My cousin and I stood in line to meet President Jimmy Carter. It was Monday afternoon, July 27th, at Powell's Bookstore in Portland Oregon. I was told I couldn't see the President unless I had a book for him to sign. I bought his book, A Full Life: Reflections at Ninety, so that I could see him.
As the line slowly wound around outside and then inside the building, I texted my son the math problem: If a man signs 1500 books in two hours, how much time does each book get? Answer: 4.8 seconds. I'm not sure I got my full 4.8 seconds with President Carter, but I did snap a very blurry photo of my cousin with him. Well, he's in the background at a table busily signing books. Sill, it was a thrill!
I've always been a fan of Jimmy Carter, but reading his autobiography was interesting. Fun to hear about his childhood experiences and about his career as a nuclear engineer. But interesting to read his account of what he accomplished and tried to accomplish while in office, and have so many of those issues come up in recent news, such as comprehensive health care and renewed relationships with Cuba. I was sad to hear of his cancer diagnosis announced just last week, especially after reading about his family history of pancreatic cancer in his book.
He certainly has lead a full life.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Friday, August 7, 2015
Slaughterhouse - Five
A classic I had never read, I borrowed Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse - Five from an English teacher at my daughter's high school. Summer reading.
Not what I expected.
This easy read was all over the place, time and otherwise. It was less a war story than a human-trying-to-deal-with-living-and-dying story. I liked it.
Page 23: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.
Page 34: The gun made a ripping sound like the opening of the zipper on the fly of God Almighty.
Page 164: One of the main effects of war, after all, is that people are discouraged from being characters.
Page 169: He did not think of himself as a writer for the simple reason that the world had never allowed him to think of himself in this way.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
The Magicians
Not sure where I found this series by Lev Grossman. I read most of this on a road trip through Idaho. At first I thought I was reading a Harry Potter knockoff, but The Magicians quickly became its own unique ride. For a fantasy story of the world of magic, I found it very human. Very real-life and current.
Page 94: Standing there at the entrance to the passageway, looking around for stray vergers who might charge him with trespassing -- or worse, offer him spiritual guidance -- cars whooshing by in the street behind him, he had never felt so absolutely sure that he was delusional, that Brooklyn was the only reality there was, and that everything which had happened to him last year was just a fanboy hallucination, proof that the boredom of the real world had finally driven him totally and irreversibly out of his mind.
Page 147: "You know what I liked about being a goose?" Josh said. "Being able to crap wherever I wanted."
Page 210: No one would come right out and say it, but the worldwide magical ecology was suffering from a serious imbalance: too many magicians, not enough monsters.
Page 216: "... If there's a single lesson that life teaches us, it's that wishing doesn't make it so. ..." (Fogg)
Page 220: I got my heart's desire, he thought, and there my troubles began.
Page 228: Night after night Quentin would return home toward dawn, alone, deposited in front of his building by a solemn solitary cab like a hearse painted yellow, the street awash with blue light -- the delicate ultrasound radiance of the embryonic day.
Page 331: He'd started his little speech speaking normally and he had ended it shouting. In a way fighting like this was just like using magic. You said the words, and they altered the universe. By merely speaking you could create damage and pain, cause tears to fall, drive people away, make yourself feel better, make your life worse.
Page 94: Standing there at the entrance to the passageway, looking around for stray vergers who might charge him with trespassing -- or worse, offer him spiritual guidance -- cars whooshing by in the street behind him, he had never felt so absolutely sure that he was delusional, that Brooklyn was the only reality there was, and that everything which had happened to him last year was just a fanboy hallucination, proof that the boredom of the real world had finally driven him totally and irreversibly out of his mind.
Page 147: "You know what I liked about being a goose?" Josh said. "Being able to crap wherever I wanted."
Page 210: No one would come right out and say it, but the worldwide magical ecology was suffering from a serious imbalance: too many magicians, not enough monsters.
Page 216: "... If there's a single lesson that life teaches us, it's that wishing doesn't make it so. ..." (Fogg)
Page 220: I got my heart's desire, he thought, and there my troubles began.
