Neverwas Haul
An industrious crew busily exploring the applications of neo-Victorian steam-powered gadgets. Although their lumbering self-propelled multi-story turretted house is impressive, I'm pretty sure the peppy little steam car is more fun to drive.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Recent reads
His Wanted Woman, by Linda Turner. If any scholarly, librarianly, or archival types are obligated to read a genre romance novel for any reason, this might be one to look for. I came across it as a result of an online discussion of an LA Times article about the Archival Recovery Team that tracks down and attempts to recover items stolen from the National Archives which are being offered for sale on the internet or through rare-books dealers. The article vaguely mentioned that this team had been the subject of a "Harlequin romance". A little librarianly cooperation, mixed with some serendipity and a helpful romance writer, identified the "wanted" title.
I have to say that the cover -- viewable at Amazon -- is unsettling in a way that the artist probably did not intend. The man and woman portrayed are attractive individuals, and they appear to be quite fond of each other, but it appears that in order to give a "suspenseful" ambiance to the scene, the artist has bathed both figures in an eerie green glow emanating from below. This, combined with the woman's closed eyes and inert posture, has the unfortunate effect of appearing more necrophilic than suspenseful. Surely this was not the intent. Also, for some reason, a glowing scale model of the US Capitol building and a purple Christmas tree appear to be stuck to the man's elbow.
The book seems to be the first of an intended series dealing with three brothers. The O'Reilly brothers, we find out in a brief prologue, are all strapping, handsome men who work in different branches of law enforcement and all got divorced nearly simultaneously: "A bunch of cops with bad taste in women." They get together on St. Patrick's day for a very masculine brotherly ceremony of drinking beer and tossing their old marriage certificates into the pub bonfire while vowing to "never get married again". Their loving mom, in between cooking delicious lasagna (O'Reilly? lasagna?) meals, helpfully pushes them to find "nice girls". What do you suppose will happen in this volume? And how many books do you suppose the series will include?
I suppose I should not mock the inherent predictability of romance novels. That is, I take it, what many romance readers expect: the reassurance that Things Will Work Out, that there are Happy Endings in which a Good Woman and a Good Man are irresistably drawn to each other and find a way to Live Happily Ever After despite all the betrayals, bitterness, and fears that dog them as individuals, and despite every worldly obstacle that rears up to oppose them. The fact that reality does not always follow this script no doubt only increases the hunger to have it confirmed in fiction. And why should I condemn or mock that desire for reassurance? Is it really any more laughable than the innumerable fantasy and SF epics in which obscure country bumpkins rise to overthrow dictatorial overlords whose armies have overrun the known world/universe? Both posit, indeed insist on, reassuringly happy endings that readers crave.
But enough generalia. In the volume at hand, once the prologue is past, we find ourselves meeting Mackenzie Sloan, a smart young woman who has recently acquired a master's degree in an unspecified subject, broken up with a boyfriend, lost her father, and inherited the latter's livelihood, a rare-books store in Washington, D.C. Shortly after she reopens the shop, a dark-haired "hunk" walks in with a improbably rare document to sell, and an even more improbable story to explain his possession of it. He's one of the O'Reilly brothers, naturally, the one who works for the Archival Recovery Team, and he's checking her out. Checking out her honesty, that is. He's checking to see if the current proprietor of the store will buy tempting items of suspicious provenance, because it turns out that some of her father's inventory that she's recently sold on eBay was stuff that should have stayed in the Archives. Is she a thief? Was her father a thief? Or a duped victim who bought stolen documents? Where did they come from, and will the investigation tarnish her good name and damage her business?
In any case, the two of them are very shortly checking out more than just each other's credentials, the more so when she is impelled to seek police protection after someone breaks into her store and steals, not books or maps, but routine business paperwork. Each has fears and bitterness from the past to overcome before becoming emotionally involved, although the physical sparks of attraction are flying in short order, along with some hints of mild kinkiness. (Something about handcuffs...)
