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Showing posts from October, 2015

A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Poor People from Being a Burthen to their Parents, or the Country, and for Making them Beneficial to the Publick

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A MODEST PROPOSAL A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Poor People from Being a Burthen to their Parents, or the Country, and for Making them Beneficial to the Publick. by Dr. Jonathan Swift 1729 It is a melancholy object to those, who walk through this great town, or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads and cabbin-doors crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags, and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in stroling to beg sustenance for their helpless infants who, as they grow up, either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country, to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes. I think it is agreed by all parties, that this prodigious number of children in the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers, and frequent

24 Fast Food Breakfasts That Aren't Terrible for You

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24 Fast Food Breakfasts That Aren't Terrible for You http://bit.ly/1KFBvMf

6 Superfood Sides for Thanksgiving

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6 Superfood Sides for Thanksgiving http://bit.ly/1LWrwUv

4 Delicious Recipes That Cook In No Time

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4 Delicious Recipes That Cook In No Time http://bit.ly/1LWrwE5

The Masterpiece that Killed George Orwell. Robert McCrum

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The masterpiece that killed George Orwell In 1946 Observer editor David Astor lent George Orwell a remote Scottish farmhouse in which to write his new book, Nineteen Eighty-Four. It became one of the most significant novels of the 20th century. Here, Robert McCrum tells the compelling story of Orwell's torturous stay on the island where the author, close to death and beset by creative demons, was engaged in a feverish race to finish the book  "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." Sixty years after the publication of Orwell's masterpiece, Nineteen Eighty-Four, that crystal first line sounds as natural and compelling as ever. But when you see the original manuscript, you find something else: not so much the ringing clarity, more the obsessive rewriting, in different inks, that betrays the extraordinary turmoil behind its composition. Probably the definitive novel of the 20th century, a story that remains eternally fres

Favorite Poems - Poetry Of Loss. Elizabeth Bishop, Emily Dickinson plus 1

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One Art The art of losing isn't hard to master;  so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. - Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. One Art Elizabeth Bishop A Loss Of Something Ever Felt I  A loss of something ever felt I

Favorite Poets. John Donne. For Whom the Bell Tolls.

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For Whom the Bell Tolls by John Donne No man is an island,  Entire of itself.  Each is a piece of the continent,  A part of the main.  If a clod be washed away by the sea,  Europe is the less.  As well as if a promontory were.  As well as if a manner of thine own  Or of thine friend's were.  Each man's death diminishes me,  For I am involved in mankind.  Therefore, send not to know  For whom the bell tolls,  It tolls for thee. For whom the bell tolls a poem  (No man is an island) by John Donne These famous words by John Donne were not originally written as a poem - the passage is taken from the 1624 Meditation 17, from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions and is prose. The words of the original passage are as follows: John Donne Meditation 17 Devotions upon Emergent Occasions "No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as

Fregola for Lunch at Pomodoro Sardo

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Fregola -  Small traditional Sardinian pasta made with semolina flour cooked with mussels and bottarga. Eaten at Pomodoro Sardo - 118 Lonsdale St Melbourne Victoria 3000 ‘Fregola’ (Origins) Numerous sources indicate that the name ‘Fregola’ derives from the Sardinian verb ‘ficare’ meaning to crumble. This is most likely a reference to the characteristic method of shaping Fregola by hand, in which the semolina and the water are rubbed together between the fingers to create a crumbly texture. The pasta is then traditionally sun dried and toasted very briefly in a wood burning oven. Thanks to this sun drying and toasting process, Fregola invariably remains perfectly ‘al dente' when cooked – an exceptional quality no other pasta is able to guarantee. From a nutritional point of view, the distinctive features of Fregola are rendered more outstanding still by the presence of Tryptophan, an essential amino acid serotonin precursor. Serotonin is a neurotran

Favorite Poets. Dylan Thomas

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Do not go gentle into that good night Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And death shall have no dominion. Dead man naked they shall