NightsEpiphany
Bluelighter
Totally agree oddly enough BearLove. Why would anyone want to kill the bin Ladens? The worlds rubbish without him.
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What are you currently reading? v2
- Thread starter Marmalade
- Start date
Totally agree oddly enough BearLove. Why would anyone want to kill the bin Ladens? The worlds rubbish without him.
why would i mind?
nothing in particular really, had a list of books that came with my tablet, had nothing else better to do one night and i started reading. its made up of individual stories so to speak, like a friendly interview of sorts. i knew a bit (tiny bit) about him, so i said why not.
Pagey
Bluelight Crew
Currently reading Laurence Sterne's 'Tristram Shandy'. I'm 200 pages in and I've not got a single clue what it's about...about 50 pages in I randomly came across 5 pages in French (not a problem for me at least!), a bit later another 5 in Latin (more of a problem)...just the most wtf book I've ever layed hands on.
mydrugbuddy
Bluelighter
Clive Barker's Cabal. I can tell from the first 2-3 pages that I am going to like it. He is a fantastic writer for describing 'reality' and peoples characters and stuff, not so keen on the flights of fantasy aspects of his work, but that comes as part of the package.
what the film, which is awesome, and it might help you out with the book
Inflorescence
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Aug 11, 2013
- Messages
- 2,513
Just got stuck in to The Psychopath test by Jon Ronson. Half way through and it is brilliant!
soaring peace
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Oct 17, 2013
- Messages
- 66
oooh so theres a book thread ?
cool
Just off to have smoke then continue 'The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind' by JUlian Jaynes.
Only read the intro so far and finding it easy to read and quite poetic. I thought it was gunna be hard work because I couldnt remember ordering it and had to google 'Bicameral'
So far I have learnt a little about the mainstream theories on the origin of consciousness
and thats its ok to cut worms in half.
cool
Just off to have smoke then continue 'The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind' by JUlian Jaynes.
Only read the intro so far and finding it easy to read and quite poetic. I thought it was gunna be hard work because I couldnt remember ordering it and had to google 'Bicameral'
So far I have learnt a little about the mainstream theories on the origin of consciousness
and thats its ok to cut worms in half.
brimz
Bluelighter
Marmz you lovely woman just waht 2 say hi n can ya send me dat BIGPHARMA book plese ?
brimz
Bluelighter
cool as fuk love cherers i'm can't even tink of an adjective 4 it !!!
soaring peace
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Oct 17, 2013
- Messages
- 66
Its okaay.
Similar to other books that are about leftfield theories, the author makes what I see as assumptions early on. If you don't accept these assumptions the theory fails to convince.
I'll give the guy a chance though, clearly knows his shit.
NightsEpiphany
Bluelighter
I want to improve my grammar so was happy to purchase this today in the charity shop for £1.50.
I thought you could just paste an Amazon page but i'm having trouble with that. Heres the blurb:
'A witty, entertaining, impassioned guide to perfect punctuation, for everyone who cares about precise writing. Not a primer but a 'zero tolerance' manual for direct action. A panda walked into a cafe. He ordered a sandwich, ate it, then pulled out a gun and shot the waiter. 'Why?' groaned the injured man. The panda shrugged, tossed him a badly punctuated wildlife manual and walked out. And sure enough, when the waiter consulted the book, he found an explanation. 'Panda,' ran the entry for his assailant. 'Large black and white mammal native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.' We see signs in shops every day for "Banana's" and even "Gateaux's". Competition rules remind us: "The judges decision is final." Now, many punctuation guides already exist explaining the principles of the apostrophe; the comma; the semi-colon. These books do their job but somehow punctuation abuse does not diminish. Why? Because people who can't punctuate don't read those books! Of course they don't! They laugh at books like those! Eats, Shoots and Leaves adopts a more militant approach and attempts to recruit an army of punctuation vigilantes: send letters back with the punctuation corrected. Do not accept sloppy emails. Climb ladders at dead of night with a pot of paint to remove the redundant apostrophe in "Video's sold here".'
*dharmabum*
Bluelighter
(I have an essay deadline looming... :D)
mydrugbuddy
Bluelighter
I want to improve my grammar so was happy to purchase this today in the charity shop for £1.50.
