(no subject)
Dec. 15th, 2010 12:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
proximoception61. Emily Dickinson (Everyman Poetry)
62. Letter to a Christian Nation
63. The Moral Landscape
64. The Blue Octavo Notebooks
65. Parables and Paradoxes
66. King Lear
67. The Tempest
68. A Boy's Will
69. Three Sisters (Mamet adaptation)
70. Complete Short Novels, Chekhov
The Frost is too lame to leave on there by itself, though I've seen it reprinted separately. I wish I'd bought that when I had a chance, actually: it was a beautiful set of exact facsimiles of his first two or three books. Something like five dollars for all of them, which I guess seemed like far too much for presentation at the time, unable as I was to foresee a day I'd make dumb promises to myself that having lots of short books around would help me fulfill (to my own satisfaction). I'll feel like a cheater if I won't have managed to get through 75 discrete books.
I really love his earliest poems, written before he achieved his rather guarded, characteristic mastery. Actually I love his late poems too. With your favorites you often like what happened to them, like what their whole lives end up looking like. Which they probably didn't themselves. He was already himself enough that the title is an irony. Well, nearly everything in the book is an irony. But it's not a double, triple irony, so it's not quite yet Robert Frost.
(It's not that I've been ignoring suggestions, but I can't yet get a library membership of my own and used bookstores suck in this stretch of suburbs. Bernhard and Pavic, who I own nothing at all by, are on Christmas lists.)
62. Letter to a Christian Nation
63. The Moral Landscape
64. The Blue Octavo Notebooks
65. Parables and Paradoxes
66. King Lear
67. The Tempest
68. A Boy's Will
69. Three Sisters (Mamet adaptation)
70. Complete Short Novels, Chekhov
The Frost is too lame to leave on there by itself, though I've seen it reprinted separately. I wish I'd bought that when I had a chance, actually: it was a beautiful set of exact facsimiles of his first two or three books. Something like five dollars for all of them, which I guess seemed like far too much for presentation at the time, unable as I was to foresee a day I'd make dumb promises to myself that having lots of short books around would help me fulfill (to my own satisfaction). I'll feel like a cheater if I won't have managed to get through 75 discrete books.
I really love his earliest poems, written before he achieved his rather guarded, characteristic mastery. Actually I love his late poems too. With your favorites you often like what happened to them, like what their whole lives end up looking like. Which they probably didn't themselves. He was already himself enough that the title is an irony. Well, nearly everything in the book is an irony. But it's not a double, triple irony, so it's not quite yet Robert Frost.
(It's not that I've been ignoring suggestions, but I can't yet get a library membership of my own and used bookstores suck in this stretch of suburbs. Bernhard and Pavic, who I own nothing at all by, are on Christmas lists.)
