Naomi Bulger: messages in bottles

The clock strikes eleven.

FAUSTUS: Ah Faustus, 
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
And then thou must be damned perpetually. 
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, 
That time may cease and midnight never come...

O lente, lente, currite noctis equi! 
["O run slowly, slowly, horses of the night!" Ovid]
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike. 
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned. 
O I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down?...

The clock striketh twelve.

It strikes, it strikes! Now body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! 

Thunder and lightening. 

O soul, be changed to little water-drops
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found. 

Enter DEVILS. 

Tonight's very spooky halloween brought to you by the chilling, sad and beautifully rendered 'last moments' of Doctor Faustus according to Christopher Marlowe, and these glorious 1925 illustrations of Goethe's Faust by Harry Clarke, found on 50 Watts. 

Faust has one hour left before he is dragged into hell. You have two hours left to enter my little competition to win a copy of Airmail, a wonderfully illustrated Riceboy Sleeps book, some handmade ceramics (with a halloween-esque pattern), an antique postcard from Paris, Venetian lace and more! 

Happy weekend! How are you? I'm so tired, I just want to curl up with a good book all day. But did you know you could do all these things with books, too? 

Now I know why old books smell so darned good. Found via B for Bel (click on the image to go straight to her source). 

Random House's Vintage Classics series is turning 21, and to celebrate they've reprinted the entire collection in rainbow colours. See them all here.

I love all the concepts in this video and I'm keen to try some of them. Trouble is, so far I haven't had the heart to sacrifice anything from my bookshelf (video found via Our City Lights). 

I really, really want to go eat in this Alice in Wonderland restaurant in Tokyo, Japan. Discovered via B for Bel, who features twice in this post because she always finds such fabulous things. 

In Paris, hundreds of independent booksellers (bouquinistes) sell under the open skies along the Seine, offering up new, used and antique books, magazines and pictures out of green metal boxes. They have been there since the 1500s, and are now part of a UNESCO World Heritage site. Imagine! 

Two more days... 
Don't forget, there are still two days left to enter to win a copy of my book plus some other personal ephemera, including an antique postcard purchased at one of the bouquinistes, some handmade lace from Venice, some famous Australian chocolate, and lots more. Enter here. Have a great weekend!

"Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise."

It is a haven in the city. You fight your way over Pont Neuf to the Left Bank, through traffic and bicycles and dogs and cafes spilling out onto pavements and waiters flagging down tourists, until you reach a quiet, tree-lined square that was once a monastery and later a slum, and finally cross the threshold of the little English-language bookstore called Shakespeare and Company, Paris.

Once inside, it is as though you have come home. That is, if home was a place with little nooks and crannies of bookshelves stretching right up to the medieval ceiling, lined with exposed beams and strung with chandeliers. You gather up books to buy later, drop some coins in the wishing well, and climb the narrow stairs.

Up here is perfect peace. Ancient, cloth- and leather-bound books line the shelves, and the tiny rooms are dotted with couches and armchairs that have been well-worn to faultless comfort. You hear birds. Following the sound, you take a seat by one of the open windows where geraniums flower in pots and, just beyond them and across the Seine, Notre Dame rests in centuries of sleep. 

You pull out one of the old books and start to read. Hours and visitors come and go, browsing, reading, softly talking. From the other room, someone opens a piano and begins to play a classical tune you don't recognise. It is lovely. They play another, so you put down the book and close your eyes to listen.

The bookstore's founder, George Whitman, long ago spent many years walking through South America. "I walked from Mexico to Panama," he said, "where the road ended before an almost uninhabited swamp called the Choco Colombiano. Even today there is no road." 

He was touched by the hospitality of the locals, who would often feed and accommodate him. This had a profound impact upon his life, and led him to create a bookstore that would become a sanctuary for writers and artists. 

First called Le Mistral and then changed to Shakespeare and Company as an homage to Sylvia Beach's famous Parisian bookstore of the same name (1919-1940), the lovely little space where you now rest your eyes and listen to classical music first opened in 1951.

Since then, hundreds of thousands of writers, artists and friends have found a place to rest in this haven in the city, including Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, Gregory Corso, William S Burroughs and Alen Ginsberg. 

And now you.

The long French dusk gathers, slowly, while you read and rest. When at length you step back outside, golden light spills from the bookstore onto the square, and festive, coloured cafe lights loop across the night sky. 

You re-enter the crowds and find a restaurant with friends but somehow, while the waiter buzzes past delivering crepes and olives and fries and wine, you carry the peace of Shakespeare and Company with you into the city. 

And all around, Paris glows. 

(ps. I am giving away three books, a box of chocolates, an antique postcard, Venetian lace, some hand-made ceramics and more, to one lucky subscriber this week. I'd so love you to enter the competition here. Naomi xo)

xo Naomi

I have some news. This month is my six month book-iversary, six months since Airmail was published. I'm so grateful for your support and encouragement during this time, so today I want to give something back to say thank you. 

I've decided to celebrate with a veritable giveaway bonanza, including a signed copy of Airmail as well as some wonderful paraphernalia collected in France and Italy, and of course mementos from my home country of Australia. 