I found the characters interesting and the story entertaining. I would have liked more emphasis on the process by which historical documents wind their way through the labyrinthine, sometimes clandestine world of archival institutions, dealers, and collectors. I would have liked to have seen more detailed description of how the Archival Recovery Team identified and tracked such documents, and I would have enjoyed reading at greater length about the investigation of the particular case at hand. The resolution of the case, though unfortunately plausible, seemed rather sudden and deus-ex-mechanical. It so happens that I subscribe to the school of thought that in a well-plotted mystery novel, the criminal, when revealed, must be a character who has been previously introduced in the story, and whom the reader has had fair chance to consider as a suspect.
But this is not, of course, primarily a mystery novel, and I fear that I am not part of its prime target demographic. The primary emphasis is on the exposition and expulsion of the personal demons of the two romantic principals, and their growing involvement with each other. This is, in fact, quite well done. But of all the people who read His Wanted Woman, I wonder if I am the only one who started getting impatient with the descriptions of lusciously soft lips, hungry kisses, and pounding hearts, and looked forward to the next chapter in which the erotically enflamed investigators pulled themselves away from each others' arms and delved once more into tracking the prospective buyers of a stolen presidential diary or hand-scribbled Civil War map.
His Wanted Woman, by Linda Turner. If any scholarly, librarianly, or archival types are obligated to read a genre romance novel for any reason, this might be one to look for. I came across it as a result of an online discussion of an LA Times article about the Archival Recovery Team that tracks down and attempts to recover items stolen from the National Archives which are being offered for sale on the internet or through rare-books dealers. The article vaguely mentioned that this team had been the subject of a "Harlequin romance". A little librarianly cooperation, mixed with some serendipity and a helpful romance writer, identified the "wanted" title.
I have to say that the cover -- viewable at Amazon -- is unsettling in a way that the artist probably did not intend. The man and woman portrayed are attractive individuals, and they appear to be quite fond of each other, but it appears that in order to give a "suspenseful" ambiance to the scene, the artist has bathed both figures in an eerie green glow emanating from below. This, combined with the woman's closed eyes and inert posture, has the unfortunate effect of appearing more necrophilic than suspenseful. Surely this was not the intent. Also, for some reason, a glowing scale model of the US Capitol building and a purple Christmas tree appear to be stuck to the man's elbow.
The book seems to be the first of an intended series dealing with three brothers. The O'Reilly brothers, we find out in a brief prologue, are all strapping, handsome men who work in different branches of law enforcement and all got divorced nearly simultaneously: "A bunch of cops with bad taste in women." They get together on St. Patrick's day for a very masculine brotherly ceremony of drinking beer and tossing their old marriage certificates into the pub bonfire while vowing to "never get married again". Their loving mom, in between cooking delicious lasagna (O'Reilly? lasagna?) meals, helpfully pushes them to find "nice girls". What do you suppose will happen in this volume? And how many books do you suppose the series will include?
I suppose I should not mock the inherent predictability of romance novels. That is, I take it, what many romance readers expect: the reassurance that Things Will Work Out, that there are Happy Endings in which a Good Woman and a Good Man are irresistably drawn to each other and find a way to Live Happily Ever After despite all the betrayals, bitterness, and fears that dog them as individuals, and despite every worldly obstacle that rears up to oppose them. The fact that reality does not always follow this script no doubt only increases the hunger to have it confirmed in fiction. And why should I condemn or mock that desire for reassurance? Is it really any more laughable than the innumerable fantasy and SF epics in which obscure country bumpkins rise to overthrow dictatorial overlords whose armies have overrun the known world/universe? Both posit, indeed insist on, reassuringly happy endings that readers crave.
