Harry Potter: Popularity + Update

Harry Potter:

Popularity + Update

I'm at this moment on page 534 of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (paperback.version) by J.K.Rowling which means I'm almost about finished with it.
So far into the book I've learned and picked up on so much skill that's been pressed between the lines of the book almost it seems at times effortlessly by Rowling.
Reading between the lines to examine and grasp the meaning of what is written, it's something that one can only do if one seeks out the meanings of such things, which I've been doing with this book purely out of interest. What Ive thought will eventually roll down to 'I've read her words differently than you did', obviously each individual will of course attribute meanings and certain sentences differently to different things.

“One of the pleasures of reading J.K. Rowling is discovering the playful references to history, legend and literature that she hides in her books”.- David Colbert
^^Couldn't have said it better myself.

Opening Harry Potter is like being welcomed to a home you never knew but now have found.
It of course is probably more fun for the parents to read for there kids at bed time unlike the others.
For those adults who are true kids at heart (who probably have a fair share of sneaky Disney DVDs hanging around lol) Harry Potter would be a very fun guilty pleasure to have indeed.

Now teenagers, the awkward age group, no one knows what species they even are to begin with.

So is it almost impossible to know what they would find when reading Harry Potter???

Now that is a very difficult question to answer, for teenagers there's no two alike, trust me!!! lol.
For i am myself 15 years old stuck right in the damn middle of all the hormones and screaming act.

Let's say the more quite teens would likely sit away in a corner somewhere reading this while the quirky ones that have no shame, it seems at all, would blandly talk about the book loud and proud. Not that there's anything wrong or embarrassing about Harry Potter but it's not exactly the coolest thing to talk about even if you happen to be raving mad.

Sure my big brother Stephen who's turning 18 in October hangs around with all these 'wit you lookin at ya Freak' Kinna types who are funny yet really LOUD,...like all teenage boys obviously haha. You'd never think that Ned's (Ned's - people who don't wash there hair, run around in trackies, have very sharp tongue's and just about ready to 'kill' anyone who accidentally but apparently looked at them the wrong way)
And they, him included, just got back form seeing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince not so long ago.
Actually the first premier of H.P here in Scotland was in Glasgow.
So they traveled a couple of miles.

Maybe Harry Potter isn't so embarrassing after all???

But that's just the movies we're talking about not the books.

I'm quite sure actually that to see the film/s isn't anything to be secretive about. Quite the opposite actually, some teens where i live (popular bitches included) go with some friends to see Harry Potter. It's the books that folk are shifty about.

I only could guess that it's all to do with reading since most Ned's think people who read are freaks at my old school -sigh-.

This whole topic is a slightly awkward one at this moment in time. I'm sure in ten years though Harry Potter with be named a classic and everyone will love it openly lol...

Come on don't tell me you don't see that coming. =P

*** 18:46pm
I really don't have any time left to continue my ramblings I've got some housework to do and two jack-russell's to walk in the rain. :( -sigh-

*** 23:54pm
Looking back over this blog I've just realised that i haven't even got into the things in the book that i set out to do...hmpf
lol damn it, what I've actually subconsciously done is talk about the popularity of the book/s with teenagers.
I didn't even do that well XP.
Oh well it will have to do, i might finish this up later but for now i'm leaving it to the dogs..XP

Question is...what do you think?
Is harry potter an awkward thing for teenagers to read in case of embarrassment??

You tell me...lol




XxSteph(:

Excerpt: My Booky Wook

Excerpt: "My Booky Wook"
by Russell Brand

-April Fool-

On the morning of April Fools' Day, 2005, I woke up in a sexual addiction treatment center in a suburb of Philadelphia. As I limped out of the drab dog's bed in which I was expected to sleep for the next thirty wankless nights, I observed the previous incumbent had left a thread of unravelled dental floss by the pillow—most likely as a noose for his poor, famished dinkle.

When I'd arrived the day before, the counselors had taken away my copy of the Guardian, as there was a depiction of the Venus de Milo on the front page of the Culture section, but let me keep the Sun, which obviously had a Page 3 lovely. What kind of pervert police force censors a truncated sculpture but lets Keeley Hazell pass without question? "Blimey, this devious swine's got a picture of a concrete bird with no arms—hanging's too good for him, to the incinerator! Keep that picture of stunner Keeley though." If they were to censor London Town they would ignore Soho but think that the statue of Alison Lapper in Trafalgar Square had been commissioned by Caligula.

Being all holed up in the aptly named KeyStone clinic (while the facility did not have its own uniformed police force, the suggestion of bungling silent film cops is appropriate) was an all too familiar drag. Not that I'd ever been incarcerated in sex chokey before, lord no, but it was the umpteenth time that I'd been confronted with the galling reality that there are things over which I have no control and people who can force their will upon you. Teachers, sex police, actual police, drug counselors; people who can make you sit in a drugless, sexless cell either real or metaphorical and ponder the actuality of life's solitary essence. In the end it's just you. Alone.

