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The readers series - i had a lovely and funny conversation with this grandma - but ill tell you that story when i post her toothless grin shot
Photographed by
Visithra
visithra(@)gmail.com
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2:30 pm, bus stop at White Cross, Lancaster (where buses go out to the university). He is reading 'Mathematics for Economists'. He had the earphones in when I saw him, but politely took them out when I asked him for permission.
Thank you for participating in my Readers project, and apologies for breaking your concentration. Other photos in my series of readers are here: www.flickr.com/photos/greg_myers/albums/72157652125931010.
Tydarius Cobb, 9, poses with Clemson University student Deavin Rencher, a sophomore studying special education and member of the Call Me MISTER program, at the Uptown Barbers barber shop in Central, S.C., after reading the book he’s holding as part of the Razor Readers program. (Photo by Ken Scar)
“Aldine Readers Book Three” by Frank Spaulding and Catherine Bryce. Illustrated by Margaret Ely Webb. Newson & Company, New York, 1908, 1918.
Penrith Station, 9:10 am, 29 May
We were all waiting for the bus to Keswick. He was walking with a friend, maybe up Skiddaw.
He showed me the book - ' Händelser vid vatten' a 1992 crime novel by by Kerstin Ekman, translated into English as 'Blackwater'.
For more readers, see www.flickr.com/photos/greg_myers/albums/72157652125931010.
Powell's Books, Portland, Oregon, about 4:10 PM. I wanted to get a photo for my project in the biggest of bookstores, with its many rooms of new and old books, a great place for finding odd books and multiple editions, and curious readers. He is reading Larry Niven, Ringworld. And he is wearing the Portland Timbers shirt because they were playing Sporting Kansas City less than four hours after this photo.
Thank you for participating in my project. Other photos of readers are here: www.flickr.com/photos/greg_myers/albums/72157652125931010.
Leser auf einer Bank im Olympiapark - die Sonne versteckt sich hinter einer Dunstglocke.
Reader on a bench - sun behind light clouds above.
I've seen lots of public computer errors but I've never seen a segmentation fault on debit/credit card reader before.
At least they don't run windows!
---------------
Verifone SC 5000
SEGMENTATION FAULT!
0/PC=304C300h/JT#359
DbgPC=286EA8h/GID (unknown)(unknown)
PLEASE REBOOT [X]
I've been a book reader all my life and an avid re-reader of books. Somebody calculated how many books an average person could read in an average lifespan. The number was awfully small! I suddenly realized my own reading mortality. In spite of this I'm still a passionate advocate of re-reading and re-watching. It admits of no excuse.
The Death of the Moth, and other essays by Virginia Woolf (Európa, 1980.)
Literary Coffee Houses in Pest and Buda (Literature in Coffee Houses, Coffee Houses in Literature) (Universitas, 1998.)
I found a bookmark in one of the books: a museum ticket to Monet and Friends, 2003. So I read it eight years ago.
"The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity."