Books 2010

Books 2009

« A Russian Faust | Main | Strangers and Brothers: The Sleep of Reason »

Friday, 29 May 2009


A very lively scene - you can see all the details and almost feel the sun and its bright light. And a nice poem although it is rather narrative poetry - the verses don't really rhyme.
It reminds me of the fishing scenes I saw lately in the film "Man of Aran" by Robert O'Flaherty that I mentioned the other day. A young boy who was not allowed to go fishing at sea with experienced fishermen used to catch fish from up the high cliffs. And he didn't use a fishing rod but just a long string, and he cocked his leg using it as a rod - how pratical. I never saw that before.

Speaking of fish, I also heard recently on the radio that a company was offering for sale an ice-cream whose flavour is... fish and chips! They didn't say in which country this happened but I guess it is neither in Japan, nor in Brazil... But this is rather an information for your new food and cooking column.

The comments to this entry are closed.


  • Nothing is of greater consolation to the author of a novel than the disovery of readings he had not conceived but which are then prompted by his readers. (Umberto Eco, Reflections on The Name of the Rose)
  • ... relatively few persons in London ... can afford the luxury of one or more servants. No fewer than 3,700,000 have no servants at all, and of the half million that have servants 227,000 have only one. (The Times, 6 June 1895)
  • Standing among savage scenery, the hotel offers stupendous revelations. There is a French widow in every bedroom, affording delightful prospects. (Tyrolean inn brochure, according to Gerard Hoffnung)
  • (A doctor is at an elderly relative's deathbed) "The old sawbones, eh?" he bellowed ... "Just in the nick, perhaps. Haul the old girl back by the short hairs, if you ask me. Devilish smart at his work ... Always take a fence with more confidence when I know he's out with us."
  • Too often, when a man of Monty Godkin's mental powers is plunged in thought, nothing happens at all. The machinery just whirs for a while, and that is the end of it. (P G Wodehouse, Heavy Weather)
  • ...the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Laurence took his grid (Kipling, The Five nations)

Photo Albums

Blog powered by Typepad