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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
Fifth-grade sleuthing ftw.
Written on: Friday, January 15, 2010
Time: 9:54 PM


This, and two other books: The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Valley of Fear. I am approximately into a third of A Study in Scarlet, the book remains in a paper bag when unused and carefully handled when otherwise but already there are noticable creases in the spine, an inevitable occurrence from the leisurely activity known most commonly as reading. I would be delighted if someone presented me with an iRiver ebook-reader, but it would be so unnatural, for I'd rather have the familiar sound of rustling pages, the smell of inks and paper that come coupled with this activity, and not the light emanating from the screen and scrolling of pages my head is unaccustomed with. I limit these to unpublished works (a la fanfiction or online prose) for I think the most noteworthy, memorable moments come from flipping and reading from a tangible page.

Today was made for old, remembered and cherish novels, books with familiar names but their content is beyond my memory. Perhaps I have not read them at all. This is true for the Sherlock Holmes series; though with a regretful note I remember The Three Investigators: The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot whereby it had been part of a clue yet, being only a child of six at that time, couldn't see the merits of getting to know a new series. Today marked a new chapter of book-reading history, wherein I found what has drawn me to the detective novel again after all these years of chasing after serial killer stories and finding little to entertain myself with. The essence of a detective story I believe lies in its astute observations and cutting wit, which A Study in Scarlet has exemplified beautifully. I cannot go on without noting the writing style, which is obviously old as compared to our modern crime thrillers (written in 'casual' English, if I may use it as such, for as it describes and carries the plot twists and creases through little poetic beauty can be found in itself). Scarlet, however, retains that contemplative pause, that flourish at the side to allow language to display itself as an art form rather than simply a means of communication and conveyance, while keeping its course and going further still into the heart of the mystery. Sherlock Holmes is, of course, enigmatic, quick-witted, astoundingly observant and interesting, to which the only regret being that this isn't a biography but rather a novel. The human race would be honoured to have such a talented man.

I have visited the exhibition for The Last Meal, or so I believe it is called. (I have a tendency to ignore signboards.) Frankly I don't know what to make of it, except to label it as rather interesting art. You see, I never had an eye for art, although it would be nice to have one.







How does it feel to die empty?

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