Recently, I bought a book called Fragile Things. Its a collection of short stories and poems by Neil Gaiman. For those of you who don’t know Gaiman, he’s written books, comic books, and movies. One of Gaiman’s books, Caroline, was turned into a 3d movie recently. I own one of his other books, American Gods, too. Its quite a good a book. As for Fragile Things, I really enjoy the stories in the book, but I absolutely love the poems.

The real standout of his poetry is a poem called Inventing Aladdin. I keep re-reading this poem all the time. Basically, its about a woman who’s telling her husband and sister stories. These stories are actually the Forty Theives (aka Arrabian Nights). She is telling these stories to her husband especially because she hopes they keep her alive (her husband has promised to kill her). She is actually making all these stories up using her own experiances and words in her head. Basically the poem is about the power of stories and storytelling. Also, Gaiman is making a good point. He’s trying to point out that even stories like Aladdin were written by someone. We may not know who that someone is, but someone did create those stories. Who was it that created it? Why and how did they create them? Also, why have the stories lasted so long? As a writer, these questions interest me a lot. I know they interest a lot of people. Every writer who has ever been published and has fans is always asked the question ” Where do you get your ideas? “  Gaiman is playing with the questions of creation and why/how people invent stories in his poem. Its really interesting. The poem is also well written.

I do recommend Fragile Things, especially for the poems. Other great poems in the book are Locks (about Goldie Locks & the three bears), The Day the Saucers Came, Hidden Chambers, Fairy Reels, and the others I’m forgetting at the moment. Though, don’t count Gaiman’s short stories out either. I especially like Monarch of the Glen.

That said, I think I’ll be re-reading Inventing Aladdin for a long time to come. I just don’t get tired of poem. Its powerful as a metaphor for writing and as a poem on its own. I think the last line is especially chilling. The line is, ” We save our lives in such unlikely ways.”  We do indeed.

Brittany Murphy passed away yesterday.

I don’t have any smart-ass remarks to make about that. No witty insights, no cynical suspicions. I found out, via a CNN email alert, that she died of cardiac arrest and that an investigation is pending. It matters very little, though, really. Either way, she’s gone.

I wasn’t a huge Brittany Murphy fan. Honestly, it took me a good long while to warm up to her on screen. I didn’t follow her personal life at all. I couldn’t tell you a thing about who she is married to or whether or not she had drug problems. What I know is that she was alive and now she’s not.

This gives me reason to pause, to consider the nature of life and death.

I’m not some goth kid, God love ‘em, fascinated by death in a carnival kind of way, writing poetry about the reaper’s cold grasp or anything like that. (Apologies to my goth reader, you know who you are, for that unflattering and two-dimensional depiction of goth culture.) I, like most people, am usually scared of death. There are those rare moments when I’m at peace enough to be able to accept the inevitability of it and I feel a warm acceptance wrap itself around me and in those times, I’m okay with the fact that I will one day die. But those moments are rare and they generally last 2.48 seconds and then I’m right back to being afraid.

But when someone dies—someone I knew, someone I didn’t, someone I liked, someone I didn’t—that causes me to pause and consider the delicate state of life. I find myself oriented toward reflection. I felt the same way when Heath Ledger passed away. And, on a more personal note, when I lost my grandmother who was far more a mother to me than the woman who gave birth to me. (Incidentally, I saw my grandmother in a dream the other night. She looked happy. It was good to see her again.)

Eh, I don’t mean to be all deep and depressing. But I suppose—and as strange as it is to credit a comic book series with life-altering revelations, I have Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series to thank for this understanding—I suppose death is not the monster we believe it (or her) to be. Weirdly, coming to a place of peace with my concept of mortality makes it easier for me to embrace life.

I am sorry to hear about Brittany’s passing, though. Again, not a big fan, but she was someone’s daughter, someone’s wife. I’m sure those who loved her will be missing her.

and making it feel like home and trying to create some kind of order in chaos, please enjoy a talk between Henry Jenkins and Neil Gaiman. Two very brilliant men!
Thanks Neils!

There was just a guy on my door. He was a blonde and lanky Harry Potter. He asked if my parents were at home. I must have been at least five years older than him. He was twirling his umbrella and starring at my chest while asking. It all made very little sense to me. As I stated that my parent where not at home, he stuttered out whether I wanted to buy candles or chocolate -wet candles and chocolate- he added. He did not mention to what cause the money would go, nor made any indication at all that he thought there was a chance in the universe of me actually purchasing wet candles and chocolate. So I kindly declined and wished him luck, though I actually wanted to buy a box of wet chocolate and tell him to start making an effort.

Wandering out the driveway, spinning his umbrella and kicking the bag containing the wet candles and chocolate, he looked more like an eight year old.

Speaking of chocolate. I made home made hot chocolate, which I’m drinking now. I figured it was so much more productive than homework. And it’s heaven.

Okay, I’ve had about a dozen phone calls from the father asking me to buy food for their return at midnight, I’ve gone to the shop twice, my brother once, and I’ve worked in my sketch book. Done no English, nor EE nor Biology revision, but now I have sushi and vampire film to watch on my own. We shall see whether I return terrified or not. Watching films on my own always tend to be scarier.

Why the well would they claim that to be horror? “Let The Right One Come In” -by the way. For once I watched it with Norwegian subtitles, as those are closer to Swedish. I kept on rethinking each line in English though, so it was a bit silly, watching it in three different languages at once. But. It was romantic. And it was beautiful, but I’m not sure I liked it.

After the film I listened to Korn and Serj Tankian loudly in the living room. I switched on our ancient but great sound system, and sat down in the magic spot -so to say- and listened. Korn is even scarier on loudspeakers. It actually gives me the chills and I felt more freaked out from that album than the film which was supposedly horror. So then I put on Serj Tankian. I found a bonus cd which I’ve never seen before, that was fun. I guess that’s what happens when you buy cd’s to stuff them straight into your computer. Omnom. You miss things. Like the bonus cd and all the wonderful poetry.

The borders of love should recognize the imperfection of assimilation of two souls with undecided integral destinies.
Do the codes of love explain how to live with someone in harmony when two voices seldom seem harmonious?
Sometimes imperfect harmonies are the most interesting of melodies to the ears of creative livelihood.
A strong dedication and digestion of vision is necessary to remain steadfast against the confusing tides of paternal, maternal, and societal concern and judgement.
My heart teaches me to understand beyond my knowledge, to see beyond my eyes.
Yet experience has taught me that there are times when love does not close or narrow the gaps of the characters of two distinct birds on their separate flight through time and season.
Not all statements end in conclusion or collusion to a certain theory above others.
Above all, my heart pronounces its undistinguishing reach to you,
in silence, to announce my deepest wish for your emancipating smile with which all clouds disappear and bear forth the sun of your, and my true nature.
-Serj Tankian

And then I painted. And was alone in the house. I like being alone in this house. I noticed all the imperfections in our living room.

I finally got my period, three weeks late. Eeek, girly stuff that nobody wants to know! But I honestly feel such a sense of relief that I needed to include it. It’s actually insane how worried I’ve been though I know it’s due to stress. I had this thought in my head of myself becoming infertile before my nineteenth due to stress. That would be sad. Though I’m really not planning on having children, it’s nice to know that I have the opportunity. It is also nice to know that my hormonal rambles might return to its usual pattern now, after quite a diversion.  The funny thing is, that I should be just as stressed now as I was last week, maybe even worse. But I’ve sort of given up worrying. I have to get it done anyway, and pestering oneself about it all is not going to help.

I played Midtown Madness earlier, it was fun, though not for very long. It sort of made me feel like I was practising driving ( I am, by the way, taking the final test on the 26th of January, most hopefully.) and it’s nice stress relief. Hitting screaming pedestrians is strangely satisfying.

The parents returned. And now I’m going to listen to the end of the Graveyard Book. Neil Gaiman is just such a great reader, and it let’s me multi task. You can hear the entire book for free here:

Loyal to his tradition of urban fantasy, Gaiman brings us a very interesting steampunkish story. On the surface, London seems to be a normal place, but people that fall through the cracks find themselves in London Below, a dangerous place of magic and marginality. When Richard helps a scared and wonded girl called Door, he could not imagine that he was going to become invisible to the people of London Above and finds himself running for his life and helping the young noble girl to figure out who killed her whole family.

Gaiman is an excellent storyteller, he relates the wonders of London Below in an easy way, engulfing the reader in the plot and adventure. The characters are interesting and dark and the plot complex.

This book would be perfect for any urban fantasy lover, and ideal for anyone that enjoys good writing.

(bildene er fra en kirkegård i Praha og fra Highgate Cemetary i London, jeg tok dem selv for mange år siden)
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Jeg har fulgt St. Neil Gaimans skriverier i en femten års tid nå. Han avsluttet sitt Sandman-epos (fortsatt den eneste tegneserien som har fått meg til å gråte, og da mener jeg ordentlig gråte. Slutten på The Kindly Ones er så vakker og trist som noe jeg har lest) omtrent samtidig som jeg begynte fra begynnelsen, jeg var ikke ferdig før på slutten av nittitallet en gang.

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For meg har han ikke helt nådd det samme nivået med sine romaner ennå, og det er to grunner til dette:

For det første kjenner jeg stemmen hans så godt etter å ha lest alt av tegneserier, hans fire romaner (en sammen med Terry Pratchett) og nesten ti år med bloggposter at illusjonen blir brutt en smule; det er som å ha en koselig onkel spiller i alle filmene du ser, det blir bare onkel uansett.

