Book List
Non-Fiction
We are pleased to announce the release of Marilyn Belford's Portraits for Fabric Lovers. It is now available online at Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, and through your local bookstore by special order.
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You do not need to know how to draw to make a good portrait in fabric. You do not need to be an artist. The process of creating a fabric portrait requires no paint at all. The realistic effect is achieved strictly with fabric, repositionable fusible web and thread painting. With the step-by-step help provided in this book you will learn how to select a workable photograph, use the computer to enhance the photograph, choose and apply fabric, bring the portrait to life with thread painting, and complete all of the final touches. With this book you can successfully produce a fabric portrait that you will be proud to hang in your home.
Marilyn Belford is an award winning creator of portrait quilts. Her work can be seen at www.marilynbelford.com.
Classic Fiction
Before beginning Emma Jane Austen wrote, "I am going to take a heroine whom no-one but myself will much like." And so there came Emma, the rich, spoiled, and naive young woman who thinks she has love all figured out. But in spite of Emma's flaws, and Jane Austen's predictions, she is a character many readers have grown to love.
"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home."
"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you."
Northanger Abbey (the earliest written by Ms. Austen, though it was not the first published) follows the adventures of the young Catherine Mooreland, a girl with a little too much imagination.
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was Richard-and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable independence besides two good livings-and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she still lived on-lived to have six children more-to see them growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family of ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong features-so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief-at least so it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities-her abilities were quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid.
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Great Expectations is one of Charles Dickens beloved novels. The story follows the adventures of Pip, a young boy who grows up in poverty only to discover himself the recipient of a mysterious benefactors wealth. From poverty to wealth, Pip finds himself unexpectedly plunged back into poverty again. In the end Pip learns the true value of friendship, and that the things which money can get you are not truly important.
It is a story which can be enjoyed by all ages.
My fatherʼs family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.
I give Pirrip as my fatherʼs family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister,—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my fatherʼs, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, "Also Georgiana Wife of the Above," I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine,—who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle,—I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence.
Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.
"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. "Keep still, you little devil, or Iʼll cut your throat!"
A fearful man, all in coarse gray, with a great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.
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Fantasy
The Stuttering Bard of York, is Rundy Purdy's debut novel of humorous fantasy. To order it online from Amazon.com, go here
