My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood.
-- We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. This is a crazy weird book. Very funny in a creepy way.
This is on Erica Jong's list of Top 100 20th Century Novels by Women.
My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood.
It is a truism that the world grows smaller, and a truism especially obvious to anyone like me, who earns a living by perpetual wandering and writing.
After a few days of shock and strangeness, days in which people in Argus could talk of nothing else and strained after each detail, explanations stalled. Just as Roy predicted, Clarisse had disappeared.-- The Master Butchers Singing Club by Louise Erdrich. How's that for a tease!
Harold March, the rising reviewer and social critic, was walking vigorously across a great tableland of moors and commons, the horizon of which was fringed with the far-off woods of the famous estate of Torwood Park.
In those days Picasso having lived rather sadly in the rue Schoelcher was to move a little further out to Montrouge. It was not an unhappy time for him but after the Montmartre days one never heard his high whinnying spanish giggle.-- The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein.
Fidelis walked home from the great war in twelve days and slept thirty-eight hours once he crawled into his childhood bed.
Lord Peter Wimsey stretched himself luxuriously between the sheets provided by the Hotel Meurice.
And he was so young. . . . She had no objection to some men being young -- waiters, for instance, or policemen or representatives of the country in Olympic Games -- but in a man whose walk in life was to delve into people's subconscious and make notes of what came up one expected something more elderly.A Pelican at Blandings by P. G. Wodehouse.
The summer day was drawing to a close and dusk had fallen on Blandings Castle, shrouding from view the ancient battlements, dulling the silver surface of the lake and causing Lord Elmsworth's supreme Berkshire sow Empress of Blandings to leave the open air portion of her sty and withdraw into the covered shed where she did her sleeping.
I was born in San Francisco, California.-- The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein.
All the snooty teenage scorn I'd felt for "money-grubbing," all the supercilious disapproval of my student days, all the negative attitude bequeathed by my failure of a father, all had melted into comprehension, interest and finally delight. The art of money management now held me as addicted as any junkie, and my working life was as fulfilling as any mortal could expect.
With a Jug of Wine: An Unusual Collection of Cooking Recipes by Morrison Wood, "well known food columnist" -- it says so right on the cover.
I think most Americans would shudder at the thought of eating squid, although the meat is twice as sweet as lobster and as delicate as frogs' legs. Let me urge you to unshudder and take a chance on squids a l'Amoricaine.I'm a big fan of squid myself, and frogs' legs for that matter. So he caught my attention with this one. I love fried calamari (of course -- it's fried) and grilled, and have tried both at home without much success. Braising squid is a much easier way to prepare this creature at home.