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May
20th
Today is the birthday of Honoré
de Balzac born in Tours, France, in 1799. He
spent much of his life devoted to writing a series of
novels and short stories which depicted every aspect
of French society in the 1800s. He wrote about
banks, offices, factories, the stock market, the media, and
the first commercial advertisements. His writing
had a huge impact on later French novelists, in
particular Gustave Flaubert and Émile Zola. Henry
James considered him to be one of the greatest
novelist of all time. Balzac's influence
continues to the present day - bestseller Balzac
& The Little Chinese Seamstress (2002),
later adapted for the screen by the author, tells the
story of two boys exiled to a remote mountain village
during China's Cultural Revolution. They stumble
upon a stash of Western classics that have been
translated into Chinese and find their lives
transformed by the stories they read. Balzac
said: All happiness depends on courage and work.
The
Juice,
Jay McInerney
Jay McInerney has written unique, witty, vinous
essays for over a decade. Here, with his trademark
flair and expertise, McInerney provides a master
class in the almost infinite varieties of wine,
creating a collage of the people and places that
produce it all over the world, from historic past to
the often confusing present. Stretching from France
and South Africa to Australia and New Zealand,
McInerney's tour is a comprehensive and
thirst-inducing expedition that explores
viticulture, investigates great champagne and delves
into a vast array of styles, capturing the passion
that so many people feel for the world of wine.
Khaled
Hosseini,
And The Mountains Echoed
So, then. You want a story and I will tell you
one...
Afghanistan, 1952. Abdullah and his sister Pari
live with their father and stepmother in the small
village of Shadbagh. Their father, Saboor, is
constantly in search of work and they struggle
together through poverty and brutal winters. To
Abdullah, Pari - as beautiful and sweet-natured as
the fairy for which she was named - is everything.
More like a parent than a brother, Abdullah will do
anything for her, even trading his only pair of
shoes for a feather for her treasured collection.
Each night they sleep together in their cot, their
heads touching, their limbs tangled.
One day the siblings journey across the desert to
Kabul with their father. Pari and Abdullah have no
sense of the fate that awaits them there, for the
event which unfolds will tear their lives apart;
sometimes a finger must be cut to save the hand.
Crossing generations and continents, moving from
Kabul, to Paris, to San Francisco, to the Greek
island of Tinos, with profound wisdom, depth,
insight and compassion, Khaled Hosseini writes about
the bonds that define us and shape our lives, the
ways in which we help our loved ones in need, how
the choices we make resonate through history and how
we are often surprised by the people closest to us.
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Steampunk
Steampunk is a subgenre of
fantasy set in a steam-powered world, often
inspired by Victorian Britain or the Wild
West... read on
And I Quote...
Books are the
carriers of civilization. Without books,
history is silent, literature dumb, science
crippled, thought and speculation at a
standstill. ~ Barbara Tuchman
In The
Book of My Lives,
Aleksandar Hemon takes readers though his life
from his childhood in Sarajevo to the death of his
young daughter.
The Dublin Writers Festival takes place this
week with numerous events happening all over the
city for readers, writers and illustrators of all
ages. Click
here for more information.
Elliott Holt discusses her six
favorite novels about expatriates, talks
about what it's like to be in your 20s, and the
importance of travel and exploration.
Ireland's newest stamp features an
entire short story, written by a Dublin
teenager.
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Poetry Corner
My Life And
Theirs
Angela Patten
They remembered everything they were taught
and relished the pleasures of memorization
I look at the shameful balance on my credit card
and picture her reaching for her handbag
first thing in the morning
before she even opened her eyes,
clasping it to her chest with two hands,
whispering an aspiration to her favorite saint
for bringing it safely through the night.
On Friday nights he'd hand her
the small brown envelope that held his wages.
She'd count out the pound notes and coppers.
Then when his back was turned she'd turn to us
and ask no one in particular how in God's name
she was ever going to make it through the week.
And here am I, having purchased permission
to explore the upper echelons of poetry,
to be like the angels, a pure spirit,
not selling turnips or digging potatoes,
living the soft life in America
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