I thought you could just paste an Amazon page but i'm having trouble with that. Heres the blurb:
'A witty, entertaining, impassioned guide to perfect punctuation, for everyone who cares about precise writing. Not a primer but a 'zero tolerance' manual for direct action. A panda walked into a cafe. He ordered a sandwich, ate it, then pulled out a gun and shot the waiter. 'Why?' groaned the injured man. The panda shrugged, tossed him a badly punctuated wildlife manual and walked out. And sure enough, when the waiter consulted the book, he found an explanation. 'Panda,' ran the entry for his assailant. 'Large black and white mammal native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.' We see signs in shops every day for "Banana's" and even "Gateaux's". Competition rules remind us: "The judges decision is final." Now, many punctuation guides already exist explaining the principles of the apostrophe; the comma; the semi-colon. These books do their job but somehow punctuation abuse does not diminish. Why? Because people who can't punctuate don't read those books! Of course they don't! They laugh at books like those! Eats, Shoots and Leaves adopts a more militant approach and attempts to recruit an army of punctuation vigilantes: send letters back with the punctuation corrected. Do not accept sloppy emails. Climb ladders at dead of night with a pot of paint to remove the redundant apostrophe in "Video's sold here".'
I still think that title will be on Peter North's tombstone though.
park dweller
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Nov 9, 2013
- Messages
- 87
A Tale of Two Cities
Its hard going as I need to sit at my PC to check on 50% of the means of the words.
Which the fuck I 'd have went to school as I think its a good book. I do like reading. Its like films with subtitles, they seem to stick with you for longer as yo need to actually take them in.
My little sister takes the piss out of me as she's dong it for her GCSE
I'm thinking about going back to school to do my GCSE Maths and English.
Its hard going as I need to sit at my PC to check on 50% of the means of the words.
Which the fuck I 'd have went to school as I think its a good book. I do like reading. Its like films with subtitles, they seem to stick with you for longer as yo need to actually take them in.
My little sister takes the piss out of me as she's dong it for her GCSE
I'm thinking about going back to school to do my GCSE Maths and English.
mydrugbuddy
Bluelighter
Jack London's John Barleycorn. Well im listening to it rather than reading it. I do like this writer. This book is like the ultimate trip report on how to learn to drink alcohol. The guy seems to get high off it, he says it took him 20 years to learn that, its a long apprentiship, i dont think I'll be spending the next 20 years learning how to drink, as he calls it, but it an interesting insight into what alcohol can do, its never done anytrhing like what he describes to me. 
Ive listened to 3 of his other books, the ones about the dogs and the wolves were best, Call Of The Wild, and White Fang. I wasnt so keen on The Sea Wolf but it had its interesting parts. This will give anyone who's interested a taster of what its like:
Chapter 1
It all came to me one election day. It was on a warm California afternoon, and I had ridden down into the Valley of the Moon from the ranch to the little village to vote Yes and No to a host of proposed amendments to the Constitution of the State of California. Because of the warmth of the day I had had several drinks before casting my ballot, and divers drinks after casting it. Then I had ridden up through the vine-clad hills and rolling pastures of the ranch, and arrived at the farm-house in time for another drink and supper.
"How did you vote on the suffrage amendment?" Charmian asked.
"I voted for it."
She uttered an exclamation of surprise. For, be it known, in my younger days, despite my ardent democracy, I had been opposed to woman suffrage. In my later and more tolerant years I had been unenthusiastic in my acceptance of it as an inevitable social phenomenon.
"Now just why did you vote for it?" Charmian asked.
I answered. I answered at length. I answered indignantly. The more I answered, the more indignant I became. (No; I was not drunk. The horse I had ridden was well named "The Outlaw." I'd like to see any drunken man ride her.)
And yet--how shall I say?--I was lighted up, I was feeling "good," I was pleasantly jingled.
"When the women get the ballot, they will vote for prohibition," I said. "It is the wives, and sisters, and mothers, and they only, who will drive the nails into the coffin of John Barleycorn----"
"But I thought you were a friend to John Barleycorn," Charmian interpolated.
"I am. I was. I am not. I never am. I am never less his friend than when he is with me and when I seem most his friend. He is the king of liars. He is the frankest truthsayer. He is the august companion with whom one walks with the gods. He is also in league with the Noseless One. His way leads to truth naked, and to death. He gives clear vision, and muddy dreams. He is the enemy of life, and the teacher of wisdom beyond life's wisdom. He is a red-handed killer, and he slays youth."
And Charmian looked at me, and I knew she wondered where I had got it.