But enough generalia. In the volume at hand, once the prologue is past, we find ourselves meeting Mackenzie Sloan, a smart young woman who has recently acquired a master's degree in an unspecified subject, broken up with a boyfriend, lost her father, and inherited the latter's livelihood, a rare-books store in Washington, D.C. Shortly after she reopens the shop, a dark-haired "hunk" walks in with a improbably rare document to sell, and an even more improbable story to explain his possession of it. He's one of the O'Reilly brothers, naturally, the one who works for the Archival Recovery Team, and he's checking her out. Checking out her honesty, that is. He's checking to see if the current proprietor of the store will buy tempting items of suspicious provenance, because it turns out that some of her father's inventory that she's recently sold on eBay was stuff that should have stayed in the Archives. Is she a thief? Was her father a thief? Or a duped victim who bought stolen documents? Where did they come from, and will the investigation tarnish her good name and damage her business?
In any case, the two of them are very shortly checking out more than just each other's credentials, the more so when she is impelled to seek police protection after someone breaks into her store and steals, not books or maps, but routine business paperwork. Each has fears and bitterness from the past to overcome before becoming emotionally involved, although the physical sparks of attraction are flying in short order, along with some hints of mild kinkiness. (Something about handcuffs...)
I found the characters interesting and the story entertaining. I would have liked more emphasis on the process by which historical documents wind their way through the labyrinthine, sometimes clandestine world of archival institutions, dealers, and collectors. I would have liked to have seen more detailed description of how the Archival Recovery Team identified and tracked such documents, and I would have enjoyed reading at greater length about the investigation of the particular case at hand. The resolution of the case, though unfortunately plausible, seemed rather sudden and deus-ex-mechanical. It so happens that I subscribe to the school of thought that in a well-plotted mystery novel, the criminal, when revealed, must be a character who has been previously introduced in the story, and whom the reader has had fair chance to consider as a suspect.
But this is not, of course, primarily a mystery novel, and I fear that I am not part of its prime target demographic. The primary emphasis is on the exposition and expulsion of the personal demons of the two romantic principals, and their growing involvement with each other. This is, in fact, quite well done. But of all the people who read His Wanted Woman, I wonder if I am the only one who started getting impatient with the descriptions of lusciously soft lips, hungry kisses, and pounding hearts, and looked forward to the next chapter in which the erotically enflamed investigators pulled themselves away from each others' arms and delved once more into tracking the prospective buyers of a stolen presidential diary or hand-scribbled Civil War map.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
So you want to be....
I guess one of the hallmarks of a lost friendship is that you continue to see things that remind you of the other person's interests and sense of humor, and wish that you could share those things with them. These short animations, for example. Peace and success in all things to absent friends, even (or especially) ones who will never read these words.
I guess one of the hallmarks of a lost friendship is that you continue to see things that remind you of the other person's interests and sense of humor, and wish that you could share those things with them. These short animations, for example. Peace and success in all things to absent friends, even (or especially) ones who will never read these words.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Recent viewings
Never Take Candy From a Stranger / These Are the Damned
I ordered this double DVD of 1960-vintage thrillers because someone on a listserv said interesting things about These Are the Damned.
Never Take Candy From a Stranger is an uncomfortable film, and I'm not sure whether to dismiss it as mere sensationalistic pandering. On the one hand, it's subject matter -- pedophilia -- is decidedly sensationalistic. On the other hand, the movie does not go out of its way to portray the child victims in a prurient manner, the actual offense is relatively tame by the standards of today's daily news, and most of the film's attention is devoted to one victim's parents as they attempt to goad the corrupt local government into prosecuting the wealthy and politically-connected offender. It all ends up as a courtroom thriller, in which the emotional state of a young girl facing a hostile, overbearing and manipulative defense attorney evokes as much tension as the fate of the defendant himself.
