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Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. victorianweb.org/authors/arnold/writings/doverbeach

"Hello. My name is Brooklyn Wainwright and I am a book addict. It was Friday morning and I was on my way to the Covington Library to sniff out my personal version of crack cocaine: books. Old, rare, and beautiful." Kate Carlisle doesn't wait to feed the reader's addiction. Immediately, there is interesting trivia about books. The cozy is just as friendly as the beginning sentence where Brooklyn gives her name. The cozy is also very serious in tone. When a person is harrassed, he might do anything. The mind becomes very creative and imaginative.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fortepiano A fortepiano [ˌfɔrteˈpjaːno] is an early piano . In principle, the word " fortepiano " can designate any piano dating from the invention of the instrument by Bartolomeo Cristofori around 1700 up to the early 19th century. Most typically, however, it is used to refer to the late-18th to early-19th century instruments for which Haydn ... The Lost Memoirs Of Jane Austen by Syrie James "We found and hired the requisite help; my pianoforte arrived, along with a few other pieces of needed furniture; and we fell into a new routine." https://bermudaonion.net/

Any recommendations or information about Jane Austen? I'm in the mood to hear bits of gossip from friends and share a cup of tea or two. I'm in the mood for love in a Classical style. By the way, it's still National Poetry Month. I'm enjoying it more than ever. I've been entranced with the Harlem Renaissance which happened during the Twenties. Persia Walker is an author who can make you really feel that period and see it too through her mysteries. . https://www.pinterest.com/pin/522980575450068063/?lp=true

"I gave in to my curiosity about the house. The place was enormous. I'd read that it contained eighteen rooms. That included seven master bedrooms,a grand reception hall, a library, three salons and a formal dining room...The gavel fell just as I arrived and the auction began. The first item up was an exquisite pink diamond-and-ruby studded tiara and necklace set." http://persiawalker.com/biography/

We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.    famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/maya_angelou/poems/496

"In Africa," Mama Penny explained, "often the names we give our children stand for something. For example, my grandson's name is Rapala. It means 'pray.'" https://www.tyndale.com/p/beaded-hope/

All night an accelerating geometry of eyes—hundreds shaped like birds or boats or beetles, simplified to dots or crosses or a pair of 2s or mis- matched diamonds, perfect zeros, scoops of moon placed sidewise or lengthwise on a face, slipping out of orbit on a cheek, hung under an ear, planted mid-forehead, paper-thin planes of them, each one alive and staring from the dislocated faces of wives, lovers, mothers, serene and lopsided, splintered, wrenching, ravaged, a proliferating gallery of women, terraced in my head as I sleep, and my own curious eye: steering toward what it perceives, capturing exact duplicates of each stylized eye I run by, as I race to comprehend what I'm taking in, what expression I'd see if I raised the mirror to find my own eye, distorted and floating above an iron cheek. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58621/dreaming-of-picasso?utm_

Down by the Riverside         Ain't goin study war no more         Ain't goin study war no more         Ain't goin study war no more During the time Daddy was becoming Dad, the armies and armies of green plastic soldiers went on with their wars, my empire of the private grown. Walter Cronkite tallied each day's casualties, and my soldiers named themselves Americans or Viet Cong; they zipped themselves up in long full bags or lay about without their arms and legs. My soldiers bloodied themselves with our garden's mud, and they did so under orders from the eight-year-old sergeant whose father had not been home in months. And since I had not seen him, even in the crowds laughing at Bob Hope jokes, a new crowd each new place, I commanded that the Army needed chaplains more than sergeants, and the next Sunday I joined church, begged God to help me lay down burdens and bring Dad home; and that day I baptized each of my soldiers in large garden puddles, blessed

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"Villages are like people, we approach them slowly, a step of a time." --Jose' Saramago, Journey to Portugal

" "You would think it would be impossible to find anything new in the world, creatures no man has ever seen before, one-of-a-kind oddities in which nature has taken a backseat to the coursing pulse of the fantastical and the marvelous." https://www.rosecityreader.com/ I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the      beginning and the end. But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.  Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

" Every dead body is a book with a story to tell, each organ a chapter, the chapters united by a common narrative....It makes for a hard-headed kind of poetry...Always he comes upon death's handiwork just as death itself has turned the corner, its hem disappearing with a quiet swish."

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."                                                                                                       Hebrews 11:1                                                                                             "We turned off the TV without watching the rest of the news and I fell happily, safely, confidently asleep in strong, loving arms, where no crows, no witches, no visions could touch me."

Winner of the 2002 Man Booker Prize for Fiction Yann Martel, the son of diplomats, was born in Spain in 1963. He grew up in Costa Rica, France, Mexico, Alaska, and Canada and as an adult has spent time in Iran, Turkey, and India. After studying philosophy in college, he worked at various odd jobs until he began earning his living as a writer at the age of twenty-seven. He lives in Montreal.Amazon

"He hoped Mama's new friend would leave enough money to buy a few cans of Dinty Moore stew and Spam, maybe even some eggs and bread and milk."

"She was extremely human. There she was sitting up there at the table over capon, caviar and gleaming silver, eager to hear every word on every phase of life on a saw-mill "job." I must tell the tales, sing the songs, do the dances, and repeat the raucous sayings and doings of the Negro farthest down. She is altogether in sympathy with them, because she says truthfully they are utterly sincere in living."