Oh, and

2010 Hugo nominations are out! Whoo!

…and yet again, remind me of the extent to which I don’t have time to keep up with current reading. Boo.

Between the two of us, I think Kakaner and I have read 5 things on the ballot (Boneshaker, The City & The City, Palimpsest, “Spar,” and Batman: Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader), which I suppose isn’t thaaat unrespectable… but still. I’d love to make it my goal to read everything on the short story ballot, at the least.

Go to:
Hugos a go-go
Awards season

King Solomon’s Ring, by Konrad Lorenz (1949) E

Date read: 3.20.10
Book from: Personal collection
Reviewer: Emera

book-lorenz-solomon

In the chimney the autumn wind sings the song of the elements, and the old firs before my study window wave excitedly with their arms and sing so loudly in chorus that I can hear their sighing melody through the double panes. Suddenly from above, a dozen black, streamlined projectiles shoot across the piece of clouded sky for which my window forms a frame. Heavily as stones they fall, fall to the tops of the firs where they suddenly sprout wings, become birds and then light feather rags that the storm seizes and whirls out of my line of vision, more rapidly than they were borne into it.

[…]

And look what they do with the wind! At first sight, you, poor human being, think that the storm is playing with the birds, like a cat with a mouse, but soon you see, with astonishment, that it is the fury of the elements that here plays the role of the mouse and that the jackdaws are treating the storm exactly as the cat its unfortunate victim. Nearly, but only nearly, do they give the storm its head, let it throw them high, high into the heavens, till they seem to fall upwards, then, with a casual flap of a wing, they turn themselves over, open their pinions for a fraction of a second from below against the wind, and dive – with an acceleration far greater than that of a falling stone – into the depths below. Another tiny jerk of the wing and they return to their normal position and, on close-reefed sails, shoot away with breathless speed into the teeth of the gale, hundreds of yards to the west: this all playfully and without effort, just to spite the stupid wind that tries to drive them towards the east. The sightless monster itself must perform the work of propelling the birds through the air at a rate of well over 80 miles an hour; the jackdaws do nothing to help beyond a few lazy adjustments of their black wings.

Konrad Lorenz (1903-1989) was a Nobel-prize-winning Austrian ethologist (animal behaviorist) particularly famous for his work on imprinting, and is one of the loves of my life. He’s wonderful to read – wise, methodical, wondering, and wryly humorous. Being guided through his observations is like an act of meditation, and every chapter in King Solomon’s Ring (whose title refers to the mythical ring that allowed Solomon to speak with animals) bears multiple, slow re-reads.

Continue reading King Solomon’s Ring, by Konrad Lorenz (1949) E

Booklish #3: Rorschach Cheesecake

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Featured here is a gnarly wrought-chocolate cheesecake to commemorate Alan Moore’s vengeful vigilante, Rorschach. Pardon the craftsmanship– Rorschach blots are definitely supposed to be more symmetrical, but with only a wooden spoon and various other home tools, this was the best I could manage.

Continue reading Booklish #3: Rorschach Cheesecake

BBCF: I Will Fear No Evil

So when it comes to book covers, there’s overly literal, and then there’s this kind of thing, courtesy the mass-market paperback cover of Robert Heinlein’s I Will Fear No Evil:

Robert Heinlein - Fear No Evil

Allegorical representation of Something Profound About America, With Purple Pixie Dust? Thinly veiled excuse for female nudity? Who knows?

Go to:

Bad Book Covers Friday Archive
BBCF: The Technic Civilization Saga
BBCF: Relationships II
BBCF: The Saga of Recluce
BBCF: Moonsinger’s Friends
BBCF: The Alphabet Mysteries

“Undertow”

This has been my generally favorite thing since I found it last week. I’ve been reading it a couple times a day since, and it still hits me every time – it’s like being grabbed by the sternum and then having the rug pulled out from under my innards. whaaaaaat. But no, seriously, I love and am extremely envious of this poem.

Undertow

People looking at the sea,
makes them feel less terrible about themselves,
the sea’s behaving abominably,
seems never satisfied,
what it throws away it dashes down
then wants back, yanks back.
Comparatively, thinks one vice president,
what are my frauds but nudged along
misunderstandings already there?
I can’t believe I ever worried
about my betrayals, thinks the analyst
benefitting facially from the sea’s raged-up mist.
Obviously I’m not the only one suffering
an identity crisis knows the boy
who wants to be a lawyer no more.
Nothing can stay long, cogitates the dog,
so maybe a life of fetch is not a wasted life.
And the sea heaves and cleaves and seethes,
shoots snot out, goes to bed only to wake
shouting in the mansion of the night, pacing,
pacing, making tea then spilling it,
sudden outloud laughter snort, Oh what the
heck, I probably drove myself crazy,
thinks the sea, kissing all those strangers,
forgiving them no matter what, liars
in confession, vomitters of plastics
and fossil fuels but what a stricken
elixir I’ve become even to my becalmed depths,
while through its head swim a million
fishes seemingly made of light
eating each other.

