literature

53d

<p>“Sid Meier’s CIVILIZATION was one of the most addicting games of my life… I was pleasantly surprised to hear that Iain M. Banks shared the addiction and that his Culture novel EXCESSION was in part inspired by it.”</p><p>—Peter Tieryas on how Sid Meier’s CIVILIZATION helped inspire Iain M. Banks’s 1996 Culture novel EXCESSION</p><p>@bookstodon </p><p><a href="https://reactormag.com/on-iain-m-banks-and-the-video-game-that-inspired-excession-sid-meier-civilization/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="reactormag.com/on-iain-m-banks-and-the-video-game-that-inspired-excession-sid-meier-civilization/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">reactormag.com/on-iain-m-banks</span><span class="invisible">-and-the-video-game-that-inspired-excession-sid-meier-civilization/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/sciencefiction/" rel="tag">#sciencefiction</a> <a href="/tags/iainbanks/" rel="tag">#IainBanks</a> <a href="/tags/iainmbanks/" rel="tag">#IainMBanks</a> <a href="/tags/theculture/" rel="tag">#TheCulture</a> <a href="/tags/videogames/" rel="tag">#videogames</a> <a href="/tags/civ/" rel="tag">#Civ</a> <a href="/tags/civilization/" rel="tag">#Civilization</a> <a href="/tags/sidmeier/" rel="tag">#SidMeier</a></p>

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280d

<p>It’s the cocktail hour. The air is still.<br>Mister gets busy on the charcoal grill.<br>Social-kissing women, backslapping men<br>has failed to break the ice. But then<br>Missiz appears like magic from the dusk.<br>Cool, ten years his junior, she smells of musk<br>and ‘Madame Rochas’. Two small spots of anger<br>high on her cheekbones linger…</p><p>—Liz Lochhead, “Fourth of July Fireworks”</p><p>Published in THREE SCOTTISH POETS, <span class="h-card"><a href="https://bookish.community/@canongatebooks" class="u-url mention" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">@<span>canongatebooks</span></a></span> 1992 </p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/4thofjuly/" rel="tag">#4thofJuly</a> <a href="/tags/fourthofjuly/" rel="tag">#FourthofJuly</a></p>

Fourth of July Fireworks
by Liz Lochhead

The guests are gathered.
Boston-Irish Nancy, half in huff
says, ‘Better help yourselves,
you all know Mister’s timing well enough.’
Aside at me she mutters.
‘Millionaires can afford to let things wait.
Honest-to-God Mister would be late
for his own funeral.’ Cigarstore Indian,
I hide behind my apron, wait and drink in all I can.

(We don’t exist. They pick our trays,
Tom Collinses, Martinis and canapés.)

Oh horror, New England night,
when I fetched the ice down and that snake
looped my feet in the kitchen garden! I still shake.
‘Harmless,’ says Nancy.
I hear her hiss, ‘Some host!
That beggar’ll only get here when he’s sure he’s last.’

Fourth of July. Cape Cod. Dead on cue,
last-man Mister comes running to his barbecue.
Arms flailing like a cricketer’s across the lawn
from his ‘so English’ house with a flame red shirt on.

It’s the cocktail hour. The air is still.
Mister gets busy on the charcoal grill.
Social-kissing women, backslapping men
has failed to break the ice. But then
Missiz appears like magic from the dusk.
Cool, ten years his junior, she smells of musk

and ‘Madame Rochas’. Two small spots of anger
high on her cheekbones linger.

When Mister says it’s done enough
the guests spread ketchup on the fatted calf.
The night hots up. Liquor flows. Listless
couples come alive. A bit apart, restless,
Missiz sways gently on her own
to Glen Miller on the gramophone.
All eyes are on the soignee cling
of this year’s leisure favourite, velvety stretch towelling
for patio-party wear. Those purples and electric pinks
‘Just far too hectic altogether,’ Nancy thinks.

(Ten years with Missiz, Nancy’s face
is quite professional, impervious.)

Ice melts in the Martini tray. Midges
drown. The whole night edges
to a thunderstorm. Maybugs big as golfballs thud
as screendoors bounce them. But, after our blood,
divebombing mosquitoes dodge the mesh and slide
in down their own thin whine.
They bite despite insecticide.

All at sea,
white and dayglo orange fins spinnaker the bay.
Music blares
from the jazzed-up clubhouse round the Cape, Cotuit way.
The whole damn town is two thirds empty after Labour Day.
These summer people
migrate to Florida, lock, stock and barrel.
Tonight their parked cars sprawl the drive and trail

behind those his-and-hers coupled custom Cadillacs
like a comet tail.