For det andre er han en slik kunstner som alltid (i hvert fall i alle de største prosjektene sine) skriver om det samme: Verden rundt oss er ikke som vi tror, menneskenes myter og legender kan ta fysisk form og påvirke oss. En ung mann eller like ofte kvinne møter noe eller noen fra den andre siden av speilet og forandres som følge av dette. Legg til de fleste klassiske punkter i heltens reise og du har alt har gjort. Du har alt de fleste andre forfattere av fantastisk litteratur har gjort også, forresten, men det er ingen unnskyldning. Alt dette gjorde han allerede i Sandman. Der hadde han bortimot ubegrenset med plass og kunne samarbeide med verdenseliten blant serietegnere og kunstnere. På egenhånd tråkker han for en stor del i de samme stiene og i blant møter han spøkelset av seg selv.

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Nå er det et usedvanlig veltalende og trivelig spøkelse, så misforstå meg rett; Gaiman skriver spennende, søte, gode, underholdende bøker, men han er et stykke unna Nobelprisen. Bøkene hans er for en stor del skrevet for ungdom som ikke var født da Morpheus ble til Daniel, og i den sammenhengen er de klassiske, spesielt Coraline.

Min Gaiman-favoritt var AnansiBoys, fordi tonen var mer uforutsigbar, handlingen litt mindre arketypisk og humoren perfekt (var det noen andre enn meg som så President´s Day – påskeegget i Coraline-filmen forresten?). Gaiman fjernet seg noen centimeter fra stiene han vanligvis trår og fant nye sider ved forfatterskapet sitt.

Graveyard Book er annerledes enn AnansiBoys og mye mer typisk Gaiman. Den handler om en liten gutt, Bod, som vokser opp sammen med spøkelsene på en kirkegård og vergen sin, Elias (som er en av folkene midt i mellom. Boka er fortalt i avsluttede kapitler som samtidig forteller historien om en ung mann som møter noen fra den andre siden av speilet (eller det
hinsidige i dette tilfellet) og forandres (gjett om!) som følge av dette. Samtidig blir han voksen, eller i hvert fall nesten. Tenk deg Harry Potter på en kirkegård fortalt på åtte kapitler i steden for i stadig tjukkere og svakere bøker så er du i nærheten. Dette kunne blitt en flott miniserie.

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Kirkegården er en perfekt lekeplass for Gaiman, som har enorme historiekunnskaper. Alan Moore uttalte en gang (i fotnotene til From Hell) at Gaiman kan banne på de fleste århundrers engelsk, og ​han har selv sagt at favorittkilden hans er et skikkelig gammelt leksikon (Brewer´s tror jeg). Han bruker disse kunnskapene veldig nennsomt, det er i det hele tatt mest i åpningen vi blir kjent med samfunnet til spøkelsene på kirkegården, for meg er dette kanskje den mest interessante siden av Graveyard Book.

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Ikke alle historiene er like engasjerende hele veien, men Bod er en engasjerende helt, det vi får av spøkelsene er morsomt og de forsiktige skildringene av fjortiskjærlighet er søte. Og når Bod endelig vandrer ut av historien er hans avskjed med verden det mest rørende Gaiman har skrevet siden alle våknet opp i The Wake.

Ikke noen innertier altså, og heller ikke Gaimans aller beste, men spennende, artig og engasjerende. Gi den til noen på tolv som er rågode i engelsk, så har du gitt verden en ny sortkledd Gaimanfanatiker. Og de kan ikke verden få mange nok av.

Any time a book captures the interest and imagination of a large number of people, that is good. The better the book or series, the more significant interest in it is. Take the Harry Potter series, for example: solid composition, wonderfully complex (yet still accessible) storylines, replete with references to mythology and a fan-base that created, quite literally, a new generation of readers. Impressive.

Twilight, by comparison, doesn’t shine as bright, in part because (love her or hate her) Meyer just isn’t the same caliber writer as JK Rowling. Her stories, while they have certainly captured the hearts of adolescent girls, lack complexity and are, perhaps, a little overdone in the areas of teenage angst and drama.

I know that many of my author heroes have made public statements against the Twilight series, and I understand this to some degree. Not only are the stories formulaic, but they also take a classic literary device (the vampire) and turn him/her into something far less fierce. Something almost fuzzy. They sparkle in sunlight, for crying out loud.

And while all of this is true, I read the books. All four of them. I own them in hardcover. I recommended them to friends. I liked the first book and the second half of the fourth best, but I enjoyed them all.

It’s easy to criticize Twilight. It easy, frankly, to criticize any book or movie in which the monsters glitter. And with writers like Rowling and Gaiman out there creating storylines that make you believe in magic again, it’s easy to become highbrow about your literary tastes, shunning the likes of Twilight with it’s ridiculous marketing, which, to date, includes a line of pillows and throws emblazoned with the faces of Jacob and Edward. (Tell me you wouldn’t be frightened to find these in an adult’s home.)

But it’s a fun series. No, it’s not Tolkien. People won’t be pluming the literary depths of Twilight 50 years from now. It is, most likely, a flash in the pan, but it’s a fun one. If you’re an adult and you’re willing to remember what it felt like to be a teenager, to feel the first flames of what you were sure was love, then Twilight is even deeply personal, a weird and oddly sacred revisiting of your own adolescent fears and insecurities.

