Novelist As a Vocation by Haruki Murakami

Books by writers about how they work almost always turn into advice. I understand that: the audience for work about how novels get written is mostly people who desperately want to write novels themselves.

I'm not one of them, though - I sort-of was, thirty-some years ago, but working in the bookmines has a tendency to clear that condition right up. As my boss used to say, why spend a year writing a novel when buying one only costs a few bucks?

Haruki Murakami's Novelist as a Vocation is a collection of linked essays - the first few appeared as a series in the Japanese magazine Monkey Business; then he finished up the set so this book could be published in Japan in 2015; the English-language edition, translated by Philip Gabriel and Ted Goossen, took another seven years to emerge - all about his life and work as a novelist, pitched explicitly to an audience of people who also want to write novels.

Murakami is refreshingly down-to-earth about his work: he sees writing as a long hard process, made up of many days all mostly the same, but he enjoys doing it and enjoys the end product. (Many writers hate one or the other or both.) He also focuses on the physical aspect of writing more than most writers-about-writing do; he's a marathoner, and clearly sees the processes of training for and running a marathon and of writing a long novel as roughly parallel. (See What I Talk About When I Talk About Running for the other side of the same coin, about a decade before.) So there's a lot about being healthy and strong - he doesn't say "mens sana in corpore sano" but he's very much in that tradition.

Murakami is Japanese, of course, so his references are the literary and publishing culture of that nation, which are (as far as I can tell) pretty different from what I'm used to in the US. The clubbiness and fitting-into-little-boxes aspects of Japanese culture and business are clearly dominant in that publishing milieu, and several of the essays see Murakami comment on or complain (mildly; he's had a good successful career and doesn't seem to be the type to rant anyway) on aspects of that world, particularly the literary prizes that affected his early career.

But, generally, this is the book to answer the questions "How does Haruki Murakami write his novels?" and "How does he think about his work, and what's in his mind about writing?" It is somewhat more pitched as advice-to-newcomers than I personally would prefer, but that's the subgenre and I should have expected it. It's all in quite Murakamian prose, in his non-fiction mode, pleasant and conversational and slightly quirky.

The Sweet Science by A.J. Liebling

After some wandering, I've gotten to the place that was supposed to be the beginning. Well, in this particular omnibus: a dead writer's "beginning" is anywhere you want it to be.

I've been reading A.J. Liebling's work in the Library of America volume The Sweet Science & Other Writings - from the title, you can tell the editors (newspaperman Pete Hamill is credited in the book; I bet some functionaries at LoA hired him and kibitzed, at least) thought that was the top selling point and/or the most important book of Libeling's. 

Well, I'm ornery, I guess. I read The Jollity Building first; I liked the opening. And then I read Between Meals, maybe because I was hungry. But I suppose I was pugnacious enough now to read The Sweet Science, Libeling's most famous book and (according to Sports Illustrated, anyway) the best book of sports reportage ever written.

Sweet Science is a 1956 collection of reportage - I think all from The New Yorker, with which Liebling was associated from 1935 to his death - of boxing matches. There are eighteen pieces, and they're all - as they must be - the story of one fight, between two fighters. Libeling usually sets the scene a bit, explaining who the two guys are and how they fit into the current and historical scene for their weight class, then drops in some quotes from Pierce Egan's Boxiana (Liebling's lodestar in boxing writing, a comprehensive history of early 19th-century bouts in England) before preferably visiting both fighters' training camps and finally providing a fairly detailed round-by-round summary of the fight.

All of these fights were within the previous roughly five years; this is very much reportage - what the boxing world was like in the early TV era, soon after the War. Liebling wasn't fond of TV: he saw fewer places putting on bouts because the televised cards got all the attention, and the attendance in the hall dropped a lot for both televised (they can watch at home!) and blocked-out (it must not be worth seeing!) bouts. So that's one major theme here, reminiscent of Between Meals: everything is getting worse, in this specific area in this specific way. It's a middle-aged guy's pose, that grumpy backwards look, and I don't know if it's purely characteristic of Liebling or just his post-war work. (I'm starting to think what I really want to read of his is more of the low-life stories of his early New Yorker days, just before the war.)

