What are you reading?

[Uncle Corkscrew]

I picked up this book by Lee Strobel. I knew he was an Evangelical Christian writer but I decided to give it a chance. Bad idea. The first chapter he starts interviewing a guy named Craig Blomberg to find answers on Christianity. Strobel passes him off as some sort of expert on the historical accuracy of the New Testament. Strobel is interviewing Blomberg on the authenticity of the apostles. Not long into the conversation Blomberg brings up the Holocaust as an example to prove the authors of the New Testament weren't liars. Cause Jewish historians don't lie? Yes, that is exactly what he means. Jews are 100% honest on the subject of the Holocaust. At that point the book closes and is thrown into the trash. But I had to retrieve it because it was a library book.

[PseudoCop]

Griftopia by Matt Taibbi. He's a capable writer but his left wing snarky comments grate on me.

I also picked up The Devil All the Time by Ray Pollock- he seems like a DJ Pancake wanna-be but I'll give him a chance.

[FIPS]

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Anyone seen?

http://www.amazon.com/Varg-Vikernes-...0443505&sr=1-1

I don't have a Kindling.

.

[Intrepid]

Walden, Scott. Places Lost: In Search of Newfoundland's Resettled Communities

Henthorn, Cynthia Lee. From Submarines to Suburbs: Selling a Better America, 1939-1959

[FIPS]

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The Octopus – by Frank Norris (excerpt)

“A prolonged movement rippled from team to team, disengaging in its passage a multitude of sounds-the click of buckles, the creak of straining leather, the subdued clash of machinery, the cracking of whips, the deep breathing of nearly four hundred horses, the abrupt commands and cries of the drivers, and, last of all, the prolonged, soothing murmur of the thick brown earth turning steadily from the multitude of advancing shears.

The ploughing thus commenced, continued. The sun rose higher. Steadily the hundred iron hands kneaded and furrowed and stroked the brown, humid earth, the hundred iron teeth bit deep into the Titan's flesh.

Perched on his seat, the moist living reins slipping and tugging in his hands, Vanamee, in the midst of this steady confusion of constantly varying sensation, sight interrupted by sound, sound mingling with sight, on this swaying, vibrating seat, quivering with the prolonged thrill of the earth, lapsed to a sort of pleasing numbness, in a sense, hypnotized by the weaving maze of things in which he found himself involved...

The ploughing, now in full swing, enveloped him in a vague, slow-moving whirl of things. Underneath him was the jarring, jolting, trembling machine; not a clod was turned, not an obstacle encountered, that he did not receive the swift impression of it through all his body, the very friction of the damp soil, sliding incessantly from the shiny surface of the shears, seemed to reproduce itself in his finger-tips and along the back of his head. He heard the horse-hoofs by the myriads crushing down easily, deeply, into the loam, the prolonged clinking of trace-chains, the working of the smooth brown flanks in the harness, the clatter of wooden hames, the champing of bits, the click of iron shoes against pebbles, the brittle stubble of the surface ground crackling and snapping as the furrows turned, the sonorous, steady breaths wrenched from the deep, labouring chests, strapbound, shining with sweat, and all along the line the voices of the men talking to the horses. Everywhere there were visions of glossy brown backs, straining, heaving, swollen with muscle; harness streaked with specks of froth, broad, cup-shaped hoofs, heavy with brown loam, men's faces red with tan, blue overalls spotted with axle-grease; muscled hands, the knuckles whitened in their grip on the reins, and through it all the ammoniac’d smell of the horses, the bitter reek of perspiration of beasts and men, the aroma of warm leather, the scent of dead stubble - and stronger and more penetrating than everything else, the heavy, enervating odour of the upturned, living earth...

And farther away still, far off there beyond the fine line of the horizons, over the curve of the globe, the shoulder of the earth, he knew there were other ranches, and beyond these others, and beyond these still others, the immensities multiplying to infinity.

Everywhere throughout the great San Joaquin, unseen and unheard, a thousand ploughs upstirred the land, tens of thousands of shears clutched deep into the warm, moist soil.

It was the long stroking caress, vigorous, male, powerful, for which the Earth seemed to be panting. The heroic embrace of a multitude of iron hands, gripping deep into the brown, warm flesh of the land that quivered responsive and passionate under this rude advance, so robust as to be almost an assault, so violent as to be veritably brutal. There, under the sun and under the speckless sheen of the sky, the wooing of the Titan began, the vast primal passion, the two world-forces, the elemental Male and Female, locked in a colossal embrace, at grapples in the throes of an infinite desire, at once terrible and divine, knowing no law, untamed, savage, natural, sublime.”







.

[Goosey]

A book by orson scott card. It's called " the gay prick" or something to that effect

[Den Förlorade Sonen]

[Hodge Backmaker]

Good choice. This is not bad either: http://www.amazon.com/Hardboiled-Ant...1225087&sr=1-3

[Den Förlorade Sonen]

[Uncle Corkscrew]