Archive for category Books

October by the Fire

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman

I remember reading Gaiman’s Fragile Things on an Alaskan Airlines flight between DCA and SEA in late 2007 or early 2008. I was delighted when I saw one of Neil’s titles in the airport bookstore, and by the time I disembarked in Bellingham, I was thoroughly intoxicated. It is too dark for Cathy’s taste, but if you like a bit of morbidity with your fairy tales, you cannot go wrong with this book. And since it’s a collection of short stories (and poetry), there’s a great deal of variety. I strongly recommend it!

One of the ideas that stuck with me after reading this came from “October in the Chair,” which is a ghost story contained inside an allegorical story populated by characters representing months of the calendar year. I though it would be absolutely awesome to get a few people together around a fire and take turns reading October-spirited short stories — a little King, a lot of Bradbury, and definitely some Gaiman. It doesn’t have to match the canonical “ghost stories around a fire” trope, a la the opening of The Fog, but a little bit of that wouldn’t really hurt, would it? Sadly, October’s weather and my schedule have been equally inconvenient for making this happen.

To compensate for this failure, I have recorded myself reading “October in the Chair” and I have added campfire sound effects. It’s a pretty crappy amateur recording job, I’m afraid. But if you like Neil Gaiman, or you like ghost stories, or you think you might enjoy listening to my voice in the dark… give it a listen. Running time, 24 minutes and 21 seconds; file size, 44.5 MB.

October in the Chair

Note: my office is woefully inadequate for any serious recording project — too many hard, refractive surfaces.  Also, you will here many instances of my cats mewling in the background.  And Cathy talking to them.  All mangled by my noise filters ;-)

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The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Such a lovely little read.  I would say it’s the best little nugget we’ve cracked open for a year (not difficult, considering that our literary diet consists mostly of Madeleine Brent and Elizabeth Peters) except that it was probably only as good as Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand.  In any case, we found it a very enjoyable cross-genre read.  I would characterize it as a light tracery of romance over a very heavy background of World War II history, all very much in love with its settings and its cast of characters, and all expressed as a collage of letters, telegrams, and journal entries — a form of exposition that I could not have imagined being executed as gracefully as Schaffer (and Barrows) managed.

I had no idea that Guernsey was the setting for The Others — I’m a little sad that the film didn’t show more of its setting!  It looks like an absolutely beautiful place.  I would love to spend a week on these coasts.  Some day…

Fermain Bay on Guernsey

Mmmmm, tasty coastline...

I have only two slight complaints about the book: first, its conclusion feels abrupt; not that it rushes in arriving, but once it does arrive it is gone so quickly that I read into the Acknowledgments without realizing they weren’t part of the text itself. This may actually be an inverted form of praise: I simply wasn’t ready for the book to be done! It is also perhaps partly accounted for by the fact that the author, Mary Ann Shaffer, fell ill before finishing the manuscript; her niece, Annie Barrows, picked up where she left off and brought the book to completion. What a charming literary family they must be (and do notice, Annie is a bit of a hottie).

My second criticism is a bit more damning than the first, however. While some of the novel’s circumstances are extremely gritty and some of the text is appropriately hard to read, it did feel as though the warmth and cohesion of the protagonists occasionally escaped the feasible and became exaggerated. Some of the warm fuzzies simply felt a little… inauthentic. Isola Pribby, in particular, felt concocted and a little artificial, an idealized eccentric islander too sweet and kindly to exist in real life. I only had to use a little of my talent for suspending my disbelief — but, in a novel that was so otherwise pitch-perfect, it felt like a shame to me that I had to use that talent at all. Do note: I may be accused of cynicism. If you ever meet a real life Isola Pribby, please email me immediately and I shall promptly and with all haste amend my review.

Okay, now go read the book.

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