"I sit alone at last, and therefore with you, my dear Siegfried."
MY HOME LIBRARY:
A book with a character I fell in love with (requested by @camilla-macauley).
"When I’m among a blaze of lights,
With tawdry music and cigars
And women dawdling through delights,
And officers in cocktail bars,
Sometimes I think of garden nights
And elm trees nodding at the stars.
I dream of a small firelit room
With yellow candles burning straight,
And glowing pictures in the gloom,
And kindly books that hold me late.
Of things like these I choose to think
When I can never be alone:
Then someone says ‘Another drink?’
And turns my living heart to stone."
Holden Caulfield Thinks You’re A Phony
(But He Made You a Mixtape Anyway)
1. The Cure - Boys Don’t Cry | 2. Death Cab For Cutie - No Sunlight | 3. Get Set Go - I Hate Everyone | 4. The Smiths - The Boy With The Thorn In His Side | 5. Arctic Monkeys - Perhaps Vampire Is A Bit Strong But… | 6. Gary Jules & Michael Andrews - Mad World | 7. The Undertones - Teenage Kicks | 8. Green Day - Basket Case | 9. Franz Ferdinand - 40’ | 10. The Smiths - Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now | 11. Blur - This Is A Low | 12. The Shins - Caring Is Creepy | 13. Simon & Garfunkel - The Only Living Boy In New York | 14. The Stranglers - Golden Brown | Bonus Track: Jacob Blickander - Forever Young (Acoustic Cover)
MY HOME LIBRARY:
A book I would prescribe for an aspiring author (requested by @claireltravers).
"W’s death was an unhealed wound, & the ache of it has been with me ever since. I wanted him back - not his poetry"
J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis.
Tolkien: The unpayable debt that I owe to him was not influence but sheer encouragement. He was for long my only audience.
Lewis: If they won’t write the kinds of books we want to read, we shall have to write them ourselves.
"Art has been for me, when I did not deceive myself, a meager compensation for what I desire. I am bored with these frantic cravings, tired of them and therefore myself, and contemptuous, though tolerant, of all my vast powers of self-pity and self-expressive misery."
— Allen Ginsberg in a letter to Jack Kerouac, July 1945 (via rolled-together