Books Do Furnish A Room: Where I write

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Wednesday, 06 May 2009

Where I write

The crowded and untidy space where I do my blogging - or at least most of it - is on show today at Cathy's blogspot. If you go and have a look, you might be shocked at my untidiness, but you'll find something interesting on this varied, gossipy book blog.

Posted at 10:00 AM in Miscellanea | Permalink

Comments

It looks very nice and nothing to apologise for. I'm glad to see you have bears -- I have them too, though mine don't watch me at work.

Posted by: Harriet | Friday, 08 May 2009 at 09:11 AM

I love the look of your office and how can books look untidy. And your cottage down in Dorset sounds lovely too. Can I ask where in Dorset your cottage is?

Posted by: JenDee | Thursday, 07 May 2009 at 09:06 AM

Untidiness???

I enjoyed your collage & followed the link, wanting to say ´hi´ from a Danish book lover.
I didn´t see any untidiness, though ;D

Posted by: Dorte H | Wednesday, 06 May 2009 at 08:15 PM

The comments to this entry are closed.

Quotidian

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)