Tuesday, December 29, 2020
Saturday, December 26, 2020
"You couldn't expect a psychopath to play by the rules. Psychopaths made the rules, or at least that's what they thought."
"Reni still had mixed feelings about becoming involved in the case, but she didn't think she could sit home wondering what was going on and whether her father had or hadn't played a part in it. She needed answers. Answers probably wouldn't relieve her guilt and suffering, but being instrumental in giving victims' families closure would get her some points, at least in her own mind. Still, she was sure she would go to her grave feeling complicit. And that was okay. She was complicit."
Thursday, December 24, 2020
Tuesday, December 22, 2020
Friday, December 18, 2020
Tuesday, December 15, 2020
"Our train got snowed up and I and some others tried to walk across country to another station, Hemmersby, but the snow was so bad that we got lost, and then I fainted like a fool, twisting my foot, and a young man carried me to the house where we now are and may have to stay till the snow stops if it ever will. It's funny because although no one is here the tea was laid and the fires going....Of course, it's a funny situation."
Sunday, December 13, 2020
Thursday, December 10, 2020
Tuesday, December 8, 2020
Saturday, December 5, 2020
Wednesday, December 2, 2020
|William M. Hay -- A Funny Story, 1868|
Monday, November 30, 2020
Hi. My name is Lark and I'm a library book-a-holic.
Friday, November 27, 2020
"Ah! but he made a grave mistake, that would-be murderer, when he shot at his victim within a dozen yards of Hercule Poirot! For him, it is indeed la mauvaise chance. But you see now why we must make our entry into End House and get in touch with Mademoiselle Nick? Three near escapes from death in three days. That is what she said. We must act quickly, Hastings. The peril is very close at hand."
Thursday, November 26, 2020
Monday, November 23, 2020
Sunday, November 22, 2020
Thursday, November 19, 2020
Monday, November 16, 2020
"He rode into our valley in the summer of '89. ... He was clean-shaven and his face was lean and hard and burned from high forehead to firm, tapering chin. His eyes seemed hooded in the shadow of the hat's brim. He came closer, and I could see that this was because the brows were drawn in a frown of fixed and habitual alertness. Beneath them the eyes were endlessly searching from side to side and forward, missing nothing. ... He rode easily, relaxed in the saddle...yet even in this easiness was a suggestion of tension. It was the easiness of a coiled spring, of a trap set."
"Only he was not a farmer and never really could be. ... There were times when he would stop and look off at the mountains and then down at himself and any tool he happened to have in his hands as if in wry amusement at what he was doing. You had no impression that he thought himself too good for the work or did not like it. He was just different. He was shaped in some firm forging of past circumstances for other things."
"Those were beautiful fall days, clear and stirring, with the coolness in the air just enough to set one atingling, not yet mounting to the bitter cold that soon would come sweeping down out of the mountains. It did not seem possible that in such a harvest season, giving a lift to the spirit to match the well-being of the body, violence could flare so suddenly and swiftly."
Sunday, November 15, 2020
Thursday, November 12, 2020
Dear Madam — You are surely informed about the situation of all Jews in Central Europe and this letter will not astonish you.
In August 1939, just days before World War II broke out in Europe, a Jewish man in Vienna named Alfred Berger mailed a desperate letter to a stranger in America who shared his last name.
By pure chance I got your address . . . I beg you instantly to send for me and my wife...
Decades later, journalist Faris Cassell stumbled upon the stunning letter and became determined to uncover the story behind it. How did the American Bergers respond? Did Alfred and his family escape Nazi Germany? Over a decade-long investigation in which she traveled thousands of miles, explored archives and offices in Austria, Belarus, Czech Republic, and Israel, interviewed descendants, and found letters, photos, and sketches made by family members during the Holocaust, Cassell wrote the devastating true story of The Unanswered Letter.
"Alfred and Hedwig Berger had been ordinary people, like most of humanity--like me. They were important because they were human. ... This dramatic letter had drawn me irresistibly and haunted me with questions that reverberated through my life. I hoped to understand, at least a little, how divisions that separate people could grow to Holocaust dimensions."
This is a such a compelling story. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of another favorite nonfiction read: The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million by Daniel Mendelsohn. Both are amazing books and well worth reading!