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Why Homemade Baby Formula?

If you're interested in this book I'd recommend looking for it as soon as possible before the limited edition sells out. The birds of the world travel through many hardships to find their "king". The illustrations are beautiful and the textured paper feels really nice. Thanks to Kerry for mentioning this book on her thread last year.

A nearly page book with what feels like characters. The first third of the book reads like multiple short stories, mostly sad, a few humorous. After that characters start showing up in each others' stories and the story gets rolling. All of these characters are connected in some manner to a law suit, Jarndyce vs Jarndyce. It's too long and involved a story to summarize in a short review. Dickens set out to show the corruption of English society and the ineffectiveness of the English legal system.

The book is really well written and I loved Esther one of the two narrators , but I almost give up a third of the way into the book. Luckily, chapter 19 was really funny and the place where the story became interesting. I'm glad I kept reading; it's a long book with a slow start, but it was worth the time it took to finish. A nearly page book with what feels like characters I know it shouldn't but that comment brings to mind War and Peace , a book I have repeatedly picked up and failed to finish!

Wow, Bleak House almost sounds like a Russian novel. Your description reminds me of Dead Souls which read like a caricature of Russian society disguised as a novel. I keep forgetting to post here. I'm no good at multi-challenging. It was definitely a commentary on British society. This book collects over 20 years worth of Bechdel's comic series. Centers on 7 lesbian friends and their friends, parents and children, their lives, loves and politics. Topics covered include same sex marriage, coming out, adoption by same sex parents, bisexuality, promiscuity, vegetarian food, environmental issues, cancer, transgender issues.

I found myself reading late into the night, involved with these wonderful characters. I got so upset every time someone would cheat on their lover. I wanted to shake them. Masako feels like a foreigner in her parents country. She drinks her tea with milk and sugar. She gets a job in a department store.

She meets an English speaking young Japanese man who also drinks his tea with milk and sugar. They get married. In Tibet Sis tells the story of his fathers time in Tibet. In the s his father was sent by the army to China. His father was a film- maker and was to teach the art to the Chinese. They were to film the building of a huge road through the mountains and into Tibet.

His father is lost in Tibet when the mountain wall collapses during filming. The stories in the book are the stories he told his children about his lost time when he returned home. The illustrations in the Tibet book were similar to Sis' illustrations in The Conference of the Birds. In The Wall the illustrations are mainly black and white with red highlighting the political aspects of the drawings.

Say was mentored by Noro Shinpei, a prominent Japanese cartoonist. Say tells the story of his training and his life long friendship with Shinpei. I read this mainly for the history of the Flatiron Building my favorite building and to find out the identity of the long empty building north-west of the park that has had it's Christmas decorations left up for years now. Like all of the Tey books that I've read so far this one is more of a novel and not a puzzle solving mystery. A dead man on the overnight train to Scotland scribbled some lines of poetry on a newspaper. Grant tries to figure out the place that the poem describes.

Also like every other Tey I've read, the mystery can't be solved from the clues given. In this one the perp confesses in a letter. Because I looked it up I know that Tey was born in Scotland Invernese and lived there most of her life. Throughout the book Tey's dislike for Scottish Nationalism is evident. It permeates the book and is rather off-putting.

The book was well written, but, overall, just okay. The entire history of radium; it's discovery and isolation, radiographs, radiation therapy for cancer,what the French, American and Russian governments did to obtain weapons utilizing radium, Chernobyl, The Three Mile Island nuclear plant meltdown, nuclear spies, the Manhattan Project, Hiroshima and other things I've already forgotten. Very informative. I didn't really like the illustrations but the Cyanotype Printing technique used to make them sounds interesting.

Fun Fact: brazil nuts are the world's most naturally radioactive food Use of a word from my list of favorite words: ensorcelled pg Highly recommended. It could even be thought that radium could become very dangerous in criminal hands, and here the question can be raised whether mankind benefits from knowing the secrets of Nature, whether to profit from it or whether this knowledge will not be harmful for it. The example of the discoveries of Nobel is characteristic, as powerful explosives have enabled man to do wonderful work. They are also a means of terrible destruction in the hands of great criminals who are leading the people to war.