In this book, we see the end of Joe Louis and the rise of Rocky Graziano (on the heavyweight side), some Sugar Ray Robinson in the middle tiers, and occasional lightweights as well. There's eighteen fights in all - a few are return bouts, so we see some of the same guys punching each other in the same or different permutations over the course of a few years.

Liebling turns a phrase well, and was always a lively, engaging writer. I am perhaps not as invested in the idea of two half-naked guys whacking each other for three minute intervals until one of them falls over as he was, but I can appreciate his knowledge and enthusiasm even as many of the technical details are lost on me. If you like boxing more than I do, this is unquestionably the most literarily famous book of the field ever written, and an important historical record as well.

Kids Are Still Weird by Jeffrey Brown

Some books are set in normal linear time; some try to hold it back. Anything in the rough territory of memoir has to be looking backwards, at least a bit, just by its very nature.

I'm pretty confident that Jeffrey Brown's two sons, Oscar and Simon, are probably at least tweens at this point, in the early fall of 2024. Brown's previous book about his family, Kids Are Weird, was published in 2014 - ten whole years ago; half the length of a childhood - and featured stories about Oscar in his preschool years and some appearances by a brand-new Simon. Say Brown made those stories mostly in 2013, about the years just before. His Wikipedia entry doesn't list the birthdates of his children - which is a good thing; I was half expecting it but happy to see privacy still exists in small pockets here and there - but let's guestimate Oscar was born around 2008-2010 and Simon two to four years later.

We can do the math ourselves. It's not impossible that Oscar already has a driver's license.

But, here in Kids Are Still Weird - which officially publishes today, from NBM - they're both much younger. These are stories of little kids: their enthusiasms and malapropisms, their attempts to take control of the world around them, and especially the quirky things they say and think.

This one is mostly a Simon book, as the first book was mostly Oscar. I wonder if Brown and his wife had saved up Simon stories from his younger years, and Brown realized getting them down on paper had a time limit: everything has a time limit, with kids; they don't stand still for one second.

However it came out, Still Weird is a clear sequel to the first book: the same family, the same situations, the same personalities (plus Simon, obviously; he didn't really have a personality as he appeared in Weird), the same slice-of-life cartooning and random small moments that Brown has always liked to focus on.

It is primarily a comics version of "funny things these kids said" - a subgenre that has never been large, but has been durable for several generations. Kids do say funny things as they work out the ways the world works; the point is to remember them and present them clearly. Brown has always been a cartoonist of the everyday, so his skills are well-tuned for that: these are all moments from a life, full of people sitting on couches and at the dining-room table, walking around the neighborhood, just existing in their house.

It's funny without being pushy about it: some funny-kids stuff goes big, but Brown is a quintessential cartoonist of the small. These books compare interestingly to Guy Delisle's similar work: Delisle focuses on himself as an imperfect parent; Brown focuses on the kids' enthusiasms and energy. Brown also works entirely on single pages - each page is a vignette, a moment, and there aren't any longer stories or narratives here. It makes the book a collection of things remembered, that-funny-thing-Simon-said-yesterday kind of thing.

Kids are weird; these kids are amusingly weird, and Brown is great at finding, remembering, and presenting the quirky little moments that showcase that weirdness. This book is amusing and real and lovely, for anyone who's ever dealt with small kids.

Portions for Foxes: Sleigh Bells

"Portions for Foxes" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song by a woman or a band led by a woman. See the introduction for more.

I posted this song here once, ten years ago, and said it felt like "the fight song for that high school on the bad side of town you do not want to mess with." (And that video, I see, is now a broken link.)

This week it's time for Infinity Guitars by Sleigh Bells, another punky, loud, guitar-driven (how could it be otherwise, with that title?) song from those days of the early 21st century.

The lyrics are obscure and vaguely ominous. The guitars are loud and jagged - with a perfect burst of pure noise right at the two-minute mark of this short song. 

straight wars straight men
cowboys indians
red souls red friends
infinity guitars

What does any of that mean? Conflict, I think - any particular kind of conflict, I don't know. Maybe just in general. Maybe all the conflict you can take. Maybe every conflict ever.

