Ex Libris Kirkland is my self-centered way to keep track of what I read, what I like, and what I want to remember.
The word no, for a two-year-old, is the Declaration of Independence and Magna Charta rolled into one.
an excerpt from How Children Learn, written by John Holt in 1967
The stories say the banished dead are wild now,
crouching among scrawny trees, skinning rabbits
and raising them like lanterns. Who needs light
when you’re disfigured, kept from even the idea
of heaven, with slit throats or bulging eyes or
bits of skull clinging like pieces of seashell.
The stories say they have no hearts. That they wear
the broken bodies they left in. They can’t be
whole again, but at least they can stay in the woods,
under the creek bridge. At least they can lick dew
from leaves until their tongues rust. At least
if the creek runs, it will keep them from seeing
their reflections, their eyes too haunted to be the eyes
of deer. The stories say that you can hear them.
That they sing by the lanterns of skinned rabbits.
That the music is what coats the grass with frost.
an excerpt from The Well Speaks of its Own Poison, written by Maggie Smith in 2015
I lay deep in one of those protracted moments of rapture which scatter this journey like asterisks. A little more, I felt, and I would have gone up like a rocket.
an excerpt from A Time of Gifts, written by Patrick Leigh Fermor in 1934
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