Who needs that grim reality stuffed into their noggin of a morning? Not me. I couldn't even distract myself with a wank over that gorgeous slag Venus de Milo; well, she's asking for it, going out all nude, not even wearing any arms.

The necessity for harsh self-assessment and acceptance of death's inevitability wasn't the only thing I hated about that KeyStone place. No, those two troubling factors vied for supremacy with multitudinous bastard truths. I hated my fucking bed: the mattress was sponge, and you had to stretch your own sheet over this miserable little single divan in the corner of the room. And I hated the fucking room itself where the strangled urges of onanism clung to the walls like mildew. I particularly hated the American gray squirrels that were running around outside—just free, like idiots, giggling and touching each other in the early spring sunshine. The triumph of these little divs over our indigenous, noble, red, British squirrel had become a searing metaphor for my own subjugation at the hands of the anti-fuck-Yanks. To make my surrender to conformity more official I was obliged to sign this thing (see page 6).

I wish I'd been photographed signing it like when a footballer joins a new team grinning and holding a pen. Or that I'd got an attorney to go through it with a fine-tooth comb: "You're gonna have to remove that no bumming clause," I imagine him saying. Most likely you're right curious as to why a fella who plainly enjoys how's yer father as much as I do would go on a special holiday to "sex camp" (which is a misleading title as the main thrust of their creed is "no fucking"). The short answer is I was forced. The long answer is this...

Many people are skeptical about the idea of what I like to call "sexy addiction," thinking it a spurious notion...

x

Book Trailer: The Graveyard Book

'The Graveyard Book'
by Neil Gaiman

Nobody Owens is an unusual boy who inhabits an unusual place-he's the only living resident of a graveyard. Raised from infancy by the ghosts, werewolves, and other cemetery denizens, Bod has learned the antiquated customs of his guardians' time as well as their timely ghostly teachings-like the ability to Fade. Can a boy raised by ghosts face the wonders and terrors of the worlds of both the living and the dead? And then there are things like ghouls that aren't really one thing or the other. This chilling tale is Neil Gaiman's first full-length novel for middle-grade readers since the internationally bestselling and universally acclaimed Coraline. Like Coraline, this book is sure to enchant and surprise young readers as well as Neil Gaiman's legion of adult fans.

This book trailer, narrated by Neil Gaiman with illustrations from the book by Dave McKean, will give you a taste of Gaiman's amazing novel, The Graveyard Book, available in stores now.




XxSteph(:

Book Trailer: "The Forest of Hands and Teeth

Book Trailer: "The Forest of Hands and Teeth
by Carrie Ryan"

Excerpt: The Forest of Hands and Teeth

Excerpt: "The Forest of Hands and Teeth
by Carrie Ryan"

My mother used to tell me about the ocean. She said there was a place where there was nothing but water as far as you could see and that it was always moving, rushing toward you and then away. She once showed me a picture that she said was my great-great-great-grandmother standing in the ocean as a child. It has been years since, and the picture was lost to fire long ago, but I remember it, faded and worn. A little girl surrounded by nothingness.

In my mother's stories, passed down from her many-greats-grandmother, the ocean sounded like the wind through the trees and men used to ride the water. Once, when I was older and our village was suffering through a drought, I asked my mother why, if so much water existed, were there years when our own streams ran almost dry? She told me that the ocean was not for drinking—that the water was filled with salt.

That is when I stopped believing her about the ocean. How could there be so much salt in the universe and how could God allow so much water to become useless?

But there are times when I stand at the edge of the Forest of Hands and Teeth and look out at the wilderness that stretches on forever and wonder what it would be like if it were all water. I close my eyes and listen to the wind in the trees and imagine a world of nothing but water closing over my head.

It would be a world without the Unconsecrated, a world without the Forest of Hands and Teeth.

Often, my mother stands next to me holding her hand up over her eyes to block the sun and looking out past the fences and into the trees and brush, waiting to see if her husband will come home to her.

She is the only one who believes that he has not turned—that he might come home the same man he was when he left. I gave up on my father months ago and buried the pain of losing him as deeply as possible so that I could continue with my daily life. Now I sometimes fear coming to the edge of the Forest and looking past the fence. I am afraid I will see him there with the others: tattered clothes, sagging skin, the horrible pleading moan and the fingers scraped raw from pulling at the metal fences.

That no one has seen him gives my mother hope. At night she prays to God that he has found some sort of enclave similar to our village. That somewhere in the dense Forest he has found safety. But no one else has any hope. The Sisters tell us that ours is the only village left in the world.

My brother Jed has taken to volunteering extra shifts for the Guardian patrols that monitor the fence line. I know that, like me, he thinks our father is lost to the Unconsecrated and that he hopes to find him during the patrol of the perimeter and kill him before our mother sees what her husband has become.

