I just want to bury myself in these articles – I haven’t been able to do this or keep track of this stuff in so long! Good stuff I was looking at today:
I’ve been following this for a bit. Jesus Christ. I resent the title of the article: “Judge throws out law making bookstores pay fine to sell porn.” It was clear from the beginning that they were focusing on “sexually explicit material,” which would include the Marquis de Sade, Anais Nin, Henry Miller, Colette, and all my other favorites. Hell… it would include Philip Roth and (duh) Shakespeare!
”A romance novel sold at a drugstore, a magazine offering sex advice in a grocery store checkout line, an R-rated DVD sold by a video rental shop, a collection of old Playboy magazines sold by a widow at a garage sale … would appear to necessitate registration under the statute,” Barker wrote.
Cronenberg’s Fly goes to the opera. I would so see that.
I loved the American Girl dolls when I was little. I still have my Samantha, Molly and Felicity, I didn’t care for Kirsten, and by the time Addy and the rest came out I was too old. When I picked out stories for my mom to read to me before bed, more often than not I would choose the American Girl catalogue. I read every book for every girl in no time. What bothered me to no end was when the modern dolls came out, but maybe that’s because, being an upper-middle class white girl, I had no trouble seeing myself in the historical dolls. Meh.
I’m really not in the mood for this right now. I read the first page and thought, “Wow, he ran out of stuff to think about.” But that might just be my feeling at the moment. It might actually be interesting, which is why I’m including it.
Speaking of uninteresting topics, is it at all possible that Buckminster Fuller is way more interesting than he seems?
Salon’s recommended reads for the summer: a gripping fictional portrait of Queen Elizabeth’s early years, when she was still just “Lady Elizabeth”; a Victorian thriller featuring a mysterious housemaid and a gentleman obsessed with anthropometry; a juicy girl’s-eye view of Louis XIV’s court; and an intellectual romance that spans two centuries, partly set in Venice, where novelist George Eliot is on honeymoon.
Sounds promising if you ignore Alison Weir… and I certainly try.
After reading this article, The Enchantress of Florence can’t not appeal to you.
More on my actual reading later.