– Dean Young

“raged-up mist,” “cogitates the dog”! I need to find and read more Dean Young, clearly. One or two of the more obviously sonically playful bits sound more decorative than meaningful (it’s mainly “stricken / elixir” that bothers me), but overall this poem is so on. The humor, the psychological understanding, the perfect fit and clarity of the final image…

The reader-writer “contract”

I’ve been thinking lately about how readers interact with the books that they read, and I have a few questions that I’d be interested in seeing others’ opinions on. I’m interested in the idea of the reader-writer contract – the idea that some type of mutual obligation exists between readers and writers.

At the most basic, almost purely commercial level, we have the opinion of someone named Susan Rand, whose article is the first Google hit for “reader-writer contract:”

When an author sits down to write a book, she enters into a contract with the reader. The reader’s part is to buy the book, and to recommend it to his friends. For her part, the writer promises the reader that she will take his hand and guide him safely through the world created in the book. She promises she will not suddenly push him off the path into an abyss, or put boulders – big or small – in his way, to trip him up. She will not lead him down side paths that lead nowhere. She knows that readers have many other activities to distract them, so she will make the book as intriguing, easy to read and compelling/enlightening as possible.

That is, the author should always remember that they’re reliant on the attentions of a paying audience, and therefore must cater to that audience’s desires and comfort level. This is reader as consumer – that the reader enjoys the book or thinks about its contents isn’t even an explicit provision of “the reader’s part;” it’s simply written into his or her purchase and promotion of the book.

Obviously, this model holds true at some level for any author who hopes to make any kind of living off of his or her writing.  So where does that leave the author who wishes to write not purely for an audience, but for him or herself – as well as, one hopes, make a living off of it? Put one way, this kind of author writes his or her beliefs or self , and then casts them out in print form, hoping to touch others with them, like-minded or not. Put another way, this kind of author is sacrificing accessibility and commercial feasibility for art and integrity, and therefore can’t be expected to be taken seriously if he or she then complains about not being appreciated or supported.

Anyway, that’s all very vague, “commercialism” vs. “art” and all the compromises that lie in between, yadda yadda; what I was interested in actually asking was, for you personally, where does the balance lie in the reader-writer contract, if you think one exists at all? To give more concrete examples – because of my particular intellectual bent, I enjoy being mystified and nudged off-balance. I like having the feeling that there are things I will never be able to grasp, and that I’m going to have to scrabble after clues if I want any satisfaction, and that I’ll probably end up dirty and tired and unsatisfied anyway, and have to just lie down on a rock and breathe for a while and wonder about all the things I’ll never understand. On the other hand, one of my friends strongly dislikes the feeling of being off-balance, of her understanding being deliberately obfuscated. Not because she’s intellectually incapable of dealing with it, but because it makes her feel nervous or even belittled when the author holds things out of reach over her head.

Each response make sense for our respective personalities, and because of that, I’m also interested in how personal outlook reflects on reading style and preferences. Where do your preferences lie ? How much are you willing to invest in understanding an author’s aims, presuming the author is good enough to be worth any investment? How much do you think the author is him/herself obligated to make his/her books a welcoming place for readers? And, if you’re willing to talk about it, do you see any of this as growing out of how you generally relate to other people, sources of information, authority figures, The Universe, whatever? I realize this is all highly conditional, so feel free to ramble about anything that seems relevant.

Also, if anyone has any perspective on how this may have changed historically and culturally, I’d love to hear more about it – I have the vague suspicion that the development of reader-response criticism may have changed things, but I don’t really have a broad understanding of how readers’ expectations about books and authors have changed over time and space.

– E

Assassin’s Apprentice, by Robin Hobb (1995) E

Date read: 4.10.08
Read from: Public Library
Reviewer: Emera

The kingdom of the Six Duchies is stricken with shock when its beloved king-in-waiting, Chivalry, is forced to acknowledge the existence of an illegitimate child. In the wake of his abdication, his bastard son, Fitz, is delivered to the castle at Buckkeep, where he is put into the care of his father’s grim stableman. Despised and half-forgotten, Fitz grows up among the castle’s hounds and horses, and in the streets of Buckkeep’s bustling seaport. Inevitably, though, he is drawn into the affairs and intrigue of the castle itself. Facing mounting unrest and the threat of invasion, King Shrewd seeks out new means of securing his power, and calls upon Fitz to serve the throne as an assassin.