To enter:
1. Subscribe to this blog using one of the buttons on the right
2. Leave a comment below to tell me you've done so 

Additional chances (+ 1 for each): 
1. Get a friend to enter and make sure they credit you when leaving a comment
2. Like Airmail on Facebook and leave a comment here to let me know you have
3. Blog, Tweet, email or Facebook about this giveaway and let me know it

The booty: 

1. A signed copy of Airmail 2. A ‘travelling copy’ of Airmail with the little bookplate I painted, so you can give it away, send it out, leave it behind or post it off, if you want to 3. An antique postcard from Paris 4. A piece of handmade lace from Venice 5. A wonderful little photography and art book by Riceboy Sleeps 6. Two handmade, hand painted, ceramic bowls 7. Flowers from my garden 8. A square of vintage yellow floral fabric 9. A box of deliciousness from chocolatier Haigh’s, which first opened down the road from me in 1905

All this, AND any other ephemera that I may choose to make, collect, unearth or sacrifice when I put your little package together. 

Extra information:
This competition is open internationally, and ends on Monday 31 October at midnight (Adelaide, Australia time). Please remember to email me if you don't leave a link in your comment, so that I can contact you if you win.

Thank you!
I am continually honoured and humbled that people are reading my little book, and taking the time to tell me when they liked it. When I receive emails or comments from people who have read Airmail, they absolutely make my day. No, my week! It still blows my mind that total strangers from the other side of the world are entering my stories. If that is you, THANK YOU, friend. 

Here's a link to some of those lovely comments, in case you're interested. 

Reason #612 why I need an apartment in Paris: so that I will have a place to put all the amazing and ridiculously cheap finds at Paris' several marchés aux puces (flea markets). 

I need space, par example, for that antique typewriter; that gloriously carved and upholstered chair; that ancient Turkish lantern; those three concertina cameras; that tarnished, silver tea set; and that sweet little watercolour by a little known artist from La Belle Époque.

However, finding myself somewhat wanting in the Parisian apartment department (give me time), I have had to make do with these small mementos.

Items in this picture that came from the flea markets: 

* A beautiful, tall antique bottle
* Another antique bottle, this one a heavenly dark blue
* Four antique postcards (later, I'll try to translate the messages)
* A lovely, rusty old key. I wonder what it once opened
* Three unused antique postcards, to send to friends
* A little book on French history
* Antique Queen Elizabeth tin 
* A colourful woven basket (not pictured because it was too big)

And some other reasons why my bag was so heavy: 

* A hand painted Christmas bauble from Paris
* Little glass bird, found in Carcassonne
* Reproduction of an ancient map of Venice
* A fantastically trashy and touristy Rome mug
* A Venetian mask (the girls bought us one each for my birthday party)
* Two tiny vials of perfume from Grasse
* A glass Christmas bauble from Murano, Venice (Santa driving a gondola)
* Glass candy, also from Murano
* Sweet little purse depicting Marie Antoinette fashion
* A flipbook with a romantic Paris street scene
* Flower stickers 
* Leftover stamps, since the kids didn't send as many postcards as expected
* Three watercolours from an artist in Monmartre, and another two from Venice
* Novels The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and The Lady and the Little Fox Fur, and children's picture book Paris Y Es Tu? (too big to be pictured)
* A wonderful notebook with vibrant squares of Pantone colour
* Piece of handmade Venetian lace
* Shoulder bag from my favourite bookstore EVER, Shakespeare & Co (Paris)

Float with me a while, along Venice's strangely silken waters. 

The morning is unseasonably hot and when the canal takes an eastward turn, you shade your eyes in the glare. At unexpected corners, the water sparkles in the sun like shards of fine Murano glass.

Your gondolier isn't of the singing persuasion, only whistling fragments of tunes at intervals, but this suits you because the soft splash of oar on water lulls you into gentle thoughtfulness. 

You still your imagination: you wouldn't want to be anywhere but right here.

The air is thick with centuries past. Each sweep of the gondolier's oar takes you further back in time.

You float. 

From this window, Vivaldi once watched over the canal with symphonies in his heart. Behind that window, Casanova practiced glorious seductions. And out of that doorway Marco Polo once walked, en route to discover new worlds. 

The gondolier holds your hand to steady you as you step back onto the path. 

You discover time was unfolding while you were drifting. You are now in a world as ancient as it is beautiful. Twisted laneways, rough with cobblestones, wind in picturesque labyrinths that make being lost a glorious joy. 

Life on these islands is lived in concert with the centuries. There are no cars, not one. Family laundry is strung across narrow streets. Small children leap like seasoned sailors from footbridges into waiting boats. Mossy steps slope from home front doors directly into canals. A fruit vendor sells his wares from a watery stall. 

In these narrow streets, colour explodes out of tiny, ancient shops. You long to buy it all: the hand-stitched, marbled paper notebooks; spectacular glass bowls, vases and chandeliers; menageries of phantasmagorical carnivale masks; delicate lace that smiling women stitch while you watch; and antique decoupage music boxes depicting dancing jesters and masked lovers. 

You think, "this is the closest we have to Atlantis."  You are right.