But, at its core, it's a song that brilliantly answers the question behind a lot of rock music. How many guitars do you need? Infinity Guitars. And away it goes.

Reviewing the Mail: Week of October 12, 2024

This is the third of three posts listing the books I got from hamiltonbook.com, a great mail-order remainder dealer that I've been buying from for (big gasp) at least thirty years now. (I recommend them highly, as always: good prices, wide selection of random stuff, quick shipping, well packed. As long as you don't hate the idea of remainders to begin with, they are awesome.) This is the miscellaneous cluster, two non-fiction books and a few graphic novels.

A History of Love and Hate in 21 Statues is a 2021 book by British psychologist Peter Hughes, which is, roughly, what the title promises: the stories of twenty-one statues that were destroyed. They're all over the world, they were torn down for all sorts of reasons, and Hughes has turned them into some kind of overall statement about the world and humans. It seems to have the famous ones - those Buddhas the Taliban dynamited, some Saddam Hussein statues, and at least one Confederate monument in the US - along with a lot of others I'm not familiar with. The topic was quirky, and, as a boring middle-aged man, I do like random nonfiction these days.

My Best Mistake is susbtantially more business-inspirational than I expected, which is a massive disappointment, but I'm still going to put it on the shelf, and may even read it some day. It's by Terry O'Reilly, and I thought it was more generally about mistakes rather than "and after I lost the Ajax account, it motivated me to CRUSH IT and dominate the entire world, BOOH-YAH!!!!" There are twenty-four chapters, all of which seem to be about pretty famous business things that were at least vaguely mistakes, seen in some lights, at some time.

Is This Guy For Real? is Box Brown's 2018 comics-format biography of Andy Kaufman. It's a book I've vaguely had on my list to buy and/or read for a long time, but I don't think I ever ran into a copy of it in the wild. I did read other Brown books over the last few years: in reverse order, Cannabis, Tetris, and Andre the Giant. And...yeah, that's pretty much it. Kaufman was fascinating; Brown is good at narrative non-fiction. I don't need to complicate things.

The Master and Margarita is a comics adaptation of the Mikhail Bulgakov novel - I have the recent translation of it on my shelves; I keep thinking I'm going to read that one "soon" - by Andrej Klimowski and Danusia Schejbal, both of whom seem to be Polish/British. From a quick look, I think Klimowski and Schejbal both illustrated this - the former the black and white pages; the latter the color pages - and I assume that they scripted and laid out the book together. So this is a quirky version of a quirky famous book, and I am usually in favor of quirky.

And last is Two Dead, a graphic novel from 2019 by Van Jensen and Nate Powell. I've been vaguely looking for this one for a few years, too - I think mostly because I've been following Powell's work for a while, though I think I've also seen good reviews of this one.

Quote of the Week: Equivalencies

HIPPOGRIFF, n. An animal (now extinct) which was half horse and half griffin. The griffin was itself a compound creature, half lion and half eagle. The hippogriff was actually, therefore, only one-quarter eagle, which is two dollars and fifty cents in gold. The study of zoology is full of surprises.

 - Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary, p.513 in The Devil's Dictionary, Tales & Memoirs

Haruki Murakami Manga Stories 2 by Jean-Christophe Deveney & PMGL

The book I have in front of me doesn't have a "2" on it anywhere I can see. There are several library stickers on the spine, though - maybe it's there.

But, as far as I can tell, the things that differentiate this Haruki Murakami Manga Stories from the Haruki Murakami Manga Stories I read a few months ago are the colors on the cover (pinks before, greens now), the illustration (frog before, monkeys now), and the list of stories adapted. Well, the insides are different, of course. 

This one adapts three stories, as the first volume adapted four. I see there's already a third volume, adapting two stories, which implies the fourth volume will adapt one long story and the fifth volume will have none. Such are the limits of three datapoints.

See my post on the first book for questions of manga-ness, as much as I know about the adaptors (not much), and some related thoughts. This book is the same project by the same creators, very much the continuation of the same sort of thing.