When I picked up Assassin’s ApprenticeI’d been meaning to read Robin Hobb’s work for a Really Long Time – most recently because I’d been craving a return to epic fantasy, but also because I remember being fascinated by the covers of the Farseer Trilogy, of which this is the first book, in an airport bookstore at least ten years ago. Luckily, it met my expectations. Hobb’s prose isn’t particularly stylish or striking, but it clumps along solidly. She does have a particular talent for conveying the rhythms and concerns of everyday life, which is refreshingly grounding in a genre that’s often plagued by grandiosity. Her settings and characters are believable and absorbing (if not terribly complex, in the case of the latter), and the book keeps a meditative pace appropriate to a coming-of-age tale without dragging.

Overall, I found it a consistently enjoyable read, with the bonus – if you’re into that kind of thing – of boundless homosocial/homoerotic undertones*. There’s also a good dose of character-driven angst, and the promise of lots more to come. I will say that as a first book this isn’t a showstopper, thanks in large part to the tight circumscription of Fitz’s life in Buckkeep; I was actually undecided at the end as to whether I’d continue the series. (Hobb’s lackluster prose was the other major detractor.) But that promise of higher stakes in the future, along with my quickly growing love for many of the characters, kept me reading, and indeed, the plot and emotional payoffs in both the second and third books are immense. Basically, if you try the first book and like anything at all about it, stick with it, because all that momentum-gathering is worth it in the end.

Continue reading Assassin’s Apprentice, by Robin Hobb (1995) E

Bear and His Daughter, by Robert Stone (1997) E

Date read: 2.13.10
Book from: Personal collection
Reviewer: Emera

Bear and His Daughter is a collection of enormously depressing short stories about unhappy people with unhappy pasts and, frequently, drug dependencies. There’s a washed-up poet in Mexico trying to escape his need for the validation of his strung-out friends as they hustle him up the side of a volcano on a putative spiritual quest (“Porque no Tiene, Porque le Falta”); two war veterans struggling with fear and confusion (“Absence of Mercy” and “Helping”); a trepidatious drug-runner (“Under the Pitons”); a hippie mom who has an unnerving encounter with a dolphin at an aquarium (“Aquarius Obscured”); and a widowed woman who channels her grief and anger into macabre nighttime undertakings on behalf of the anti-abortion movement (“Miserere”). Oh, and another washed-up poet, a relapsed alcoholic taking a cross-country trip that draws him closer and closer to his estranged daughter, an erratic, poetical junkie and park ranger who spins myths about the caves where she gives tours (“Bear and His Daughter”).

All told, there’s a lot of rage and fear and aimlessness and rejection of meaning or acceptance of the lack thereof, and the stories end in senseless fistfights on subway platforms or gunshots or suicides or drowning or people otherwise hurting themselves and others. BUT for all that, I did enjoy (…not quite the right word) reading it. Stone delineates his characters’ psychology with finesse, and I was a little in awe of his prose: it’s incredibly lean and stripped-down, with descriptions, particularly of landscapes and seascapes, that are piercingly vivid in their concision. There’s a kind of architectural purity to his writing, coupled with an intense attention to details of setting and sensation.

Continue reading Bear and His Daughter, by Robert Stone (1997) E

BBCF: Relationships II

[Sorry for the lateness – apparently I specialize in redefining “Friday.”]

Oh small presses, sometimes (frequently) I just don’t know what you were thinking. So far I’ve tried to stay away from small-small-press covers because they do what they do under so many constraints, but sometimes – yeah, I just really don’t know what they were thinking. According to the publisher, this is “a collection of seven stories about relationships, loving and passionate, thought-provoking and inspiring. Some verge into the familiar Anthony territory of fantasy and science fiction, where others focus on the eroticism of contemporary life, proving that love has many facets.”

Piers Anthony - Relationships II

Apparently one of love’s facets is reenactment of bondage scenarios with Parcheesi gamepieces after a few hits of acid…?

Go to:
Bad Book Covers Friday Archive
BBCF: Birth of the Firebringer
BBCF: The Saga of Recluce
BBCF: Moonsinger’s Friends
BBCF: The Alphabet Mysteries