Page 228: Night after night Quentin would return home toward dawn, alone, deposited in front of his building by a solemn solitary cab like a hearse painted yellow, the street awash with blue light -- the delicate ultrasound radiance of the embryonic day.
Page 331: He'd started his little speech speaking normally and he had ended it shouting. In a way fighting like this was just like using magic. You said the words, and they altered the universe. By merely speaking you could create damage and pain, cause tears to fall, drive people away, make yourself feel better, make your life worse.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
A Dance With Dragons
George R. R. Martin's A Dance with Dragons is the fifth of the series A Song of Ice and Fire.
Still enthralled. Looking forward to the next one.
Page 90: Sleep opened beneath him like a well, and he threw himself into it with a will and let the darkness eat him up.
Page 260: The Bridge of Dream, Griff had called it, but this dream was smashed and broken. Pale stone arches marched off into the fog, reaching from the Palace of Sorrow to the river's western bank. Half of them had collapsed, pulled down by the weight of the grey moss that draped them and the thick black vines that snaked upward from the water.
Page 519: Despite his bastard birth, or perhaps because of it, Jon Snow had dreamed of leading men to glory just as King Daeron had, of growing up to be a conqueror. Now he was a man grown and the Wall was his, yet all he had were doubts. He could not even seem to conquer those.
Page 581: All skulls grinned, but this one seemed happier than most.
Page 843: Every choice had its risks, every choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion.
Page 935: "Whore!" someone cried out. A woman's voice. Women were always the cruelest where other women were concerned.
Still enthralled. Looking forward to the next one.
Page 90: Sleep opened beneath him like a well, and he threw himself into it with a will and let the darkness eat him up.
Page 260: The Bridge of Dream, Griff had called it, but this dream was smashed and broken. Pale stone arches marched off into the fog, reaching from the Palace of Sorrow to the river's western bank. Half of them had collapsed, pulled down by the weight of the grey moss that draped them and the thick black vines that snaked upward from the water.
Page 519: Despite his bastard birth, or perhaps because of it, Jon Snow had dreamed of leading men to glory just as King Daeron had, of growing up to be a conqueror. Now he was a man grown and the Wall was his, yet all he had were doubts. He could not even seem to conquer those.
Page 581: All skulls grinned, but this one seemed happier than most.
Page 843: Every choice had its risks, every choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion.
Page 935: "Whore!" someone cried out. A woman's voice. Women were always the cruelest where other women were concerned.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
A Feast for Crows
Yes, I'm stuck in George R. R. Martin's A Song Of Ice and Fire series. Happily so! I'm starting to worry that I'll get the the end of book five and be left hanging. That sounds excruciating! I almost want to slowly proceed and hope book six is released sooner than later.
The fourth installment, A Feast for Crows, continues to impress. Martin so thoroughly inhabits the principal character of each chapter, I think he is the warg. There were some wonderfully satisfying developments at the end, especially around the Cersei story. I was disappointed to have this book end with so little word on Bran and John and others, but when I started reading book five, well, it was heartening. I'm also getting comfortable with a common vocabulary that includes words like jape, craven and vainglorious. It's a great ride.
Here are the (too few!) quotes I kept:
Page 286: She could not have said which she found most hurtful, the pretty girls with their waspish tongues and brittle laughter or the cold-eyed ladies who hid their disdain behind a mask of courtesy.
Page 379: The wool clung to his wet chest, drinking the brine that ran down from his hair.
Page 406: The next day the road dwindled to a pebbled thread, and finally to a mere suggestion.
Page 477: "In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them." (Petyr)
The fourth installment, A Feast for Crows, continues to impress. Martin so thoroughly inhabits the principal character of each chapter, I think he is the warg. There were some wonderfully satisfying developments at the end, especially around the Cersei story. I was disappointed to have this book end with so little word on Bran and John and others, but when I started reading book five, well, it was heartening. I'm also getting comfortable with a common vocabulary that includes words like jape, craven and vainglorious. It's a great ride.
Here are the (too few!) quotes I kept:
Page 286: She could not have said which she found most hurtful, the pretty girls with their waspish tongues and brittle laughter or the cold-eyed ladies who hid their disdain behind a mask of courtesy.
