Beautiful quilt, JennW! Of course, Eliana's grandbaby still wins the thread... It was the sheer strangeness of Stuart Little that fascinated me. Here was a children's book that was (as I learned to call it later) underdetermined. Stuart's not a mouse; but he's obviously a mouse. And there's never an explanation. He can talk to animals, but he's a young man, not an animal. There's another tiny woman in the world, but she doesn't look like a mouse, and there's no reason why she exists in the world of normal-sized people. And best of all, he never finds Margalo. When I first read it, I thought there must be a sequel; but no. Every time I read it - because I couldn't stop - I wondered, Why doesn't he find the da*n bird? Where's the end? And then one day, when I was about Middle Girl's age, it struck me almost like the roof caving in: because it's not the bird that he's looking for. And that was the beginning of Literature for me.

I downloaded the oldest (and IMO best) edition of My Book House off of Google Books some years back. It was tricky finding all the volumes - one I never could find - as Google Book's search engine is really terrible: it took searching under Miller, and Book House, and the names of individual volumes. But, gorgeous and free.

Stuart Little.

I'm with Pam; I can think of the books that have been transformational for me, a few of which changed the direction my life took, but really not books that created an evangelical zeal. I suppose the last books I tried hard to push on other people were War and Peace, and Housman's A Shropshire Lad. And Endo's Silence; that was the only book I suggested to my (now defunct) book club that anybody else in the club actually liked. Sometimes I feel all depressed how many of the books I've loved that other people can't abide. A few months ago there was even a whole fifteen-minutes hate on the Chat Board dedicated to the book I loved and re-read the most as a child. Sniff. Anyhow, here's a chunk from Boccaccio, wherein the monk Rustico educates the young aspirant Alibech in the most acceptable method of devotion: ------------------------------------------------ He began by giving her a long lecture on the great enmity that subsists between God and the Devil; after which he gave her to understand that, God having condemned the Devil to hell, to put him there was of all services the most acceptable to God. The girl asking him how it might be done, Rustico answered: 'Thou shalt know it in a trice; thou hast but to do that which thou seest me do.' Then, having divested himself of his scanty clothing, he threw himself stark naked on his knees, as if he would pray; whereby he caused the girl, who followed his example, to confront him in the same posture. E cosi stando, essendo Rustico piu che mai nel suo disiderio acceso per lo vederla cosi bella venne la resurrezione della carne, la quale reguardando Alibech e maravigliatasi, disse: --Rustico, quella cosa che e che io ti veggio che cosi si pigne in fuori, e non l' ho io? --O figliuola mia, disse Rustico, questo e il diavolo di che io t' ho parlato: e vedi tu? Ora egli mi da grandissima molestia, tanta che io appena la posso dofferire.

I read More's Utopia in 2013, so I'll just be smug over here in the corner. Well into volume 2 of The Decameron. I had to laugh when I got to the infamous Tenth Story of the Third Day; in my edition, the translator had left the explicit parts in Italian! Ah, how far our Fifty Shades of Gray world has traveled from those days. (In which direction, I'm not sure.) Anyhow my Latin and French, limited as they are, plus knowing the story, made it not too difficult to work through. A brief break while I read W. E. B. Du Bois' The Souls of Black Folk, which I'm supposed to discuss with Middle Girl later this year for American History, and is one of those books I could tell you much about but have never actually read. So fixing that now.

Not around here she shouldn't; she'd be burned to a crisp.

May the Lord be merciful to you and your family.

The programmer's wife asks him to pick up a loaf of bread at the store, and if there are eggs, get a dozen. The programmer comes back with twelve loaves of bread.

The bartender says, "We don't serve time travelers here." A time traveler walks into a bar.

Well if we're posting links.... Proofs that P http://home.sprynet.com/~owl1/proofs.htm

Confession #1: I've been doing zero reading this week. Dh is still away (he had to go teach a week-long class/ attend a conference in Barcelona, poor soul - with his best friend, who is also without his wife) and I am too exhausted and lonely to read. When I finally get the kids tucked in, I collapse in front of NetFlix and watch old tv reruns and try not to think about the empty bed. Confession #2. I love rhubarb. I've been doing really well on the no-s diet and now thanks to you ladies I am obsessing over rhubarb pie. Confessions #3-5: I've read Augustine's Confessions three times. I don't get the not-love....

Two women walk into a bar, discussing the Bechdel test.