First up here is "The Second Bakery Attack," a 1985 Murakami story translated in 1992, first appearing in English in Playboy and then in his collection The Elephant Vanishes the next year. A youngish married couple wakes, ravenously hungry, in the middle of the night, and the husband explains it's due to a curse - he and a friend went to rob a bakery about a decade before, as young students, stealing enough bread to eat for two days but taking no money - and were stymied by the baker, who instead made them listen to Wagner for their bread. This made things in the husband's life subtly wrong - the curse - and now it extends to his new wife as well. The answer is clear to her: they must attack another bakery, that night, and do it right: stealing only food. They don't find any traditional bakeries open in the middle of the night, but there is a McDonald's - which they then proceed to attack.

"Samsa in Love" is a reversal of Kafka's The Metamorphosis, a 2013 story that appeared in English translation in The New Yorker the same year and in the Murakami themed collection Men Without Women a few years later. In it, a creature - we're never told what, or who, he was before the story began - wakes up as Gregor Samsa, in an otherwise uninhabited house, in a Prague with some kind of tumult going on outside. He knows nothing, and needs to learn to stand and walk and speak and dress himself and everything else. He meets a hunchbacked woman, who has come to fix a lock in the house, and decides in the end that being human is worth it.

Last here is "Thailand," a story from the (1999 in Japan, 2002 in English) after the quake collection, all the stories of which were somehow about the 1995 Kobe earthquake. Satsuki is a middle-aged Japanese woman, just starting menopause and starting to feel old. She's a doctor, specializing in thyroid research, and lived in the US for a long time with her now-ex-husband. She attends a conference in Bangkok, and spends most of the next week on a vacation at a Thai resort, where she is driven by a man named Nimit. He, and a fortune-teller he takes her to, tell her that her failure to forgive that ex-husband, and to move on, has created a rock within her that will be the only thing left after she is cremated unless she takes actions now to break it up. There is a specific prophetic dream she must wait for, which will destroy the stone.

Murkami's stories are quirky, elusive things, and Deveney again adapts those qualities well into comics - these feel like the same kind of stories, even with only minimal Murakamian prose for the captions and dialogue. As usual with Murakami, the plots don't seem to make much logical sense when detailed - they operate on emotional connections and various kinds of dream-logic. And the art - by something credited as PMGL, which could be a studio or a person or an alien living secretly among us - is subtly grotesque in just the right ways for the materials, with faces that are easy to look at but never pretty and lush, detailed backgrounds.

Lone Wolf and Cub, Vol. 3: The Flute of the Fallen Tiger by Kazuo Koike & Goseki Kojima

There's a difference between formula and genre. I don't know if I can explain it, clearly enough, but it's real. A formula is a cheap shortcut, a template for a kind of story to make it easier to knock off, while a genre is a territory, with clear boundaries and sometimes required landmarks, which a story is free to navigate in its own way.

The Lone Wolf and Cub stories, written by Kazuo Koike and drawn by Goseki Kojima (and translated by Dana Lewis with some production work to make them read left-to-right by Digital Chameleon for the English-language edition I'm reading), are deeply enmeshed in their genre, but they do not run to formula.

This third volume, The Flute of the Fallen Tiger, collects five more stories from the long-running series - there are twenty-eight books collecting Lone Wolf and Cub, each about three hundred pages long - and, as I often think happens with third volumes of long-running stories, is the point where a good work settles in, gets comfortable with its genre boundaries, and starts running some variations.

Lone Wolf and Cub is not just a genre work; it's a work that both defined a subgenre (the "Lone Wolf and Cub" story, in which a warrior travels with and protects a weaker, smaller person) and set the standard for its larger genre (the historical samurai tale). And, though there may be Americans who are deeply knowledgeable about that larger genre, I am definitely not one of them. (It's a very large genre, in a language I don't read, deeply connected with that nation's vision of itself and its history - I assume there are lots of subtleties and currents there.)

These are energetic but melancholy stories: our hero (Ogami Ittō) is declaredly on the road to hell, and just wants to get vengeance before the end. The stories all have that as background, though the central conflict only pops up here and there - in this volume, one of the stories is a flashback to the ambush and betrayal that killed his wife, while the other four are just things that happen to him on the road, times when he gets caught up in other people's troubles or one-off assassin jobs he's taking to make money.