Page 379: The wool clung to his wet chest, drinking the brine that ran down from his hair.
Page 406: The next day the road dwindled to a pebbled thread, and finally to a mere suggestion.
Page 477: "In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them." (Petyr)
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
A Storm of Swords
George R. R. Martin's third in his A Song of Ice and Fire series is just as compelling as the first two.
A Storm of Swords is so vast that I do start getting lost in all the characters. The appendix helps.
My quotes:
Page 83: "I've never been quite sure what the point of a eunuch is, if truth be told. It seems to me they're only men with the useful bits cut off." (Lady Olenna)
Page 84: "All these kings would do a deal better if they would put down their swords and listen to their mothers." (Lady Olenna again!)
Page 290: Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke.
Page 387: Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit them from time to time.
Page 756: All that had happened hundreds and thousands of years ago, to be sure, and some maybe never happened at all. Maester Luwin always said that Old Nan's stories shouldn't be swallowed whole.
Page 947: Half a mile north, the wildling encampments were stirring, their campfires sending up smoky fingers to scratch against the pale dawn sky.
A Storm of Swords is so vast that I do start getting lost in all the characters. The appendix helps.
My quotes:
Page 83: "I've never been quite sure what the point of a eunuch is, if truth be told. It seems to me they're only men with the useful bits cut off." (Lady Olenna)
Page 84: "All these kings would do a deal better if they would put down their swords and listen to their mothers." (Lady Olenna again!)
Page 290: Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke.
Page 387: Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit them from time to time.
Page 756: All that had happened hundreds and thousands of years ago, to be sure, and some maybe never happened at all. Maester Luwin always said that Old Nan's stories shouldn't be swallowed whole.
Page 947: Half a mile north, the wildling encampments were stirring, their campfires sending up smoky fingers to scratch against the pale dawn sky.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
A Clash of Kings
I finished reading the second book of George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones) series a couple weeks ago. A Clash of Kings continues to expand the stories, so many story lines, independent and interwoven. I love it.
Check out these beautiful lines:
Page 97: The color of the ice was wont to change with every shift of the light. Now it was the deep blue of frozen rivers, now the dirty white of old snow, and when a cloud passed before the sun it darkened to the pale grey of pitted stone.
Page 147: The burning gods cast a pretty light, wreathed in their robes of shifting flame, red and orange and yellow.
Page 342: The white horse and the black one wheeled like lovers at a harvest dance, the riders throwing steel in place of kisses.
Page 398: At sixteen, he was cursed with all the certainty of youth, unleavened by any trace of humor or self-doubt, and wed to the arrogance that came so naturally to those born blond and strong and handsome.
Page 498: The long ranks of man and horse were armored in darkness, as black as if the Smith had hammered night itself into steel.
Page 708: Dawn was breaking, and pale ripples of light shimmered on the surface of the river, shattering under the poles and re-forming when the ferry had passed.
Page 960: A spark flew, caught. Osha blew softly. A long pale flame awoke, stretching upward like a girl on her toes. Osha's face floated above it.
Check out these beautiful lines:
Page 97: The color of the ice was wont to change with every shift of the light. Now it was the deep blue of frozen rivers, now the dirty white of old snow, and when a cloud passed before the sun it darkened to the pale grey of pitted stone.
Page 147: The burning gods cast a pretty light, wreathed in their robes of shifting flame, red and orange and yellow.
Page 342: The white horse and the black one wheeled like lovers at a harvest dance, the riders throwing steel in place of kisses.
Page 398: At sixteen, he was cursed with all the certainty of youth, unleavened by any trace of humor or self-doubt, and wed to the arrogance that came so naturally to those born blond and strong and handsome.
Page 498: The long ranks of man and horse were armored in darkness, as black as if the Smith had hammered night itself into steel.
Page 708: Dawn was breaking, and pale ripples of light shimmered on the surface of the river, shattering under the poles and re-forming when the ferry had passed.
Page 960: A spark flew, caught. Osha blew softly. A long pale flame awoke, stretching upward like a girl on her toes. Osha's face floated above it.
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