These Are the Damned is almost two movies in one, not quite seamlessly joined. It begins as the tale of an American tourist in a postwar English seaside town. Lured into a backstreet by the charms of a sultry local girl, he's promptly set upon, beaten and robbed by a weirdly well-organized gang of black-leather clad, motorcycle-riding "teddy boys". How weirdly well-organized are they? After apparently spending most of the day draping themselves over a 18th-century statue on the waterfront and scaring tourists, when their suit-and-tie-clad leader gives them a signal, they all get up and march in formation into the alley to await their prey, all whistling their bizarrely cheery theme tune in unison like the British POWs of The Bridge on the River Kwai.
Black leather, black leather, smash smash smash!
Black leather, black leather, crash crash crash!
Black leather, black leather, kill kill kill!
First heard in a rock-n-roll arrangement while Our Hero and his duplicitous date walk down the street, this happy little tune makes several thematic appearances throughout the film: whistled in unison as a marching song, above, and later whistled, this time solo, by various gang members signalling to each other during a tense nighttime stalk.
It's in the middle of this nighttime stalk that the movie shifts gears into a completely different story. A mysterious British military officer and his foreign mistress, who has arrived to take up residence in a guest house on his seaside property and pursue her artistic calling of creating strange lumpy sculptures, have made cryptic appearances earlier in the film, most notably as Knowledgable Locals to whom our bruised and bloodied American tourist commisserates after his unfortunate back alley encounter. Turns out they're not just background extras after all, and we're not watching a cautionary thriller about motorcycle gangs after all. No, there's some kind of sinister secret military base on the seashore, ringed with barbed wire fences and patrolled by soldiers with guard dogs. And the purpose of this military base appears to be to supervise a group of young children who are being raised in underground caves, educated via closed-circuit television, and visited only by soldiers in heavy protective gear.
I won't give away any spoilers, other than to note that the movie is based on a novel entitled The Children of Light, that the "teddy boys" so important to the first half of the movie are almost completely forgotten in the second half, and that with Hammer Films at the helm, the operant rule of horror movies -- "anyone can die" -- is in full effect, and British filmmakers do not, like many Hollywood filmmakers, insist on producing happy endings.
Never Take Candy From a Stranger / These Are the Damned
I ordered this double DVD of 1960-vintage thrillers because someone on a listserv said interesting things about These Are the Damned.
Never Take Candy From a Stranger is an uncomfortable film, and I'm not sure whether to dismiss it as mere sensationalistic pandering. On the one hand, it's subject matter -- pedophilia -- is decidedly sensationalistic. On the other hand, the movie does not go out of its way to portray the child victims in a prurient manner, the actual offense is relatively tame by the standards of today's daily news, and most of the film's attention is devoted to one victim's parents as they attempt to goad the corrupt local government into prosecuting the wealthy and politically-connected offender. It all ends up as a courtroom thriller, in which the emotional state of a young girl facing a hostile, overbearing and manipulative defense attorney evokes as much tension as the fate of the defendant himself.
These Are the Damned is almost two movies in one, not quite seamlessly joined. It begins as the tale of an American tourist in a postwar English seaside town. Lured into a backstreet by the charms of a sultry local girl, he's promptly set upon, beaten and robbed by a weirdly well-organized gang of black-leather clad, motorcycle-riding "teddy boys". How weirdly well-organized are they? After apparently spending most of the day draping themselves over a 18th-century statue on the waterfront and scaring tourists, when their suit-and-tie-clad leader gives them a signal, they all get up and march in formation into the alley to await their prey, all whistling their bizarrely cheery theme tune in unison like the British POWs of The Bridge on the River Kwai.
Black leather, black leather, smash smash smash!
Black leather, black leather, crash crash crash!
Black leather, black leather, kill kill kill!
First heard in a rock-n-roll arrangement while Our Hero and his duplicitous date walk down the street, this happy little tune makes several thematic appearances throughout the film: whistled in unison as a marching song, above, and later whistled, this time solo, by various gang members signalling to each other during a tense nighttime stalk.
