Antiquarian - Darkest Dungeon textpost meme (20/?)
Antiquarian - Darkest Dungeon textpost meme (20/?)
23k Gold overlay, hand-carved and made in a Greek monastery. The text is Ancient Greek; but the piece itself actually dates to 1950-1960.
Website Review: Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America
Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America website screen capture (top of page) 10/21/2021 One of the questions I receive on both my blog and Facebook page runs like this: “I have a copy of_____. Would you have any idea of its value or how I would find out?” I haven’t a clue regarding the first part of that question. I love reading and talking about books, but have never focused on…
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Beauty in simplicity
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I just finished reading this book and it’s absolutely lovely. Published and taking place in the early 1910’s, it’s written i n letter form by our main character, Peggy, a young French woman who comes to America for her coming out in high society.
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Book Row, Marvin Mondlin and Roy Meador. New York: Skyhorse, 2019 (originally published in 2003). Summary: A history of Book Row, a collection of used and antiquarian bookstores along and around Fourth Avenue in New York City. Most of us who have loved books for many years have our favorite used and antiquarian bookstores. Many are memories. Others are still operating. Some were in out of the…
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A beautiful bundled and highly informative antiquarian book of 1881 about the German literary history with several facsimiles and illustrations. A flattering experience for all senses!
The antiquities system is so good for exploration. I keep finding quests I forgot about or just never found! They weren't kidding when they said quests are everywhere! Also never been to Rash Merchant's Plummet in Stros M'kai before and now. I must figure out that bridge. Screw fighting daedric princes, that damn bridge is the ultimate quest.
My book purchases from Brattle Bookshop (Boston, Massachusetts): (Left to Right) 1. The Outline of Sanity: A Life of G.K. Chesterton by Alzina Stone Dale 2. Gilbert: The Man Who Was G.K. Chesterton by Michael Coren 3. The Red and the Green by Iris Murdoch 4. Indian Boyhood by Charles A. Eastman (1918 Little, Brown, and Company) 5. Three Volume Set (1844) of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s essays 6. Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson (1924 Charle’s Scribner’s Sons) 7. Ranald Bannerman’s Boyhood by George MacDonald (1871 J.B. Lippencott) 8. A Critic in Pall Mall by Oscar Wilde (1919 Second Printing, Methuen & Co.) 9. The Amenities of Book-Collecting by A. Edward Newton (1924 5th impression) 10. James Joyce: A Definitive Biography by Herbert Gorman (1949) 11. A Narrative of Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca Trans. by Fanny Bandelier (Slipcase edition)
When the world is all at odds, and the mind is all at sea.
Then cease the useless tedium, and brew a cup of tea.
There is magic in its fragrance, there is solace in its taste.
And the laden moments vanish, somehow into space.
The world becomes a lovely thing, there’s beauty as you’ll see.
All becuase you briefly stopped to brew a cup of tea. ~ Anonymous
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- How disastrous are you?
This lovely antique poetry book is everything.
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Academy ambition necessitating frequent oversea excursion, the level court should neither seek nor find conspicuousness in my absence from England prior to the events described herein, nor upon querying my associations unveil secreted dubiousness of character.
Prior to the "incident" time I spent sweeping lone and level sands, searching for the shadow-haunted citadel of Madh Ra. In elden times the sand-ruined masons whose fingertips were by the sun's thousand tongues rendered red as their rusted tools, with primitive geometry and a mysterious sense of something larger, raised a profound desert temple unto an ancient deity who, if for once psuedicians assert correctly, informed later mythological serpent archetypes.
In Audib, formerly Synopia of the later Sassinid era, the March sun bludgeons like a flaming stave. Men striving to save every mineral within themselves sit still as buddhas. In a thousand ways the immensity of the desert heat strains and contorts men, until at a glance appears a landscape of wretches reposed as if bound for the face-side of a Tarot card.
We worked bedight traditionally in pallid linens which left for imagination's infatuation everything save the eyes and a scant hemisphere of peeling nose-bridge. A garment worn for one hour only, when wrung, produced liquid sufficient to drown a beetle! Heat-devoured men fell sodden, prunelike digits strove for purchase. We spurred them onward, lending our zeal as ardour’s salve, deponing the riches soon due them. Bitter salt was Discovery's cost, always. Her favoured toll, as any occultic codex worth its sanguine ink would illustrate on page one.
We too suffered observing them, the academy men and I. What we quare bedfellows wrought of chance circumstance, sharing knowledge by day and drinks and japes by night! A social success by any measure; three beetles drowned to the litre.
Alongside innumerable laborers, consultants and coordinators, four of note comprised the leadership: Myself, representing private interests, Dr. Farrig, Cairo's cultural heir apparent, Heinrich Shliemarc, Eastern studies lecturer at Munich University, and finally Sara Hegarty, charged by the BM with acquiring an idol predating the most antique specimens in Grand Europe's exhibition houses.
For eleven days we sought to cordon that ochre void, to reign divine order upon the formless. Ceaseless the desert variations were, exhausting the vast mind who commanded their fixlessness. It is a landscape caught in endless flux, where dogged winds reset the playing board on a megrim. Dunes before our eyes would transform like conjured things, whose spectral forms being bound to books, dust and Will can but aspire to fixed form; Tohu va-Vohu. The great haze of the landscape slowly blighted the mind, inflicting confusion. So is it also in the woods, the realm of Pan, where the lost become conspicuously and suddenly confused and, as if through malign intercession, unavoidably flee furthest from the path of safety.
On the eleventh night we found Him. Inside the black mosque’s bones, beneath the heaped ashes of entropy, a secreted royal cloister held the grand sarcophagus. Stone’s impatient slumber energized the fetid air. The King’s death vessel retained nobility, though wreathed in dust and ancient incense dregs which a hanging golden censer had exuded in antiquity. The chamber was redolent still, somehow, despite the cleansing fire of many spent seconds.
“Rot the beggar!” exclaims Romford. Good thing he was wearing his old hat.