OK, now I've even run out of pretty springtime photographs and I'm still feeling cotton-headed, so I'm going to call in one of my Get Out of Blogathon Jail Free markers. It's an old meme that recently resurrected on one of my favorite bookish blogs, pages turned. I'm not even going to go as far as the bookshelf -- our kitchen table tends to end up being kind of a staging area for books recently purchased, recently read, and recently pulled off the shelf for one reason or another, so I'm just going to pick what's physically closest:
1. Take five (random!) books off your bookshelf.
2. Book #1 -- first sentence
3. Book #2 -- last sentence on page fifty
4. Book #3 -- second sentence on page one hundred
5. Book #4 -- next to the last sentence on page one hundred fifty
6. Book #5 -- final sentence of the book
7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph:
One fine evening the no less fine office manager Ivan Dmitrich Cherviakov was sitting in the second row of the stalls, watching The Bells of Corneville through opera glasses. Sometimes -- an idle but anguishing sport of the mind -- he told himself he was the victim of some practical joke on the scale of the universe of which everybody and everything, from the stars and the Manger to the pipe-cleaners, tooth-soap and bootlaces fringing his existence, were linked in furtive enjoyment. I hear myself or someone else saying things like: "In my opinion the Russian people are a great people, but--" or "Yes, what you say about the hypocrisy of the North is unquestionably true. However --" and I think to myself: this is death. I went back to the low-pitchd tent in the shelter of a dune, lay down beside Sergeant Hamano and closed my eyes. Sammy slung in the bag and stepped inside then the door slammed shut and that was him, out of sight.How weird is it that the first two sentences have a manager in them? Totally random, I swear. [Just reread this and realized that's not true -- one is "manager" and one is "Manger." I'd better go home and check that one out.] The story from the Love Stories collection that the last sentence on page 50 comes from is Elizabeth Bowen's "Dead Mabelle."
OK, that's all for tonight. Someone else post some.
And all right, one cat photo because I never tire of how cute these little bastards are.