It's in the middle of this nighttime stalk that the movie shifts gears into a completely different story. A mysterious British military officer and his foreign mistress, who has arrived to take up residence in a guest house on his seaside property and pursue her artistic calling of creating strange lumpy sculptures, have made cryptic appearances earlier in the film, most notably as Knowledgable Locals to whom our bruised and bloodied American tourist commisserates after his unfortunate back alley encounter. Turns out they're not just background extras after all, and we're not watching a cautionary thriller about motorcycle gangs after all. No, there's some kind of sinister secret military base on the seashore, ringed with barbed wire fences and patrolled by soldiers with guard dogs. And the purpose of this military base appears to be to supervise a group of young children who are being raised in underground caves, educated via closed-circuit television, and visited only by soldiers in heavy protective gear.
I won't give away any spoilers, other than to note that the movie is based on a novel entitled The Children of Light, that the "teddy boys" so important to the first half of the movie are almost completely forgotten in the second half, and that with Hammer Films at the helm, the operant rule of horror movies -- "anyone can die" -- is in full effect, and British filmmakers do not, like many Hollywood filmmakers, insist on producing happy endings.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Poetry Wednesday
Dirge
by William Alexander Percy
Tuck the earth, fold the sod,
Drop the hollow-sounding clod.
Quiet's come; time for sleeping,
Tired out of mirth and weeping,
Calmed at last of mirth and weeping.
Tuck the earth, fold the sod;
Quiet's here, maybe God.
(Published in The Double Dealer, Nov. 1923, p. 201)
Dirge
by William Alexander Percy
Tuck the earth, fold the sod,
Drop the hollow-sounding clod.
Quiet's come; time for sleeping,
Tired out of mirth and weeping,
Calmed at last of mirth and weeping.
Tuck the earth, fold the sod;
Quiet's here, maybe God.
(Published in The Double Dealer, Nov. 1923, p. 201)
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
He knew eldritch evil when he saw it
"As for the Republicans—how can one regard seriously a frightened, greedy, nostalgic huddle of tradesmen and lucky idlers who shut their eyes to history and science, steel their emotions against decent human sympathy, cling to sordid and provincial ideals exalting sheer acquisitiveness and condoning artificial hardship for the non-materially-shrewd, dwell smugly and sentimentally in a distorted dream-cosmos of outmoded phrases and principles and attitudes based on the bygone agricultural-handicraft world, and revel in (consciously or unconsciously) mendacious assumptions (such as the notion that real liberty is synonymous with the single detail of unrestricted economic license or that a rational planning of resource-distribution would contravene some vague and mystical `American heritage'…) utterly contrary to fact and without the slightest foundation in human experience? Intellectually, the Republican idea deserves the tolerance and respect one gives to the dead."--H.P. Lovecraft
Attributed to a 1936 letter by this site; elsewhere stated to be cited in S.T. Joshi's A Dreamer and a Visionary, to which, sadly, I have no quick and convenient access.
"As for the Republicans—how can one regard seriously a frightened, greedy, nostalgic huddle of tradesmen and lucky idlers who shut their eyes to history and science, steel their emotions against decent human sympathy, cling to sordid and provincial ideals exalting sheer acquisitiveness and condoning artificial hardship for the non-materially-shrewd, dwell smugly and sentimentally in a distorted dream-cosmos of outmoded phrases and principles and attitudes based on the bygone agricultural-handicraft world, and revel in (consciously or unconsciously) mendacious assumptions (such as the notion that real liberty is synonymous with the single detail of unrestricted economic license or that a rational planning of resource-distribution would contravene some vague and mystical `American heritage'…) utterly contrary to fact and without the slightest foundation in human experience? Intellectually, the Republican idea deserves the tolerance and respect one gives to the dead."--H.P. Lovecraft
Attributed to a 1936 letter by this site; elsewhere stated to be cited in S.T. Joshi's A Dreamer and a Visionary, to which, sadly, I have no quick and convenient access.
