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Lädt ... More Scenes from the Rural Lifevon Verlyn Klinkenborg
   Keine Keine aktuelle Diskussion zu diesem Buch.  DetailMuse | Jun 30, 2013 |  keine Rezensionen | Rezension hinzufügen
Verlyn Klinkenborg's regular column,The Rural Life, is one of the most read and beloved in the New York Times. Since 1997, he has written eloquently on every aspect, large and small, of life on his upstate New York farm, including his animals, the weather and landscape, and the trials and rewards of physical labor, as well as broader issues about agriculture and land use behind farming today. Klinkenborg's pieces are admired as much for their poetic writing as for their insight: peonies are "the sheepdog of flowers," dry snow "tumbles offthe angled end of the plow-blade as if each crystal were completely independent, almost charged with static electricity," and land is most valuable "for its silence, its freedom from language." Klinkenborg writes with a grace and understanding that makes us more aware of the world around us, whether we live on a farm or in the middle of a city.More Scenes from the Rural Life gathers together 150 of his best pieces since his last collection,The Rural Life, was published a decade ago. For anybody with an appreciation of nature, language, or both, this book is certain to delight. Keine Bibliotheksbeschreibungen gefunden. |
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 Google Books — Lädt ...GenresMelvil Decimal System (DDC)508.73Natural sciences and mathematics General Science Natural historyKlassifikation der Library of Congress [LCC] (USA)BewertungDurchschnitt: (4.25)
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I wished for a bit more of a gathering narrative to the collection, but in the end simply enjoyed it as a book to dip in and out of, e.g. by reading a year's (a chapter's) entries each day. Five of my favorite passages:
A couple of months ago, I began getting up at four in the morning. I'd been reading a lot of William Cobbett, who believed that an hour in the morning was worth two in the afternoon. {...} The dogs are thrilled to get up at four, because it means they can run around outside for a few minutes, have their breakfast, and be back in bed by four fifteen.
I go outside at night now just to admire how steep the temperature gradient has become, how the mercury seems to roll off the table once dark comes. Fall is here.
For the past few weeks, I've been wondering, just how sharp can an icicle get? In early afternoons the icicles outside my office window lengthen themselves drip by drip, and I conclude that an icicle can only be as sharp as a drop of water. But in the morning, when the rising sun turns that curtain of ice lavender, the icicles look as sharp as needles.
When I walk across the pasture {...} I can feel the history of this winter underfoot. Sometimes the snow crust from the Christmas storm bears me up so that I'm walking only calf-deep through the January snow, and sometimes I break all the way through to November.
My wife and I recently drove from the farm to California. The trip had a narrative. It was called Middlemarch, by George Eliot. We slipped the first cassette into the car stereo somewhere near Albany {...and we finished the last one...} somewhere between Bakersfield and Fresno. {...} It so happens that America is as wide as Middlemarch is long...
(Review based on a copy of the book provided by the publisher.) (