lunababymoonchild

I would in that sweet bosom be (O sweet it is and fair it is!) Where no rude wind might visit me. Because of sad austerities I would in that sweet bosom be. I would be ever in that heart (O soft I knock and soft entreat her!) Where only peace might be my part. Austerities were all the sweeter So I were ever in that heart James Joyce, I Would In That Sweet Bosom Be

The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side, Agatha Christie

For all the Jack Reacher fans : Jack Reacher

Dancing By the Light of the Moon, Gyles Brandreth

Dancing By the Light of the Moon, Gyles Brandreth.

Me too

The Farmer quit what he was at, The bee-hive he was smokin': He tilted back his old straw hat-- Says he, 'Young man, you're jokin'! O Lordy! (Lord, forgive the swar,) Ain't ye a cheeky sinner? Come, if I give my gal thar, Where would _you_ find her dinner? 'Now look at _me_; I settl'd down When I was one and twenty, Me, and my axe and Mrs. Brown, And stony land a plenty. Look up thar! ain't that homestead fine, And look at them thar cattle: I tell ye since that early time I've fit a tidy battle. 'It kinder wrestles down a man To fight the stuns and mire: But I sort of clutch'd to thet thar plan Of David and Goliar. Want was the mean old Philistine That strutted round the clearin', Of pebbles I'd a hansum line, And flung 'em nothin' fearin'. 'They hit him square, right whar they ought, Them times I _had_ an arm! I lick'd the giant and I bought A hundred acre farm. My gal was born about them days, I was mowin' in the medder; When some one comes along and says-- 'The wife's gone thro' the shadder!' 'Times thought it was God's will she went-- Times thought she work'd too slavin'-- And for the young one that was sent, I took to steady savin'. Jest cast your eye on that thar hill The sugar bush just tetches, And round by Miller Jackson's mill, All round the farm stretches. ''Ain't got a mind to give that land To any snip-snap feller That don't know loam from mud or sand, Or if corn's blue or yaller. I've got a mind to keep her yet-- Last Fall her cheese and butter Took prizes; sakes! I can't forget Her pretty pride and flutter. 'Why, you be off! her little face For me's the only summer; Her gone, 'twould be a queer, old place, The Lord smile down upon her! All goes with her, the house and lot-- You'd like to get 'em, very! I'll give 'em when this maple bears A bouncin' ripe-red cherry!' The Farmer fixed his hat and specks And pursed his lips together, The maple wav'd above his head, Each gold and scarlet feather: The Teacher's Honest heart sank down: How could his soul be merry? He knew--though teaching in a town, No maple bears a cherry. Soft blew the wind; the great old tree, Like Saul to David's singing, Nodded its jewelled crown, as he Swayed to the harp-strings' ringing; A something rosy--not a leaf Stirs up amid the branches; A miracle _may_ send relief To lovers fond and anxious! O rosy is the velvet cheek Of one 'mid red leaves sitting! The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek With the needles in her knitting. 'O Pa!' The Farmer prick'd his ears, Whence came that voice so merry? (The Teacher's thoughtful visage clears) 'The maple bears a cherry!' The Farmer tilted back his hat: 'Well, gal--as I'm a human, I'll always hold as doctrine that Thar's nothin' beats a woman! When crown'd that maple is with snow, And Christmas bells are merry, I'll let you have her, Jack--that's so! Be sure you're good to Cherry!' The Farmer's Daughter Cherry, Isabella Valancy Crawford

The Black Moon, Winston Graham. Poldark 5

Slash found fame as the lead guitarist in a heavy metal band called Guns 'n Roses. I've never been a fan but I always thought that Slash was interesting and he is. This is very well written, Slash uses Anthony Bozza to help with the writing and it's very good indeed. Other than that it's what you would expect of the lead guitarist in a heavy metal band. Much in the way of substance abuse until it became obvious that he could not go on living and working with said substance abuse. But re-uses again and again. This difference with Slash is that he starts abusing substances from the age of around 11 years old and his parents clearly let him do things that no child should do. Still, he survived it all and is still working albeit with a different band and is now happily married with two children. A good read and recommended.

The Truth about the Harry Quebert Affair, by Joël Dicker

Alien Hearts (New York Review Books Classics) by Guy de Maupassant,

In Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin’, Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin’, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin’; “O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen.” So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by— “Young man, I think you’re dyin’.” “O it’s I am sick and very very sick, And it’s all for Barbara Allen.”— O the better for me ye’se never be, Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’! “O dinna ye mind, young man,” says she, “When the red wine ye were fillin’, That ye made the healths go round and round, And slighted Barbara Allen?” He turned his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealin’: “Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allen!” As she was walking o’er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knellin’; And every jow the dead-bell gave Cried “Woe to Barbara Allen.” “O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow: My love has died for me today, I’ll die for him tomorrow.” “Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.” Barbara Allen BY ANONYMOUS

The Last Diet: Discover the secret to losing weight – for good by Shahroo Izadi, Alien Hearts (New York Review Books Classics) by Guy de Maupassant

Pollevie Style, Ellen Deckers

I'm very surprised indeed that nobody has read Maupassant on this forum so I'm going to assume that the review(s) were lost in one of the many crashes. This is absolutely superb. Superb translation of a superb story. It concerns a painter called Olivier Bertin who makes a name for himself in Paris and lives rather comfortably, with staff, in his batchelor pad. He's very popular for portraits and social occasions. He has a long running affair with the Countess de Guilleroy, the wife of a busy politician. It's never made clear if the relationship is sexual, though. Everything is fine until the Countess's daughter - Annette - turns 18 and comes back from school to be married. Then the painter and the Countess are each seized by an agonizing suspicion, like death. . . . The prose is amazing, the philosophy is profound and the observations of human behaviour are razor sharp. We are told that the Countess works extremely hard to keep the painter interested in her as she is aware that he leads a lonely life and may marry in order to off set that. He is flattered by her attentions and in love so it suits both of them, until Annette comes home and everything changes. I read the NYRB (New York Review of Books) edition and it was translated by Richard Howard. Highly recommended.