The series is episodic by nature. I think the larger genre is largely episodic to begin with, but Lone Wolf and Cub leans strongly into the episode, with each story a separate bead on a long string, sitting next to the others and commenting each on each, in an ascending arc that will eventually culminate in that final battle.

I've rambled enough here, and I'm not going to detail the plots of the five stories collected in Flute. They're all good, all doom-laden, all full of sudden violence and intriguing details of a culture that is far removed from me (and that I think was at best a matter of historical interest even for contemporary Japanese readers in the 1970s), all full of gorgeous precise moments and psychological depth. If you have any interest in samurai stories at all, this is the series to read.

The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

This is one of the great minor classics of American literature, from the cynical division. I do mean both "great" and "minor," even if they seem to be in opposition - a book can be great on its own merits but not a major work, and a list of witty definitions of standard words is exactly the kind of thing that is both of those.

Ambrose Bierce is a half-forgotten writer these days. I have the sense he's semi-remembered in the academy, that a new batch of students discover him each year, as I did back in the day, and a subset of those appreciate his dark stories and journalistic screeds and, most of all, this book. (And I also have the sense that men are much more likely to appreciate Bierce than women are, which is only fair: Bierce never appreciated women himself, so they have no reason to give him the benefit of the doubt.)

But he's deeply interesting for several reasons: he really was the writer a lot of people think Mark Twain was (cynical, doom-laden, a San Francisco newspaperman with a bushy mustache), he was the first important American writer to fight well in a war (the Civil War) and write well about it afterward, his supernatural stories are darkly wonderful, and his newspaper columns - voluminous and hard to access as they are - contain some gems as well.

But he's remembered, if at all, for this book and for "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," a nearly perfect short story that strikes a quintessential pessimistic, fatalistic Bierce tone. Of course, how many other writers of his day are remembered at all? Two points of reference is infinitely more than many 19th century writers have nowadays.

The Devil's Dictionary [1] was a long-running newspaper project, which Bierce worked at, off and on, for a couple of decades and only completed when working up his Complete Works in 1909-1911. One chunk was published in his lifetime as The Cynic's Word Book - the word "Devil," which is also quintessentially Bierce, caused him trouble with publishers and newspaper readers and others in those starchy late-19th century years, which didn't deter him but did bend the history of the work somewhat.

It is basically what you would assume: an alphabetical collection of definitions of words, from ABASEMENT to ZOOLOGY, in a cynical tone that will strike a lot of readers as more modern than they would expect for something written starting in 1881. Bierce provides verse to illustrate some of the definitions, which I do not find to be a highlight of the book but I suppose some people like them. (To my mind, Bierce is a fine prose writer who dabbled in verse; in his mind, I think, verse was much better than prose and he wanted to be seen as a versifier.)

Many of the entries in Devil's Dictionary have been quoted, sometimes even correctly. Here's a few you may have seen over the years:

BIGOT, n. One who is obstinately and zealously attached to an opinion that you do not entertain. (p.453)

CORPORATION, n. An ingenious device for obtaining individual profit without individual responsibility. (p.465)

HISTORY, n. An account mostly false, of events mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers mostly knaves, and soldiers mostly fools. (p.513)

RADICALISM, n. The conservatism of to-morrow injected into the affairs of to-day. (p.591)

And one that seems particularly pertinent in the US in recent years, as one side of our political establishment openly yearns for the freedom of action provided by a late-19th-century legal apparatus:

PRECEDENT, n. In Law, a previous decision, rule or practice which, in the absence of a definite statute, has whatever force and authority a Judge may choose to give it, thereby greatly simplifying his task of doing as he pleases. As there are precedents for everything, he has only to ignore those that make against his interest and accentuate those in the line of his desire. Invention of the precedent elevates the trial-at-law from the low estate of a fortuitous ordeal to the noble attitude of a dirigible arbitrament. (p.585)

 This is a great book - if a minor one - and provides the closest thing to joy in all of Bierce's work. I wouldn't recommend reading it straight through; no dictionary works well that way, and Bierce's cynicism is best taken in smaller doses, interspersed with happier writers. But I do recommend reading it, at some point - it reinforces in a reader's mind that there were always scoundrels, and that their tricks have not changed all that much, but also that wit and cold anger can be a pretty good sword and shield for when those scoundrels are massing once again.

