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ABOUTNow in its 14th year of publication, this magazine was created to offer the discerning reader a stimulating selection of excellent original writing. Black Lamb Review is a literate rather than a literary publication. Regular columns by writers in a variety of geographic locations and vocations are supplemented by features, reviews, articles on books and authors, and a selection of “departments,” including an acerbic advice column and a lamb recipe. SUBMISSIONSBlack Lamb welcomes submissions from new writers. Email us. QUESTIONSIf you have questions or comments regarding Black Lamb, please email us. |
Archive for the 'Emerson' CategoryPruningReculer pour mieux sauterJanuary 1st, 2016 BY EMILY EMERSON On my ramshackle farm in the French sticks, the closest I’ve come to The Farmer’s Almanac is a thing called the Calendrier lunaire, which gives a schema for every month of the year, a complex color-coded diagram featuring an s-curve to indicate the times of the moon’s waxing and waning, with, scattered along this curve, tiny drawings to indicate constellations and signs (fire signs, air signs, water signs, and earth signs), drawings of grains or fruit according to which days are good for working with these, and something to do with Chinese seasons which I don’t yet have a clue about. I feel that if I could only understand it, the Calendrier lunaire would give me all the answers I need to get through life.
Posted by: The Editors The black stallionSeptember 1st, 2003 BY EMILY EMERSON
Posted by: The Editors Sam and JaneJune 1st, 2003 BY EMILY EMERSON Book memories: a few stand out. The Little Engine that Could, for one, that morality tale for the pre-school set. You remember: “I think I can, I think I can,” (chugga chugga), “I think I can, I think I can,” (chugga chugga chugga chugga), “I KNOW I can!” (CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGGAAAAAA!). Moral: Or the Heidi books, which left me longing to live in a chilly chalet in the Alps, far from civilization, that smelled of dust, hay and wildflowers, with a silent old geezer who fed me bread and goat’s milk. Who knows? Maybe that’s one reason I’m living where I’m living now, in a chilly old house smelling of dust, hay and wildflowers, far from civilization in a part of the world where the bread is really good and the only cheese is chèvre. And then there’s Charlotte’s Web, thanks to which I’ve spent a lot of time saving spiders trapped in bathtubs. These books took me to other worlds, but the book that made me see my own world most clearly, that made me see me and my own life most clearly, is Beckett’s Malone Dies, especially this bit: A man is lying partially paralyzed in a bed alone in a room somewhere, able to express himself only by writing with his pencil. Then, one day, as he’s writing, he drops the pencil: “It is the soul that must be veiled, that soul denied in vain, vigilant, anxious, turning in its cage as in a lantern, in the night without heaven or craft or matter or understanding. Ah yes I have my little pastimes and they What a misfortune, the pencil must have slipped from my fingers, for I have only just succeeded in recovering it after forty-eight hours (see above) of intermittent efforts.” How could there ever be a truer account of life, and writing, than that? But I admit that the book I’ve turned to most, the one I’ve reread more than any other, is Sense and Sensibility.
Posted by: The Editors Author profileDecember 1st, 2002 Emily Emerson, born and raised in Texas, is a freelance writer and author of several guidebooks to France. She has lived in that country since 1979 and makes her home in the Loire valley. Her Black Lamb column is called En Campagne.
Posted by: The Editors
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