#brian stanley

[winter-wise]

Watching Island of Terror rn and Peter Cushing's character just propositioned the movie's Heterosexual Couple for a threesome (he got turned down) and my main criticism is that his character could do better than the two of them tbh

[gurumog]

Island of Terror Planet Film Productions, 1966 Dir. Terence Fisher

[rainingmusic]

Garland Jeffreys- 96 Tears

[bobonbooks]

Review: The Missionary Movement from the West

The Missionary Movement from the West (Studies in the History of Christian Missions), Andrew F. Walls, edited by Brian Stanley, foreword by Gillian Mary Bediako. Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2023. Summary: A history of the last five hundred years of Christian mission efforts from the Europe and North America. Andrew F. Walls was perhaps the dean of mission scholars until his…

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[bobonbooks]

Review: Christianity in the Twentieth Century

Review: Christianity in the Twentieth Century

Christianity in the Twentieth Century, Brian Stanley. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018.

Summary: A thematic account of the development of global Christianity during the twentieth century.

It is no small challenge to write a one volume history of Christianity in the twentieth century. The Christian faith has truly become a global faith, represented with indigenous churches on every…

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[blackrockandrollmusic-blog]

Garland Jeffreys - 96 Tears (1981)

[martincolyer]

Saturday, 7th March

VISUAL OF THE WEEK

From Mr Dylan’s bonkers film noir for “The Night We Called It A Day”.

FROM OUR CORRESPONDENT IN THE FIELD Tim uses my ticket to a Guardian screening of Midlake: Live in Dentonas I wasn’t around, and files this report: “The film was a bit disappointing. Everything was shot handheld, going in and out of focus, etc, which gave it the look of a home movie. The hometown footage,…

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[encorelit-blog]

A new poem by Brian Stanley

Bindings If Livres d’occasion suggests you rent these books to mark a singular event or mood—to garnish an important speech, to court with Ronsard, brood with Baudelaire— before returning them and all they teach about perception, passion and despair, that is not so, of course. They are for sale. The clerk who takes me through the wooden stacks is slender, formal and austerely pale, a Gallic governess with gemstone eyes. The spines are paler too as we go back and as the colours fade the prices rise, the irony not lost on her or me that the monastic look commands a fee. It is when pausing with her over glass, inches apart as other people pass, to view a postwar letter signed Camus —a plea for aid, Algerian relief— and sharing sadness, intimate and brief, to think of good men dying in their prime that I sense how, in quite another time, I might have built the moment into more, begun the pilgrimage from vous to tu. My choices made, I pay and leave the store. Outside with Vigny, Verne and Mérimée, my collar up in homage to Albert, a taste of winter sharpening the air, I smile, remembering I knew her once, or one like her, in classrooms far away. Seated between the lush pubescent glow of girls named Margot, Jeanne and Isabelle and, farther back, the jesters and the dunce, she knows her grammar, French and Latin, well. Her hair is long, her head is turned my way, her eyes appear to frame a thought, or no, a question, which hangs, then rises in a spiral dance into the cloud dispensary of chance before descending, now again, like snow.