These journal entries comprise two volumes of selections (Vol. I, 1973-1982, Vol. II, 1983-2003). Volume I includes an Introduction and some biographical memories. As Stephane Mallarme considered literature the antithesis of journalism, a journal is often the antithesis of a diary. It is of less interest to record moods and events, or barriers to self-realization, than to have ideas and insights about these. As a journal-keeper, I am generally disinterested in diurnal details, unless these form the compost of deeper exploration or revelation, seeking insight into my condition, not simply its description. A journal, therefore, is often more complex and difficult than a diary, far less personal in depictions of daily fortune, using everyday experiences as a stepstool (at the least) to peer beyond the walls of psychological enclosure. I did not choose the journal form to mask the personal, to belittle or avoid it, but to reflect my most intimate assessment of the personal as contributing to something greater: comprehension. It is not enough merely to record the frustrations, joys or barriers of living, without appraising these for what they represent and suggest, where we learn not merely reiterate. The ideal criteria of selection and discrimination apply not only to ones journal, but to life as well, adding a mythological drama and perspective that immersion alone does not permit. In some ways, journalizing is similar in impulse to the pastoral ethos or motif familiar in contemplative writing from Virgil to Thoreau: one withdraws from active society, toward natural or rural settings, in search of some form of respite, then returns to tell of their discoveries. Some critics have seen this as the organizing design of most North American fables--in fact, as the American mythology, seeking to heal the serious schism between our natural psyche and its more devastated environment; that is, a search for a middle ground (or via media) between the primitive and the technologically complex. This volume of journal selections resembles that motif, focusing on the withdrawal phase of a generally recuperative metaphysical cycle. Such solitude is intentional, a critical phase in the live/withdraw/live-again cycle of spiritual refreshment. A recuperative isolation can be experienced daily, if one is discriminating in how their time is spent, but is usually gained more intensely over long, purposefully reclusive periods. The motivations for my withdrawal were several, perhaps the strongest a propensity (as described of another Irish writer) for being nearly overcome by the variety of life. If not overcome, certainly fatigued by events in and of themselves. A reflective silence seemed essential to examine the roots of this propensity. An ideal of pure time, free of most distractions (human or otherwise), was also necessary for writing of the sort that interested me, the personally contemplative or mystical. Only through such reflection could I ever achieve a meaningful connection with the more active life that surrounded me. The predominant experience of solitude--especially in a society where the value of withdrawal is suspect or sporadic--is the figurative isolation one experiences throughout the entire cycle of withdrawal and re-emergence. It is generally difficult for lovers of action to comprehend this attraction to non-doing. One of the aims of solitude is to reunite philosophy and religion, or rather philosophy and awe, to not accept the social impoverishment of these universal needs for knowledge and worship. The asceticism of retreat was not solely the traditional and philosophical appeal of simplicity, but the freedom from income-producing and time-consuming work it permitted. For the solitary, however, an ideal of pure time must be united with an ideal of intimate association, if the mystical quest is to be emotionally as well a
This book is the third volume of journal selections (2007-2011). Volume I included an Introduction and some biographical memories. As with the previous two volumes, the major events of life claim little diaristic attention, the overlooked or insignificant habitually capturing the author's attention. Most journals or notebooks of eminent writers conclude with their relative youth, when they pick up the pen to create an imaginative retrospective journey, so there is little available of aging journal-keepers describing the downward journey. Those who maintained journals intime, or other forms of introspective writing, were rarely long lived, so there is little available of the aging journal-keeper describing the downward journey. Added to this is the paucity of proximal contemporaries who share or admit to the narrowing path, seeking instead the rejuvenations of youth. "I unavoidably focus on the early twilight of this narrowing journey, lead me where it shall." Those interested in a more event-filled diary will find scant reportage in these pages.
