the tattoo murder case - akimitsu takagi (1948), translated 1998

rip-roaringly satisfying whodunit with devious turns and a most salaciously evil twist at the end. dem good story, is all i can say. and when Kamizu explains all over a meal of sushi i feel like eating too. 

the fact that it comes from 1948 also means there is hardly any irritating officialese that peppers so many modern stories. here, the hoi polloi collaborates quite refreshingly with the police.

also, because i read this in e-book form, it doesn't feel like a 1948 or 1998 book. which goes to show that so much of our impressions are contextual.

the wife - meg wolitzer (2003)

part of the ebook stash, which i acquire from deep within the bowels of sedentary solitude when HOM is traveling.

this be not the dry brit wit, nor the earnest long sentences of the new yorker, and not the lyrical prose of my last book by ursula le guin. yet she has a fresh turn of phrase, this lady, and i turn the pages because i want to read more.

the main problem is that the anatomy of an unsatisfactory marriage to an obligate partner is not an easy topic to plow through. although the story does end pretty decently and the main characters are left with a semblance of dignity. 

the earthsea cycle - ursula le guin (1968-1990s)

rediscovering word-magic, le guin's and earthsea's, and  getting hopelessly distracted by the hold that chivalry and restrained power ever had on my poor heart.

for the record, there are six books in all, and i am three down.

also for the record, the national library's e-borrowing platform has transformed my life. although it would be more transformative yet if they had all six books, which they do not.

fake news, false alarms, & other irritants

the same people keep broadcasting only the unsubstantiated.

the unsubstantiated keeps finding root mainly in the same people.

there is a profound circle of life that mercifully wheels past the rest of us.

i wish that little circle would not keep trying to shoot out little arcs.

the little arcs drain my battery when they land in my inbox.

paradise postponed - john mortimer, 1985

a roaring good tale, this. satisfyingly juicy rich with convolutions and featuring a villain you love to hate so much that you actually feel sorry for him.

this is peyton place set in the sweeping english countryside and told in a suitably dry voice that makes you think of drafty stone buildings and windy moors. almost like a modern more digestible satirical version of wuthering heights.

on residency restructuring

say not, why were the former days better than these?

consider the work of God: who can make straight what he has made crooked? 

- Eccles 7:10, 13

the days are different the songs are new and strange

the hearts beat distinctly off and the hopes sound odd

change is difficult

may God grant us courage and strength ideas and grit

and perhaps a good memory of the former days

and perhaps good future days

this is my (self-explanatory) song

this is my song, O God of all the nations, 
a song of peace for lands afar and mine;

this is my home, the country where my heart is; 
here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine:

but other hearts in other lands are beating 
with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

my country's skies are bluer than the ocean, 
and sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine;

but other lands have sunlight too, and clover, 
and skies are everywhere as blue as mine:

o hear my song, thou God of all the nations, 
a song of peace for their land and for mine.

- Lloyd Stone

these are our children, here our best our purest desires
and there another's hopes, his dreams his sweetest songs
help us to see