That random book meme I love so well
* Grab the nearest book.
* Open the book to page 56.
* Find the fifth sentence.
* Post the text of the next two to five sentences in your journal along with these instructions.
* Don't dig for your favorite book, the cool book, or the intellectual one: pick the CLOSEST.
(If the novelist is in tune with this spirit, if he believes that actions are predetermined by psychic makeup or the economic situation or some other determinable factor, then he will be concerned above all with an accurate reproduction of the things that most immediately concern man, with the natural forces that he feels control his destiny.) Such a writer may produce a great tragic naturalism, for by his responsibility to the things he sees, he may transcend the limitations of his narrow vision.
On the other hand, if the writer believes that our life is and will remain essentially mysterious, if he looks upon us as beings existing in a created order to whose laws we freely respond, then what he sees on the surface will be of interest to him only as he can go through it into an experience of mystery itself. His kind of fiction will always be pushing its own limits outward towards the limits of mystery, because for this kind of writer, the meaning of a story does not begin except at a depth where adequate motivation and adequate psychology and the various determinations have been exhausted. Such a writer will be interested in what we don't understand rather than in what we do. He will be interested in possibility rather than in probability. He will be interested in characters who are forced out to meet evil and grace and who act on a trust beyond themselves -- whether they know very clearly what it is they act upon or not. To the modern mind, this kind of character, and his creator, are typical Don Quixotes, tilting at what is not there.
The Riverside Anthology of Literature, 3rd Edition edited by Douglas Hunt
"On Pushing Outward Toward Mystery" by Flannery O'Connor, included as an observation on Nathaniel Hawthorne's turning away from literary realism to focus on "romances" that present "the truth of the human heart".
Um, I think that's about six sentences. They're long ones.
Because what appeared on page 56 was just too funny not to share. Horrors! A trashy novel! This is, quite honestly, the raciest scene in the entire book. It's an old Regency. And it's not even that old; it's just that books have changed a lot in the past 20 years or so.
(She went on banging her fists against his chest, and was about to give up in despair when he suddenly pulled her down on top of him and kissed her full on the mouth, sleepily at first, then with increasing awareness as he woke up.) His hand slid up to cup and squeeze her breast, and the effect was so very pleasant that she was too startled to resist.
After a few moments, he brought the kiss to a gentle conclusion, removed his hand, and said, "Dorcas?" in a questioning tone.
"It's--it's stopped snowing," she said in a very unsteady voice.
"Where the hell are we?" He heaved himself up on one elbow and looked about him, and then apparently recovered his memory, for he answered himself with, "Oh, yes, the gentle, temperate climate of England! Of course! Isn't it about time Jem arrived to rescue us?"
Indeed, Sir Richard, isn't time for you to be rescued from this blizzard -- this blizzard of love?
The Cockermouth Mail by Dinah Dean, published 1982
I really had to reach to find a fiction book for this meme. For some reason, I have an enormous stack of nonfiction by my desk right now -- the lit anthology, a book about perceptions of the penis in Western history, a cookbook, The History of Sexuality edited by Stephen Garton, and A Death in Texas by Dinah Temple-Raston. And then a giant box of paperbacks, waiting to be sorted through. The Cockermouth Mail was on top.
* Open the book to page 56.
* Find the fifth sentence.
* Post the text of the next two to five sentences in your journal along with these instructions.
* Don't dig for your favorite book, the cool book, or the intellectual one: pick the CLOSEST.
(If the novelist is in tune with this spirit, if he believes that actions are predetermined by psychic makeup or the economic situation or some other determinable factor, then he will be concerned above all with an accurate reproduction of the things that most immediately concern man, with the natural forces that he feels control his destiny.) Such a writer may produce a great tragic naturalism, for by his responsibility to the things he sees, he may transcend the limitations of his narrow vision.
On the other hand, if the writer believes that our life is and will remain essentially mysterious, if he looks upon us as beings existing in a created order to whose laws we freely respond, then what he sees on the surface will be of interest to him only as he can go through it into an experience of mystery itself. His kind of fiction will always be pushing its own limits outward towards the limits of mystery, because for this kind of writer, the meaning of a story does not begin except at a depth where adequate motivation and adequate psychology and the various determinations have been exhausted. Such a writer will be interested in what we don't understand rather than in what we do. He will be interested in possibility rather than in probability. He will be interested in characters who are forced out to meet evil and grace and who act on a trust beyond themselves -- whether they know very clearly what it is they act upon or not. To the modern mind, this kind of character, and his creator, are typical Don Quixotes, tilting at what is not there.
The Riverside Anthology of Literature, 3rd Edition edited by Douglas Hunt
"On Pushing Outward Toward Mystery" by Flannery O'Connor, included as an observation on Nathaniel Hawthorne's turning away from literary realism to focus on "romances" that present "the truth of the human heart".
Um, I think that's about six sentences. They're long ones.
Because what appeared on page 56 was just too funny not to share. Horrors! A trashy novel! This is, quite honestly, the raciest scene in the entire book. It's an old Regency. And it's not even that old; it's just that books have changed a lot in the past 20 years or so.
(She went on banging her fists against his chest, and was about to give up in despair when he suddenly pulled her down on top of him and kissed her full on the mouth, sleepily at first, then with increasing awareness as he woke up.) His hand slid up to cup and squeeze her breast, and the effect was so very pleasant that she was too startled to resist.
After a few moments, he brought the kiss to a gentle conclusion, removed his hand, and said, "Dorcas?" in a questioning tone.
"It's--it's stopped snowing," she said in a very unsteady voice.
"Where the hell are we?" He heaved himself up on one elbow and looked about him, and then apparently recovered his memory, for he answered himself with, "Oh, yes, the gentle, temperate climate of England! Of course! Isn't it about time Jem arrived to rescue us?"
Indeed, Sir Richard, isn't time for you to be rescued from this blizzard -- this blizzard of love?
The Cockermouth Mail by Dinah Dean, published 1982
I really had to reach to find a fiction book for this meme. For some reason, I have an enormous stack of nonfiction by my desk right now -- the lit anthology, a book about perceptions of the penis in Western history, a cookbook, The History of Sexuality edited by Stephen Garton, and A Death in Texas by Dinah Temple-Raston. And then a giant box of paperbacks, waiting to be sorted through. The Cockermouth Mail was on top.