#Russell Hoban

[psikonauti]

Russell Hoban (American,1925-2011)

Joan Baez, 1962

Casein on board

[ultrakeencollectionbreadfan]

With Bluey going on hiatus, it got me thinking of shows that could fill the void. And then I thought to myself, why not an adaptation of this book series? It could easily be America's answer to Bluey, for a wide variety of reasons. Of course, whoever made it would have to play their cards right.

[sabinahahn]

"He was thinking what a long and wide thing time is, to have so many happenings in it.” ― Russell Hoban, Soonchild

Playing with leftovers of a recent project.

[picturebookshelf]

Best Friends for Frances

Original Edition: 1969 -- This Edition: 1994 Story: Russell Hoban -- Art: Lillian Hoban

[aaronsrpgs]

book I finished / book I started

[intotheclash]

È tutto così difficile. E naturalmente tutti quelli che sono più grandi di me tentano di mangiarmi, ed io mi do sempre un gran da fare per mangiare tutti quelli che son più piccoli. Così non mi resta molto tempo per meditare.

Russell Hoban - Il topo e suo figlio

[deermouth]

I gone to where Gransers head wer on the poal. His eyes wer closd his mouf wer shut. I said, 'Granser wil you tel?'

Lissening him then the words come to me: What if its you whats making all this happen? What if every thing you think of happens?

Riddley Walker, Russell Hoban

[writerswritecompany]

Quotable – Russell Hoban

Read more about the author here

[syndeticism]

"No," said the child. "We used to dance." "But now we walk," said the father, "And behind us an enemy walks faster."

— from The Mouse and His Child by Russell Hoban

You wouldn't believe how important these mice are to me tbh.

[thehappyscavenger]

I don't feel as if I'm living unless I'm killing myself.

Turtle Diary, Russell Hoban

[thelibraryiscool]

The sign said: ‘The Green Turtle, Chelonia mydas, is the source of turtle soup...’ I am the source of Wiliam G. soup if it comes to that. Everyone is the source of his or her kind of soup. In a town as big as London that’s a lot of soup walking about.

--Russell Hoban, Turtle Diary

[monica-writing]

Juzzle, Would, Brudge

Tell me Writer, how hard do you love a good list?

Tell me Writer, how hard do you love a good list? Up the hill I went, Seeing every blade of grass and every pebble very clearly. Then I was in among the trees where the air seemed made of shadows and the spaces were all twisty. The trees were all somehow crippled-looking, wrong in their shapes. The ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen branches and all kinds of rubbish: rusty tin cans,…

[ochoislas]

LA CASA VACÍA

Donde el viento solitario mueve los cardos del cerro, turba el titilar yerbas que dejan el tiempo afuera, se alza muda y gris la casa donde ya no vive nadie.

Entrando por vidrios rotos toda sazón e intemperie susurra junta en los cuartos: tibios chubascos de estío pudren las hojas de otoño, comban tablones de enero

En el papel de la sala, entre alimonadas flores, queda sombra macilenta del reloj que dio las horas. Ya no señala ese espectro el tiempo donde latiera.

En los peldaños ni un paso turba el sol polvoroso, posan sombras taciturnas, cara vuelta a la pared, atentas al mudo toque del reloj que ya no está.

«¡Ya son las doce de nunca!» vibra el carillón fantasma, y las sombras pantomima mueven lento a contraluz. Pero nadie las ha visto si toca: «¡Dos de jamás!».

Ni un ojo las vio bailando sus rasos negros siniestros bajo la opacada luna, al son de muda cadencia de nunca en la madrugada.

*

THE EMPTY HOUSE Where the lone wind on the hilltop Shakes the thistles as it passes, Stirs the quiet-ticking grasses That keep time outside the door, Stands a house that’s gray and silent; No one lives there any more.

Wending through the broken windows, Every season and its weather Whisper in those rooms together: Summer’s warm and wandering rains Rot the leaves of last year’s autumn, Warp the floors that winter stains.

In a papered hall a clock-shape Dim and pale on yellowed flowers, Still remains where rang the hours Of a clock that’s lost and gone. And the fading ghost keeps no-time On the wall it lived upon.

On a stairway where no footsteps Stir the dusty sunlight burning Sit the patient shadows turning Speechless faces to the wall While they hear the silent striking Of that no-clock in the hall.

“Dawn of no-time! Noon of no-time!” Cries the phantom echo chiming, And the shadows, moving, miming, Slowly shift before the light. But no eye has seen their motion When the clock says, “No-time night!”

No eye has seen them dancing In their blackness fell and bright, To a silent tune In the dark of the moon When the clock sings no-time night.

Russell Hoban

di-versión©ochoislas

[culturevulturette]

The Sparrow Hawk 

Wings like pistols flashing at his sides,  Masked above the meadow runway rides,  Galloping, galloping with an easy rein.  Below, the field mouse, where the shadow glides,  Holds fast the small purse of his life, and hides. 

Russel Hoban 

[valiantarcher]

I am reading a collection of essays on writing for children and, for the most part, how much I enjoy the essays is directly inverse to how familiar I am with their authors.

[unicoandtheislandofmagic]