If you haven’t read it, I suggest giving it a chance. I’ll tell you right now that the books are better than the first movie and, I suspect, will be better than the second, as well. Consider it a guilty pleasure, like that Britney Spears song you like that no one knows about or your secret appreciation for The Girls Next Door. You might be surprised. You might even, perish the thought, find yourself claiming allegiance to Team Jacob or Team Edward. (Seriously, who chooses Team Jacob?)

The point is, Twilight isn’t the best thing in print, but that doesn’t mean it’s not enjoyable. Don’t allow the hype, good or bad, to keep you from reading something light-hearted and fun.

Il y a pas mal de comiques britanniques qui restent quasiment inconnus ici. Un des plus célèbres outre-Manche est le duo de Peter Cook et Dudley Moore.

On connaît un peu plus ici Dudley Moore par sa modeste carrière à Hollywood, où on l’a vu dans 10 ou Arthur, deux films qui sont loin de démontrer l’étendue de son talent comique. Peter Cook est pratiquement inconnu, alors que son influence a été grande: les Monty Python qui ont travaillé avec lui à leurs débuts ne tarissent pas d’éloges sur son compte.

De façon plus anecdotique, le duo reçoit un hommage dans une nouvelle de Neil Gaiman, «La Spéciale des Shoggoths à l’ancienne», où un étudiant américain s’égare dans les landes de Cornouailles pour tomber sur l’autre Innsmouth, et deux habitants du cru sérieusement fêlés.

Voici un petit échantillon de la verve des deux trublions, un sketch où ils s’en prennent à une cible idéale, cette abominable parade de pantins pastel fétichistes des Dinky Toys, les Sentinelles de l’air.

Happy Birthday to Neil Gaiman, one of my favorite writers.

I finished The Graveyard Book back in October, and it was fantastic.

To celebrate both, here’s some an awesome rendition of Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre, courtesy basspig:

PULPable is where the many points on the graph of cultural modernity bubble just beneath the surface of popular culture.

If you’re wondering exactly what I’m talking about, then you should go immediately and read A PULP Manifesto, but if your attention span is better suited to Lois  & Clark than to Nietzschean “Supermen” then you should keep reading.

Though one can (and I do) trace PULPable back to the original pulp magazines and even further back to the days of Penny Dreadfuls and mass production, its origins for me were in the literary and musical choices I made as a teenager. PULPable was, to me, the pop culture subtext of a record or a novel, the assumed shared knowledge of a century

A Vogue cover referencing David Bowie's "Aladdin Sane" album

of mass-produced consumables which underpinned the song you had just listened to or the sentence you had just read.

In The Velvet Underground I found Andy Warhol, and in Warhol a critique of the very culture that had created him. In William Burroughs there were drugs galore, sentences that vomited all over the bar and which were as impenetrable as those that  preceded him in Ulysses or The Wasteland. In Raymond Chandler I saw an America of surfaces and style, and in the Pulp magazines he wrote for were the beginnings of superheroes and comic book villains destined to be deconstructed within a century by Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman or Jonathan Lethem.

More vital than any other writer, singer or artist in exploring the PULPable style was David Bowie. The list above could go on for several paragraphs, but suffice it to say that the Velvets and Burroughs, as well as Anthony Burgess (and by extension Stanley Kubrick), Christopher Isherwood, Orwell and Huxley amongst others were introduced to me indirectly through obsessive listening to Bowie’s records. He was inspired by that which was considered ‘high culture’ to create that which was considered ‘low’, and in referencing writers and artists, philosophers and bands, he mirrored more closely deconstructive authors than fellow pop musicians.

This sense of an unknown pop culture grid, something that lurked beneath the superficiality of what was ostensibly popular entertainment, piqued my curiosity. Though I read and was forcibly loaned comic books (or, as some insist, Graphic Novels), watched science-fiction movies and TV shows, I also consciously selected books that felt as though they belonged on the graph of culture modernity. If I could piece together Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man with Catch-22, or place A Clockwork Orange alongside L’Etranger then maybe, just maybe, I would be able to begin to connect the points on the graph.

Books, art, music, comics, film: they all interlaced and overlapped. The pop culture surface was immediately graspable,  a series of symbols which began to attain the status of modern myth by virtue of their being instantly recognisable and signifying something near-universal: the Coca-Cola logo, Superman’s costume or Warhol’s “Marilyns”. But beneath the surface, there existed a secondary stream of culture which fed on the popular,

The Escapist comic book cover, based on Michael Chabon's "Kavalier & Clay"

sometimes for entertainment (Bowie and Chandler), sometimes for art’s sake (Warhol strikes again), but more often than not for both.

There is no easy definition, for if there were then we would be immediately constrained, and why should we be forced to choose between Superman and Michael Chabon, between Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas? PULPable is where both live together in imperfect harmony. The mainstream will swim on, and, from time to time, those bubbling under will rise to the surface and take a breath before diving for cover once again.

