October 12, 2009



What do you douse your books with?


I just sorted my library by color, to fun results.



I sort my books alphabetically, but I use the last letter of the last word in the book as the sorting letter, not the title or author. None of my friends has ever been able to figure this out.

John Verity

I cringed to read douse for silverfish and baby in the same graf. Be careful with what chemicals you bring into the apt.!!!


Thanks for the concern, John. The plan is to sprinkle the powder into the book boxes into the garage, then vacuum it out a week later AND hand examine/clean each book before bringing it up. We'll be careful, for sure!

Niall, will check the stuff we're using and let you know.


Since many of my books that have been in storage for two years now have shelves awaiting them, I celebrate what you're doing. It's heady stuff to be reacquainted with these treasures.

Not so heady will be seeing how many duplicates I bought in the meantime.


Alphabetically by last letter of the last word! Kooky!

Mrs. TEV

We will be using "Intice Granular Bait", available on doyourownpestcontrol.com. It is "green" and seems to be the safest option for in home use. If anyone has other suggestions, please share!


Thanks Mark. Great info. I just ordered some, because I'm about to unpack a bunch of my own books from storage.


My books are ordered chronologically by topic. Fiction by author's nationality (or whatever passes for it in my mind), then chronologically. My wife orders her books by size. SIZE!! We don't share shelf space. Actually, now that I think of it, we rarely have books in the same room. My books are in rooms 1,3,5 hers in 2,4,6. Hmmmmm....


Different people in every country receive the business loans from various banks, just because it's fast and easy.

The comments to this entry are closed.


  • The Elegant Variation is "Fowler’s (1926, 1965) term for the inept writer’s overstrained efforts at freshness or vividness of expression. Prose guilty of elegant variation calls attention to itself and doesn’t permit its ideas to seem naturally clear. It typically seeks fancy new words for familiar things, and it scrambles for synonyms in order to avoid at all costs repeating a word, even though repetition might be the natural, normal thing to do: The audience had a certain bovine placidity, instead of The audience was as placid as cows. Elegant variation is often the rock, and a stereotype, a cliché, or a tired metaphor the hard place between which inexperienced or foolish writers come to grief. The familiar middle ground in treating these homely topics is almost always the safest. In untrained or unrestrained hands, a thesaurus can be dangerous."


  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald


    Penelope Fitzgerald's second novel is the tale of Florence Green, a widow who seeks, in the late 1950s, to bring a bookstore to an isolated British town, encountering all manner of obstacles, including incompetent builders, vindictive gentry, small minded bankers, an irritable poltergeist, but, above all, a town that might not, in fact, want a bookshop. Fitzgerald's prose is spare but evocative – there's no wasted effort and her work reminds one of Hemingway's dictum that every word should fight for its right to be on the page. Florence is an engaging creation, stubbornly committed to her plan even as uncertainty regarding the wisdom of the enterprise gnaws at her. But The Bookshop concerns itself, finally, with the astonishing vindictiveness of which provincials are capable, and, as so much English fiction must, it grapples with the inevitabilities of class. It's a dense marvel at 123 pages, a book you won't want to – or be able to – rush through.
  • The Rider by Tim Krabbe


    Tim Krabbé's superb 1978 memoir-cum-novel is the single best book we've read about cycling, a book that will come closer to bringing you inside a grueling road race than anything else out there. A kilometer-by-kilometer look at just what is required to endure some of the most grueling terrain in the world, Krabbé explains the tactics, the choices and – above all – the grinding, endless, excruciating pain that every cyclist faces and makes it heart-pounding rather than expository or tedious. No writer has better captured both the agony and the determination to ride through the agony. He's an elegant stylist (ably served by Sam Garrett's fine translation) and The Rider manages to be that rarest hybrid – an authentic, accurate book about cycling that's a pleasure to read. "Non-racers," he writes. "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."