Along the Road, by Robert Browning Hamilton
I walked a mile with Pleasure
William Butler Yeats @150
William Butler Yeats: Irish prose writer, dramatist and poet; Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. 1865-1939; compiled the Oxford Book of Modern Verse. My favourite Irish author would have been 150 years today. Ireland, myself included, celebrates a man so talented, his words still touches people today. Two years ago, and on my birthday, I visited Yeats’s grave in Drumcliffe, County Sligo, Ireland. Because he was one of my favourites since my teenage years, it was a bucket-list moment that was finally realized! I wished I was in Sligo this weekend, but I’m sure I will go back before too long, especially since his house, Thoor Ballylee, has finally been opened to the public, something many fans had been asking for a very long time.
Book lovers, unite!
"I love words, funky ones, cranky ones, utterly ridiculous ones as well as justified paragraphs, intense fonts and long sentences that shout for shortened versions. I’ve been living in Ireland for 12+ years now, and honey, we simply don’t do short sentences in Ireland. Ask Joyce, who once wrote something so flabbergastingly fantastic that he forgot to add punctuation, a sentence of 4,391 words, no less. Molly Bloom must’ve gasped for air once she finished dreaming or thinking it. I am still gasping for air after tackling Ulysses. Talk about kick ass literature."
The Valuable Time of Maturity
Upon the approach of the New Year, I would like to share with you a poem from renowned Brazilian poet Mário De Andrade called The Valuable Time of Maturity. “I counted my years and discovered that I have fewer years left to live compared to the time I have lived until now. I feel like a boy who won a package of treats. The first he eats with pleasure, but when he realizes that there are a few left, he then starts to contemplate upon them.
So many books, so little time!
Yesterday morning – rain, wind, a slight chill in the air – I walked totally wrecked and at snail pace towards the bookshop. Voucher in hand, lots of titles written down on paper just in case my memory checks out on me again. For a while now I had been looking at certain books, longing to buy them someday. That day came yesterday. Proud as a turkey and all dolled up, I went to Chapters in Dublin and kept pushing the elevator buttons to speed up to deliver me the second-hand part of the shop. As I left the elevator, right in front of my eyes stood Friedrich Nietzsche. He looked proud and dapper in a new jacket, and I had to agree he looked better than I did. I ran towards…
Worstward Ho, by Samuel Beckett
“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” (from Worstward Ho, 1983; Samuel Beckett 1906 – 1989) Irish Writer, best known for his play Waiting for Godot in 1952 and winning the Noble Prize Literature in 1969. ©Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2013. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Erin, by Thomas Moore
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies, Shining through sorrow’s stream, Saddening through pleasure’s beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise. Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, thy languid smile ne’er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow’s light, Thy various tints unite, And form in heaven’s sight One arch of peace! Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852) © Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2013