There are multiple chapters with exercises on writing various different forms of poetry. I was more interested in the small section on using poetry in your prayers, rituals and meditations. Here the dung-filled jungle pauses Buddha has covered the walls of the great temple With the vegetative speed of his imagery Let us wait, hand in hand No Western god or saint Ever smiled with the lissom fury of this god Who holds in doubt The wooden stare of Apollo Our Christian crown of thorns: There is no mystery in the luminous lines Of that high, animal face The smile, sad, humouring and equal Blesses without obliging Loves without condescension; The god, clear as spring-water Sees through everything , while everything Flows through him A fling of flowers here Whose names I do not know Downy, scarlet gullets Green legs yielding and closing While, at my mental distance from passion, The prolific divinity of the temple Is a quiet lettering on vellum.

Let us lie down before him His look will flow like oil over us. For a while he becomes an aesthetic. Then he leads a worldly life, with a job as a merchant, where he indulges in gambling, sex and owning material possessions. Eventually be becomes a wise old man who sits on a log and watches the river.

His experiences and the river have taught him everything he needs to know to become enlightened. This is a reread. I read this book 30 years ago in University. I didn't remember much about the book, except I thought that it was about the Buddha also sometimes known as Siddhartha. This Siddhartha is a different person who meets the Gautama Buddha.

A quick enjoyable read. It sounds fascinating, and so does the other Sis book, but one at a time! He details how he works, his habits, daily schedule, etc He also details how his grandparents worked and how that influenced how he sees work. The Vice Presidents house. A birthday party for a rich Japanese business man.

The entertainment is a world famous soprano. Terrorists break in, hoping to take the President hostage. The President is not at this party. Most of the book centers on the hostages getting to know each other and their captors over months of captivity. I enjoyed this part of the book.

The ending was disappointing, although, I can't imagine any other way the situation could have ended. A good, sad book. Orange flowers crowded my study window, the scent forced it's way in through the cracks. In a matter of days a twitch of green became a riot of leaves. The banal, insulting ease of it.

Meanwhile, degeneration. I could not find the spring inside me any more. My body was faulting all over like a badly wired circuit. I looked at the children with their apple tree eyes, their honeysuckle skin, their sappy, yawning mouths, and I hated them. But eventually I gave up on it, kicked it away, my body, the wreck, the fantasy. Fantails nesting in my beard. Blossom in my naval, daisies in my groin. Baby rabbits sleeping in my dressing gown pockets.

And the smells on the breeze that wafted around my head! I let it be.

At Home on the Kazakh Steppe: A Peace Corps Memoir

Usually people go out with the winter, but I had a feeling that spring would take care of me. A TERRIBLY UNFAIR QUESTION and if we stood right here while this sun, low and red, just sank into the cradling sea, and if we kept on standing here, as the ragged cliffs started to darken behind us and the air grew rough and unsteady with the edge of the night, and if the earth, instead of turning slowly towards morning, just spun out of orbit and went crying into the luminous, star-stabbed true cold of space, and if we could still stand here even then, with the ocean losing it's footing, the gulls flailing and the stars unleashed tell me what would you do?

A synopsis of the novel, which I have not read, tells me it is about the incestuous relationship of a brother and sister Ada, of the title. These poems, mostly sonnets, were pretty, strange and confusing. Most of the confusion is probably because I haven't read the source material and was missing references, information, etc. If I ever do read the Nabokov novel I will re-read these poems to see if they will make sense to me then. The rain broke up the earth into islands and promontories flecked here and there with green - moss, I think, though it's too early and too cold.

Rain raced down the window, a no-legged race played out to nothing. The tears behind my lids are more fire than water. What does the fire say? Black heart, white ash. Outside, the mockingbird hoots but does not answer. Hecuba, barking. Your sure hand in the dog's fur. Too early. You're sleeping too. It's snowing where you are. The dark-rimmed dog's eye is the sun behind a raindrop, an eclipse, a peeled rind. The garden is beautiful as a folktale - speedwell, oxalis, and foxglove, white moths above the foamflower.

What would it be like I wonder if want were set as song, to sit with you in the evening, my life's love, as cats eye bees in the bee balm and the shade grows long? Read for up-coming Paris trip. A young woman searches for the truth about her family in Canada and Iceland. Made me want to go back to Iceland. They recommended it as being "like Hunger Games" In the future families are only allowed to have two children. Third children are hidden. Thanks to the internet the hidden children decide to unite in protest.

