“If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal woman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even to those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued to vex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has his dreams as have others, and in Gilbert's future there was always a girl with big, limpid grey eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a flower. He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy of its goddess.”
- Anne of Avonlea, L. M. Montgomery
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Begun 1913. Finished 1914. Dedicated to a Happier Year.
Details of my UK first edition of Maurice by E. M. Forster, first published in 1971 by Edward Arnold Publishers Ltd.
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Milestone Monday
On this day April 10 in 1903, noted American author and illustrator of cats Clare Turlay Newberry (1903-1970) was born in Enterprise, Oregon. She spent the majority of her career illustrating cats, especially for many of her own award-winning children’s books, including four Caldecott Honor books. To commemorate Newberry’s birthday we present illustrations from two of her award-winning books, T-Bone the Babysitter, a 1951 Caldecott Honor book published in New York by Harper & Brothers in 1950 (the first 6 images), and April’s Kittens, a 1941 Caldecott Honor book, also published by Harper & Brothers in 1940 (last 5 images). Our copy of April’s Kittens was published in Eau Claire, Wisconsin by E. M. Hale and Company in 1940 by special arrangement with Harper & Brothers.
View another post on April’s Kittens.
View more posts from our Historical Curriculum Collection of children’s books.
View more Milestone Monday posts.
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6. withered hearts
Nesta was crying, and her book was the reason.
She welcomes it. For someone who flees from emotion as if a cat’s had her tail stepped on, it is a strange feeling. Nesta prefers the numbness of denial, to burn on a slow-heat for a decade if must and would rather be angry than vulnerable because it is a quick volatile state of being like sudden outbursts of flames. Her palms are littered with the scars of half-moons she’s broken into her skin rather than allowing for a flicker of a shadow change her mood, or her face.
But here she is, sat in an armchair in the moonlight, her hands repeatedly letting go of her book to wipe her face in a futile effort for the tears were a steady stream down her cheeks and she has not intention of putting a cork in her bleeding heart. It feels cathartic, to sit alone in the House, and weep over words the way she hadn’t over her own father, her own mother. Nesta quietly sobs, the sound a soft symphony joined by the whistling wind like a violin accompanying a piano and the sea tides below a steady bass. Her mouth trembles, chest shuddering as she gives up on reading through her watery vision and instead embraces the book to her chest.
She’s never been happier to weep. And when she hears the soft announcing footsteps letting her know Azriel’s back from beating the wool and leather out of the practice dummies, Nesta leaps to her feet and hurries after him. She’s never wanted someone to see her vulnerable before, or to tell someone of her self, but Azriel’s eyes have always been a cesspool of trust that could never be breached, and he falters in the hallway when he sees her rounding a corner and rush to him.
“Hey,” he whispers quietly, even if no-one else was in The House. “What’s the matter?”
Nesta holds up the book, halting a footstep away from him, pursing her quivering mouth tightly. Azriel’s eyes flicker to it before he sighs, and his tense shoulders visibly drop.
“You can have one,” he mutters, stepping up and not flinching when she presses herself to his torso and lets herself shake. He drops his arms around her shoulders, rests a scarred hand on the back of her head. “I actually teared up at that one too.”
Nesta doesn’t have the words appropriate to describe why she has been made to feel so raw and her heart trampled upon. It does go along the lines of the monologue, the beautiful descriptive language or the fact that she’s been attacked by the narrative exposing and vocalizing nearly every nameless thought and feeling she’s had since she’s gained sentience and for a moment, she does not feel cripplingly alone in space and time. That someone’s had her own griefs, and come out stronger for them.
She gives a violent sob. Azriel rests his chin on her head.
“It’s beautiful, to feel seen, isn’t it?” he sadly asks, quiet as a secret being told.
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Book release!
X book of black drones and loud screams X
X visual information of an existing book is filtered by covering parts of the pages with black tape X
An ‘Artist book’ by z\w\a\r\t magazine \ Max Kuiper.
Published by r\a\w f\o\r\m\s.
Facebook eventpage:
https://www.facebook.com/events/394287546751173
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Coincides with an two days exhibition of pages of the book in a dressing room in a former gymnastics hall in Brugge/Bruges, Belgium.
4 and 5 may 2024
X book of black drones and loud screams X
is part of a group exhibition in a number of dressing rooms:
ART WEEKEND
Facebook event page:
Howest oude turnzaal
Klaverstraat 52
8000 Brugge
Organized by ‘House of Art’
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In The Netherlands, 4 may is ‘Remembrance Day’ (Dodenherdenking), an annual observance that remembers those who died during war and in peace-keeping operations. It is the day before ‘Liberation Day.’
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more information on the book will follow
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