Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -- Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore -- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -- Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -- This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; -- Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before: But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -- Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -- Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; -- 'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore -- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered -- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before -- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -- Till the dirges of this Hope the melancholy burden bore Of 'Never -- nevermore."
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite -- respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! -- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -- On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore -- Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore -- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore!
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This book is at once a work of eco-fiction, literary fiction, and speculative fiction. The story revolves around a pair of characters whose worldlines become intertwined when the Pacific Trash Vortex is spun out, crashing into the Eastern shore of Taiwan. “Riding” the trash vortex is Atile’i, a member of a remote Pacific Island where second sons (of which he is one) are exiled to the sea to ensure the tiny island’s population doesn’t outstrip its resources. Atile’i is found by Alice, an academic who moved to a rural area of the Eastern shore and who is in an extended period of grieving the loss of her son and [common law] husband. Their union helps them each in the process of finding closure for their respective traumas.
There is a secondary story involving supporting characters, but at its heart, the book is about how an unlikely pair is brought together by environmental factors. That said, the secondary story does offer the reader insight into the indigenous population of Taiwan, a number of tribes whose relation to the island has been overshadowed by both the huge numbers of Chinese immigrants and the various agents of colonization (i.e. Europeans and the Japanese.)
I found this book to be highly readable. It manages to highlight environmental perils without being preachy in a way that detracts from the intensity of the story (and, thus, which reduces the effectiveness as a tool of persuasion.) [This being a line that some other eco-fiction writers have been unable to walk, such that they dissipate the power of story through a need to virtue signal, tribe signal, and finger-point.]
I’d highly recommend this book for readers of literature in translation, eco-fiction, literary fiction, or anyone who likes an interesting story.
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Drawing from 70 years of stories, this collection of issues involving the Penguin as Batman’s villain du jour really shows the shifting landscape of comic books over the decades. In the early issues, written with a young audience in mind, the Penguin is a skillful thief, but also kind of goofy, camp, and with not really much menace. By the last issue included, we see the hard edge of psychopathy and the gross deformity of this classic villain.
I was pleasantly surprised with this collection. Often these cobbled together comic collections lack coherent storytelling and feel as cheap and lazy as a sitcom clip show, but this volume shows several satisfying story arcs, and — while there is no overarching arc — it makes for a satisfying read.
I enjoyed reading this collection and seeing, through it, the evolution of comic books.
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An elderly monk tells stories from his life to the kids living in a small [and fictitious] Thai village. This is one of those works of literary fiction that you have to give a chance. The pacing, the subject matter, and the approach of the first part of the book is such that anyone without an intense interest in Thai village life or the thoughts of a Thai monk on the state of Buddhism in India (almost non-existent) will find it a bit of a slog. However, as the story shifts to the young man’s (pre-monk) life, adolescence through life as a newly married man expecting his first child, it becomes an intensely gripping story.
In the early parts, there’s a lot of violation of that old chestnut, “show, don’t tell” and — like much literary fiction — it’s not clear that there will be a story (versus exposition, character development, and description of events of a non-story like nature.) However, this transitions into the evocative story of how the narrator came to be a monk after a tragic farming householder experience. I can’t even give an accurate description of how far in I think the book makes this swing because my reading pace in the second part was so much quicker and more compelled than early on.
The book has hints of supernatural elements in it but can be read as realism in an environment of intense superstition.
I’d highly recommend this book for those who enjoy literature in translation. Give it a chance to win you over. It will, soon enough.
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Release Date: November 14, 2023
This is the fourth volume in a series of translated Japanese short creative writing (mostly poems and short stories.) The series (and this edition, in particular) features some of the best-known Japanese authors (e.g. Haruki Murakami and Meiko Kawakami.) Beyond a few major pieces at the beginning, this edition has a theme of music that runs through it.
Among my favorite pieces were: the novel excerpt Yoshiwara Dreaming about a young girl who is sold into the redlight district and becomes a helper in a brothel; Transformer: Pianos which is a work of surrealist fiction; The Zombie is Haruki Murakami’s fresh take on the zombie story; I also enjoyed many of the inclusions in the section entitled Eight Modern Haiku Poets on Music.
It’s a varied collection of writings. Not only does it include all forms of creative writing — prose and poetic — but the broad selection of writers and translators ensure that there is a diversity of styles and genres. That said, there isn’t a great diversity in quality level. It’s all strong writing, though some works will appeal to any give reader more than others. There’s something for everyone.
I’d highly recommend this volume for readers of literature in translation.
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This volume plays on the spookiness of buffoonery that has made the Joker not only one the most well-known and effective villains of Batman’s rogues’ gallery but in all of comic books. However, while the Joker does play a role in this book, he’s not the villain. Instead, the book employs the popular comic book scenario of having the villain be a version of the hero, a version without moral compunctions or constraints. In this case, the central villain is a demented and mutated version of Batman with Jokeresque qualities, assisted by a Batman who is a bit more malevolent and vengeful, one who goes by the moniker Grim Knight.
How are there multiple versions of Batman? The multiverse, of course. That makes this a sci-fi heavy Batman story. If you like your Batman of the Matt Reeves / Robert Pattinson variety — i.e. in a plausible world, with fully human enemies, and with no freaky supernatural happenings, then this one may not be for you. That said, I don’t think the sci-fi elements detracted from the story, and they did allow for some compelling story elements. Snyder, wisely, avoids a problem that can readily plague sci-fi intense Batman stories, which is reference to (or cameos of) the god-tier DC heroes. (An occurrence that always begs the question, why wouldn’t Superman use his god-like powers to fix this debacle before heading to lunch.)