(Oh I can see it all quite clearly, feeling small
and stone-cold sober. But I do not count at all.)

Out on the lawn the sprinklers, oddly luminous,
sputter like Roman Candles, ominous
as the sudden snap of queer clear light
from one weird streak unzips the dark.
The German Shepherd guard dogs bark.
A wind gets up. These beach-house boards
are flimsier than playing cards.

(Over the bay, like flares
odd rockets go up with a shock of stars.)

Mister drags off his box of fireworks to the shore.
Missiz drains her drink and hits the floor
with someone half her age. His snake-arms slur
around her waist. Eyes glaze. Sentence endings blur.
Missiz (‘mutton dressed as lamb’)
comes in slowly as the false-calm
lead-slow sea that slicks the beach. Sinatra sings.
The tide ravels up slowly, shelving things.

Raindrops big as bullets dent the roof we all stand under,
watching Canute’s fireworks outrage the storm,
try to steal its thunder.

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256d

<p>Whatever Happened to London’s “Little America”?</p><p>Since the time of John Adams, the first US Ambassador to the Court of St. James, Grosvenor Square has been the locus of the American government in Britain.</p><p>By: Matthew Wills </p><p><a href="https://daily.jstor.org/whatever-happened-to-londons-little-america/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="daily.jstor.org/whatever-happened-to-londons-little-america/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">daily.jstor.org/whatever-happe</span><span class="invisible">ned-to-londons-little-america/</span></a></p><p>John Adams at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/4660" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/4660"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/4660</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#Books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#Literature</a> <a href="/tags/history/" rel="tag">#history</a></p>

John Adams Portrait.

John Adams is shown in a three-quarter view against a muted, warm-toned background. His expression is serious yet composed—marked by a furrowed brow, steady gaze, and slightly parted lips. His white, powdered hair and plain black coat with a high cravat reinforce his image as a man of intellect.

Gilbert Stuart - National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C., online collection

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Adams#/media/File:John_Adams_Portrait.jpg

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256d

<p>Reading deeper into Virginia Woolf’s vicious diary entry</p><p>Maggie Humm says the author’s recollection of encountering a group of learning-disabled people is surely a defence mechanism and projection</p><p><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/jul/27/reading-deeper-into-virginia-woolfs-vicious-diary-entry" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.theguardian.com/books/2025/jul/27/reading-deeper-into-virginia-woolfs-vicious-diary-entry"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.theguardian.com/books/2025</span><span class="invisible">/jul/27/reading-deeper-into-virginia-woolfs-vicious-diary-entry</span></a></p><p>Virginia Woolf at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/89" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/89"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/89</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#Books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#Literature</a> <a href="/tags/biography/" rel="tag">#Biography</a></p>

Photograph of Virginia Woolf with hand on face wearing a fur stole (10 x 15 centimeters).

This particular photograph is simply described as "Woolf Virginia [1927]". The verso of the photograph bears no mention allowing an identification of the photographer, but simply indicates - faintly pencilled - the portrait has been made in London.

The photograph was, according to the Smith College Library's web site, "used for promotion" by Harcourt Brace, the publisher of the American version of To the Lighthouse in 1927. In Virginia Woolf Icon (University of Chicago Press, 1999), Brenda Silver describes the photograph as an "(unidentified) studio photograph" and comments it "appear[ed] in in an number of Harcourt Brace ads and articles about Woolf and/or her works in the States during the late 1920s ans the 1930s" (p. 132).

It was in particular published with no copyright notice in a review of the book published by The New York Times on May 8, 1927 and another review published by The Bookshelf Review in June 1927. The photograph was exhibited in the show Virginia Woolf: Art, Life and Vision at the National Portrait Gallery in London in 2014 with the following caption : "by Unknown photographer, 1927. Courtesy of the Mortimer Rare Book Room, Neilson Library, Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts".

