Well, At Least There Was Good Stuff to Read: The Books of the Decade. Anybody remember how anxious and thrilled we were in those last months of the 20th century? When we weren't at war and we had a budget surplus and it looked like Al Gore would be president? The prospect of a 21st century filled with new technologies, new art and literature loomed large and bright. But now, as we look back at what was decidedly a shitty decade for an incredible variety of people in an equally incredible variety of ways (evictions/invasions/bombings/etc), it's surprisingly hard to be pessimistic about the books that assessed, satirized, dramatized and distracted us from the events of the past 10 years. Goethe said that the decline of a nation's literature is the precursor to that nation's fall, and with this look back at the books that defined the decade, we'd like to tell Goethe to suck it.
Almost in spite of ourselves, we're still writing, translating, publishing and even occasionally buying good books in this country. The Egg. The Egg By: Andy Weir You were on your way home when you died. It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. And that’s when you met me. “What… what happened?” “You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. “There was a… a truck and it was skidding…” “Yup,” I said. “I… I died?” “Yup. You looked around. “More or less,” I said. “Are you god?” “Yup,” I replied. “My kids… my wife,” you said. “What about them?”
“Will they be all right?” “That’s what I like to see,” I said. You looked at me with fascination. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Oh,” you said. “Neither,” I said. “Ah,” you said. “All religions are right in their own way,” I said. You followed along as we strode through the void. “Nowhere in particular,” I said. “So what’s the point, then?” “Not so!” I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness.
“Oh lots. - StumbleUpon. Zentips. PABLO NERUDA - Love. Do not stand at my grave and weep. Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep is a poem written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Although the origin of the poem was disputed until later in her life, Mary Frye's authorship was confirmed in 1998 after research by Abigail Van Buren, a newspaper columnist.[1] Full text[edit] Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on the snow, I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die. Origins[edit] Mary Frye, who was living in Baltimore at the time, wrote the poem in 1932. Mary Frye circulated the poem privately, never publishing or copyrighting it. The poem was introduced to many in Britain when it was read by the father of a soldier killed by a bomb in Northern Ireland. BBC poll[edit] ... Rocky J. Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep.