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Filled with Abernaith's Recommendations, Reviews and Ravings.

Which are Notte The Least Bit Crappe.

So go read them.




Here's where Abernaith spouts off garbled nonsensical musings that may or may not appear to be reviews--for books, movies, music and also fanfiction, which she highly recommends the reader to try. Do bring your brains for this one, kiddies, and make sure you're over 18, please. Else, you may scoot off to a friendlier (or less snarkier) site where rainbows and ponies abound.


Have a nice day!


Please be sure to visit the READ ME page for more info

on just why this personal site should be handled at the viewer's own discretion.




06/30/13 --


I've taken down the atrocious calendar, since it merely served as a reminder of the long stretch of time I have unduly neglected this page. If one were to tilt the kaleidoscope, the relic had been left too long giving visitors that hard, blank stare of the mendicant abandoned, sub-existing. Though the days unrecorded were hardly unfilled in real life, and there were many, many joyful days and months and years of reading.


Looking back, there's nothing there that really made me regret not noting them down. I liked the privacy of it; I'm a selfish reader, in many ways. But the whim has struck me again to write, and so here these words go out into the ether, for no better reason. I've always cherished this site, and the dear web host as well. I do miss its old name though, being the casual foodie that I still am.


I suppose an overhaul is inevitable. The how is easy, what with all the shiny features of PBworks that I am itching to play with. The when of it, however, is the challenge. And to that extent, until I can affix myself to a stable temporal condition, with posterior firmly planted on a comfortable chair and no deadlines to harangue me or distractions to, well, distract me... I'll withhold the new and improved calendar, and whatever other pages need dusting up.



Not A Daily Blog


Words Distanced From Sentiment, Fondly Remembered


It's been a few years since the idea of me being an anglophile (mostly directed towards its contemporary literature and media, with some exceptions) has settled into fact. I am, in fact, more than the self that raves enthusiastically about the dry wit of master wordsmiths, the likes of Terry Pratchett. I like to think -- sometimes, cautiously -- that I have a well-balanced diet in reading. Oh, who am I kidding? I cozy up to Brit lit like nothing else. I am utterly fond of it, to my ruination. But then, there are some words that transcend their earthly origins. And for all that the man that penned them may have his worldly biases, of the kind that are genetically imposed upon his nature rather than a component of the environment which fed into his writing, there are words that cast themselves about the ether like bright comets, entirely otherworldly and navigating at a trajectory beyond human ken. That's how moving this is, for me:


- They thought you were their plaything, 

Savage child; the throwback from wayback 

Expedient because 

Utopia spawns few warriors. 

But you knew your figure cut a cipher 

Through every crafted plan, 

And playing our game for real 

Saw through our plumbing jobs 

And wayward glands 

To a meaning of your own, in bones.


—Iain M. Banks, Use of Weapons

(Lifted from here.)


This is kind of my way of saying that I'm very sad to learn of Mr. Banks' death. His words had a blazing effect on me, plucked my brain right out of gravity and took it for a spin. May his words and works continue to serve as the metaphorical ironically-named space vessels that throw meteorite-sized deus ex machina rocks at the heads of the unsuspecting reader, long and far into the future.



Today's message is brought to you by Abernaith's Super-Sized Pogo Sticks. "So Springy and Tall, the more Driven and Lunatic Can Practically Pogo To The Moon" Wanna read more? Check out more of Abernaith's random ravings and blatherings in the N.A.D.B. (Not Again) Archives.




Recent Misadventures...


In Books:


The Reverse of the Medal by Patrick O'Brian


This is a turning point in a series spanning 20-odd novels. I couldn't help but attach personal sentiment to it, reflecting upon my journey in life. All lives meet that turning point, the point of no return, the definitive challenge from which one puts everything at stake. And how many people in the world are strong enough to hold on to their principles, to fundamental and absolute goodness and decency and humanity, at such a time? To remember themselves, and be sure-footed in their dealings? And more, how many are lucky enough to have friends to strive for their sake? To selflessly devote themselves to ensuring that your time of trial is not unnecessarily complicated, nor hopelessly impossible to overcome? O'Brian once said in an interview that he had made an effort to contribute towards enlightenment of the human condition through his books. Well, Aubrey and Maturin and everyone else in his opus have certainly been a delight to experience, a great contribution to my Weltanschauung, my own worldview. And for that, I am forever indebted to the man who penned these books and for the bright, noble, simple world he deigned to share.







bored people have come and gone through this page,

slipping away like light through the jalousies...


Have a confession? Did you like this site? Or do you hate it, and hate the guts of whoever came up with it?

So. Come and nag to your heart's content. 


People who give feedback are good, conscientious people.




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