I'm not sure if anyone else out there has ever read Laurel K. Hamilton. I'm not sure if how much I read counts as READING her books. A highly self-indulgent friend of mine lent one of her books to me, and I made it through no more than fifty or sixty pages before I repressed the urge to vomit all over the trite dialogue and pathetically-unoriginal-masquerading-as-original (vampires are a KNOWN part of the world!! OMG!!1) plotline (vampires are known to be in existence, vampires are a relatively large population, ...vampire hunters...? Are you trying to make a comment on race relations? If so...what is it...?).
The writing is mediocre at best. Although during the first couple chapters it's slightly engaging (the way it reads puts one in mind of those 1920's film-noir detective flicks), after a while the fact that the main character (dominatrix-like and yet feminine and catching the eye of every man she encounters) spouts off psuedo-professional "lingo" which sounds more like a seventy-year-old-man-chewing-tobacco-and-spitting-in- the-gutter-with-his-hands-in-his-trenchcoat-pockets sort of got to me. I do not know how to interpret the main character. At all. She completely alienates me. Yes, it's nice to see a female in a position of power (if exerting physical dominance every once in a while over the vampires she hunts is power), but for God's sake, does she have to be a two-dimensional wanna-be toughie who, in the end, is nothing more than a damsel-in-distress...but, oh, wait...she's badass again in the next chapter!
I am going to go burn this book. I will then bury the ashes in a mirror-lined box far away from any river (The Brothers Grimm was actually funny, go see it) so that the evil soul of self-indulgent, woman-as-harem-master, plotless, sexually saturated fiction cannot escape into the otherwise generally-intellectual but sometimes-inane realm of modern fantasy.
I have to say, of the books I've read so far this year, the one I've liked the least has been Paul Auster's City of Glass.
My summary, in fifty words or less, is below.
Paul Auster: This book is not in any way autobiographical. Quinn: Yes, it is, you fuckwit. Paul Auster: Oh right. Quinn: This plotline bores me. I'm out.
I was intrigued by the slow unfolding of mystery at the beginning, particularly by a deranged and bizarrely rhythmic monologue delivered to Quinn by a paranoid client. Quinn, the main character and a writer of detective stories, gains the paranoid man's confidence by pretending to be the person the client seeks, a detective named...Paul Auster. Oh yes, it's a clever device, a tongue-in-cheek stab at the vanity of all authors. Sadly, the author himself isn't clever enough to sustain the joke.
I wanted desperately to stay interested in the story, but its grip on me quickly started to slip. I was reminded of the scene in "Red Dwarf" when Lister screams at Rimmer, who's just spent an hour painstakingly detailing every move in a game of Risk he played 15 years ago, "Can't you tell the story is not gripping me? I'm in a state of non-grippedness, I am completely smegging ungripped. Shut the smeg up!" The book meanders through Quinn's descent into a state of obsession with his paranoid client's case. It's a detective story within a detective story. Clues are dropped, presumably in attempt to keep the reader interested but just uninformed enough to be unable to puzzle out the mystery by the end of the book. It's great concept, but Auster executes it in a manner which makes you wish Quinn would simply get on with it and starve to death or jump off a bridge, and certainly doesn't make you want to pick up the two books that round out the story and, I can only assume, provide the solution.
Since we're allowed to skewer bad writing, can I just say that Ray Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" is just about the worst book ever published. It's Bradbury at his sentimental worst, full of his trademark homespun philosophy and his romanticisation of small-town life which simply makes me believe that there can be no greater horror than living in a small town. It's one of the few books I've wanted to physically destroy.
Has anyone read any of Elizabeth Hand's books. Waking the Moon, The Glimmering, Black Light...? Elizabeth Moon mixes and uses myths and legends from all cultures in the books I've read. She makes comments on sexuality and sexual politics and has a very easy attitude to sex and gender. She makes her dark forces sexy, beautiful, compelling, exciting and slightly ambiguous and, unlike in many other stories, you can see why someone would be attracted to the 'dark side' while also understanding the intrinsic 'wrongness' of it. Her books seem to follow a common theme, her 'heroes' are fairly ordinary people caught up in extraordinary events and realizing that they have more influence and power than they had ever realized or wanted. I've enjoyed each one immensely. Has anyone else read any?
Hello all! I found this community while searching for literary communities that shared some of my interests. It seems to be a bit dead, so I'll ask this question to try and fire things up again. Those of you who've read Gene Wolfe: I know Wolfe identifies himself as a Catholic. How closely, by the books that you've read do you think he agrees with specific Catholic ideologies? It seems to me that he takes the spirit of them and applies a fairly loose interpretation to the details. It may be that I'm just trying to reconcile my anti-organized religion viewpoint with my vast enjoyment of his works, but I feel that his views have as much in common with individual spirituality as they do with the views of the Catholic Church.
I feel like I should start singing the praises of "Tarnsman of Gor" just to get everyone's attention.
Since that would just be ludicrous, I'll do the next best thing, comment on a post from over a year ago (now -that's- ludicrous), which skewered J.V Jones, et. al. for excessive sadomasochism, etc. I've never read this author (and now I don't plan to), but I'm just curious what these same readers felt when/if they were to read Jaqueline Carey's Kushiel series (Kushiel's Dart, - Chosen, - Avatar). Opinions? I know you got 'em.
Side note: Why finish a book you hate? Some problem children should be disowned.
I'm a bad, bad moderator. I know this. I've been working on an intro survey for all members (just a fill-in-the-blanks what do you like/dislike in terms of authors, books, styles, plus pet peeves and particular preferences in your genre fiction).
Anyhow, this started out as a post in my own journal, reflecting on my sporadic reacquisition of previously, mistakenly dumped titles.
So I had one of those moments in class yesterday, where I realized just how brilliant Stephen Brust is. We were discussing how Plato had invented the idea of the soul as we have it today: a separate, personal entity. He noted that ancient Greek vase paintings of people dying show them carried off by little death figures. Not just part of them, the whole kit and kaboodle, body and all. Which, for those of you who haven't read the Taltos series, is exactly what happens on Dragaera.
Now, granted, this is mostly just a fun fact (woo hoo! History lesson for the day...) But, since I haven't actually read these books for a long while, and, in spite of my name, i'm not exactly a fanatic, it made me wonder - Other than the random interaction of brain cells, what is it that makes books really nest in our brains, or, more eimportantly, our souls?
Perhaps the better question would be, "What makes these stories nest in our souls?" One great tragedy of the birth of the art novel is, at times, the lack of storytelling. Indeed, a powerful storyteller is, today, regarded as something of a hack in many circles (insert "Stephen King is, actually, one of the greatest living writers" rant here).
So what makes a great story great? I know one thing that makes Brust (and Gaiman and deLint) so moving is his use of a mythological background. The careful use of mythology creates a depth, a tapestry of narrative that acts as a delivery agent, carrying the story straight into the core of US. It manages to place a finger on some aspect of what it means to be human. (Note the use of careful - one of the greatest dangers of using mythology in fiction is the Robert Jordan effect - 'it's King Arthur! It's Irish mythology! No, wait.... where are we?)
Is this why magical realism have become such popular genres in the last few years? Are we finally placing value on story again, rather than sophistry? Or is it just me....
