Cotton Mather called a desolation of names."The individuals involved are too often reduced to stock characters and stereotypes when accuracy is sacrificed to indignation. By the end of the trials, beyond the twenty who were executed and the five who perished in prison, 207 individuals had been accused, 74 had been afflicted," 32 had officially accused their fellow neighbours, and 255 ordinary people had been inexorably drawn into that ruinous and murderous vortex, and this doesn't include the religious, judicial, and governmental leaders. Six Women of Salem is the first work to use the lives of a select number of representative women as a microcosm to illuminate the larger crisis of the Salem witch trials.
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In Hole in My Life, this prizewinning author of over thirty books for young people confronts the period of struggle and confinement that marked the end of his own youth. For his part in the conspiracy, Gantos was sentenced to serve up to six years in prison. For ten thousand dollars, he recklessly agreed to help sail a sixty-foot yacht loaded with a ton of hashish from the Virgin Islands to New York City, where he and his partners sold the drug until federal agents caught up with them. In the summer of 1971, Jack Gantos was an aspiring writer looking for adventure, cash for college tuition, and a way out of a dead-end job. From the Newbery Award–winning author of Dead End in Norvelt, this is a memoir about becoming a writer the hard way. Two of my favourite artists are taylor swift and conan gray, but I also love a lot of random songs. Ukulele and guitar (still figuring these out ✌), along which comes my horrible singing/screeching. Let the Sky Fall Availability: Available to order, ships in 7-10 business days Loyalty: 0.80 Boomerang Bucks Shipping: 9.99 (Australia) Customers Also. Writing poems//stories//songs, and blogging (obviously?) about my many obsessions. but also there's a LOT of books/series I love and have had obsession phases of.ĭrawing fanart and dragons (I'm also still in that realistic-eyes-everywhere phase. right now, my main fandoms are kotlc, six of crows, marvel, the osemanverse. Obsessing over books and fictional characters to an unhealthy extent. It'll probably mostly feel like I'm either five, or eighty, though. Hello! I'm rat/ray/rayns/georgie/rubert, although I suppose my real name is Rayna. A few magazine editors were the only ones who knew that he was talented.” Speaking of Conan Doyle’s initial anonymity, Boström elaborates, “People just hadn’t heard of him. Boström is the author of the 2017 historical book, From Holmes to Sherlock, which chronicles the behind-the-scenes machinations of the original stories and novels, as well as every adaptation that followed. “He was practically unknown,” Mattias Boström tells Inverse. Just like Holmes would occasionally don an array of quirky disguises, the great detective’s creator had written other non-Holmes short stories anonymously. The first Sherlock Holmes was, for Doyle, a financial bust.īefore he went public with Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle had been hiding out for years. But, 130 years ago, the author of this great adventure - Arthur Conan Doyle - discovered he wasn’t going to make any money from this silly detective fiction stuff. John Watson (spoiler alert: it’s all because Watson needed a roommate) was depicted in the short novel A Study in Scarlet. The iconic origin story of Sherlock Holmes and his biographer Dr. But, fittingly, figuring out the exact publication date of A Study in Scarlet, creates a mystery worthy of Holmes himself. Normally, an anniversary of this stature would have a definitive, clear date attached to it. Today, November 21, is the 130th anniversary of the very first public appearance of the quippy detective known as Sherlock Holmes. Oh, it wasn’t fine-tuned or finished by any means. (Okay, okay, it was orthopedic plaster, but to my way of thinking it was more like the mob had a vendetta against me and had prepared me to sleep with the fishes, but for some reason hadn’t thrown me in but simply abandoned me on the roadside instead.) Anyway, the day they put me in the cast was the day I started the novel, and, coincidentally, about a hundred days later, the day they took me out of that imprisonment was the day I wrote “The End” on that tale. And so, for some ten to fifteen hours a day seven days a week, I ran, swam, rode horses, fought battles, cried over deaths of loved ones, and helped the Dwarves regain their lost homeland, all while confined in a cement block. My arms would get tired and I would rest and think about what came next in the tale and then repeat the vertical exercise-write, rest and think, and then write again (rather like rinse and repeat over and over again). Since I was flat on my back as stiff as a board, I held the tablets up and wrote more or less overhead. My lovely wife got me a large batch of yellow legal-sized tablets and lots of sharpened pencils. You see, I needed something to keep me sane while I spent the next few months in a cement block. The day they put me into a cast that went from my armpits to over my toes was the day I began a novel. My writing career began in 1977 when I got run over by a car-it shattered my left femur into about fifty pieces. The arrival of a handsome stranger, suspicions of murder, and the threat of harm might spell the end of more than just their relationship.” The road to fulfillment becomes increasingly obscured, and internal doubts and external events spiral out of control. Their friendship grows into more as Peter continues to visit the bakery, but their increasing intimacy does not go unnoticed. Gaston, less bold than Peter, is drawn to Peter as well but fearful of the loss of family esteem-particularly the respect of his cousin Mario, who looks up to Gaston. While on a vacation with his widowed mother, Peter is smitten by Gaston, a handsome local baker. Yet Peter, an American university student struggling with self-doubt following a failed love affair, is determined never to be hurt again. “Nature’s call of desire among golden fields and intoxicating red-lipped poppies seems to proclaim a path to love and healing in southern France. I don’t think I was old enough or experienced enough to understand the absurdity of the entire situation as he moves through his days, unconcerned by major life decisions. I remember reading The Stranger for the first time and being surprised by Meursault’s bluntness. There’s the death of his mother, but he also experiences violence, what should’ve been, or could’ve been, love, happiness, and grief, all alongside freedom and imprisonment. We encounter him as he deals with some of life’s major changes and curveballs. He goes on a condensed journey through The Stranger. Who is this person that speaks so frivolously about the death of their own mother? What is the rest of their life like? It is this line that draws you in and makes you want to know more. Camus’ opening line, declaring from the first-person perspective that the speaker isn’t sure whether or not his mother died today or yesterday, is quite memorable. The story opens with Meursault receiving the news that his mother, who he put into an old age home, has died. Let us begin with the admission that queer longing is still a thing, everywhere from Portrait to TikTok, and talk about why it emerges, and why (or whether) we still need it, what it illuminates, and what it misses, and what extra dimensional portals it creates. Let us now take a brief screen break from Portrait of a Lady on Fire to consider this specter of longing in queer fiction this well of loneliness from which you suddenly see the stars, this pewpewpew laser battle of queer stares and hints, of “You left your gloves” and “No way does she see me.” This slow pin wheeling arm-reel from the double patriarchal uppercut to queer girlhood: “I am not meant to have desires” & “This desire doesn’t exist,” from which we so often crash land on the next set of cheekbones or eyes or hips and have to text our friends I’m lost, go on without me. 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