This is the end of the year! So we're doing ENDREAD. Apocalypse! Doomsday! All that warm holiday cheer, just very warm. Like the fire of a nuclear explosion warm. It's all over, folks!
The face of Big Brother swam into his mind, displacing that of O'Brien . . . The face gazed up at him, heavy, calm, protecting: but what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache?
Yet more moustache reads! One of the great moustachio'd heroes of literature must be, of course, Dr. John H. Watson, of 221B Baker Street and accompanied by his arguably better known counterpart, Sherlock Holmes.
Imagine [him] at the desk sometimes, on the divan sometimes, sometimes in a chair in the farthest corner of the Cabinet room, more often on his feet — it may be anywhere within the four walls — the muscular, massive figure of Mr. Roosevelt. You know his features — the close-clipped brachycephalus head, close-clipped mustache, pince-nez, square and terribly rigid jaw.
We're doing something a little different today. With Halloween just tomorrow, we thought we'd give you less of a Where-to-Start, more of a read all these things! for the scary season. They're all available online for no charge, they're all short enough that you could get through the whole set in a night, and they're all spooky to varying degrees.
The hothouse atmosphere of invalid life was fecund indeed. Stoker’s interest in the theatre, in the gothic tradition, in the preternatural, can be traced back to these early years.
Philip K Dick (1928-1982) may just have been the most distinctive science fiction writer in history. Over the decades, his work dove into paranoid, ever shifting realities that explored the nature of identity and perception. He's also one of the most adapted writers in history. But where to begin?
The moment we were in the dark, I very naturally extended my arms to seize her whom I loved; but I only met with empty space, and I could not help laughing at the rapidity with which Angela had availed herself of the opportunity of escaping me. For one full hour I poured out all the tender, cheerful words that love inspired me with, to persuade her to come back to me; I could only suppose that it was a joke to tease me.
“She reported me to all the crowd, and said — ‘Here is a boy seven years old who can’t chaw tobacco.’ By the looks and comments which this produced, I realized that I was a degraded object; I was cruelly ashamed of myself.”