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Woolf#/media/File:Virginia_Woolf_1927.jpg

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280d

<p>Scottish Scholars & Secrets: Developments of Dark Academia in Edinburgh – from 24 June 2025</p><p>Natasha Anderson finds roots of Dark Academia running through Edinburgh’s gothic literary traditions, in works by Robert Louis Stevenson, Muriel Spark, & Ian Rankin</p><p>@litstudies </p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahpagiSHK78" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahpagiSHK78"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahpagi</span><span class="invisible">SHK78</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/gothic/" rel="tag">#gothic</a> <a href="/tags/edinburgh/" rel="tag">#Edinburgh</a> <a href="/tags/darkacademia/" rel="tag">#DarkAcademia</a> <a href="/tags/robertlouisstevenson/" rel="tag">#RobertLouisStevenson</a> <a href="/tags/murielspark/" rel="tag">#MurielSpark</a> <a href="/tags/ianrankin/" rel="tag">#IanRankin</a></p>

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255d

<p>We needed it—and he stood there,<br>feet on the dry porch, saying rain,<br>cloud and skyful, the sound of drumming…</p><p>—Niall Campbell, “The Rainmaker”<br>from POETRY, July/August 2020</p><p>We probably don’t appreciate the rain here in Scotland as much as we should…</p><p>Today, 29 July, is World Rain Day 🌧️</p><p>1/3</p><p><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/153822/the-rainmaker" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/153822/the-rainmaker"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.poetryfoundation.org/poetr</span><span class="invisible">ymagazine/poems/153822/the-rainmaker</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/rain/" rel="tag">#rain</a> <a href="/tags/worldrainday/" rel="tag">#WorldRainDay</a></p>

The Rainmaker
by Niall Campbell

We needed it—and he stood there,
feet on the dry porch, saying rain,
cloud and skyful, the sound of drumming;

the bath trough in the garden listened,
white and bone dry, as he described
a bright wash across the dust fields,

the surest downpour, the flushed skin,
my soaked shirt, heavy as a bell.
Then off he went to the scorched fields,

humming, and weighing what we paid.
What did he say: prayer is moisture;
hope is a well—I didn’t care,

I wanted just the words from him—
what I couldn’t dare say—not there
beneath that sun, that blur of fire-sky.

My thoughts all thoughts of water, I
spun my head round—to hear the spill
of the word rain across the boards,

and nothing grew dark, nothing fell—
but something fell, and the ground took,
and something wild as garlic grew.

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255d

<p>The latest issue of NORTHWORDS NOW (<a href="/tags/46/" rel="tag">#46</a>, Summer–Autumn 2025) is available free online – featuring poems, short stories, articles & book reviews, in English, Gaelic & Scots</p><p>New writing, fresh from Scotland and the wider North<br>Sgrìobhadh ùr à Alba agus an Àird a Tuath</p><p><a href="https://www.northwordsnow.co.uk/Issue46" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.northwordsnow.co.uk/Issue46"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.northwordsnow.co.uk/Issue4</span><span class="invisible">6</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/shortstories/" rel="tag">#shortstories</a> <a href="/tags/shortfiction/" rel="tag">#shortfiction</a> <a href="/tags/scots/" rel="tag">#Scots</a> <a href="/tags/scotslanguage/" rel="tag">#Scotslanguage</a> <a href="/tags/gaelic/" rel="tag">#Gaelic</a> <a href="/tags/gaidhlig/" rel="tag">#Gaidhlig</a></p>

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254d

<p>“The plotless beauty of his writing, and its fearless look at the emptiness of his own life, put ‘the Scottish Beat’ on a par with Kafka and Camus.”</p><p>—Tony O’Neill on “The junky genius of Alexander Trocchi (1925–1984)”, born 100 years ago <a href="/tags/otd/" rel="tag">#OTD</a>, 30 July – a 🎂 🧵</p><p>1/6</p><p><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2007/aug/23/thejunkygeniusofalexander" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2007/aug/23/thejunkygeniusofalexander"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.theguardian.com/books/book</span><span class="invisible">sblog/2007/aug/23/thejunkygeniusofalexander</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/20thcentury/" rel="tag">#20thcentury</a> <a href="/tags/trocchi/" rel="tag">#Trocchi</a></p>

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280d

<p>Hear Albert Camus’ Grateful Letter to His Teacher After Winning the Nobel Prize</p><p>In 1924, two decades before the publication of The Stranger, author Albert Camus was a boy growing up in poverty in Algeria. Noticing his potential, a teacher named Louis Germain took him under his wing, even giving him free lessons to help him secure a scholarship.</p><p>By Regina Sienra </p><p><a href="https://mymodernmet.com/albert-camus-letter-teacher/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="mymodernmet.com/albert-camus-letter-teacher/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">mymodernmet.com/albert-camus-l</span><span class="invisible">etter-teacher/</span></a>?</p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#Books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#Literature</a></p>

Albert Camus, Nobel prize winner, half-length portrait, seated at desk, facing left, smoking cigarette.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Albert_Camus,_gagnant_de_prix_Nobel,_portrait_en_buste,_pos%C3%A9_au_bureau,_faisant_face_%C3%A0_gauche,_cigarette_de_tabagisme.jpg