These journal entries comprise two volumes of selections (Vol. I, 1973-1982, Vol. II, 1983-2003). Volume I includes an Introduction and some biographical memories. As Stephane Mallarme considered literature the antithesis of journalism, a journal is often the antithesis of a diary. It is of less interest to record moods and events, or barriers to self-realization, than to have ideas and insights about these. As a journal-keeper, I am generally disinterested in diurnal details, unless these form the compost of deeper exploration or revelation, seeking insight into my condition, not simply its description. A journal, therefore, is often more complex and difficult than a diary, far less personal in depictions of daily fortune, using everyday experiences as a stepstool (at the least) to peer beyond the walls of psychological enclosure. I did not choose the journal form to mask the personal, to belittle or avoid it, but to reflect my most intimate assessment of the personal as contributing to something greater: comprehension. It is not enough merely to record the frustrations, joys or barriers of living, without appraising these for what they represent and suggest, where we learn not merely reiterate. The ideal criteria of selection and discrimination apply not only to one ́s journal, but to life as well, adding a mythological drama and perspective that immersion alone does not permit. In some ways, journalizing is similar in impulse to the pastoral ethos or motif familiar in contemplative writing from Virgil to Thoreau: one withdraws from active society, toward natural or rural settings, in search of some form of respite, then returns to tell of their discoveries. Some critics have seen this as the organizing design of most North American fables--in fact, as the American mythology, seeking to heal the serious schism between our natural psyche and its more devastated environment; that is, a search for a middle ground (or via media) between the primitive and the technologically complex. This volume of journal selections resembles that motif, focusing on the withdrawal phase of a generally recuperative metaphysical cycle. Such solitude is intentional, a critical phase in the live/withdraw/live-again cycle of spiritual refreshment. A recuperative isolation can be experienced daily, if one is discriminating in how their time is spent, but is usually gained more intensely over long, purposefully reclusive periods. The motivations for my withdrawal were several, perhaps the strongest a propensity (as described of another Irish writer) for being nearly overcome by the variety of life. If not overcome, certainly fatigued by events in and of themselves. A reflective silence seemed essential to examine the roots of this propensity. An ideal of pure time, free of most distractions (human or otherwise), was also necessary for writing of the sort that interested me, the personally contemplative or mystical. Only through such reflection could I ever achieve a meaningful connection with the more active life that surrounded me. The predominant experience of solitude--especially in a society where the value of withdrawal is suspect or sporadic--is the figurative isolation one experiences throughout the entire cycle of withdrawal and re-emergence. It is generally difficult for lovers of action to comprehend this attraction to non-doing. One of the aims of solitude is to reunite philosophy and religion, or rather philosophy and awe, to not accept the social impoverishment of these universal needs for knowledge and worship. The asceticism of retreat was not solely the traditional and philosophical appeal of simplicity, but the freedom from income-producing and time-consuming work it permitted. For the solitary, however, an ideal of pure time must be united with an ideal of intimate association, if the mystical quest is to be emotionally as wel
DON’T LOOK At first, they struggle to escape. Then a torrent of blows rains down upon their bodies until their eyes cloud over in final agony. The killer shows no remorse—just a twisted need to witness each victim’s last terrified moments. DON’T SPEAK Public defender Rachel Wainwright is struggling to reopen a decades-old case, convinced that the wrong man is in prison. Homicide detective Deke Morgan doesn’t want to agree. But if Rachel’s hunch is correct, whoever fatally bludgeoned young, beautiful Annie Dawson thirty years ago could be the source of a new string of brutal slayings. JUST PREPARE TO DIE Rachel’s investigation is about to reveal answers—but at a price she never thought to pay. Now she’s become the target of a rage honed by years of jealousy and madness. And a murderer is ready to show her just how vicious the truth can be . . .
Mary Kelly's Post-Partum Document, one of this century's most significant and influential artistic statements on identity, represents the ultimate merging of feminism and minimalist performativity. . . . It is an extraordinary work that is viscerally experienced rather than statically received."--Maurice Berger, New School for Social Research
This book is the fourth volume of journal selections (2012-2017). Volume I, Lovely, Lonely Life: A Womans Village Journal, 1973-1982, includes an Introduction (From Where I Now Sit) and some biographical memories (Memories of a Forgotten Life). Volume II, Lovely, Lonely Life: A Womans Village Journal, 1983-2003), and Volume III, Evening Twilight: A Womans Village Journal, 2007-2011. As throughout the previous journals, the major events of life claim little diaristic attention, but more the introspective focus of a journal, intime (French for intimate or cozy). Any coziness or warmth is more evident in "cozy's" Scandinavian origin, as the bulk of these journals were written in winter. Readers more interested in an event-filled diary will find scant reportage in these volumes.
Kelly and Carl dream of achieving success in the music business. Haj dreams of being a teacher. C.W. dreams of surmounting his physical handicap. Linda dreams of helping others heal their souls. Trevor dreams of a happy marriage. More than one is willing to kill to achieve their dream. Jason Vogel dreams of emulating his private eye heroes while filling his life with excitement, danger, and good deeds. Instead, he is stuck behind a computer searching for missing kids. When he is discovered standing over the body of a woman he has dreamed of loving, his dreams change to hopes that Detective Mike Ceretzke will look for another suspect. However, as the bodies pile up, the evidence against him grows stronger. Undeterred by threats of being fired or arrested if he persists with his bungling investigation, Jason uses the skills he gathered at the Canadian First P.I. School to find the real killer.
A collection of romantic stories, in which two long-lost lovers meet in a rush of remembered passion, a headstrong young woman meets a gorgeous but unpredictable Texan, and a career woman allows herself one last business trip with the boss she secretly loves.
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