It was okay. I'd read the rest of the series to find out how it ends. The main character, Story Fischer, owns a grocery store and is a beekeeper. She also speaks in bullet points, has no impulse control and can't keep her nose out of other peoples business. She got on my nerves after awhile, esp in the third book. The mysteries were pretty good and I enjoyed learning about beekeeping. I will probably continue to read this series as it progresses. I liked these beautiful, strange poems about girls, identity, desire and the 70's. Her mother's silver-spined paperbacks that heat her in dark places.

The newspaper with it's front page bloodied by the car crash. She can't stop her eyes. She tries to forget what she's read, but like that other story, once she's bitten in, she can't untaste. Her mind won't listen, veers off into the forest marked Forbidden, holds a knife to her throat when she begs it to stop.

For safety, she drinks her own guilt. It inoculates her. Everyone thinks she is the good daughter, her world a gold-leaf illustration. No one knows the words seed themselves in her brain. That they grow and grow,their roots tangled, their limbs goblin-fingered. No one hears how they whisper, Think me. The words blacken and climb until she can't see past their spiny tops. Even as the world goes on real around her, she is shadowed.

Sometimes light flickers above the clawed trees, and in it she can make out people moving. They laugh like the dragon isn't always behind them. Like the limbs aren't full of hanged children, swinging. Like they have never watched, horrified, their minds race over the landscape like escaped hounds.

She aches toward the people. But then the pages open again and she gorges herself to sickness. She doesn't want to find the path. She's the wicked daughter, the one who stays lost, and she'll learn that story by heart. She'll dwell in her own darkness, grow lizard-lidded, cat-limbed. She'll drink her evil down. She'll twist the trees into every shape but the one that reads The End. Just wanted to quickly catch up. I'm many months behind -- work stuff, school stuff and family stuff taking up all my time. Hopefully soon I'll be able to catch up properly.

What is with all the authors who have suddenly joined all the groups? Hope you enjoy the books. Welcome back! Holy crap, you've been busy reading while you were away. Nice to see you again, VB!!! I'm very, very far behind. I've never been away from my own thread for this long more than 2 months. I'm not sure what's going on this year but I seem to have little free time for posting.

Work remains heavy. In the past 2 weeks I've turned 50 and ran my first 5K a lot of fun, actually. I'm sure that sounds lame but we are really thrilled to be going. Our first choice was Paris -then we saw the price for Paris. I'm keeping this one on the shelf. Also an Early Reviewers book for which I still owe a proper review. Also the book from which I borrowed my LT username. I bought this book years ago for my mother while she was in the hospital. She never read it and eventually gave it back to me. The book was better than I expected. I also see what all the Whovians who complain that Steven Moffit spelling?

Right down to the blue notebook. A quiet book about a family, their farm and the secrets they keep from one another. Two solid entries in the Maisie Dobbs series. A book with die-cut, illustrated pages depicting a playful poem in which the second line of one stanza and the first line of the next fit together. The cuts in the pages bring the connected lines together in a way that makes the poem make sense.

Instead of sneaking into factory farms like Foer, Rehak starts working as a chef at her local organic restaurant and visits their food suppliers. Recommended for those interested in organic foods, family farms, GMO's and humane butchering. Recipe made: corn off the cob with garlic. Hard to describe- set in Victorian England, time travel through special eye glasses, half fish prostitutes, a man made of leather filled with saline and a man attempting to bring about the end of the earth through vibrations in an effort to contact life in space.

Will definitely be reading the rest of this series. England has made a truce with Hitler. Germany and Japan are the world superpowers. England is becoming increasingly fascist. All three books follow Detective Carmichael, initially of Scotland Yard, promoted to the Watch think Gestapo and the behind the scenes corruption of England's leaders. Carmichael's chapters alternate in each book with another character and their perspective on or involvement in the politics of the time. Set in the 's and 60's.

