Finally, before the week’s over, I am able to present to you my next weekly reading list. Took me some time this time to collect all the fan-fictions I’ve read. That’s the problem with using different devices and just liking the posts and not saving them in any other way. A lot of research needed^^ But nevertheless I am done by now with all the stories I remember I’ve read. Fortunately the list is again very diversified in it’s characters and/or movies. But I have to admit that I’m stuck to Bones x Reader stories most of the time, as you can see below. Don’t now why exactly, though I love the character of Leonard McCoy of course. I mean, who doesn’t love this grumpy but sexy way of him ;) But if I go on with still collecting Bones stories than I have to make a special out of my next reading list and dedicate it to Leonard “Bones” McCoy :D Wouldn’t be a shame though. But now I’ve written enough and all I have to say is:
‘Memories,’ according to PG Wodehouse 'are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is best not to stir them.’
In this memory-themed edition of Words and Music Tom Hiddleston and Eleanor Bron nonetheless poke around with the soup spoon to discover what’s below the surface.
Among the ingredients Wordsworth and Bertie Wooster are in remarkable agreement; Alan Bennett struggles to comes to terms with his mother’s dementia; and Fanny Burney recalls her horrific operation. St Peter and Montaigne have trouble remembering; Ted Hughes remembers all too well his honeymoon with Sylvia Plath; William Blake and Elizabeth Jennings look back on happier days. Somewhere in the middle is a large dollop of Proust.
It’s all to be found floating in the music of Purcell, Conlon Nancarrow, Chabrier, John Adams, Brahms and Bach.
“I read this poem often. Once a month at least. In the madness and mayhem of modern life, where every man seems committed to an endless search for approval and esteem of his fellows and peers, no matter what the cost, this poem reminds me of a basic truth: that we are, as we are, “enough.”‘ Most of us are motivated deep down by a sense of insufficiency, a need to be better, stronger, faster; to work harder; to be more committed, more kind, more self-sufficient, more successful. We are driven be a sense that we are not, as we are, ‘enough.’ But this short poem by Derek Walcott is like a declaration of unconditional love. It’s like the embrace of an old friend. We are each of us whole, perfectly imperfect, enough.”
Love After Love
By Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Nobel laureate poet Derek Walcott died aged 87 at his home on the Caribbean island of St Lucia on March 17 2017.