Recent Reading

Today’s Thought

PETERMBALL Conspicuous Acts of Cultural Consumption , , ,

If this were a sane and sensible world there would be someone out there pressuring Dirk Flinthart to re-release his suburban Brisbane noir novella, Brotherly Love. I mean, dude, how is this ever out of print? More importantly, why has it been out of print for over a decade?  Why do I need to acquire it in op-shops and library seconds sales? I give away copies of this book semi-regularly, and it is loved with a fierce devotion by everyone who sees the words “yakuza”, “overweight computer hacker” and “army of goths” in the blurb. It’s the kind of book that causes readers to get a dangerous gleam in their eye as they contemplate the forthcoming awesomeness, and it does not dissapoint them when they read on.

And alas, I’m at my final copy, which means I must now guard it like the precious and hiss at people who ask if they can read it. I must also tape it together, since I re-read this book so often that it’s going to fall apart.

I so wanted this to be a better book than it is

PETERMBALL Conspicuous Acts of Cultural Consumption , ,

So I’ve been trying to read Edgar Rice Burroughs A Prince of Mars for over a month now.

It…ah…it isn’t going at all well. So not well, in fact, that I actually put together a photograph of the book, the Spokesbear and my frowny-face of extreme displeasure as an illustrative aid, but that plan was thwarted by the fact that I’m house-sitting and brought the wrong thingamywatsits* to connect the camera to the computer. Hell, I suspect reading this book is actually making me a little crazy and there is some form of retaliatory planetary romance pastiche in my writing future**.

Were I a saner person this is the point where I’d cut my losses and give up on the book, acknowledging that Princess of Mars is so deeply ingrained in the cultural prejudices of it’s time with not enough cool stuff around the edges to ease me past the knee-jerk string of “for fuck’s sake” responses I get while reading. Sadly, I’m not that sane person. I keep reading regardless, determined to get to the end. I just take my time. I loathed every minutes of Gabriel Garcia Marqeuz’s 100 Years of Solitude and it took me four years to finish, but I did it. And it’s a pity, really, because Marquez’s short fiction is often extraordinary and it took me years to discover that due to the slow pacing of the novel.

I suspect it’s going to take me much longer to finish Princess of Mars. I also suspect I’ll go and re-read Michael Moorcock’s Mar’s tribute books too, since they’ll remind me of what I actually like about this section of the genre.

*technical term. Also, to compound matters, I followed up the previous mistake by spilling coffee on the camera.
** I suspect mine will involved masked wrestlers.

More recent reading

PETERMBALL Conspicuous Acts of Cultural Consumption , ,

So yesterday I had a cyst the size of a walnut removed from my scalp, which served as the catalyst for the rather enthusiastic bandage job posted last night.  The combination of restless nerves, a long wait in the surgery, and the complete inability to sleep due to the bandages constricting my jaw meant I spent a lot of the day reading.

Changeless, the follow-up to the Gail Carriger novel I blogged about on Tuesday, was a fun read that didn’t really have the zomgawesomesauce feel of Soulless. Which is not to say that it isn’t full of Steampunky goodness and a readable book, just that I missed the added frisson of enjoyment that came from the intertextual Austen-esque moments that made the first book so much fun. Austen-esque doesn’t work when you’ve got happy, sexually active couples in the opening pages. I found myself missing that.

Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist, however, was the exact kind of comfort reading I was looking for around 1 AM. I picked this book up after listening to the DVD commentary by authors David Levithan and Rachel Cohn on the film adaptation (which is a gently charming coming of age story that I bought largely on the strength of the awesome commentary track featuring the novel’s authors, the director, and the screenwriter). It’s a sweet coming-of-age love story with all sorts of cool stuff happening around the edges (punk music, New York, characters who are gay as opposed to gay characters), and it’s nearly impossible to hate anything that includes the line I’m the nonqueer bassist in a queercore band on the first page. My inner sixteen year old has such a fierce crush on this book. My exterior thirty-three year old kinda digs it too, although he’s far more reserved about his crushes.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to lie very still and wait for the stitched up hole in my scalp to stop hurting. At least the doctor downgraded me to a more sedate bandage today…