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254d

<p>We who loved sincerely; we who loved sae fiercely.<br>The snow ne’er looked sae barrie,<br>Nor the winter trees sae pretty.<br>C’mon, c’mon my dearie – tak my hand, my fiere!</p><p>—Jackie Kay, “Fiere”<br>fron FIERE (Picador 2011)</p><p>30 July is International Friendship Day 🤝</p><p><a href="https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/fiere/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/fiere/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.</span><span class="invisible">uk/poem/fiere/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/friend/" rel="tag">#friend</a> <a href="/tags/friends/" rel="tag">#friends</a> <a href="/tags/friendship/" rel="tag">#friendship</a> <a href="/tags/internationalfriendshipday/" rel="tag">#InternationalFriendshipDay</a></p>

Fiere
Jackie Kay

If ye went tae the tapmost hill, fiere
whaur we used tae clamb as girls,
ye’d see the snow the day, fiere,
settling on the hills.
You’d mind o’ anither day, mibbe,
we ran doon the hill in the snow,
sliding and singing oor way tae the foot,
lassies laughing thegither – how braw,
the years slipping awa; oot in the weather.

And noo we’re suddenly auld, fiere,
oor friendship’s ne’er been weary.
We’ve aye seen the wurld differently.
Whaur would I hae been weyoot my jo,
my fiere, my fiercy, my dearie O?
Oor hair micht be silver noo,
oor walk a wee bit doddery,
but we’ve had a whirl and a blast, girl,
thru the cauld blast winter, thru spring, summer.

O’er a lifetime, my fiere, my bonnie lassie,
I’d defend you – you, me; blithe and blatter,
here we gang doon the hill, nae matter,
past the bracken, bonny braes, barley,
oot by the roaring sea, still havin a blether.
We who loved sincerely; we who loved sae fiercely,
the snow ne’er looked sae barrie,
nor the winter trees sae pretty.
C’mon, c’mon my dearie – tak my hand, my fiere!

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255d

<p>A bird’s voice chinks and tinkles<br>Alone in the gaunt reedbed –<br>Tiny silversmith<br>Working late in the evening…</p><p>—Norman MacCaig, “July evening”<br>published in THE POEMS OF NORMAN MacCAIG (Birlinn, 2009)</p><p><a href="https://birlinn.co.uk/product/the-poems-of-norman-maccaig/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="birlinn.co.uk/product/the-poems-of-norman-maccaig/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">birlinn.co.uk/product/the-poem</span><span class="invisible">s-of-norman-maccaig/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/normanmaccaig/" rel="tag">#NormanMacCaig</a></p>

July evening
Norman MacCaig

A bird’s voice chinks and tinkles
Alone in the gaunt reedbed –
Tiny silversmith
Working late in the evening.

I sit and listen. The rooftop
With a quill of smoke stuck in it
Wavers against the sky
In the dreamy heat of summer.

Flowers’ closing time: bee lurches
Across the hayfield, singing
And feeling its drunken way
Round the air’s invisible corners.

And grass is grace. And charlock
Is gold of its own bounty.
The broken chair by the wall
Is one with immortal landscapes.

Something has been completed
That everything is part of,
Something that will go on
Being completed forever.

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255d

<p>16 to go in the next 5 months!</p><p><a href="https://app.thestorygraph.com/profile/honzin" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="app.thestorygraph.com/profile/honzin"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">app.thestorygraph.com/profile/</span><span class="invisible">honzin</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/amreading/" rel="tag">#amreading</a> <a href="/tags/reading/" rel="tag">#reading</a> <a href="/tags/kindle/" rel="tag">#kindle</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/booktoot/" rel="tag">#booktoot</a> <a href="/tags/book/" rel="tag">#book</a> <a href="/tags/knihy/" rel="tag">#knihy</a> <a href="/tags/scifi/" rel="tag">#scifi</a> <a href="/tags/fantasy/" rel="tag">#fantasy</a> <a href="/tags/fiction/" rel="tag">#fiction</a> <a href="/tags/ebook/" rel="tag">#ebook</a> @bookstodon @knihy</p>