I continued to talk. As I say, I was lighted up. In my brain every thought was at home. Every thought, in its little cell, crouched ready-dressed at the door, like prisoners at midnight a jail-break. And every thought was a vision, bright-imaged, sharp- cut, unmistakable. My brain was illuminated by the clear, white light of alcohol. John Barleycorn was on a truth-telling rampage, giving away the choicest secrets on himself. And I was his spokesman. There moved the multitudes of memories of my past life, all orderly arranged like soldiers in some vast review. It was mine to pick and choose. I was a lord of thought, the master of my vocabulary and of the totality of my experience, unerringly capable of selecting my data and building my exposition. For so John Barleycorn tricks and lures, setting the maggots of intelligence gnawing, whispering his fatal intuitions of truth, flinging purple passages into the monotony of one's days.
I outlined my life to Charmian, and expounded the make-up of my constitution. I was no hereditary alcoholic. I had been born with no organic, chemical predisposition toward alcohol. In this matter I was normal in my generation. Alcohol was an acquired taste. It had been painfully acquired. Alcohol had been a dreadfully repugnant thing--more nauseous than any physic. Even now I did not like the taste of it. I drank it only for its "kick." And from the age of five to that of twenty-five I had not learned to care for its kick. Twenty years of unwilling apprenticeship had been required to make my system rebelliously tolerant of alcohol, to make me, in the heart and the deeps of me, desirous of alcohol.
I sketched my first contacts with alcohol, told of my first intoxications and revulsions, and pointed out always the one thing that in the end had won me over--namely, the accessibility of alcohol. Not only had it always been accessible, but every interest of my developing life had drawn me to it. A newsboy on the streets, a sailor, a miner, a wanderer in far lands, always where men came together to exchange ideas, to laugh and boast and dare, to relax, to forget the dull toil of tiresome nights and days, always they came together over alcohol. The saloon was the place of congregation. Men gathered to it as primitive men gathered about the fire of the squatting place or the fire at the mouth of the cave.
I reminded Charmian of the canoe houses from which she had been barred in the South Pacific, where the kinky-haired cannibals escaped from their womenkind and feasted and drank by themselves, the sacred precincts taboo to women under pain of death. As a youth, by way of the saloon I had escaped from the narrowness of woman's influence into the wide free world of men. All ways led to the saloon. The thousand roads of romance and adventure drew together in the saloon, and thence led out and on over the world.
"The point is," I concluded my sermon, "that it is the accessibility of alcohol that has given me my taste for alcohol. I did not care for it. I used to laugh at it. Yet here I am, at the last, possessed with the drinker's desire. It took twenty years to implant that desire; and for ten years more that desire has grown. And the effect of satisfying that desire is anything but good. Temperamentally I am wholesome-hearted and merry. Yet when I walk with John Barleycorn I suffer all the damnation of intellectual pessimism.
"But," I hastened to add (I always hasten to add), "John Barleycorn must have his due. He does tell the truth. That is the curse of it. The so-called truths of life are not true. They are the vital lies by which life lives, and John Barleycorn gives them the lie."
"Which does not make toward life," Charmian said.
"Very true," I answered. "And that is the perfectest hell of it. John Barleycorn makes toward death. That is why I voted for the amendment to-day. I read back in my life and saw how the accessibility of alcohol had given me the taste for it. You see, comparatively few alcoholics are born in a generation. And by alcoholic I mean a man whose chemistry craves alcohol and drives him resistlessly to it. The great majority of habitual drinkers are born not only without desire for alcohol, but with actual repugnance toward it. Not the first, nor the twentieth, nor the hundredth drink, succeeded in giving them the liking. But they learned, just as men learn to smoke; though it is far easier to learn to smoke than to learn to drink. They learned because alcohol was so accessible. The women know the game. They pay for it--the wives and sisters and mothers. And when they come to vote, they will vote for prohibition. And the best of it is that there will be no hardship worked on the coming generation. Not having access to alcohol, not being predisposed toward alcohol, it will never miss alcohol. It will mean life more abundant for the manhood of the young boys born and growing up--ay, and life more abundant for the young girls born and growing up to share the lives of the young men."
"Why not write all this up for the sake of the men and women coming?" Charmian asked. "Why not write it so as to help the wives and sisters and mothers to the way they should vote?"
