Borgstrom "The few words knockout punch." Why? Because each sentence contains more than most people need a paragraph to say.
J. A. Tyler "The New School Humanist with ideas older than Adam and sentences that can only be termed "his."
Roxane "Busier than a whole nest of bees, and the queen of it all."
What do I do when I am bored or would like to read something engaging (not in the married sense)? I go to these sights and check out what they are checking out. It helps because they not only are authors, but by seeing what they like or dislike, I save myself time. For instance, Andrew says check out this movie (he is amazingly up to date on all good movies), it is worth checking out. Roxane says, Alec don't waste your time on banter with other bloggers....she saved me days of a diatribe. J.A. says, in his rejection (some rejections are more helpful than acceptances) "Certain sentences didn't fit our style." I knew the three sentences before I even reread the piece submitted. Of course, i wouldn't mind an amalgamation of the three to work for me as my critic, editor, and sometimes my pencil, but damn they are busy with other stuff. So for Borgstrom, and I know he will reciprocate or better yet, let me know of other writings I must have. I give him thanks for the Peter Bowler books. I have used then so much I need new copies, and wonder if there are more additions, and my recommendation for the wordsmith, if you haven't already. Read Agee's "Run Over." It's two pages, and please read "Blow up and Other Stories," and let me know what you think. I will then tell you what I thought......Pay attention to them all but especially Continuity of Parks......I've pasted it and will cite it to not get sued..............and a picture to show you his facial courage......
The Continuity of Parks
by Julio Cortázar
.pdf version (recommended)
HE HAD BEGUN TO READ THE NOVEL a few days before. He had put it aside because of some urgent business, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he allowed himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the drawing of characters. That afternoon, after writing a letter to his agent and discussing with the manager of his estate a matter of joint ownership, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, with his back to the door, which would otherwise have bothered him as an irritating possibility for intrusions, he let his left hand caress once and again the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. Without effort his memory retained the names and images of the protagonists; the illusion took hold of him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from all that surrounded him, and feeling at the same time that his head was relaxing comfortably against the green velvet of the armchair with its high back, that the cigarettes were still within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the afternoon air danced under the oak trees in the park. Word by word, immersed in the sordid dilemma of the hero and heroine, letting himself go toward where the images came together and took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to repeat the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest, and underneath pounded liberty, ready to spring. A lustful, yearning dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity. Even those caresses which writhed about the lover's body, as though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it, sketched abominably the figure of that other body it was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. From this hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded, double re-examination of the details was barely interrupted for a hand to caress a cheek. It was beginning to get dark.
Without looking at each other now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north. On the path leading in the opposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch her running with her hair let loose. He ran in turn, crouching among the trees and hedges until he could distinguish in the yellowish fog of dusk the avenue of trees leading up to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark, and they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour, and he was not. He went up the three porch steps and entered. Through the blood galloping in his ears came the woman's words: first a blue parlor, then a gallery, then a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first bedroom, no one in the second. The door of the salon, and then the knife in his hand, the light from the great windows, the high back of an armchair covered in green velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.
Translation: David Page ( I must admit a well read reviewer did say that English has yet to do justice to Cortazar: that being said, I am going to brush up on my Spanish and try it again, and Quixote.)
Original Spanish version: Continuidad de los parques