,” the driver said.
She smiled, but her focus on the asylum permitted no further conversation.
Standing before the asylum’s expanse, memories come easily. She was a child, and stories of lunacy were told, were believed, and were ignored. She was a girl of teenage years, her perceptions were framed and shaped by those around her. Stories of lunacy were no longer ignored but were woven into community gossip at times hurtful and cruel. She was a young woman of imagination and changing passion, stories of lunacy so much more now than the entertainments they had been. Now she was here, standing before the asylum, her freedom from perceptions formed by ignorance about to be realized. Here, she would no longer have to feel herself part of a citizenry whose care for “our unfortunates” was little more than a façade. Here, she could rejoice in letting such memories fade into the nothingness they deserved.
She regarded this as a good place, a place that ―
“Miss Jenkins.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed because of her inattentiveness.
“It is impressive, isn’t it? I’ve only achieved part of my purpose.”
She smiled, a beautiful smile. What this place needs, he thought.
“I am to introduce you to our family,” he said. “I know you will be well received.”
Guided down the well lighted halls of the asylum, the colors of the walls pleasing, she felt the informality of our family most appropriate, and was happy to tell him so. All this was somewhat surprising. She read of asylums that were stark at best and not much more than warehouses for the ill at worst. This place was refreshing; she did not want to work in one of history’s relics.
“The souls who come to stay with us,” he said, “are all here because they want to be here. We have no problems.”
“No major problems, I believe you mean?”
“Yes, I suppose you might say that.”
Do I hear annoyance? She wondered. Good, it shows I’m talking with an honest man.
“We do have our little antagonisms, but it’s like I said. We’re family here.”
“Yes. The normal annoyances of family.” God, there was that beautiful smile.
The warmth of such a fine day was but one thing that invigorated her soul. Her resoluteness in coming to this place, her desire to better herself in a place where she could find purpose, was another, and one of far greater importance. The existence of such a place she found difficult to imagine, even now while she was looking at it. It was expansive, and austere, and what she thought she needed. She had a personable man to show her the asylum. She truly felt her life was on the up-turn.
She was most interested in seeing the asylum’s family, the reason why she was here, and the one member of that family who was to be her specific charge. She looked upon the challenge of such a singular thing with just enough apprehension to elicit questions. Why should she be given such a responsibility? Was she prepared for this? And, all apprehension aside, the answers were clear; her preparedness was not in question, it was the asylum’s faith in her that was worth everything.
She was meant to be here. Nothing else was to be said. Or thought of.
Proud to be accompanying such a lovely woman down these halls of her future employment, he felt a sense of the worth he was aware he possessed but lacking on so many past occasions. The reason for this, he had no doubt, was Miss Jenkins. Her enthusiasm was indeed needed in this place, but it was the decisiveness he had seen in her countenance, that he had heard in her voice, that made her presence here indispensable.
Her employment at the asylum would be challenging. The patient she was to be charged with was, he would have to say, enigmatic. A good word, perhaps the only one that did him justice.
“You provide a good tour,” she said.
“But not a complete one. That will wait for another time.”
“Really?” He couldn’t miss the sardonic quality of the pronouncement, a bit of charm he found highly agreeable.
“Until you familiarize yourself with some of our family.”
“With one in particular?”
“Yes. With the reading of his history. The history that we know of.”
“Or that he is willing to provide?”
“Yes, we think that’s probably right.”
Was this “family member” a manipulator? It seemed to her he was being described as such, and this struck her as especially attractive. That thought, attractive; a most interesting thought. One that bothered her. Just a little.
“My name’s Rebekah,” she said. “Miss Jenkins sounds so formal.”
“And formality doesn’t become you?”
“Not right now.”
“Does that extend to our family here?”
“I’d like it to. That might take some time.”
“Time. Yes, you’ll have all you want. I trust it won’t be too much.”
“It’s time I will appreciate.”
“Good. There’s much to know.”
She wanted nothing less than to immerse herself into the life of the asylum. To appreciate the trials of those living here. To prove to herself the worth she was certain she possessed. And, of equal importance to these two, to free herself from the sameness of the community she wanted little part of.
Those around her could never she her in a role such as this. Neither could she. Things have a way of changing, and so do fortunes; this was a reflection that she both desired and needed. She smiled, and she hoped her guide saw it.
“I think, Rebekah, we should see the director now,”
“That’s not you?”
“No, and I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I was feeling rather comfortable.”
“He wants to see you.
“Why? Doesn’t he know who he’s hired?
“He wants to see who he’s hired.”
“He will tell me what I need to know?”
“Perhaps more,” he said, taking her hand, to their mutual pleasure.
The Director, Rebekah thought upon her first introduction, was an amiable man. The importance of this, she could not dismiss. It meant she could work with him, not apart from him. His smile was warming, as warming as her guide, and she wondered is everyone in this asylum so friendly?
“Can I call you Rebekah?”
“Please.”
“Sit down. There are things I would like to tell you before you start with us.”
“Which will be?”
“As soon as we finish here.”
“No time to catch a breath?”
“I don’t believe you’ll want any.
Frank J. Mueller III
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