DLR, October 24th, 2009

engaging, innovative, funny, touching, tragic story of growing up and home and family: a pure delight!

A murderer has killed an entire family except the little baby, who has wandered out of his crib and to the nearby graveyard during the process. There he is protected and raised by the denizens of the cemetery (ghosts and more) during many years, as he runs up against enemies new and old and has marvelous experiences.

The book is clever and creative: At one point, Bod (the baby is named Nobody Owens on his first night) is kidnapped by ghouls and enters their alternative world on an absolutely wild adventure. The book is funny: Towards the end of the book, I could not help laughing as I listened to Nehemiah Trott, the deceased poet, describe his vengeance on a literary critic who didn’t appreciate Trott’s verse: He posted a letter saying he wouldn’t publish any more of his amazing poetry, saving it for posterity instead: Served the critic right! This just preceded by a line from Bod like, “And who better to trust than a poet?” (Maybe a non-delusional poet.)  There is an indulgent schoolyard-vengeance episode where Bod uses his special graveyard skills to achieve justice at a local school.  The supporting characters, Bod’s guardian Silas, Silas’s friend Miss Lupesky, and the ghosts of the graveyard, are fabulous.

The pacing is excellent. Gaiman intersperses stand-alone tales (like the ghoul abduction) with the ongoing subplot involving the killer who killed Bod’s family.

I listened to the unabridged audio version, narrated by the author, and I’m so glad. He did a fabulous job.

This is the best book and most fun I’ve had in a while.  (I found another Gaiman book very funny a few years ago: Good Omens, which was more pure funny.)

Note on content: This is not for little children (e.g., my five year old); the villain in this story is a ruthless serial killer. Gaiman is very careful not to show any blood or violence, but there is the threat of violence several places, and several other places that are scary in other ways.

The fiction Lady-Rating returns (on a Monday).

Do you have what it takes, fictionally?

First, apologies–m.snowe has been neglecting this Friday post  idea. But to remedy that on a Monday morning, here we go with a new book to analyze in terms of its female characters, or the presence/lack of any type of feminist ideas.

Today’s Lady-Rating, for American Gods, by Neil Gaiman.

Do ladies ever strike twice?

Rating: 4 out of 10.

Reasoning: First let m.snowe say that she enjoyed this book immensely. It was an easy read, and presented ideas and creative vignettes that were extremely original and thought-provoking. There was an underlying message or preachyness to the book, but it really didn’t distract or take away from m.snowe’s enjoyment of the story. But here’s the problem–most of the lady bits are tangential. The protagonist, Shadow, is actually quite a redeeming character, and it’s clear that he respects and enjoys the company of women (yeah, in that way too). And women do play a crucial role in the movement of the story–Gaiman’s premise of broke-down gods living in America is not neglectful of lady gods–Easter, Mama Ji, the Zorya sisters, etc., and so on. And Shadow’s dead wife is also a key character. But honestly, sometimes m.snowe felt like the ladies were either there to add flourish or intrigue, or merely drive the story–which is fine, but the women don’t get the kind of character development that the men sometimes do. Despite the variety of names these lady-gods are given, it might not be completely unfair to say they are all really Muses. They guide and assist Shadow on his way, and the real players are men–Shadow, Wednesday, Mister World.

But let m.snowe make it clear–she loved this book, and found herself reading passages that were completely unique, and many times wished she could’ve come up with such strange and beautiful stories. The small stories that breakaway from the main action were just out-of-place enough to work, yet intrinsically tied to the plot, even if you couldn’t fully puzzle out why. A scene of a reverse birth was shocking (at least, it was to m.snowe!), and the frank suspension of reality somehow works. In fact, it was mildly disappointing to see that the end was connected to the solving of a “real life” murder mystery, because it hurled the story back into reality, taking the reader out of the world of strange possibilities that Gaiman navigates so fluidly. If only Shadow or Wednesday had a lady counterpart, this story would’ve tipped the lady-rating scales to a seven or eight. But m.snowe recommends you read it anyway.

If you thought twitter is just about telling your followers (friends) about what you are upto right now, think again for now Twitter is gonna aide in formulating a book. If BBC Audiobooks is to be believed, the new project it started yesterday will be a first-of-its-kind wherein the story is to be co-authored by Tweeters and Neil Gaiman (New York bestselling author of The Graveyard Book).

The project kicked-off on Twitter on October 13 at noon EST, with Gaiman tweeting the first line of the story and then handing over the canvas to the users to paint freely with their words. For users who want to just keep themselves updated with the progress of the story as it unfurls by, they can follow the tag of the project on twitter itself. Of all the tweets that follow in an effort to give the story twists and turns, BBC Audiobooks America will compile a selected list of some thousand tweets to finish the short-story, which will then be recorded and then available worldwide for free downloads.

Seems to me, the guys at BBC Audiobooks America are going to have a hard time sifting through the massive downpour of tweets that began yesterday. But rest assured, this is surely going to go a long way both for twitter and the publicity for BBCAA. Involving the readers at such a massive scale and to such a depth has been a step unheard of, and it will be safe to presume that the audience will reciprocate in a similar enthusiastic manner.

