currently reading: tender is the night by f. scott fitzgerald
Think On These Things took me way longer than other books I normally read. This is probably because every sentence this guy writes makes you want to think for 10 days straight. And since i’ve read this quote by Henry Miller: “If I were reading a book and happened to strike a wonderful passage I would close the book then and there and go for a walk. I hated the thought of coming to the end of a good book. I would tease it along, delay the inevitable as long as possible, But always, when I hit a great passage, I would stop reading immediately. Out I would go, rain, hail, snow or ice, and chew the cud.” I’ve been trying to do so. So that’s why it took me a long time to finish the beautiful book by Krishnamurti.
I’m planning on reading more from him but I needed a break, a novel so I could dwell into a dream world for a bit, before working on myself again. So I decided to read Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, mostly because I absolutley loved everything about The Great Gatsby. I hated that I had to finish that book. But also because I’m highly interested in this story since the rumour goes this is actually the same book as Zelda Fitzgerald published around the same time called: Save Me The Waltz and that her husband “stole” her idea what drove her into the nut house. Since I cannot find the book anywhere I don’t know how correct that is. That’s why I thought I first started this book since it was way easier to find. I’m at chapter 7 now and I’m in love again. What a beautiful way of writing and what an interesting world he creates for himself or maybe he even lived in it? You can buy it here.
my writings: music in november
Here is an article I wrote for the Dutch website SSBA- Salon about the music I found in November.
poem: autumn daybreak by edna st. vincent millay
Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.