Features this week are: Book Liason & Kinxs Book Nook!
How does this work? First you leave your name here on this post, then you create a post on your own blog that links back to this post and then you visit as many blogs as you can and tell them "Hi!" in their comments. You follow them, they follow you. Win. Win. Just make sure to follow back if someone follows you!
This week's question :
When you step out of your USUAL genre what do you like to read? Best books in that genre?
Answer : I usually read Romance, the hot kind mostly so when I do branch out from Romance I tend to go for Autobiographies. Out of Bios ( or dramatization of bios ) my favorite is Margaret George's books "The Memoirs of Cleopatra" and her medieval "Authobiographies" of powerful Queens and women like: Helen of Troy, Queen Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots and even King Henry VIII. Here is a small excerpt from "Mary, Called Magdalene" :"She was carried to a place she had never been. It was much more vivid than a dream, it had a depth and a color to it, and exquisite detail that made it seem more real than the time with her mother in the courtyard, more real than the dreamy hours she spent sometimes looking out at the great lake of Magdala, the one so grand they called it a sea: the Sea of Galilee.
She was elevated, put on a high pillar or a platform, she could not tell which. And all around her were people, gathering at the base of it, looking up at her. She turned her head to the side and saw that other pillars had other people on them, that there was a whole row of them, stretching as far as she could see. The sky was a yellowish color, the color she had only seen once, when there was a sandstorm. The sun was blotted out, but there was still light, diffuse golden light.
Then someone came to her-were they flying, was it an angel, how did they get there?-and took her hand and said, “Will you come? Will you come with us?”
She felt the hand holding hers, and it was smooth like a piece of marble, not cold, not hot, not sweaty, but perfect. She wanted to squeeze it but dared not.
“Yes,” she finally said.
And then the figure-she still did not know who it was, she dared not look at the face, only at the feet in golden sandals-lifted her up and took her away, and the journey was so dizzying that she lost her balance and began to fall, to plummet, and it was very dark beneath her.
She sat up with a jolt. The oil lamp had burned out. Outside she could hear the gentle sound of the water of the great lake, not far from her window, as it lapped the shore.
She held out her hand, felt it. It was moist. Was that why the being had let her go, had dropped it? She rubbed it hard.
No, let me cleanse my hand! she cried out, silently. Don’t abandon me! I can wipe it off!
“Come back,” she whispered.
But the only answer was the stillness of the room and the sound of the water."