Lets now just wait to see how the book shapes up!

©2009 Abhishek ANAND | All Rights Reserved

Milton Berle says: ‘If an opportunity doesn’t knock at your door, build a door!’ I (erm, Maria Ivanova) say: ‘If an opportunity doesn’t knock at your door, it’s probably because an opportunity is not that polite.’

Albert Einstein says: ‘There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.’ I say: ‘There are only two ways to live your life. One is fuck it up. The other is fuck it up quickly.‘

Sébastien-Roch Nicolas de Chamfort says: ‘Of all days, the day on which one has not laughed is the one most surely wasted.’ I say: ‘Of all days, the day on which one [no idea yet!] is the one most surely wasted.’

Dr. Seuss says: ‘Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.’ I say: ‘Be who you are and say what you feel, because no one cares about you anyways.’

Albert Einstein says: ‘In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.’ I say: ‘In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity to make it even worse.’

Neil Gaiman says about “Fragile Things”: ‘There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.’ I say: ‘There are so many fragile things, after all. Like, [no idea!]‘

Albert Einstein says: ‘Any fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius – and a lot of courage – to move in the opposite direction.’ I say: ‘Any fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius to make people buy that shit.‘

Charles Schulz says: ‘Don’t worry about the world coming to an end tomorrow. It’s already tomorrow in Australia.’ I say: ‘Don’t worry about [no idea!(((] tomorrow. It’s already tomorrow in Australia.’

Albert Einstein says: ‘Do not worry about your difficulties in Mathematics. I can assure you mine are still greater.’ I say: ‘Do not worry about your difficulties in Mathematics. You are not going to need that washing toilets.‘

Jack London says: ‘A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.’ I say: ‘A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is posing with this dirty dog for camera and still be smiling.‘

Sto rileggendo Il talismano di Stephen King e Peter Straub. Bugia, lo sto finendo, perchè l’avevo cominciato e lasciato, molto tempo fa: prima di leggere la saga della Torre nera.  E adesso me lo sto davvero gustando: forse perchè ritrovo in quel romanzo i semi di quello che sarebbe fiorito nella Torre.
E allora, ecco la domanda del giorno. I Territori sono evidentemente l’ossessione di King. E non solo la sua: il mondo altro ma parallelo piace a un bel po’ di persone e a me per prima, nel mio nanocosmo.
Però dentro i Territori King mette quasi sempre un bambino, anzi, un ragazzino intorno ai dodici anni. E’ la sua storia, forse: o meglio, la storia personale (credo che King abbia avuto un’infanzia tremenda) che viene filtrata e reinventata nei suoi libri.
Ovviamente, succede anche a me, e quando scrivo e rileggo arrivo a domandarmi se prima o poi cambierò ossessione (mondi paralleli, appunto, e personaggi femminili tutt’altro che eroici).
Non funziona così per tutti. Non, per esempio, per Clive Barker di cui oggi comincia a occuparsi GL: e sono curiosa di quel che dirà. Perchè King è inchiodabile a un’ossessione (o due), e forse anche Lovecraft e sicuramente Gaiman. Barker mi sa di no…

Encore quelques jours et les Beatles rataient l’époque du CD. J’aime bien les Beatles et naïvement, je me suis toujours dit qu’une intégrale finirait bien par sortir un jour, donc que j’allais attendre qu’elle paraisse pour les ajouter à ma discothèque. Je n’aurais pas pensé que ça prendrait aussi longtemps. Le prix est un peu fort — je veux bien croire que la remastérisation est un art délicat et minutieux, qui a exigé des sommes fabuleuses, mais je m’étonne toujours de voir certains articles sortir des deux côtés de l’Atlantique avec le même chiffre sur l’étiquette, alors que le dollar et l’euro sont loin d’être à parité, ces temps-ci.

C’est la traversée de l’océan qui coûte extrêmement cher, je présume.

Ou de la Manche.

Ou les réductions de prix qui sont arrêtées à la frontière française, comme un vulgaire nuage de Tchernobyl.

Ces temps-ci, quand je ne maugrée pas sur le prix des choses que j’achète sans qu’on m’y force, je termine la révision de la version préférée par l’auteur du Neverwhere de Neil Gaiman  — qui a pris nettement plus de temps que prévu. D’abord pour des problèmes de reins (ça va mieux, merci, après quelques séances où un dévoué kinésithérapeute m’a replié selon des angles lovecraftiens et a vérifié que mes os craquaient harmonieusement quand on les écrasait avec fermeté — j’exagère un brin, mais le résultat est probant), ensuite pour des problèmes de Cthulhu, et enfin pour des problèmes de révision — le texte n’est pas fondamentalement différent, mais entre les quelques paragraphes ajoutés par Gaiman, les quelques autres retirés, les modifications de détail qu’il a apportées ici ou là, et la refonte de moult détails et tournures de mon côté, l’ensemble a exigé pas mal de temps de lecture et de relecture, et me paraît désormais sortir d’un bain de Jouvence. Ça reste vraiment un de mes romans préférés de Gaiman. Un mélange savoureux de cocasse et de noirceur, des personnages qui semblent tirés à la fois de recueils poussiéreux de légendes et de dessins animés de Tex Avery, et un emploi inoubliable de la géographie et du légendaire londoniens.

