In O'Pinions, Off-Topic on July 16, 2014 at 11:22 pm
On July 16, 1951, J.D. Salinger published a book that just about everyone (in this country, at least) has had to read at one point or another: The Catcher in the Rye. Some people love it, and some people (maybe more people) love to hate it—but others, myself included, just shrug and say, “Yeah, it was alright.”
This is actually something of a source of contention in my house. My fiancée hates Holden Caulfield with a vigorous passion; after all, he’s whiney and spends 200+ pages doing, well, basically nothing. I, on the other hand, think the book actually has some merits (and if I ever want to lose my fiancée, all I have to do is expound upon some of those merits aloud).
So it’s at great risk to my personal life (and possibly my blog followership) that I expound upon them here, if only silently:
In Fiction on July 14, 2014 at 10:55 pm
The clouds hung low, frothed by the cold December wind. Here and there, thin patches showed the ghost of a white, unwarming sun—a corpse adrift in an inverted river. Jarvis pulled his tatters close.
“How many days to summer?” he groused. A small crowd mumbled at his passing.
“If I was homeless,” one of them remarked, “I’d go south.”
In Fiction on July 8, 2014 at 11:32 pm
Eleanor Pearl stood at the window and watched the sky grow dark. Her guests had gone and the house stood empty.
Tonight was a jumping night.
The evergreens shook their boughs and seemed to twist to face the mountain, where their brethren thinned and made room for the flat-smooth rock that rose there. Eleanor Pearl could see the climbers, first as subtle specks against the leaden stone, then stark and small against the snowy peak.
And just beside it, the moon climbed fat and full into a field of winking stars.