I've been reading quite a great deal recently. Everything from Enid Blyton to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and very much in between. Yesterday, for example, I read a book (cover to cover) entitled "Rhoda - a Tale for Girls". It was written in 1905 by an authoress, Eleanor Louisa Haverfield, who was born around 1870, in England. She, according to the title page of my 1905 copy of Rhoda, is also the authoress of various other books, though a Google search on her produced very little except books up for sale and auction on eBay. Given the book was written in 1905 (or at least, published then), it is typical of the time, in that the women of the story need to be rescued by gallant men as they are unable to succeed without "manly intervention". That said, it's a nice little story, though rather sad at times, and yet, to my somewhat trained eye, also lacking in certain places as far as storyline and attention to detail goes. But that's me being me, I guess.
I also had the pleasure of reading a book entitled "The Mystery of Maybury Manor". This time, it's an adventure book for boys, and written a little more recently (1920, though my copy dates from 1929). It's a rousing little adventure, set in a typically English boy's school (not that I've seen many of those, you understand), and is quite good to begin with, though it has a rather rushed feel towards the end, as though the writer suddenly considered the fact that he had only a chapter to wind everything up in, and yet found himself still barely halfway through the set up to the story.
Of course, for old books, there is no beating Robin Hood, in any of its varied forms. One of the copies I own, and I will admit to being a fan of anything Robin Hood, dates to 1928, and is by S. Percy, and being of the title "Tales of Robin Hood". At the very end of the book are a few other little stories by other authors that have nothing at all to do with Robin Hood, and are rather curious in their inclusion in this little book. However, they all make for a good read. In perusing yet another book I own, I came across a story at the very end of the book (it being a Hamlyn Story Library book called "Exciting Stories From The Past", published in 1977) that made me laugh a little, as it was a story about Robin Hood. I have no idea who the author of the story is, as the book only lists Editors, but the story (The Phantom Archer), was quite a good read.
Books are amazing creatures, though, when you sit down to consider them. Since I started reading regularly again - I'm in the process of painting my newly-built (and purpose-installed) library in my garden shed, so while I should be cataloguing all my thousands of books, I am instead, getting waylaid by various titles and covers, and so I spend an inordinate amount of time going "ooohhhhh....gotta read that!", and not really getting much painting...or cataloguing...done - I find that my vocabulary has improved greatly. Not, perhaps, that it shows much in the above italic bit :-)
I do find, however, that the more I read, the more I love this language that we speak almost the world over now. English is, apparently, the hardest of all languages to learn, and so I am very glad indeed that I was born in an English-speaking country, as I have had enough hassles learning it in English, without learning it in another language. Having learnt other languages besides dear old English, I know how hard it can be to have to mentally translate things between English and the other language, and I have a fairly good grasp on English (I hope!), yet I still find it easier sometimes to think in one of the foreign languages I speak, than to try and translate it into English, and I'm a native! That said, I DO love English. It is a rich and varied language. It has a way of making me think of chocolate and good coffee when I read a well-written thing, of days spent at the university coffee shop with good friends, discussing everything from Philosophy, to God, to Mechanical Engineering, to Music and Art, to Physics and Maths. Even to Winnie the Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood. What I mean, I guess, is that it sends tingles down my spine and I get all excited and overly joyous and I just want to take pen to paper and set my own words down for all the world (or at least, my sister) to see. Just as a visit to the university at which I am a sometimes-student awakens in me a desire to get back to my studies, so does a well-written book awaken in me a desire to return to my writing.
I also had the pleasure of reading a book entitled "The Mystery of Maybury Manor". This time, it's an adventure book for boys, and written a little more recently (1920, though my copy dates from 1929). It's a rousing little adventure, set in a typically English boy's school (not that I've seen many of those, you understand), and is quite good to begin with, though it has a rather rushed feel towards the end, as though the writer suddenly considered the fact that he had only a chapter to wind everything up in, and yet found himself still barely halfway through the set up to the story.
Of course, for old books, there is no beating Robin Hood, in any of its varied forms. One of the copies I own, and I will admit to being a fan of anything Robin Hood, dates to 1928, and is by S. Percy, and being of the title "Tales of Robin Hood". At the very end of the book are a few other little stories by other authors that have nothing at all to do with Robin Hood, and are rather curious in their inclusion in this little book. However, they all make for a good read. In perusing yet another book I own, I came across a story at the very end of the book (it being a Hamlyn Story Library book called "Exciting Stories From The Past", published in 1977) that made me laugh a little, as it was a story about Robin Hood. I have no idea who the author of the story is, as the book only lists Editors, but the story (The Phantom Archer), was quite a good read.
Books are amazing creatures, though, when you sit down to consider them. Since I started reading regularly again - I'm in the process of painting my newly-built (and purpose-installed) library in my garden shed, so while I should be cataloguing all my thousands of books, I am instead, getting waylaid by various titles and covers, and so I spend an inordinate amount of time going "ooohhhhh....gotta read that!", and not really getting much painting...or cataloguing...done - I find that my vocabulary has improved greatly. Not, perhaps, that it shows much in the above italic bit :-)
I do find, however, that the more I read, the more I love this language that we speak almost the world over now. English is, apparently, the hardest of all languages to learn, and so I am very glad indeed that I was born in an English-speaking country, as I have had enough hassles learning it in English, without learning it in another language. Having learnt other languages besides dear old English, I know how hard it can be to have to mentally translate things between English and the other language, and I have a fairly good grasp on English (I hope!), yet I still find it easier sometimes to think in one of the foreign languages I speak, than to try and translate it into English, and I'm a native! That said, I DO love English. It is a rich and varied language. It has a way of making me think of chocolate and good coffee when I read a well-written thing, of days spent at the university coffee shop with good friends, discussing everything from Philosophy, to God, to Mechanical Engineering, to Music and Art, to Physics and Maths. Even to Winnie the Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood. What I mean, I guess, is that it sends tingles down my spine and I get all excited and overly joyous and I just want to take pen to paper and set my own words down for all the world (or at least, my sister) to see. Just as a visit to the university at which I am a sometimes-student awakens in me a desire to get back to my studies, so does a well-written book awaken in me a desire to return to my writing.
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