to read list

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279d

<p>July. Summer on the island<br>muffles in scarves.<br>Merino-socked, Berghaus-booted,<br>swap cocoon of car<br>for hilly slither. Pilgrim-trail<br>with sodden strangers,<br>step in time to the cadence of rain…</p><p>—Nikki Robson, “The Callanish Stones”<br>published in Other Worlds: An Anthology of Scottish Island Poems (Birlinn, 2022)</p><p><a href="https://birlinn.co.uk/2022/06/20/poem-of-the-week-the-callanish-stones-by-nikki-robson/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="birlinn.co.uk/2022/06/20/poem-of-the-week-the-callanish-stones-by-nikki-robson/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">birlinn.co.uk/2022/06/20/poem-</span><span class="invisible">of-the-week-the-callanish-stones-by-nikki-robson/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/hebrides/" rel="tag">#Hebrides</a> <a href="/tags/lewis/" rel="tag">#Lewis</a> <a href="/tags/callanish/" rel="tag">#Callanish</a> <a href="/tags/standingstones/" rel="tag">#StandingStones</a> <a href="/tags/tourism/" rel="tag">#tourism</a></p>

The Callanish Stones
Nikki Robson

July. Summer on the island
muffles in scarves.
Merino-socked, Berghaus-booted,
swap cocoon of car
for hilly slither. Pilgrim-trail
with sodden strangers,
step in time to the cadence of rain.
White-trainered Americans patter: there isn’t a bus,
Earl, I can’t believe there isn’t a bus.
Even taped seams leak. Cold as
Lewisian gneiss, circle
the circle of Neolithic ritual.
Reach out, for Callanish grants
what Stonehenge forbids:
it feels like wet stone.
On the downhill squelch,
the final syllable’s a sneeze.
I buy a fridge magnet.

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279d

<p>Neil deGrasse Tyson Lists 8 (Free) Books Every Intelligent Person Should Read</p><p><a href="https://www.openculture.com/2025/07/neil-degrasse-tyson-lists-8-free-books-every-intelligent-person-should-read.html" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.openculture.com/2025/07/neil-degrasse-tyson-lists-8-free-books-every-intelligent-person-should-read.html"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.openculture.com/2025/07/ne</span><span class="invisible">il-degrasse-tyson-lists-8-free-books-every-intelligent-person-should-read.html</span></a></p><p>Many of these are at PG.</p><p>Illustration from Gulliver Travels at PG </p><p><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/17157/pg17157-images.html" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/17157/pg17157-images.html"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1</span><span class="invisible">7157/pg17157-images.html</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a></p>

Caption says: "HE COMMANDED HIS GENERALS TO DRAW UP THE TROOPS."

Drawing shows a giant (Gulliver) looking down at a tiny army.

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45d

<p>6 Authors Who Hated Their Most Popular Books</p><p>From Agatha Christie to Franz Kafka, these authors were not fans of their most beloved creations.</p><p>By Paul Anthony Jones</p><p><a href="https://www.mentalfloss.com/entertainment/literature/authors-who-hated-their-most-popular-books" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.mentalfloss.com/entertainment/literature/authors-who-hated-their-most-popular-books"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.mentalfloss.com/entertainm</span><span class="invisible">ent/literature/authors-who-hated-their-most-popular-books</span></a></p><p>Louisa May Alcott, Agatha Christie, Conan Doyle, Kafka, MIlne at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/102" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/102"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/102</span></a><br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/451" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/451"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/451</span></a><br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/69" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/69"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/69</span></a><br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/1735" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/1735"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/1735</span></a><br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/730" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/730"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/730</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a></p>

Last extant portrait photograph of Franz Kafka. It was probably taken in September 1923 at Wertheim Department Store in Berlin.

A black-and-white portrait photograph of Kafka in a dark suit jacket, white shirt, and striped tie. He has short dark hair, prominent ears, and large, dark, intensely focused eyes. His expression is serious and direct.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franz_Kafka#/media/File:Franz_Kafka,_1923.jpg

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251d

<p>Collecting The Most Beautiful Books<br>22 Aug, Mount Stuart House, Rothesay – £8.50–£11</p><p>Kelsey Jackson Williams will explore armorial bookbindings in the Bute Collection & tell how aristocratic pride, the bookbinders' art, & subsequent tastes in collecting came together to form an exceptional but unknown assemblage of book-art in the Mount Stuart libraries.</p><p><a href="https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/collecting-the-most-beautiful-books-august-talk-tickets-1529153030879" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/collecting-the-most-beautiful-books-august-talk-tickets-1529153030879"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/collect</span><span class="invisible">ing-the-most-beautiful-books-august-talk-tickets-1529153030879</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/bookbinding/" rel="tag">#bookbinding</a> <a href="/tags/bookhistory/" rel="tag">#bookhistory</a> <a href="/tags/bute/" rel="tag">#Bute</a> <a href="/tags/rothesay/" rel="tag">#Rothesay</a></p>