It took me pages to get into this book, but once I did I enjoyed the story. I'll read the rest of this series, but not any time soon. It took 6 months to finish this book. I made a lot of notes that I still have to sort through. Vincent Millay. I'll be interested to hear your thoughts on it. Hi VB, welcome back! Lots of good reading going on, and thankfully any potential BBs were already on my hit list - phew! I keep hearing that I have to read Still Life. Next year?

I didn't know anything about her early life. It is so interesting. I'm looking forward to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I'm hoping for a fun and relaxing vacation. I need some stress free time. And I want to try a butterbeer or two.. The solution was a complete surprise. Also, it was a quick read. Will update later from home with poems. Oh, I haven't read Hirshfield for a while but I love her poems!!! Bookshelves and counters, bottles of aspirin and oil, chairs, saucepans, and towels. I can barely encircle the neck of a bounding pen with my fingers before it breaks free of their notions; open the door before the dog of lop-eared hopes leaps through it; pick up the paper before it goes up as kindling.

Barely eat before something snatches the toast from my plate, drains the last mouthfuls of coffee out of my cup. Even these words- before the blue ink-track has dried on the paper, they've already been read and agreed to or flung aside for others I don't yet know of, and well before I have dressed or brushed out the braid of my hair, a woman with my own shadow has showered and chosen her earrings, bought groceries and fallen in love, grown tired, grown old. Her braid in the mirror shines with new ribbons of silver, like the mane of a heavy warhorse.

He stands in the silence as if after battle, sides heaving, spent. Identity Jane Hirshfield Decades after a man leaves the Church, still he is called the priest. Many years since she set down her bow, a woman remains the cellist. The one who seduced so many is content now to sip her tea, and still she is looked at with envy and hatred. The one who held life and death in his mouth no longer speaks at all, yet still he is feared.

The unmoving dancer rehearses her steps, Again, perfection eludes her. Fate loosens it's grip. The bruises stay. I enjoy the quirkiness of her poems. Definitely will be looking for more by her. Fugitive Color The fading valor of the past flaunts its flaglike tints. Your nut brown hair abdicated to gray. Jane's theatrical blushes, staining face and neck raspberry, should be included in this list of different, short-lived or semi-visible tints.

Also we must mention colors leached by the sun from billboards or hair ribbons. She came to live with us when her eyesight failed, so all she'd seen- weather-beaten, sketchy, or shocking pink - retreated into the dim realm of afterimage and aura. Threadbare sheets and pillow slips exchange brightness for gauzy softness.

Then there's the smeared, jumpy blur I see when I shut my eyes and try to read the dog's mind - or the flickering souls of dinner plates and doorknobs who're certain they're monuments. A childish, bright violet desire to cry is scorched into drab, unvoiced joy by the heat of the waffle iron, which crimps the air in this kitchen, where curtains stir like the surface of some vanished river. Cut Up This peculiar ability of my giant dog to shell and eat pistachio nuts, to debate great apes at the National Zoo and deny various tribes of aborigines; to perpetuate the ornamental breeds, resort to magic uniforms and to chew grilled pork is not too pretty, but it is a way of life and I am used to it by now.

I'm trying to remember why I know Amy Gerstler's name. Amy Gerstler was the editor of a recent edition - or of America's Best Poetry. She wrote one of my favorite poems - Advice to a Caterpillar. Have you ever read it? This review is for Book 52, read in July A God in the House: Poets Talk About Faith - Ilya Kaminsky and Katherine Towler The dormant life of language when stirred by poetry, awakens and releases the dormant life in us, and that current can carry us, if not to God, at least to the possibility of God.

Some of the essays seem disjointed or repetitive. That's my only complaint about this otherwise beautiful book. Most of the poets link their creativity with their spirituality. One of the poets is an atheist. Some poems from the book: Untitled by Gregory Orr This was what was bequeathed us: This earth the beloved left And, leaving, Left to us.

Tamar Myers | No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk

No other world But this one: Willows and the river And the factory With its black smokestacks. No other shore, only this bank On which the living gather. No meaning but what we find here. No purpose but what we make. That, and the beloved's clear instructions: Turn me into song; sing me awake. Here Grace Paley Here I am in the garden laughing an old woman with sagging breasts and a nicely mapped face how did this happen well that's who I wanted to be at last a woman in the old style sitting stout legs apart under a big skirt grandchild sliding on off my lap a pleasant summer perspiration that's my old man across the yard he's talking to the meter reader he's telling him the world's sad story how electricity is oil or uranium and so forth I tell my grandson run over to your grandpa ask him to sit beside me for a minute I am suddenly exhausted by my desire to kiss his sweet explaining lips.

