Absolutely magical Alice’s Adventures in Wonderlandin
adaptation by Robert Sabuda has much in store for curious minds, eyes
and hands. Book has only 5 folios, but each page feels like an adventure, with its colorful, lively illustrations and mini books (with mini pop-ups in them!). We have six
books by R. Sabuda and each of them is truly a masterpiece of pop-up art.
Connecticut Energy Challenge Grants $5,000 Reward to Local Library
The Neighbor to Neighbor Energy Challenge continues to make great progress in the fourteen clean energy communities across Connecticut, helping homeowners save money on rising utility bills and reinvest in the local economy.
The program recently announced the winners of the highly competitive Community Group Rewards Competition, which rewarded participating community organizations for their efforts to encourage members to pursue energy efficiency upgrades. The Friends of the Cheshire Library won $5,000 worth of energy rewards for partnering with Neighbor to Neighbor to host workshops and encourage energy efficiency in their community.
It’s been a busy year filled with dozens of community events, workshops and CFL giveaways, with many more planned in 2012. We’re just getting started!
Frankensteinby Mary Shelley. (Shelly was inspired by a very real mad scientist: Giovanni Aldini did actually attempt to resurrect a corpse using electricity.)
The Amityville Horrorby Jay Anson.
(Ronald DeFeo Jr. murdered six of his family members in 1974. A year
later, the new inhabitants of the DeFeo house moved out, after claiming
that they were terrorized by demons and paranormal activity for
Draculaby Bram Stoker. (Transylvanian prince
Vlad the Impaler was known as “Dracula” (meaning “Son of the Dragon”), and he had something of a taste for blood…and impaling his enemies.)
Jawsby Peter Benchly. (In 1916, one shark on the coast of New Jersey actually did go on a
human-hunting spree, attacking five different people in the space of a
The Shiningby Stephen King.
(Back in the ‘70s, Stephen King and his wife Tabitha spent a night in the Stanley Hotel
in Colorado. The hotel was getting ready to close for the season, and
they were the only guests there. King was somewhat disturbed by the
long, empty corridors. That night, he had a ghastly vision that his
three-year-old son was running down the empty halls, screaming as though
he was being chased. King woke with a start, got out of bed, and
started writing The Shining.)
Something that has not happened in a thousand years is happening.
You are going to the City. There is only one City. It is only said
with a capital C. No one needs to bother saying the name of the City. It
is the City.
Certain members of the Council are displeased with your family’s recent actions.
A bard is providing occasional comic relief; no one hired or invited him and his method of earning a living is unclear.
The High Priest is not to be trusted.
Someone is eating an apple mockingly.
There is one body of water. It is called the Sea. The Great Sea, if you are feeling fancy.
You live in a region with no major exports, no centralized
government, no banking system, a mysteriously maintained network of
roads, and little to no job training for anyone who is not a farmer.
You have red hair. You wear it in a braid. Your father was a simple
man, and you don’t remember much about him – he died when you were so
young – but you remember his strong hands, as he fished or carpentered
or whatever it was that he used to do with them.
You’re going to have to hurry, or you’re going to miss the Fair – and you never miss the Fair.
There is trouble at the Citadel.
Your full name has at least one apostrophe in it.
It is the first page, and you are already late for something. Your
mother affectionately chides you as you gulp down a few spoonfuls of
porridge; she will be dead by page forty-two.
There are two religions in your entire universe. One is a thinly
veiled version of Islam. It is only practiced by villains. The other is
“being a Viking.” You are a Viking.
There are new ways in the land that threaten the Old Way. Your
grandmother secretly practices the Old Way, as do all of the people of
The real trouble began the day you arrived at court. Every last
nobleman hides a viper in his smile. How you long for the purity of life
in your village, which is currently on fire or something.
I love bookshelves, and stacks of books, spines, typography, and the feel of pages between my fingertips. I love bookmarks, and old bindings, and stars in margins next to beautiful passages. I love exuberant underlinings that recall to me a swoon of language-love from a long-ago reading, something I hoped to remember. I love book plates, and inscriptions in gifts from loved ones, I love author signatures, and I love books sitting around reminding me of them, being present in my life, being. I love books.
All animals are underfed, black, and vaguely eldritch. They all hate you.
You are a man. If you’re a woman, you are the love interest of the man, and you are dead.
All the women you know have died in childbirth. All the children you know are orphans. You are an orphan.
It’s foggy. If it’s not foggy, it’s smoggy. Or misty. Some form of particulate matter is in the air.
You are arranged to be married to someone sickly.
You tend to dismiss odd noises, prophetic ramblings of mad men, and the death of small animals en masse with a shrug and an offhand “It’s probably nothing.”
Everyone’s last name starts with “Van” or “Von Roth.”
One of your children is crushed to death by a humongous helmet on the day of their wedding.
Everything is gloomy, like that song “Blue” by Eiffel 65 but replace the word “blue” with “gloomy.” You are gloomy. Your life is gloomy and the castle you live in is gloomy. Your underfed black dog is gloomy.
Skulls feature prominently in all interior decorating.
You are in a small town. There is a deep dark secret that only the members of the town know. The outside world can never find out.
It is also a sleepy little town. “Nothing ever happens around here,” says one of the locals. It’s true. Only three people live there and they all died in childbirth.
You go wandering somewhere very cold, and almost freeze to death, but are saved by the fortuitous arrival of a crew of explorers.
You are in a monastery.
You are on a moor.
There is something in the walls (or the wallpaper, or the pipes, or the floors).
Your house has a garret, which is firmly locked for reasons you will not disclose.
You hate everyone, except for one woman you are incredibly attracted to. She hates you.
At least half of the people you know are mad. If you are not yet mad yourself, you are probably well on your way.
The other half are ghosts.
You have recently discovered an old document of some kind. Most likely a journal, but possibly a map or letters written by a dead family member.
All the portraits in your house have peepholes cut in the eyes.
Important events in your life are always preceded by a storm, or at least a stiff wind.
Your house is very dusty and there are cobwebs everywhere. Basically everything is either dust or a cobweb. There isn’t even anything under the dust anymore, just more dust.
You call your bedroom your “chambers.” There is something at your chamber door.
You are near, or on, the ocean.
Someone is keeping a captain’s log.
A book with a malicious spirit trapped inside was very well hidden somewhere no one should have ever found it, and definitely not ineffectually thrown in a chest or a tomb somewhere, but you found it anyway because you’re so curious and full of hubris.
The Evil Creature’s name is comprised entirely of consonants and punctuation.
There was a traumatic event in your childhood involving beach caves.
You are in love with your cousin.
Some form of Catholic imagery has just been appropriated and misused.
You have a love/hate relationship with a grotesquely malformed creature that you are repulsed by, but also pity.
You’re looking at something man was not meant to see. You can’t even comprehend it. It has parallel lines intersecting each other, and it goes on for infinity but you can see all of it, and other stuff that’s just really impossible. Like, think about M.C. Escher but then also scary and also your eyeballs are bleeding probably.
You have experienced unspeakable things. Everything has been resolved in the bleakest way possible. Your only hope is that you will take this secret to the grave.
I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
These haunting little street sculptures by Isaac Cordal, which he leaves on the streets of San Cristóbal de la Casas (Mexico)…
…so small, so ordinary, so vulnerable, so commonplace, wearing suits or dresses, overcoats, standing together, sitting quietly, aging husband and wife, bald office worker, man kneeling and hunched as if exhausted, old woman clutching her purse—even the most dramatic of them, a pieta, seems a mother holding what may be a drug-overdosed son—in other words, a tragedy far too common, as ordinary as dirt in the street…