"The 'Memoirs of an Alcoholic,'" I sneered--or, rather, John Barleycorn sneered; for he sat with me there at table in my pleasant, philanthropic jingle, and it is a trick of John Barleycorn to turn the smile to a sneer without an instant's warning.
"No," said Charmian, ignoring John Barleycorn's roughness, as so many women have learned to do. "You have shown yourself no alcoholic, no dipsomaniac, but merely an habitual drinker, one who has made John Barleycorn's acquaintance through long years of rubbing shoulders with him. Write it up and call it 'Alcoholic Memoirs.
http://www.jacklondons.net/writings/JohnBarleycorn/chapter1.html
I think this is fucking brilliant, ive not made it past chapter 3 before falling asleep yet though.![:\](https://bluelight.org/xf/BL_Images/Orig_Emoji/wrygrin.gif "wry grin :\")
Thats not blaming the book, thats blaming the benzos !!
Ive listened to 3 of his other books, the ones about the dogs and the wolves were best, Call Of The Wild, and White Fang. I wasnt so keen on The Sea Wolf but it had its interesting parts. This will give anyone who's interested a taster of what its like:
Chapter 1
It all came to me one election day. It was on a warm California afternoon, and I had ridden down into the Valley of the Moon from the ranch to the little village to vote Yes and No to a host of proposed amendments to the Constitution of the State of California. Because of the warmth of the day I had had several drinks before casting my ballot, and divers drinks after casting it. Then I had ridden up through the vine-clad hills and rolling pastures of the ranch, and arrived at the farm-house in time for another drink and supper.
"How did you vote on the suffrage amendment?" Charmian asked.
"I voted for it."
She uttered an exclamation of surprise. For, be it known, in my younger days, despite my ardent democracy, I had been opposed to woman suffrage. In my later and more tolerant years I had been unenthusiastic in my acceptance of it as an inevitable social phenomenon.
"Now just why did you vote for it?" Charmian asked.
I answered. I answered at length. I answered indignantly. The more I answered, the more indignant I became. (No; I was not drunk. The horse I had ridden was well named "The Outlaw." I'd like to see any drunken man ride her.)
And yet--how shall I say?--I was lighted up, I was feeling "good," I was pleasantly jingled.
"When the women get the ballot, they will vote for prohibition," I said. "It is the wives, and sisters, and mothers, and they only, who will drive the nails into the coffin of John Barleycorn----"
"But I thought you were a friend to John Barleycorn," Charmian interpolated.
"I am. I was. I am not. I never am. I am never less his friend than when he is with me and when I seem most his friend. He is the king of liars. He is the frankest truthsayer. He is the august companion with whom one walks with the gods. He is also in league with the Noseless One. His way leads to truth naked, and to death. He gives clear vision, and muddy dreams. He is the enemy of life, and the teacher of wisdom beyond life's wisdom. He is a red-handed killer, and he slays youth."
And Charmian looked at me, and I knew she wondered where I had got it.
I continued to talk. As I say, I was lighted up. In my brain every thought was at home. Every thought, in its little cell, crouched ready-dressed at the door, like prisoners at midnight a jail-break. And every thought was a vision, bright-imaged, sharp- cut, unmistakable. My brain was illuminated by the clear, white light of alcohol. John Barleycorn was on a truth-telling rampage, giving away the choicest secrets on himself. And I was his spokesman. There moved the multitudes of memories of my past life, all orderly arranged like soldiers in some vast review. It was mine to pick and choose. I was a lord of thought, the master of my vocabulary and of the totality of my experience, unerringly capable of selecting my data and building my exposition. For so John Barleycorn tricks and lures, setting the maggots of intelligence gnawing, whispering his fatal intuitions of truth, flinging purple passages into the monotony of one's days.
I outlined my life to Charmian, and expounded the make-up of my constitution. I was no hereditary alcoholic. I had been born with no organic, chemical predisposition toward alcohol. In this matter I was normal in my generation. Alcohol was an acquired taste. It had been painfully acquired. Alcohol had been a dreadfully repugnant thing--more nauseous than any physic. Even now I did not like the taste of it. I drank it only for its "kick." And from the age of five to that of twenty-five I had not learned to care for its kick. Twenty years of unwilling apprenticeship had been required to make my system rebelliously tolerant of alcohol, to make me, in the heart and the deeps of me, desirous of alcohol.