At a meeting of the APA, an angel suddenly appears to the gathered philosophers. "As a reward for your distinguished services to the cause of wisdom," he says, "I will tell you the answer to any one philosophical problem you wish. Think a while; I will return in an hour." Then the angel disappears. The philosophers debate. What will they ask? Why is there something instead of nothing? Is there a God? Is there free will? Is knowledge the same as justified true belief? What about the Munchhausen Trilemma? Finally they arrive at a clever solution. An hour later the angel reappears. "What is your question?" The chosen spokesman steps forward and says, "O angel, here is our question. What," he asks smugly, "is the ordered pair, such that the first member is the best question we could possibly ask, and the second member is its answer?" "Well done!" cries the angel. "It is the ordered pair whose first member is the question you just asked, and whose second member is the answer I have just given." And he disappears.

Hurricane party at Jane's!! I'll bring some rum, anyone have lime and orange juice?

Yes, resurgent Scottish nationalism has combined with its youth culture in some surprising ways.

I think I never posted that I finished The Gowk Storm, by Nancy Brysson Morrison, last week. It's a little like Jane Austen set in 19th century Scotland, though published in 1933. Full of love and tragedy and the stark beauty of the Highlands as a recurring symbol. I read it while we were touring the Highlands last week, and our tour guide Andy pointed out that the girl in the cover picture looks just like Middle Girl. http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oV7yR_AknbY/SNovRCCys8I/AAAAAAAAD54/yLFlNUnPffA/s400/gowk.jpg One of my vivid memories of the trip will be our return to Edinburgh, with the kilted, indecipherable Andy, determined to get everyone back in time for their trains, flying the little tour bus down the twisty roads from Glen Coe at white-knuckle speeds, playing speed metal bagpipe music. I think we all thought we would die.

Very cute! Here is Ogo: http://www.stuffedark.com/images/penguinmorgan.jpg Except quite a bit more, er, loved.

Yes, we had it better than many travelers, what with being at home and not needing any of the clothes we packed (it being 35F warmer at home). The problem with packing essentials in carryon was that it was just me and the two younger children, and I had to carry on a cello. So I had to limit it to the most essential essentials that I could carry for three people in one bag. Toothbrushes, medications, child-entertainment for the transatlantic flight, and my purse were pretty much what I could manage. Israel and Nairobi sound like much harder going than our circumstances. My sympathies!

A very polite and quiet courier dropped off the suitcases apologetically at one o'clock this morning. Wee Girl woke to the sight of Ogo the Penguin, who assured her he had been making lots of friends with other misplaced stuffed animals at Heathrow Airport and so was not lonely. I am typing this on my iPad. I love you again, British Air! Don't ever do it again.

Actually yes, so no big loss there. But also some Galore Park books I ordered off Amazon UK, which I would rather like back.

How envious I am of you. The odd thing was, there were suitcases on the carousel, but they didn't belong to anyone on the flight; I assume they were some of the previous day's delayed bags. Well sure; how different can they be, what with just one vowel off? (Sorry Negin.) :) Fortunately, all the clothes were for Scottish weather, and won't be needed in central Texas for another seven months. Let's see if BA can manage that deadline. Yes, that sort of thing makes you lose your faith in human nature, doesn't it? How many bags do you suppose the thief has to rifle to find the right size? At least it's unlikely thieves will have absconded with Ogo.

I finished volume 1 of The Decameron on the airplane. Volume 2 was in my checked suitcase. :crying: See whiny post elsewhere on Chat Board. https://www.yahoo.com/travel/thousands-of-bags-go-missing-on-british-airways-flights-90363201007.html

Dear British Airways. It was wonderful while it lasted; but now it's all over. How I loved your friendly cabin crew! Their polite attentions! Their adorable accents! The clean airplanes! The customer service that made me nostalgic for The Way It Used To Be in America! And now I am on Day 3 back in the US, and my suitcases still at Terminal 5 in Heathrow. With thousands of other bags. And my iPad, so now I have to rev up the antique desktop. And Ogo the Penguin, whose absence makes Wee Girl cry a little every night at bedtime (yes, I know, but we were packing fast at the end). And now, even celebrities are affected. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2675316/Coleen-Rooney-claims-luggage-ransacked-en-route-Las-Vegas.html Oh, the humanity! P.S. I will forgive everything if you will only return my suitcases.

Continuing my When in Rome challenge, and needing a portable paperback for the next few days, Nancy Brysson Morrison's The Gowk Storm will be displacing the Decameron through Thursday. Must go pack....

For a lark I read a satirical novel by a very local writer, Last Lesson of the Afternoon by Christopher Rush. It had some good points but it was so deeply flawed, and in so many ways, as to leave me unable to recommend it. I post it here on a Saturday evening (my time) so that it can disappear with the week's thread. Back to Boccaccio.