The Post -TPN Movie Review

Whilst there are better films in the genre i am intrigued enough to see it -
the latest TPN MOvie review of the film The Post

"The fault is not in the stars it is in ourselves."

Faversham Literature Festival

Another great night of sleep.That bed is so comfy. It is sunny but cold - around four degrees C - chilly!

Popping into town for the first Faversham literature weekend and today is the last day.

Author and historian Amy Licence is talking about women;s lives in the medieval and early modern perid, and in particular,Ann Boleyn..Should be a good talk.

Amy At The Limes

The Amy Licence discussion of Anne Boleyn was fascinating  and afterward there were copies of her book for sale, But ar £25 i hinki shall wait for the paperback version.

​Amy Licence is a journalist, author, historian and teacher, currently living in Canterbury, Kent, UK. Her particular interest lies in the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, in gender relations, queenship and identity, rites of passage, sex, pilgrimage, female orthodoxy and rebellion, superstition, magic, fertility and childbirth. Other interests include the Bloomsbury Group and Modernism, specifically the Post-Impressionists and Cubism. Amy's favourite authors are Woolf, Plath, Zola, T.S.Eliot, Nabokov and Dostoevsky. She is also an admirer of Mozart and Picasso, the Renaissance and the Baroque.

I might buy the book via Amazon.




The discussuion took place atThe Limes in Faversham.

Just Wondering

Was there something you really needed to get done this weekend?

Did you get to it?

If no, what stopped you?

If yes, was it as much of a problem as you thought it could have been.

Poems Of The Week

Two poems about memory


Forgetfulness

Poem by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.


Memory

by Oliver Goldsmith


O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe:
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.