Public Notes


Recent Activity

  • A. shared from The Cases That Haunt Us by John E. Douglas, Mark Olshaker
    This is important because Lizzie explained the spot as a flea bite, a euphemism at the time for menstrual blood, which was not discussed in polite society, even when speaking with the police.
    Note: Ladies in polite society would rather you think they have fleas than that they have their period.
  • A. shared from The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb
    She’d gotten herself pregnant, see?
    Note: How on earth did she do that?! Some talent.
  • A. shared from Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman
    And then Mr Croup fell upon him, all teeth and talons and little blades;
    Note: eeeek!
  • A. shared from The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes
    Remorse, etymologically, is the action of biting again: that’s what the feeling does to you.
    Note: Oh, clever.
  • A. shared from Letter To A Christian Nation by Sam Harris
    The core of science is not controlled experiment or mathematical modeling; it is intellectual honesty. It is time we acknowledged a basic feature of human discourse: when considering the truth of a proposition, one is either engaged in an honest appraisal of the evidence and logical arguments, or one isn’t. Religion is the one area of our lives where people imagine that some other standard of intellectual integrity applies.
    Note: So true.
  • A. shared from Full Dark, No Stars by Stephen King
    She googled Ramona Norville, got forty-four thousand hits,
    Note: Wait, like 30 seconds later she's googling. Maybe she realized how rubbish Bing is.
  • A. shared from Full Dark, No Stars by Stephen King
    Tess exited YouTube, Binged Richard Widmark, and found what she expected, given the power of that brief clip.
    Note: Is Stephen King really trying to help make "to Bing" happen? Misguided.
  • A. shared from Blood Meridian (Picador Books) by Cormac McCarthy
    ALREADY IT IS twilight down in the Laredito. Bats fly forth from their roostings in courthouse and tower and circle the quarter. The air is full of the smell of burning charcoal. Children and dogs squat by the mud stoops and gamecocks flap and settle in the branches of the fruit trees. They go afoot, these comrades, down along a bare adobe wall. Band music carries dimly from the square. They pass a watercart in the street and they pass a hole in the wall where by the light of a small forgefire an old man beats out shapes of metal. They pass in a doorway a young girl whose beauty becomes the flowers...
    Note: This is what the sort of thing I'm talking about when I swoon over Cormac McCarthy.
(London, UK)
A. M. Belsey