Aunt Emily is a poet and she owns a book store called The Green Man. Aunt Emily has recently had a heart attack and has a history of possible mental illness. O is something of a budding poet herself, although she tries to hide it. O is afraid that being a poet means that she will also suffer from mental illness. O discovers that The Green Man is a very special book store where the poets of the past come back to life - in more than one way. I enjoyed this book.

The Voynich Code - The Worlds Most Mysterious Manuscript - The Secrets of Nature

It was a quick read. Interesting to find out that it's a sequel to another book about the Green Man written more than 20 years ago. Vincent Millay for over three decades. All I knew about her personal life was that she lived in Greenwich Village, was bohemian and a bisexual.

This well researched biography covers Millay's entire life; from her childhood where she and her sisters basically raised themselves in poverty to the addiction to morphine that took over her life in her last years. Milford paints a picture of Millay as a magnetic genius who easily seduced people into helping her in her career and with her finances. She shows Millay as a selfish child-like woman who manipulated those around her.

There is a lot of information in this book. Sometimes I was confused as to when something happened in relation to other things. Milford jumped around a bit. The book is a little long and could have done with some more editing. Fun fact - Millay's middle name is St. Vincent because her Uncle's life was saved at St. Vincent's Hospital in Greenwich Village right before she was born.

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I love Grace Paley's poetry. That poem is beautiful. Once again showing up after many months away. I don't know what has happened to my time this year. I plan on catching up with the challenge group on Tuesday while I wait for furniture to be delivered. Hiya VB! Nice to see you again, and I hear you about real life getting in the way. Doesn't the world know that we have books to read?!? Hope you're well!

Hi Laura! Thanks for visiting. I hope you're doing well. I'm good - a couple of scary mini strokes in the last three months but I actually feel really good otherwise. My sister's shore house in NJ flooded during Sandy. I got through with only a missing window screen. Ah, time to read. I wish my job understood that during my free, unpaid, time I would like to read instead of developing staff inservices for various committees. Nursing is all about committees these days. Looks like you have been very busy reading. Here is hoping all is well with you. Thanks 85 Pete- I enjoyed Proust and the Squid.

It was accessible and interesting. Also a fairly quick read. Three excellent holiday true short stories. The first of Willis' time traveling Oxford historian books. History student Kivrin is accidentally sent back to during the plague. Kivrin's story always draws me in and I'm able to forget the things that drive me crazy about the book --the lack of means of communication in and Willis' repeated use of placing too many obstacles in the way of her characters she does this in all her books.

Takes place at Christmas so my real world book club re-reads this one at Christmas time every few years. Eleven year old chemistry genius and amateur sleuth Flavia once again sneaks out of Buckshaw the family estate at all hours of the day and night, to ride around Bishop's Lacey and its environs on her trusty bike Gladys.

The mystery revolves around the th anniversary of the death of St Tancred, the patron saint of the village church.

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While excavating his bones the body of the missing church organist is found in the crypt. Given the extent of my suffering, please indulge me by permitting me one last observation: a woman with two husbands is an adulteress, whereas a man with two wives is merely a bigamist! Why, you might ask? It's because all three of the biblical patriarchs were poly gamists. Forsooth, being an inadvertent adulteress, I was the victim of rape. My maidenhood was stolen from me by an act of deception; there, that's putting it plain and simple enough, is it not?

One would think that I had done enough suffering to make Swedes in winter as giddy as schoolgirls in comparison, but that didn't stop the Good Lord from testing me further. Despite the fact that my younger sister, Susannah, was in prison for aiding and abetting a man wanted for murder, I was finally getting the hang of the one skill that happy folks of all mindsets must finally get around to mastering, that of compartmentalization.