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47d

<p>Sorrow remembers us when day is done.<br>It sits in its old chair gently rocking<br>and singing tenderly in the evening…</p><p>—Iain Crichton Smith, “When Day is Done”<br>published in DEER ON THE HIGH HILLS (Carcanet, 2021)</p><p><a href="https://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781800170940" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781800170940"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/ind</span><span class="invisible">exer?product=9781800170940</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/20thcentury/" rel="tag">#20thcentury</a> <a href="/tags/iaincrichtonsmith/" rel="tag">#IainCrichtonSmith</a> <a href="/tags/sorrow/" rel="tag">#sorrow</a> <a href="/tags/grief/" rel="tag">#grief</a> <a href="/tags/grieving/" rel="tag">#grieving</a></p>

When Day is Done
by Iain Crichton Smith

Sorrow remembers us when day is done.
It sits in its old chair gently rocking
and singing tenderly in the evening.
It welcomes us home again after the day.
It is so old in its black silken dress,
its stick beside it carved with legends.
It tells its stories over and over again.
After a while we have to stop listening.

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250d

<p>The hill is tossing high, frail wisps of<br>rosy cloud to glide in steady gale<br>along a turquoise sky, around, above the<br>perpendicular and slightly askew columns,<br>above the triangular gap<br>between crown and crag…</p><p>—Tessa Ransford, “August 3rd”<br>published in Shadows from the Greater Hill (Ramsay Head Press, 1987)</p><p><a href="https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/august-3rd/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/august-3rd/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.</span><span class="invisible">uk/poem/august-3rd/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/naturepoem/" rel="tag">#naturepoem</a> <a href="/tags/naturewriting/" rel="tag">#naturewriting</a></p>

August 3rd
Tessa Ransford

The hill is tossing high, frail wisps of
rosy cloud to glide in steady gale
along a turquoise sky, around, above the
perpendicular and slightly askew columns,
above the triangular gap
between crown and crag.

The moon, full at midnight,
is now high and faded
almost a lazy eyelid:
day’s eye opening
or night’s eye closing.

Birds chase and ride the wind
reeling, wheeling,
aware that in a moment
ordinary flight of day will have to be resumed.

The hawk alone is steady,
keeps position despite the gale
to pinpoint a victim

and far below
grasses tinge in flower:
harebell, yarrow, lady’s yellow bedstraw
Among the rangy thistles and fatted doves.

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49d

<p>The bookends of time</p><p>Nothing lasts forever: not humanity, not Earth, not the Universe. But finitude confers an indelible meaning to our lives</p><p>by Thomas Moynihan</p><p><a href="https://aeon.co/essays/how-humanity-moved-from-eternal-to-bookended-time?utm_source=Aeon+Newsletter&utm_campaign=d7a6d9f4aa-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2026_02_19&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_-4ef8a26106-72664972" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="aeon.co/essays/how-humanity-moved-from-eternal-to-bookended-time?utm_source=Aeon+Newsletter&utm_campaign=d7a6d9f4aa-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2026_02_19&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_-4ef8a26106-72664972"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">aeon.co/essays/how-humanity-mo</span><span class="invisible">ved-from-eternal-to-bookended-time?utm_source=Aeon+Newsletter&utm_campaign=d7a6d9f4aa-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2026_02_19&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_-4ef8a26106-72664972</span></a></p><p>Cosmology at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subjects/search/?query=cosmology" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subjects/search/?query=cosmology"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subje</span><span class="invisible">cts/search/?query=cosmology</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/cosmology/" rel="tag">#cosmology</a></p>

From the British Museum: Title-page to Hobbes's 'Leviathan' (London: Andrew Cooke, 1651): an allegory of governance and the nature of civil and ecclesiastical authority. A crowned man whose body is made of numerous human bodies, emerges from a mountain at the foot of which is a city, holding a sword in his right hand and a crozier in in left hand; below is the title inscribed on a tapestry and surrounded by ten framed allegories: castle, crown, cannon, military trophies, battle on the left, church, bishop mitre, thunder, inscribed trident and forks, and assembly of magistrates;. 1651

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leviathan_(Hobbes_book)#/media/File:Leviathan_frontispiece_cropped_British_Museum.jpg