Et de ma main qui reste libre, je me suis mis à l’harmonisation (et traduction de la conclusion) de la trilogie du Soldat des Brumes de Gene Wolfe. Le lecteur y gagne au change, littéralement: dès les premières pages, la valeur de la drachme tombe de cent oboles à seulement six!

Et puis au moins, je ne peux plus me plaindre de ne jamais changer d’ambiance!

Photos of Neil Gaiman’s impressive bookshelves have been making rounds of the literary blagosphere, and let me be the latest to link to them and say “wow.”

(There are more pictures in the original post.)

My own are humbler; I posted some pictures of the shelves in my old apartment here, and you can see one of them here:

Not nearly as impressive as Gaiman’s, to be sure. But then I haven’t been reading as long and have purged much of my library twice: once when I left for college and discarded much of the pulp fantasy (like DragonLance and The Wheel of Time) that I used to like, and again when I graduated from college and figured that many of the books, both ones I’d read in general and in class, I was unlikely to read again. So far that’s proven right regarding, for example, Spenser’s The Faerie Queen. Someday, when I’m less mobile than I am now, I wouldn’t mind a setup like Gaiman’s. And by “wouldn’t mind,” I probably mean something closer to “would love to have.”

a small image packs a big memory

This is a photo of Neil Gaiman’s bookshelf, but it is only one small portion of a floor-to-ceiling library. This portion is special to me. In fact, I love this small portion, this little treasure. A half-hour earlier I didn’t know Mr. Gaiman from Adam, however when I found this article on my feedly front page I was immediately drawn to the photos. I’ve always had a thing for old, comfortable libraries, the sort that wear a sheen of old like a comfortable sweater, and promise the peaceful environment needed to lose oneself in the adventures found on the shelves. I fantasized during my childhood days about owning a house with a grand library, furnished in soft couches and deep leather chairs. The carpet is soft and a fire drowses in the fireplace, keeping my sleeping dog warm. In my lap the cat softly purrs as outside the snow gently falls, leaving the night-time sounds muted. I look down at the book in my hands; it’s my favorite book, the first book I ever truly remember reading. I’d read other books before this one, but this is the first book that caught my attention and never let go, leaving an indelible mark that’s still with me today. And I found it on Mr. Gaiman’s bookshelf, tucked away with twenty-nine other books by the same author, Robert A. Heinlein. I was around nine or ten years-old when I first read Have Space Suit, Will Travel, a book with a protagonist only a few years older than myself at the time. I connected with Mr. Heinlein’s characters, with his vividly descriptive language that, when combined with a ten-year-old’s imagination, took a reader to amazing regions of space for adventure. I won’t attempt to break down the plot for you, that’s not why I’m writing this entry. You see, for just one moment, as I browsed the books, I stumbled across my old friend, Mr. Heinlein. As the photo and finding Mr. Heinlein brought forth that old, deep yearning for my own library, I lost myself in deep thought, seeing that same library from childhood in my mind’s eye all over again. When my reverie broke, I wondered at my imagination’s ability to recall that beautiful childhood wish, and I felt validated that I hadn’t completely lost my imagination. These are my thoughts, as I sit in my one bedroom apartment with its tiny bookcase; I take heart in that I can still dream.

Batman by Brian Azzarello (writer), Eduardo Risso (artist) – Nice plot progression but confusing dialogue and motivation. Never enjoy seeing Batman get sucker punched by a common thug. He should be above that, no? B-

Kamandi by Dave Gibbons (writer), Ryan Sook (artist)– War on Washington DC. The epic battle to save Caesar and Tuftan begins as Kamandi and the Lion warriors storm the White House. As usual for this strip, great iconic art and storytelling. A-

Superman by John Arcudi (writer), Lee Bermejo (artist) – Jaw dropping art, but not a lot of story. Also, when did Supes get psychic powers to “receive” others thoughts? B

Deadman by Dave Bullock and Vinton Heuck (writers), Dave Bullock (artist) –Who knew Deadman was such a great character. He and his crew battle the main demon, but things look bleak. Absorbing read… Good art. A-

Green Lantern by Kurt Busiek (writer), Joe Quinones (artist), Pat Brosseau (colorist) – Nice character work and superb art with a nice 50’s feel. A little let down that there is another space invasion in Wednesday Comics. Nothing unique there. B

Metamorpho by Neil Gaiman (writer), Mike Allred (artist) – Last week’s periodic chart of elements was smart,fun, and off-the-hook original,  but two weeks of it is just annoying. We got it Gaiman: You’re smarter and a heck of a better writer than the rest of us. But now you’re just showing off. Anyway, I love Algon. B+