Refgrunting
Where can I type up a paper? Try the computer lab.
Gorgeous blonde girl: I'm researching sex appeal. Can you show me where to find it?
Stapler is empty.
You know that room, like, on the second floor, where you can do stuff, is it open? Yes, the media computer lab is open.
I put my thing in the computer and it won't let me open stuff. What kind of document is it? Like, Word or something. Try the computer lab.
Where can I type up a paper? Try the computer lab.
Gorgeous blonde girl: I'm researching sex appeal. Can you show me where to find it?
Stapler is empty.
You know that room, like, on the second floor, where you can do stuff, is it open? Yes, the media computer lab is open.
I put my thing in the computer and it won't let me open stuff. What kind of document is it? Like, Word or something. Try the computer lab.
News noted
The work of religion continues apace. Congratulations to the religious leaders on both sides who continue to successfully divide people and turn them against each other. Another slaughter accomplished.
McDonalds orders workers to vote Republican.
SF writer Charles Stross excorciates the runaway popularity, lagging originality, and selective historical amnesia of steampunk.
Controversy over whether companies can patent the human genome. US Justice department says nay.
The Battlin' Boomers' first baseman is profiled by the NYT in the wake of his victorious trip to the World Series. At the ripe old age of 33 he's described as a grizzled, widely-traveled veteran. Also as a north Texan who grew up listening to the same Rangers games I listened to in college. Steve Buechele is not forgotten.
The work of religion continues apace. Congratulations to the religious leaders on both sides who continue to successfully divide people and turn them against each other. Another slaughter accomplished.
McDonalds orders workers to vote Republican.
SF writer Charles Stross excorciates the runaway popularity, lagging originality, and selective historical amnesia of steampunk.
Controversy over whether companies can patent the human genome. US Justice department says nay.
The Battlin' Boomers' first baseman is profiled by the NYT in the wake of his victorious trip to the World Series. At the ripe old age of 33 he's described as a grizzled, widely-traveled veteran. Also as a north Texan who grew up listening to the same Rangers games I listened to in college. Steve Buechele is not forgotten.
NaBloPoMo prompt #2
"Tell us the story of a piece of jewelry you own. Where did it come from, and what does it mean to you?"
Well. Let's see. A gold chain given by grandparents, never worn. Two neckerchief clasps from Boy Scout days, one broken. One orphaned cufflink, never worn. A black button-cover, never worn. A couple of watches given by various people, both non working and not worn for years. Make of those what you will.
"Tell us the story of a piece of jewelry you own. Where did it come from, and what does it mean to you?"
Well. Let's see. A gold chain given by grandparents, never worn. Two neckerchief clasps from Boy Scout days, one broken. One orphaned cufflink, never worn. A black button-cover, never worn. A couple of watches given by various people, both non working and not worn for years. Make of those what you will.
Monday, November 01, 2010
NaBloPoMo
Spotted this just in time to jump onboard: National Blog Posting Month. Because the world has a severe shortage of poorly edited, rambling personal thoughts being batted about the internet.
Actually, it does seem that most of the personal blogs I used to read and enjoy have gone dark in the past few years. Perhaps Facebook ate them, or sucked away all the exhibitionistic desire to discuss one's thoughts before the stage of all the world that once fueled the blogging craze. If so, I don't consider it a particularly good trade. Facebook is good for posting pictures, links, and very short blurbs, but terrible as a medium for in depth personal writing.
Real life changes have affected my own little mini-biome within the blogosphere as well, as I've lost contact with various individuals who once formed connecting threads, or nexii of connection, to other individuals. Some of them are active on Facebook, posting pictures and links and "likes" and comments, but not writing much beyond a sentence or two in length. Others, presumably with more to say but less desire for attention from this quarter, are still blogging away behind password-walls. Others have vanished entirely or moved on to other addresses and activities, leaving only the record of their past postings as a kind of neglected monument. Old threads detach and drift away; new threads may form.
