Barbara Newhall Follett’s novel Lost Island published.
Here he is! the tangible physical book, read it, savor it, sleep with it, the sensational I say because I want to say has come into the whole world, and have a fabulous life.
Please enjoy my daughter’s gallery
John H. at blackswanreport has a link to I say because I want to say with an excerpt.
And enjoy this video from last year, smart guys; I apologist whether it may be too dense for some, yet keep trying as long as there is life there is hope, and I cannot wait to read it, either, and surely guys will (Nietzsche) via blackswanreport.com
Also thanks to Peter Cotton
[Here's more of my interests: I've been indulging in a little obsession I have with an author of novels; and other very interesting thoughts. Let us just say my next writings should be summaries and lots of laughs and research, too, and I've noticed too that writing a well-written book takes an incredible amount of concentration--- one has to practically do it in a bubble, thank Zeus.]
[An author interview by your humble writer for the 21th century.]
E.D.L.—Miss Follett if I may call you that, can you tell us a little about yourself?
B.N.F. —” I have a love of animals, sense of humor, sense of wistfulness, love of Nature. It appeals to everything there is in me”
E.D.L.—Do you have a world view or in some sense a philosophy of life, which you would like to share?
B.N.F.—- ” No code of morals, no rules of conduct, nothing whatever–no definite faith in anything—sheer black atheism, and yet I get along swimmingly.”
E.D.L.—Interesting, now I know you write in English, however is it your only language?
B.N.F.—” I love the Spanish language. It has a good sound. The verbs are conjugated very much as in Latin—surprisingly alike, Latin—my little knowledge of it has been an invaluable help”
E.D.L.—Now I know you are living in New York trying to get your works published, tell us how is the city treating you?
B.N.F.—-” I work like a dog, sleep like a pig, tea around like a deer, eat like a wolf, laugh like a hyena (sometimes), spit like a cat(other times), shut up like an oyster(for a change), and pull long juicy worms out of the ground like an early bird. “
E.D.L.—That sense of humor must come in handy, seeing as we are both writers inevitably I must ask you this question: what is your favorite book, or which do you think is the most— let me say: the one which you want to read over and over again?
B.N.F.—”In the English language: Lord Jim greatest and Nostromo, too. “
E.D.L.–I’m gonna have to read those two, too, now to end our very brief interview can you name your works, and read a little from one of them?”
B.N.F.—The House without Windows, The Voyage of the Norman D, Lost Island, Travels without a Donkey, and some essays and short stories. The following is from Lost Island a romance. [clears throat]
They did not go down to meet the party this morning. Jane stood on the ledge in front of the cliff, watching the little group of men on the beach….All at once an explosion, a terrific ghastly scream from scores of birds’ throats, Jane’s scream mingled with them, a thunderous clatter of wings from the cliff, and the unbearable sight of a crumpled bird reeling in his flight and falling, stricken—falling….
Jane stood glaring savagely. She could see the detestable Mr. Thomas, his shotgun smoking, walk up the beach to recover the bird he had killed. And suddenly she felt that she could not tolerate these meddling scientists—-coming to her island to catch butterflies and murder birds, and bringing their cursed little schooner under Davidson’s sailor eyes, tantalizing him, maybe luring him off to sea. She could no longer control her rage, and, half-crying hysterically, she went running back into the woods, tearing through the brush, jumping over the tangled deadfalls until, completely broken in wind, she could not run any longer. And even this violence of hers could not make her forget the horror of seeing that free, living creature struck down before her very eyes in the midst of its flying….
This running away into the woods had always been her favorite escape, from other people or from herself, beginning with her childhood in Maine. The woods of Maine were very different, though. There, she had looked up into a wavering lattice of pine branches, sparking silver in the sun. She remembered that one day, alone and half-afraid, she had put her arms around a young white pine, leaned her slender body upon it, and felt at once as though she had a friend. That tree had seemed solid and permanent. As permanent as anything on earth could be. Not even the earth itself was really permanent. Some day maybe the machinery of the universe would go wrong—the balance would be upset—and the earth would go catapulting into its sun like a very small moth into a gigantic flame.
She remembered, too, liking the way a tree lived—drawing its own sustenance direct from the earth, dispensing sustenance generously to the world around it; roots solid in the earth, growing and gripping; branches free to wave in the wind and to sparkle in the sun; trunk flexible, swaying with the weather. You could learn something from that. If you understood it properly, you could reach from it the equivalent of many dusty bookshelves of philosophy. Once people had worshipped trees. A sensible worship, too, since without them the human race could no live….She had decided then that, in her own humble way, she would try to live as a tree did.
She wandered restlessly among tropic creepers, and tried to forget the murdered seagull—tried to dispell her fears about the island. She could not get away from the haunting idea that the visit of these scientists somehow spelled disaster—disaster on a large scale than the sacrifice of a few specimens. She was overwhelmed by a new realization of the transitory nature of everything in life. Nothing could be counted on, anywhere. All was shifting and mirage-like. That was pretty difficult to accept. Human nature had an unfortunate clinging tendency, a tragic desire to make life settle, a pitiful expectation that it would stay settled. Human nature could never get used to the idea of life as a relentless river, eventually carrying everything away with it, bringing new things, carrying them away in turn.
Beauty changed. You yourself changed, perhaps more than anything. Perhaps this was good, if you could only learn to accept it. Perhaps it could keep you happy and interested, if you only knew how to use it. It might enable you to revolve in the same direction as the world, instead of bucking it, trying to make it revolve as you wanted.
Jane laughed, then. Once she had complained at absence of change. Now she was bitterly fighting this menace of change. She had often called herself a rebel, hater of civilization; now she was wondering if it was not wiser to try and go with the world. And the paradox was that all these conflicting thoughts had some measure of sense and truth. She felt herself temporarily posted at a vantage point, a mountain outlook from which she could survey the landscape. She saw the whole intricate mesh spread out below, a spider-web of feelings, motives, opinions, dreams, complaints of conflict with on another. They were all true, they were all false; and, looked at from far away, they were all a little bit absurd.
E.D.L. —-Thanks a nanillion for the brief and very enjoyable interview as I have heard your going on a European tour with your sweetheart, too bad for me, [laughter], I’ll read your works and hopefully share them with others.
[quotes are from B.N. Follett's letters with minuscule modifications by me, a very lively and funny writer during her twenties.]