Teen Titans by Eddie Berganza (writer), Sean Galloway (artist) – Clunky work all around here. Trident is not a good foe and this story has been too segmented to be engaging in the long run. C

Strange Adventures by Paul Pope – This is awesome on many levels, but the art is just amazing. I was very confused what happened last week, but this week, I just don’t care as everything clicks in this installment. Why isn’t Paul Pope on a regular “Big 2″ comic? Pay the man, somebody! A+

Supergirl by Jimmy Palmiotti (writer), Amanda Conner (artist) – It may not be the best story but it is my favorite and the most fun. Well crafted and plotted. Every installment has had a great take away and this installment is no exception. A+

Metal Men by Dan Didio (writer), Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez (artist) – This story is getting really, really old. Same enemy, same situation, same setting, week after week. I really enjoy the art, but it is a remote affair. C-

Wonder Woman by Ben Caldwell – I can’t read this. I can’t even look at it too long without needing to down some dramamine. F

Sgt. Rock by Adam Kubert (writer), Joe Kubert (artist) – Finally, something happens and there is a plot twist, rather than things just remaining static. I can’t help to think that this would have been a better comic if it took place on a battlefield. B

The Flash by Karl Kerschl and Brenden Fletcher (writers), Karl Kerschl (artist) Iris West by Dave McCaig (writer), Rob Leigh (artist) — I am so lost here it’s not eve funny or enjoyable. D

The Demon and Catwoman by Walter Simonson (writer), Brian Stelfreeze (artist) – Reminds me of an 80’s Hanna Barbera cartoon with over the top dramatic dialogue and characters one dimensional and predictable. That being said, that’s not necessary bad here.  B

Hawkman by Kyle Baker – Its all predictable but well done. Hawkman has been a particularly strong character throughtout this series and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it. Plus, the artwork is just so unique.

Racking Semanal: DVD – Anime – Mangá
FullMetal Alchemist 2 Brotherhood não anda muito bem na audiência.
JCB oferece assinatura para Ranma 1/2.
Panini lança novo mangá: Otomen.
Novo Okami é para Nintendo DS.
TokyoPop lança o mangá do CSI.
Novo single de Nana Mizuki em outubro.
Música: Melhores e piores de Agosto.
Disney comprou a MARVEL. Vejam as imagens.
5 centimeters per second MADE IN CHINA.
Biblioteca do Neil Gaiman

Música do Dia:

Regina Spektor – Machine

I think my new cause is supporting authors who are actually open-minded.  I never had anything against writers who were defenders of “the old ways” – I completely understand when writers generally prefer typewriters or notebooks to laptops.  And even being opposed to the idea of the so-called revolution in reading brought on by the electronic book isn’t so bad.  (Even though I think authors are foolish to think they can prevent it from happening.  It’s happening… paper books may not disappear forever, but we know now that it’s not the only option.)

But instigating violence against forward-thinking people simply because one prefers traditional methods?  That grievously offends me.

That’s why I’m going to be keeping an eye out for writers who are notably supportive of the e-book.  I don’t necessarily mean that they have to be willing to hand out free digital copies of all their stuff.  I mean writers who are supportive of all their readers (two-way street, please), and recognizing that their readers still want to read their work but are asking to be able to read in the manner which pleases or conveniences them most.  It means making your works available in several formats and not complaining that bookstores are the only way in which you can interact with your readers because that’s just making excuses, and bad ones at that.

I would say that my current favourite Friendly Authors are:

1. Neil Gaiman: partly because he’s my favourite contemporary author, but also because he seems to be the most accessible writer I’ve ever heard of.  For someone who’s so incredibly popular (pretty much world-wide), he’s really interactive on his award-winning journal and on Twitter too!  Now that’s a way to interact with your readers without clinging desperately to the brick-and-mortar institutions.
2. Cory Doctorow: not because I’m particularly knowledgeable on his works (actually, I’ve read one… short story) but because I think he’s really quite brave to post Little Brother and some of his other works online for free.  He’s also a well-known supporter of more liberal copyright laws, filesharing, and the Creative Commons, and an opponent of DRM.  I promise to read at least Little Brother, in support of Doctorow.

And just now I’ve been reading about Bradley Denton, whose famous book Buddy Holly is Alive and Well on Ganymede is being made into a movie starring Jon Heder.  Boingboing shared that Denton has posted a PDF of his book on his website in an effort to make his work more available to readers.  The link is in the article but Denton’s website doesn’t seem to be working at the moment (overloaded, maybe?) so I won’t link to it… but comments on the Boingboing article also share several other links which might work.

That’s all for now.  I feel like that was sufficient drama in the e-book world.  Now time to enjoy the weekend.

P.S. Yes, I’m still way behind on Infinite Jest (30%).  In my defense, my sisters having been borrowing my Kindle because there weren’t enough copies of their summer reading books at the library – Native Son and East of Eden.  Yet another Kindle WIN – no chance of all the library copies being loaned out.