Anyway. Perhaps it will be entertaining to respond to some of NaBloPoMo's writing prompts. Number one is easy. "How would your life change if you didn't have rent or a mortgage to pay, i.e., if your housing was free?" That's easy. I would have some hope of paying off credit cards.
See? Like I said. In depth personal writing.
Spotted this just in time to jump onboard: National Blog Posting Month. Because the world has a severe shortage of poorly edited, rambling personal thoughts being batted about the internet.
Actually, it does seem that most of the personal blogs I used to read and enjoy have gone dark in the past few years. Perhaps Facebook ate them, or sucked away all the exhibitionistic desire to discuss one's thoughts before the stage of all the world that once fueled the blogging craze. If so, I don't consider it a particularly good trade. Facebook is good for posting pictures, links, and very short blurbs, but terrible as a medium for in depth personal writing.
Real life changes have affected my own little mini-biome within the blogosphere as well, as I've lost contact with various individuals who once formed connecting threads, or nexii of connection, to other individuals. Some of them are active on Facebook, posting pictures and links and "likes" and comments, but not writing much beyond a sentence or two in length. Others, presumably with more to say but less desire for attention from this quarter, are still blogging away behind password-walls. Others have vanished entirely or moved on to other addresses and activities, leaving only the record of their past postings as a kind of neglected monument. Old threads detach and drift away; new threads may form.
Anyway. Perhaps it will be entertaining to respond to some of NaBloPoMo's writing prompts. Number one is easy. "How would your life change if you didn't have rent or a mortgage to pay, i.e., if your housing was free?" That's easy. I would have some hope of paying off credit cards.
See? Like I said. In depth personal writing.
Recent reads
War for the Oaks, by Emma Bull. Along with the works of Charles de Lint, this is one of the works that started the subgenre of urban fantasy that prospered through the 1990s and 2000s before recently being supplanted by Sparkly Vampires In Lurrrve, Pretentious Title With Amusingly Improbable Monsters mashups, and reiterations of steampunk set in a conveniently idealized Victorian age.
It's an amusing and adventurous story that appeals to a number of romantic adolescent urges: the love of music; the wish to possess secret knowledge of another world, and to be able to enter that world; the desire for magical abilities that conveniently short-circuit all those tiresome realistic limitations of the mundane adult world; and the desire to find oneself, and one's own neighborhood, the focus of supernatural attention and importance.
It's also amusing for a middle-aged reader to find that he bears a far greater resemblance to a despised, comically incompetent minor villain of the piece than to any of the romantic heroes that vie for the attention of the supernaturally gifted female musician who is the protagonist of the story. It's not the first time this has happened. In Cabell's Domnei, I felt far more affinity for Ahaseurus than for that gaudy hero Perion.
War for the Oaks, by Emma Bull. Along with the works of Charles de Lint, this is one of the works that started the subgenre of urban fantasy that prospered through the 1990s and 2000s before recently being supplanted by Sparkly Vampires In Lurrrve, Pretentious Title With Amusingly Improbable Monsters mashups, and reiterations of steampunk set in a conveniently idealized Victorian age.
It's an amusing and adventurous story that appeals to a number of romantic adolescent urges: the love of music; the wish to possess secret knowledge of another world, and to be able to enter that world; the desire for magical abilities that conveniently short-circuit all those tiresome realistic limitations of the mundane adult world; and the desire to find oneself, and one's own neighborhood, the focus of supernatural attention and importance.
It's also amusing for a middle-aged reader to find that he bears a far greater resemblance to a despised, comically incompetent minor villain of the piece than to any of the romantic heroes that vie for the attention of the supernaturally gifted female musician who is the protagonist of the story. It's not the first time this has happened. In Cabell's Domnei, I felt far more affinity for Ahaseurus than for that gaudy hero Perion.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)