Books about trains, involving trains, taking place on trains, travels by trains. Make a chart about trains

Liking trains or having interests in things to an obsessive degree is not That a person can have interest at all and have feelings in this world is a miracle. I feel bad for autistic people and I don't think exposure to the autistic meme has actually done anything good for society except make more relevant the divisions in cognition that make a society function.

you sound autistic

Ships>Trains>Airplanes

sort of the point he was making.

The Kreutzer Sonata

He wasn't making any solid point. You're an idiot that probably has never been on a train.

Go to bed China.

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Sounds like Lars Von Trear's masterbation soundtrack. Could it be the Youtube? Does Rogan play Cello with Krall and walk the basslines while Krall says something that doesn't seem to tax him at all? Is this how you prime a minister?

Neet!

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When did the Netflix Pinkertons find the balls to make enemies so blankly.

rude

My man, I can't seem to find any good biographies on Isambard Kingdom Brunel, you wouldn't happen to know any?

Atlas Shrugged

Written in the fifties by an eccentric railway enthusiast.
amazon.com/Isambard-Kingdom-Brunel-L-Rolt/dp/0140117520

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this

Awdry's Railways series (Thomas the Tank Engine, etc.)

Read those when I was little, thats where my love for trains began

>In Rooshua we kill for arts sake

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In Canada we'd kill not to have Billionaires keep out national dream real. I guess that's what you get for your love of anything. Practical altruism and hope for a future that will never come.

This, this and this again.
There are other translations, Moscow Stations being one, but I forget which reads best.

La Bete Humaine, Dombey and Son

That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river’s level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles inland,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn’t notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what’s happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
Yes, from cafés
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;
The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say
I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
—An Odeon went past, a cooling tower,
And someone running up to bowl—and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Travelling coincidence; and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.

This.

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I work with trains. It's okay. I doubt you want to work on trains though. I don't even work on trains, I just work with the people who work on trains and I don't think it's a good idea. Consistent twelve hour days for the train conductors, and in the winter-time they get twenty-four days or more. Astute readers will notice that's actually a real day. I dunno bro, I think they would be better off adopting a system where the trainpeople go to work for a whole week, and they hitch a sleeper car onto their train and that's just where they stay the whole time. Then when they get home, they get a whole week off. Like the oil-field workers, except those guys do it two weeks at a time.

But I'm not the president of trains, and I don't give a fuck if the train people are happy or not.

There's some train stuff in "Watt" and "If on a winter's night a traveler.," if I recall correctly.

Riding>Ships>Trains>Planes
Only one of these doesn't involve skipping most of the adventure in favor of standing or sitting for a few months/days/hours

Jamie Bulger's diary

Murder On The Orient Express