la borsa

A woman's mind is as complex as the contents of her handbag; even when you get to the bottom of it, there is ALWAYS something at the bottom to surprise you!
Billy Connelly

la carica dei miniciccioli

Questa non è letteratura o arte , ma solo la piccola magia della vita
Questi due batuffolotti che vedete qui in foto, sono due dei miei miniciccioli ( 4 in tutto , nati il 27 gennaio , giornata della memoria )
 Si tratta di  Marmaduke ( se qualcuno indovina da dove ho pescato il nome è una grande ) ( Annalisa esclusa)
e Amelie.(Gli altri si chiamano JJ -James Joyce e Keats )
Sono i Bibliogatti!!!!!

Se Non Ora Quando.mov

If you ever feel like a plastic bag ........;)

capita a volte che mentre guidi e cerchi di tornare a casa, guida distratta e radio a tutto volume, siano le parole di una canzone, una di quelle canzonette della west coast, a farti sorridere e a ricordarti 
che dopo tutto ci sono anche le plastic bags , e che capita a tutti di sentirsi un pò così


che ognuna di voi, ogni volta che si senta drifted through the wind, like 
a plastic bag 
diventi  un firework che faccia Boom Boom 
shooting across the sky 




Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting throught the wind
Wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards
One blow from caving in

Do you ever feel already buried deep
Six feet under scream
But no one seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you
Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow

Maybe you're reason why all the doors are closed
So you could open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gonna leave 'em all in awe-awe-awe"


Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
It's always been inside of you, you, you
And now it's time to let it through

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gonna leave 'em all in awe-awe-awe

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon

IPAD is magic !!!

Questo è dedicato a Maria :)

Merry Xmas !!

Best wishes to all the Desperate Readers 

Peace and love 

Welcome Aboard

In attesa di organizzarci per presentare i materiali raccolti e tutte i percorsi di lettura che abbiamo segnalato
utilizzo il primo post di questo blog come reminder
infatti il tema del prossimo incontro
che si svolgerà a casa di Luciana entro la metà di Novembre

sarà

Il Treno

Buon lavoro !!!

Da Letters of Marque by R. Kipling

.....But before he had fully settled into his part or accustomed himself to saying, ‘Please take out this luggage,’ to the coolies at the stations, he saw from the train the Taj wrapped in the mists of the morning.......

As the Englishman leaned out of the carriage he saw first an opal-tinted cloud on the horizon, and, later, certain towers. The mists lay on the ground, so that the splendour seemed to be floating free of the earth; and the mists rose in the background, so that at no time could everything be seen clearly. Then as the train sped forward, and the mists shifted, and the sun shone upon the mists, the Taj took a hundred new shapes, each perfect and each beyond description. It was the Ivory Gate through which all good dreams come; it was the realisation of the gleaming halls of dawn that Tennyson sings of; it was veritably the ‘aspiration fixed,’ the ‘sigh made stone’ of a lesser poet; and over and above concrete comparisons, it seemed the embodiment of all things pure, all things holy, and all things unhappy. That was the mystery of the building. It may be that the mists wrought the witchery, and that the Taj seen in the dry sunlight is only, as guidebooks say, a noble structure. The Englishman could not tell, and has made a vow that he will never go nearer the spot, for fear of breaking the charm of the unearthly pavilions.
It may be, too, that each must view the Taj for himself with his own eyes, working out his own interpretation of the sight. It is certain that no man can in cold blood and colder ink set down his impressions if he has been in the least moved.
To the one who watched and wondered that November morning the thing seemed full of sorrow — the sorrow of the man who built it for the woman he loved, and the sorrow of the workmen who died in the building — used up like cattle. And in the face of this sorrow the Taj flushed in the sunlight and was beautiful, after the beauty of a woman who has done no wrong.
Here the train ran in under the walls of Agra Fort, and another train — of thought incoherent as that written above — came to an end. Let those who scoff at overmuch enthusiasm look at the Taj and thenceforward be dumb. It is well on the threshold of a journey to be taught reverence and awe.