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3207

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49d

<p>"Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,<br> Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!<br> Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,<br> Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?"</p><p>How Wuthering Heights was shaped by Emily Brontë’s gothic poetry</p><p>Emily Brontë’s poetry is full of haunting love, grief and death.</p><p>by Claire O'Callaghan</p><p><a href="https://theconversation.com/how-wuthering-heights-was-shaped-by-emily-brontes-gothic-poetry-275948?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Latest%20from%20The%20Conversation%20for%20February%2019%202026%20-%203680937628&utm_content=Latest%20from%20The%20Conversation%20for%20February%2019%202026%20-%203680937628+CID_615a3bba18c77b3d9714f9e409741922&utm_source=campaign_monitor_uk&utm_term=How%20Wuthering%20Heights%20was%20shaped%20by%20Emily%20Bronts%20gothic%20poetry" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="theconversation.com/how-wuthering-heights-was-shaped-by-emily-brontes-gothic-poetry-275948?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Latest%20from%20The%20Conversation%20for%20February%2019%202026%20-%203680937628&utm_content=Latest%20from%20The%20Conversation%20for%20February%2019%202026%20-%203680937628+CID_615a3bba18c77b3d9714f9e409741922&utm_source=campaign_monitor_uk&utm_term=How%20Wuthering%20Heights%20was%20shaped%20by%20Emily%20Bronts%20gothic%20poetry"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">theconversation.com/how-wuther</span><span class="invisible">ing-heights-was-shaped-by-emily-brontes-gothic-poetry-275948?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Latest%20from%20The%20Conversation%20for%20February%2019%202026%20-%203680937628&utm_content=Latest%20from%20The%20Conversation%20for%20February%2019%202026%20-%203680937628+CID_615a3bba18c77b3d9714f9e409741922&utm_source=campaign_monitor_uk&utm_term=How%20Wuthering%20Heights%20was%20shaped%20by%20Emily%20Bronts%20gothic%20poetry</span></a></p><p>Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1019" rel="nofollow"><span class="invisible">https://</span>www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1019</a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a></p>

Title page of the book Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

Authors: Charlotte Brontë
Anne Brontë
Emily Brontë

A title page from an 1846 publication on aged cream paper. At the very top, a handwritten pencil inscription reads "Brontë Charlotte" in a casual, slightly slanted hand. The printed text is centered and typeset in a spare, classical style with generous spacing between elements.
Below a small decorative wavy rule, the publication details appear at the bottom:
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.
1846.

The layout is minimal and elegant, with wide margins and abundant white space giving it a restrained, dignified character typical of mid-Victorian book design.

https://archive.org/details/poemsbycurrerell00bron/page/n4/mode/1up

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250d

<p>Why is a cowboy writer from Ohio venerated in a small Aussie beach town? The incredible story of Zane Grey</p><p>The dentist-turned bestselling author had a caravan park named after him after making a killer shark movie in 1930s Australia. A swashbuckling new biography unspools the unlikely tale</p><p>By Beejay Silcox</p><p><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/jul/29/big-sharks-coded-love-letters-a-movie-fiasco-the-strange-australian-chapter-of-celebrity-cowboy-writer-zane-grey" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.theguardian.com/books/2025/jul/29/big-sharks-coded-love-letters-a-movie-fiasco-the-strange-australian-chapter-of-celebrity-cowboy-writer-zane-grey"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.theguardian.com/books/2025</span><span class="invisible">/jul/29/big-sharks-coded-love-letters-a-movie-fiasco-the-strange-australian-chapter-of-celebrity-cowboy-writer-zane-grey</span></a></p><p>Zane Grey at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/212" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/212"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/212</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#Books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#Literature</a></p>

Grey at Koala Park holding a koala during a visit to Australia in December 1935.

The image shows Grey gently holding a koala in his arms.

Dressed in a formal yet travel-appropriate suit and hat, Grey appears composed and curious, with a slight, reserved smile as he supports the animal.

The actress Lillian Pertka appears behind him and another man (also wearing a formal suit) is carressing the koala´s head.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zane_Grey#/media/File:Zane_Grey_in_Australia.jpg

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249d

<p>Whaur’s yer Willie Shakespeare noo?<br>11 Sept, Royal Society of Edinburgh – free, ticketed</p><p>How does Scots language come alive on stage – and what does it say about us?</p><p>Playwright Ian Brown & linguist Jeremy Smith explore the Scots & English language varieties woven into THE SCOTCH PLAY (1990) – Brown’s reimagining of Shakespeare’s Macbeth</p><p><a href="https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/whaurs-yer-willie-shakespeare-noo-tickets-1489136991829" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/whaurs-yer-willie-shakespeare-noo-tickets-1489136991829"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/whaurs-</span><span class="invisible">yer-willie-shakespeare-noo-tickets-1489136991829</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/drama/" rel="tag">#drama</a> <a href="/tags/theatre/" rel="tag">#theatre</a> <a href="/tags/scots/" rel="tag">#Scots</a> <a href="/tags/scotslanguage/" rel="tag">#Scotslanguage</a> <a href="/tags/shakespeare/" rel="tag">#Shakespeare</a> <a href="/tags/macbeth/" rel="tag">#Macbeth</a></p>