People in our village have gone mad from seeing their loved ones as Unconsecrated. It was a woman—a mother—horrified at the sight of her son infected during a patrol, who set herself on fire and burned half of our town. That was the fire that destroyed my family's heirlooms when I was a child, that obliterated our only ties to who we were as a people before the Return, though most were so corroded by then that they left only wisps of memories.

Jed and I watch our mother closely now and we never allow her to approach the fence line unaccompanied. At times Jed's wife Beth used to join us on these vigils until she was sent to bed rest with her first child. Now it is just us.

And then one day Beth's brother catches up with me while I am dunking our laundry in the stream that branches off the big river. For as long as I can remember Harold has been a friend of mine, one of the few in the village my age. He trades me a handful of wildflowers for my sopping sheets and we sit and watch the water flow over the rocks as he twists the sheets in complicated patterns to dry them out.

"How is your mother?" he asks me, because he is nothing if not polite.

I duck my head and wash my hands in the water. I know I should be getting back to her, that I have already taken too much time for myself today and that she is probably pacing, waiting for me. Jed is off on a long-term patrol of the perimeter, checking the strength of the fences, and my mother likes to spend her afternoons near the Forest looking for my father. I need to be there to comfort her just in case. To hold her back from the fences if she finds him. "She's still holding out hope," I say.

Harry clucks his tongue in sympathy. We both know there is little hope.

His hands seek out and cover mine under the water. I have known this was coming for months. I have seen the way he looks at me now, how his eyes have changed. How tension has crept into our friendship. We are no longer children and haven't been for years.

"Mary, I..." He pauses for a second. "I was hoping that you would go with me to the Harvest Celebration next weekend."

I look down at our hands in the water. I can feel my fingertips wrinkling in the cold and his skin feels soft and fleshy. I consider his offer. The Harvest Celebration is the time in the fall when those of marrying age declare themselves to one another. It is the beginning of the courtship, the time during the short winter days when the couple determines whether they will make a suitable match. Almost always the courtship will end in spring with Brethlaw—the weeklong celebration of wedding vows and christenings. It's very rare that a courtship fails. Marriage in our village is not about love—it is about commitment.

Every year I wonder at the couples pairing up around me. At how my former childhood friends suddenly find partners, bond, prepare for the next step. Pledge themselves to one another and begin their courtships. I always assumed the same would happen to me when my time approached. That because of the sickness that wiped out so many of my peers when I was a child, it would be even more important that those of us of marrying age find a mate. So important that there wouldn't be enough girls to spare for a life with the Sisterhood.

I even hoped that perhaps I would be lucky enough to find more than just a mate, to eventually find love like my mother and father.

And yet, even though I have been one of the few eligible during the past two years, I've been left aside.

I have spent the last weeks dealing with my father's absence beyond the fences. Dealing with my mother's despair and desolation. With my own grief and mourning. Until this moment it hasn't occurred to me that I might be the last one asked to the Harvest Celebration. Or that I might be left unclaimed.


x

Boys and Girls Together by Neil Gaiman

'Boys and Girls Together'

by Neil Gaiman

Boys don't want to be princes.

Boys want to be shepherds who slay dragons,

maybe someone gives you half a kingdom and a princess,

but that's just what comes of being a shepherd boy

and slaying a dragon. Or a giant. And you don't really

even have to be a shepherd. Just not a prince.

In stories, even princes don't want to be princes,

disguising themselves as beggars or as shepherd boys,

leaving the kingdom for another kingdom,

princehood only of use once the ogre's dead, the tasks are done,

and the reluctant king, her father, needing to be convinced.

Boys do not dream of princesses who will come for them.

Boys would prefer not to be princes,

and many boys would happily kiss the village girls,

out on the sheep-moors, of an evening,

over the princess, if she didn't come with the territory.

Princesses sometimes disguise themselves as well,

to escape the kings' advances, make themselves ugly,

soot and cinders and donkey girls,

with only their dead mothers' ghosts to aid them,

a voice from a dried tree or from a pumpkin patch.

And then they undisguise, when their time is upon them,

gleam and shine in all their finery. Being princesses.

Girls are secretly princesses.

None of them know that one day, in their turn,

Boys and girls will find themselves become bad kings

or wicked stepmothers,

aged woodcutters, ancient shepherds, mad crones and wise-women,

to stand in shadows, see with cunning eyes:

The girl, still waiting calmly for her prince.

The boy, lost in the night, out on the moors.

****

"Boys and Girls Together was written in a hotel room in Boston. It rained outside, and I was certain I was telling the world something very important." - Neil Gaiman

****

XxSteph(:

Instructions by Neil Gaiman

"Instructions," by Neil Gaiman
Art by Jeanie Tomanek.

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before.

Say "please" before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing.

Eat nothing.

However, if any creature tells you that it hungers, feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty, clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's realm;

there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face.

I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the wood.

The trees are old.

Eyes peer from the under-growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman.

She may ask for something;

give it to her.

She will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry.

The ferry-man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat. Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one's lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.

XxSteph(: