Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Algernon Charles Swinburne



And here we have Volumes X through XX
of The Complete Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne,
as published in 1925, 1926, and 1927
in the Bonchurch Edition,
limited to 780 sets,
of which 750
were for
sale

.







The Life of Algernon Charles Swinburne


A Bibliography in Prose and Verse of Algernon Charles Swinburne

“literary forgeries and stolen documents” — that rascal.


Wednesday, August 22, 2012

One year ago today, we gave you



The White Mountain woman and her homemade ice cream.
The hummingbirds in Uncle Leo’s mustache.
The wise old oaks at Shepherd’s Point.
Apples, crows, and pancakes.
A dream about George.
A man and his son.
A life undone.
And Mary.

All

in




A Listening Thing

Tenth Anniversary
Authorized Print Edition


Paperback Original
232 pages, $18.00

[Front cover: click to enlarge]


And now, to celebrate, for one week only,
Cosmopsis Books is again offering this beautiful edition
at the special price of $14.00, plus shipping.

To order from anywhere in the world, click here
or on one of the Cosmopsis Books links in this entry.
For more about the book, click on the back cover image below.
For comments and reviews, click here.




[Back cover: click to enlarge]



~ Note ~

At this time I’d like to thank, once again, each and every one of you
who has welcomed A Listening Thing into your home.

It’s my belief that a book lives and grows (or wilts and dies) one reader at a time.
What does the future hold for Stephen Monroe? No one really knows,
but if we were to ask him, he’d probably say that the answer
is most readily found in the mirror.

In the interim, I point to the reviews and comments
his urgent acerbic-poetic narration has received,
and which are highlighted on my website.

To those new to the book who are courageous enough to take the plunge,
I say welcome.


Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Heroines of Fiction


The feeling of my fingers on the keys, prior to any distinct or identifiable thought, is enough to set writing in motion. The sense of touch and the urge to create are natural companions. I feel it now, and I feel it when I take up, hold, and examine these old worn volumes.





















Heroines of Fiction

First Edition, Illustrated, In Two Volumes

Harper & Brothers Publishers

1901


Saturday, August 11, 2012

Book Spine Poetry



Stone cottage — identity in crisis along the riverrun


by James Longenbach

by Alan Durant

by Richard Ellmann


In all likelihood, if not for friend and fellow blogger Jonathan Chant, I wouldn’t have seen this notice for the book spine poetry contest being held on LibraryThing. The idea is to create a poem using book spines. Since most of my books are old worn hardcovers (a form of poetry in and of itself), I thought I’d have a hard time coming up with an entry. But, as it so happens, there’s a stack of books slightly behind my desk and to my left, at about half an arm’s length, many with dust jackets. It took only five seconds or so to identify the “poem” above. All three books are part of a much larger gift of books (173 in all!) from another friend and fellow blogger, Gerry Boyd. All I have to do now is read them.


Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The One True Art


I love so much what I do that it has quite nearly been my undoing. In fact, I might already be undone and not know it. I call this hopeful state my apprenticeship — that prolonged period during which my foolish plans have been dashed justifiably against the rocks, leaving me shaggy and unemployable, too young to retire, too old to care or know better, and full of daring and vinegar and a healthy stock of four-letter words. Since this period began when I was about fifteen, that means I’ve been flailing now for more than forty-one years. Should I live on, who knows what the future will bring. More writing? That seems likely. Fame, money, or even a measure of financial security? I haven’t the slightest idea. I have only ever worked for an honest living — nothing else concerns me. The notion that I might be an artist, as distinguished from other walks of life, is enticing but ultimately useless to me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Living is the one true art. The greatest contribution we can make is to better know ourselves. What we do as a result will inevitably be art, because it will spring from life’s very urge to create and rejoice in itself — the entire movement and consummation of which, is love.


Thursday, August 2, 2012