I sketched my first contacts with alcohol, told of my first intoxications and revulsions, and pointed out always the one thing that in the end had won me over--namely, the accessibility of alcohol. Not only had it always been accessible, but every interest of my developing life had drawn me to it. A newsboy on the streets, a sailor, a miner, a wanderer in far lands, always where men came together to exchange ideas, to laugh and boast and dare, to relax, to forget the dull toil of tiresome nights and days, always they came together over alcohol. The saloon was the place of congregation. Men gathered to it as primitive men gathered about the fire of the squatting place or the fire at the mouth of the cave.
I reminded Charmian of the canoe houses from which she had been barred in the South Pacific, where the kinky-haired cannibals escaped from their womenkind and feasted and drank by themselves, the sacred precincts taboo to women under pain of death. As a youth, by way of the saloon I had escaped from the narrowness of woman's influence into the wide free world of men. All ways led to the saloon. The thousand roads of romance and adventure drew together in the saloon, and thence led out and on over the world.
"The point is," I concluded my sermon, "that it is the accessibility of alcohol that has given me my taste for alcohol. I did not care for it. I used to laugh at it. Yet here I am, at the last, possessed with the drinker's desire. It took twenty years to implant that desire; and for ten years more that desire has grown. And the effect of satisfying that desire is anything but good. Temperamentally I am wholesome-hearted and merry. Yet when I walk with John Barleycorn I suffer all the damnation of intellectual pessimism.
"But," I hastened to add (I always hasten to add), "John Barleycorn must have his due. He does tell the truth. That is the curse of it. The so-called truths of life are not true. They are the vital lies by which life lives, and John Barleycorn gives them the lie."
"Which does not make toward life," Charmian said.
"Very true," I answered. "And that is the perfectest hell of it. John Barleycorn makes toward death. That is why I voted for the amendment to-day. I read back in my life and saw how the accessibility of alcohol had given me the taste for it. You see, comparatively few alcoholics are born in a generation. And by alcoholic I mean a man whose chemistry craves alcohol and drives him resistlessly to it. The great majority of habitual drinkers are born not only without desire for alcohol, but with actual repugnance toward it. Not the first, nor the twentieth, nor the hundredth drink, succeeded in giving them the liking. But they learned, just as men learn to smoke; though it is far easier to learn to smoke than to learn to drink. They learned because alcohol was so accessible. The women know the game. They pay for it--the wives and sisters and mothers. And when they come to vote, they will vote for prohibition. And the best of it is that there will be no hardship worked on the coming generation. Not having access to alcohol, not being predisposed toward alcohol, it will never miss alcohol. It will mean life more abundant for the manhood of the young boys born and growing up--ay, and life more abundant for the young girls born and growing up to share the lives of the young men."
"Why not write all this up for the sake of the men and women coming?" Charmian asked. "Why not write it so as to help the wives and sisters and mothers to the way they should vote?"
"The 'Memoirs of an Alcoholic,'" I sneered--or, rather, John Barleycorn sneered; for he sat with me there at table in my pleasant, philanthropic jingle, and it is a trick of John Barleycorn to turn the smile to a sneer without an instant's warning.
"No," said Charmian, ignoring John Barleycorn's roughness, as so many women have learned to do. "You have shown yourself no alcoholic, no dipsomaniac, but merely an habitual drinker, one who has made John Barleycorn's acquaintance through long years of rubbing shoulders with him. Write it up and call it 'Alcoholic Memoirs.
http://www.jacklondons.net/writings/JohnBarleycorn/chapter1.html
I think this is fucking brilliant, ive not made it past chapter 3 before falling asleep yet though.
Thats not blaming the book, thats blaming the benzos !!
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NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE - Jerry Hopkins
The first jim morrison autobiography originally published in 1980
http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/0446602280
pretty good book so far a bit more indepth than the doors film quite interesting.
"Out here on the perimeter there are no stars.... out here we is....
The first jim morrison autobiography originally published in 1980
http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/0446602280
pretty good book so far a bit more indepth than the doors film quite interesting.
"Out here on the perimeter there are no stars.... out here we is....
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Dust by Hugh Howley - Its the last part of a trilogy, I could read it in two days but I dont want to finish it ? You know when your chapters deep in a book and are thinking - yes, no, don't do it, do it, your lying, its a trick, I would, kill him, what about him/her etc this it that.
NightsEpiphany
Bluelighter
Just read Heart of Darkness. Joseph Conrad.
Its about nam.
Its about nam.