So what if my half-brother, who resembled a giant praying mantis, was the alleged murderer, and that I'd witnessed him skipping town dressed in a nun's habit, riding in a bus full of fake nuns? And so what if my sister, who had too many bad habits to list, was also wearing a nun's habit when she was caught by the long arm of the law, and that, as per usual, there was a tiny, but vociferous, odoriferous, and vicious Yorkshire terrier nestled in the right cup of her oversized brassiere? It's my contention that just about every family has at least one psychopath, if not two, clinging to the limbs of its ancestral tree.

What sets my family apart is that the dearly demented sit next to each other on the same branch. So there I was, on the verge of becoming happy once more, when Sheriff Felonious Stodgewiggle, our county law enforcement official, paid a surprise visit to the PennDutch Inn. It was early summer and I was shelling green peas whilst sitting in an Adirondacks-style rocking chair on the front veranda in the cool of the afternoon.

My hunky husband, Gabe, the Babester, was at that moment driving our teenager, Alison, over to spend the night at a friend's house. Gabe had taken our infant son, Little Jacob, with him. Our village has its own police department, so the sheriff's people normally just do 'drive bys.

When I saw that it was Felonious who was driving, I knew it was big trouble. Poor Felonious Stodgewiggle. His were the shaggiest eyebrows I have ever seen. Truly, they are like a pair of black Persian kittens that someone has glued to the skin of an otherwise baby-smooth face. His so-called five o'clock shadow would be the envy of any Hollywood actor's weeklong attempt at growing facial stubble. The thatch that manages to escape from the slight V at his throat hints at grave but marvellous consequences for any woman fortunate enough to undo another button.

Oops, perhaps I have said far too much for a married woman who has promised to remain faithful to her husband, even in her mind, to the bitter end. Being all man, Sheriff Stodgewiggle doesn't possess a shred of humour. He is the kind of man who would hit a woman over the head with a club and drag her back to his cave — if he were a Neanderthal. Of course, I'm only joking, because Neanderthals never existed, given that God created Adam as a white man with a prominent jaw and a straight forehead, and that was around five thousand years ago, not hundreds of thousands of years ago, or whatever.

Here’s the gist of what’s getting me going:

And we certainly didn't evolve from apes, or even a common ancestor of apes, which is what my husband, Gabe, believes. I know for a fact that the sheriff doesn't believe in this scientific nonsense. At any rate, since Felonious is humourless, and neither is he a Mennonite like myself, nor married to a secular music lover like my husband, he was stumped by my answer. He scratched beneath his voluminous chin with his thick, broken nails and sniffed the air, as if those actions might bring clarity.

I set my bowl of peas aside, along with my attitude and my bad manners. These rocking chairs are actually more comfortable than they look. Sheriff Stodgewiggle settled into his proffered chair with a smile. I've been wondering what to put on my porch ever since Ma broke the hammock. Her doc's been after her to stay under three hundred pounds, but you know how she loves her sweets.

It belongs to my husband. My heart leapt into my throat which, given that I am vertically enhanced, meant that it had a long way to travel. What did she do now? Try to sneak out of prison in a laundry bag? Dig her way out with a teaspoon? Feign death so well that she was taken to the prison morgue? Because she's done all of those twice already, except that last one —'.

It was only then that Felonious raised a hairy paw to signal me to stop blithering and to start listening. Do you suppose that is short for Magdalena? Sadly, there aren't that many parents naming their daughters Magdalena these days — at least not out in the general population. It's still pretty popular among the Amish, though. Felonious shook his thick salt-and-pepper mane and roared like a lion. I could feel my hands grow cold and clammy as my throat constricted with dryness.

So yes, I do want to know. I very much want to know. Sheriff Felonious Stodgewiggle knew by then that he had me hook, line and sinker. The satisfaction showed in his eyes and what little bare skin he had on his face, but I didn't care; I was his for the telling. The adverts feature handsome, bare-chested men lounging next to a pool. They're speaking directly to the TV screen and their message is that all a woman needs to do, in order to get her engine racing again, is to start swallowing those pills.

I burst out laughing, which was like jabbing the lion with a white-hot poker.

Here’s the gist of what’s getting me going:

When the beast had calmed down enough to pay attention to my words, I managed to spit out a few of them. I moved here from Toledo, Ohio, if you'll remember. Anyway, Melvin is a dead ringer for a praying mantis. A giant version, of course. He has a tiny head, huge eyes that swivel in all directions and his limbs are toothpick thin.