I enjoyed this story. I especially enjoyed that it wrapped up the narrative arc in a tidy package. It is often the case that comic book volumes end with a speedbump on the way to the next volume. This story felt like the central issue was resolved, while still leaving potential for future stories. I should point out that, with flashbacks and multiple Batmen, it does require one’s full attention while reading, lest one get lost between backstory and the present.
I’d highly recommend this volume for comic book readers.
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This play is an amusing cautionary tale on the dangers of “Bunburying” and / or leading a double life. “Bunburying,” a term coined by Wilde in this play, is the act of concocting meetings with a fictitious friend to get out of tedious familial (and other social) obligations. Don’t want to go to Aunt Bessie’s potluck? Tell her that your friend with a plausibly absurd name (e.g. Bunbury) has ruptured a disc in his back and desperately needs your assistance. Bunburying is the specialty of one of the two bachelor characters this story is built around, a man named Algernon. The other, Jack, goes by the name Ernest when he is in London, and has to invent the story that he has a brother when his town and country dichotomy of personalities starts to be seen through by those other than Algernon.
This humorous tale revolves around both Algernon and Jack finding desirable fiancés while being tangled in the web of their own duplicity. Much of the humor comes from the interactions of Algernon and Jack, two men who are quite alike, though Jack thinks himself more respectable. Algernon is more at ease with his own scamp-like nature and plays a role similar to that played by Lord Henry in Wilde’s novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. That is, Algernon offers many a quotable line that at least has the appearance of wisdom — if, often, a kind of nihilistic wisdom.
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If I said this book was A Clockwork Orange meets A Midsummer Night’s Dream it would be in some ways deceptive but in other ways, accurate. The book has none of the otherworldliness of those other stories and, instead, is set in a realistic 1950’s Vienna. Furthermore, those comparisons might confuse readers into not realizing this book is unambiguously a tragedy.
The book is set around four kids (Rainer, Anna, Hans, and Sophie) who like to beat up and rob adults, usually using a kind of catfishing scheme where they trick a middle-aged man into thinking he is about to have a getting lucky with Lolita moment before the other three gang up on the man in a moment of shock and awe. Here lies the “Clockwork Orange” comparison: youths enamored of violence as a means to combat the boredom and meaninglessness of their lives — possibly while passing on the abuse they receive in their own lives.
The “Midsummer Night’s Dream” part comes in with the book’s love geometry. Like that Shakespearean play, there are two boys and two girls and both boys are in love with the same girl (Sophie,) leaving the other girl (Anna) in a sad unrequited territory.
The book won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, and not only because it deals heavily in sex and violence. There are a couple factors that make the book feel strange. First of all, it is written in present tense. Secondly, it spends a lot of time in the minds of the characters and relatively little time with the action. Thirdly, the pacing of the conclusion and resolution of the book is abrupt and might feel forced — like the author was 245 pages in when the publisher told her that she had 250 pages, maximum, and that she’d better be wrapping it up. I didn’t find any of these factors to be problematic, but I can see how they would rub some readers the wrong way.
If the premise intrigues, you should definitely read this book – particularly if the previous paragraph’s warning didn’t turn you off.
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This is a book about what happens when you hollow out a person of all the complexity of the human condition and idealize them. At the beginning of the story, Dorian Gray is young, attractive, and preternaturally likable in a naïvely innocent kind of way. Almost to the novel’s end, through the magic of a wish made upon a portrait, Gray is still young and beautiful, though that naive innocence cracks under the strain of the impossible bifurcation of man and his soul. The artist, Basil Hallward, and Lord Henry (a man who will become a mutual friend of Gray and Hallward) cannot see Gray as a fully formed human being, but rather see him as an emblem of youth and beauty. But this unnatural ideal cannot hold, and a string of tragic deaths will be left in its wake.
The book is full of clever witticisms, albeit often of a nihilistic nature. These are almost all spoken by Lord Henry, who is the Polonius of the story – but a hipper kind of Polonius than Hamlet‘s. That said, it’s telling that toward the end of the book Gray does some of this epigrammatic philosophizing. (e.g. Such as when Gray tells Hallward, “Each of us has heaven and hell in him…”) One might dismiss this as Gray parroting Lord Henry, but I think that life has defrocked him of his naïveté, and he begins to think in ways that were impossible in his [true] youth.
This is a must-read. It’s interesting, thought-provoking, and well worth the time.
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This novella is Mark Twain’s satirical jab at the whole Sherlock Holmes concept. In particular, it pokes fun at a detective who eschews everything supernatural in favor of cold rationality, but who produces results so impossible that they are themselves supernatural.
The story has two temporally disjointed parts that almost seem like independent stories until the very end when all is tied up. (Holmes only appears in the second part.) This works nicely for parody of Holmesian detective fiction as it’s an approach that was used by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on occasion — e.g. in A Study in Scarlet. The first part tells the tale of a woman who is treated foully by Jacob Fuller, the husband she eloped with but who harbored resentment towards her father, a man Fuller believed felt wasn’t good enough for his daughter. The woman makes her son, named Archy Stillman, promise that he will track down Fuller and make the man’s life a living hell.
The second part revolves around a murder that seems to be independent of the case described above, the killing of a man named Flint Buckner. Here Sherlock Holmes, who happens to be in town visiting his nephew – Fetlock Jones, “solves” the case only to be shown to be entirely and humiliatingly wrong by Archy Stillman using only a superior sense of smell and basic observation of the facts (with no elaborated inductions.)
While I never had anything against the Sherlock Holmes stories — in fact, I enjoyed them all — I did find Twain’s satire amusing and compelling as a story. [And it’s true that Arthur Conan Doyle did regularly strain credulity — that’s what made Holmes an intriguing character.]
Tiger Riding for Beginners 