where the winds of limbo roar
Jun. 12th, 2009 09:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hawkwing_lbBooks 2009: 49.
49. Anthony Price, The Alamut Ambush.
The excellent thing about a college library is that you can get out of print crime/spy novels from the seventies. Among other things.
This is a good book, decently constructed, if trying to be perhaps a little too clever: the main plot involves Israelis and Arabs and murder. Interesting stuff.
Achievement today included a mile and a half in fourteen minutes, a 6B climb (albeit with pauses), almost two lead climbs, and a bunch of other climbs.
My dental appointment was also painless, so I call today a win. Overall.
On the lose front, however, The Cat has disappeared into the garden, and has not been home since morning. He hasn't eaten yesterday or today, and he's been yowling about his mouth a bit, so I'm worried.
On the train home, I had the first paragraph of another story fall into my head. I appear to be making up for the months of concentration on academic subjects.
Sunset glared golden off the water. Seagulls spiralled over the Horn, tiny flecks of white vivid through grey smoke and red sparks.
The city burned.
Karia Senmouthis watched from the prow of her masted dromon, out of reach of the oared galleys of the blockade. Fifteen miles off Sikyon: hours too late. The Albans had breached the walls. No point now in driving her squadron - five ships, their oarsmen idle, waiting for orders; five hundred archers, a thousand men, their silence after days of noise making the sound of the light breeze in the stays seem deafening - past the blockade.
The brand on her cheek itched. An imaginary irritation: the damage had been minimal, and she'd had years to grow used to it. But it reminded her the captain awaited her decision. To turn back, or go forward and greet the conquerors?
Why am I getting an education, if not to rip it off and write fictions? If only I could finish one.
49. Anthony Price, The Alamut Ambush.
The excellent thing about a college library is that you can get out of print crime/spy novels from the seventies. Among other things.
This is a good book, decently constructed, if trying to be perhaps a little too clever: the main plot involves Israelis and Arabs and murder. Interesting stuff.
Achievement today included a mile and a half in fourteen minutes, a 6B climb (albeit with pauses), almost two lead climbs, and a bunch of other climbs.
My dental appointment was also painless, so I call today a win. Overall.
On the lose front, however, The Cat has disappeared into the garden, and has not been home since morning. He hasn't eaten yesterday or today, and he's been yowling about his mouth a bit, so I'm worried.
On the train home, I had the first paragraph of another story fall into my head. I appear to be making up for the months of concentration on academic subjects.
Sunset glared golden off the water. Seagulls spiralled over the Horn, tiny flecks of white vivid through grey smoke and red sparks.
The city burned.
Karia Senmouthis watched from the prow of her masted dromon, out of reach of the oared galleys of the blockade. Fifteen miles off Sikyon: hours too late. The Albans had breached the walls. No point now in driving her squadron - five ships, their oarsmen idle, waiting for orders; five hundred archers, a thousand men, their silence after days of noise making the sound of the light breeze in the stays seem deafening - past the blockade.
The brand on her cheek itched. An imaginary irritation: the damage had been minimal, and she'd had years to grow used to it. But it reminded her the captain awaited her decision. To turn back, or go forward and greet the conquerors?
Why am I getting an education, if not to rip it off and write fictions? If only I could finish one.