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49d

<p>When Christian I of Norway failed to pay a dowry for his daughter Margaret, queen to James III, <a href="/tags/orkney/" rel="tag">#Orkney</a> & <a href="/tags/shetland/" rel="tag">#Shetland</a> were annexed by the Scottish crown <a href="/tags/otd/" rel="tag">#OTD</a>, 20 Feb, 1472</p><p>NORTHERN-NESS looks at literature from the northern isles, from the sagas to the far future</p><p>1/8</p><p><a href="https://www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2019/07/northern-ness/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2019/07/northern-ness/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2019/0</span><span class="invisible">7/northern-ness/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/orkney/" rel="tag">#Orkney</a> <a href="/tags/shetland/" rel="tag">#Shetland</a> <a href="/tags/orcadian/" rel="tag">#Orcadian</a> <a href="/tags/shetlandic/" rel="tag">#Shetlandic</a> <a href="/tags/norse/" rel="tag">#Norse</a></p>

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49d

<p>Subverting the Script: Alan Bissett on Class, Masculinity, & the Telling of Tales</p><p>Playwright, novelist & performer Alan Bissett speaks to Scott Cassidy on The Creative Resistance podcast about class, masculinity, & the telling of tales.</p><p><a href="https://thecreativeresistancepodcast.substack.com/p/subverting-the-script-alan-bissett" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="thecreativeresistancepodcast.substack.com/p/subverting-the-script-alan-bissett"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">thecreativeresistancepodcast.s</span><span class="invisible">ubstack.com/p/subverting-the-script-alan-bissett</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/class/" rel="tag">#class</a> <a href="/tags/masculinity/" rel="tag">#masculinity</a> <a href="/tags/alanbissett/" rel="tag">#AlanBissett</a> <a href="/tags/podcast/" rel="tag">#podcast</a></p>

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248d

<p>Cuil-lodair, is Briseadh na h-Eaglaise,<br>is briseadh nan tacannan –<br>lamhachas-làidir dà thrian de ar comas;<br>’se seòltachd tha dhìth oirinn…</p><p>—“Cruaidh?” (“Steel?”), by Ruaraidh MacThòmais (Derick Thomson, 1921–2012) – born <a href="/tags/otd/" rel="tag">#OTD</a>, 5 Aug. A 🎂 🧵 </p><p>1/6</p><p><a href="https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/cruaidh/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/cruaidh/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.</span><span class="invisible">uk/poem/cruaidh/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/gaelic/" rel="tag">#Gaelic</a> <a href="/tags/gaidhlig/" rel="tag">#Gaidhlig</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/20thcentury/" rel="tag">#20thcentury</a></p>

Cruaidh?
le Ruaraidh MacThòmais

Cuil-lodair, is Briseadh na h-Eaglaise,
is briseadh nan tacannan –
lamhachas-làidir dà thrian de ar comas;
‘se seòltachd tha dhìth oirinn.
Nuair a theirgeas a’ chruaidh air faobhar na speala
caith bhuat a’ chlach-liomhaidh;
chan eil agad ach iarann bog
mur eil de chruas nad innleachd na ni sgathadh.

Is caith bhuat briathran mìne
oir chan fhada bhios briathran agad;
tha Tuatha Dè Danann fon talamh,
tha Tìr nan Og anns an Fhraing,
‘s nuair a ruigeas tu Tìr a’ Gheallaidh,
mura bi thu air t’ aire,
coinnichidh Sasannach riut is plion air,
a dh’ innse dhut gun tug Dia, bràthair athar, còir dha anns an fhearann.

Steel?
Translator: Derick Thomson

Culloden, the Disruption,
and the breaking up of the tack-farms –
two-thirds of our power is violence;
it is cunning we need.
When the tempered steel near the edge of the scythe-blade is worn
throw away the whetstone;
you have nothing left but soft iron
unless your intellect has a steel edge that will cut clean.

And throw away soft words,
for soon you will have no words left;
the Tuatha Dè Danann are underground,
the Land of the Ever-young is in France,
and when you reach the Promised Land,
unless you are on your toes,
a bland Englishman will meet you,
and say to you that God, his uncle, has given him a title to the land.

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