[1] I'm linking here to the best, most comprehensive single-volume edition of Devil's Dictionary, which incorporates every definition Bierce ever wrote for the project and removed a bunch of entries by other hands that had crept into other editions. Bierce is in the public domain, so there are a lot of other editions, now or recent enough in the past to be available used. If you want just the Dictionary, this is the preferable edition.

But what I read this time was the text in the Library of America The Devil's Dictionary, Tales, & Memoirs, which is based on the 1911 Collected Works volume, with only small editorial corrections, to reflect Bierce's intentions at the time. That's good, too, and is a solid one-volume Best of Bierce for anyone also interested in the stories.

Adrift on a Painted Sea by Tim Bird

Comics memoirs, like so many publishing categories, get pushed to be bigger, to tell "the whole story," to make statements. But a life isn't a statement, most of the time: it's just a life.

There are comics-makers who push back against that, who focus on small moments to tell quieter stories. John Porcellino comes to mind first, but I'm always looking for more. I think I just found one.

Tim Bird's new book is Adrift on a Painted Sea, published last week by the small UK house Avery Hill Publishing. The cover is not by Tim Bird, though - his comics don't look like that thumbnail image. Adrift is largely the story of Tim's mother Sue, a prolific and lifelong painter of mostly landscapes, and Tim uses Sue's art throughout. You can see, right from the cover, how she was a very textured artist, which I love to see in oil paint - ridges and bumps and clumps, a real tooth to the canvas.

Sue Bird never sold a painting - that wasn't the point - but a painting of hers was included in a national student show when she was twelve, and she kept painting for the rest of her life.

There's a minor mystery about that painting, which Tim explicates in the first section of the book: family lore is that it was a still life that hung in Sue's parents' house for years, and is still in the family. But the exhibition catalog gives the title "View from a Classroom Window," and an old school friend of Sue's tells Tim that was the class assignment: they all looked out the window and painted what they saw. Whatever that painting was, no one is quite sure, fifty-plus years later. It may be in the masses of paintings Sue did and kept all her life, or it may have gone somewhere else. The big-publisher version of this book would be about that one painting shown in a Sheffield art gallery, the before and after of that art exhibition - how she came to do it, where it went afterward, with probably a triumphant moment when Tim finally finds it. 

But Tim doesn't know where that painting is, or even which one it is. He doesn't find out. That's not the story here - this isn't a "one physical thing gave me a closer connection to a family member" story. Tim was already close to Sue - he doesn't say so, but the cartoonist son of a talented amateur painter clearly had a strong connection.

This is a book about those connections, about remembering a parent who is now gone - and, inevitably, in its quiet way, about that loss. Tim Bird organizes Adrift around a broadcast of the BBC shipping news, with sections named things like "Backing Southwest Six" and "Good, Occasionally Poor." It's an allusive organizational scheme rather than a constricting one - for Americans in particular, it will be mostly random words, evocative in tone but obscure in meaning. It sounded vaguely familiar to me, but I didn't make the connection until Tim listens to that broadcast late in the book, and it clicked - for a lot of British readers, I expect it will click much more quickly.

Tim Bird draws his pages with crisp lines and writes them with straightforward, declarative words. He's not making it simple, but he does make it clear and precise. I could throw out some stereotypes about British reticence and avoiding obvious emotion, but that would be facile: this is inherently an emotional story, and Tim Bird chose to tell it. He's just not wallowing in the emotion: he's presenting it, as clearly as he can, in all of its complexity.

Adrift is the kind of book that gets called "a meditation" - that quietness, the way it moves around, section by section, telling stories of small moments throughout a life, focused simply on Sue's life and the painting she loved - and, allusively, the landscapes and places, especially the sea, that she preferred to paint. Tim Bird is not here to tell you how to feel; he's not even going to bluntly say how he feels. But he will show you moments from their lives, what an interesting specific person his mother was, and give you at least a small sense of the loss he felt. It is a lovely gem of a book.

Portions for Foxes: Romeo Void

"Portions for Foxes" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song by a woman or a band led by a woman. See the introduction for more.

You know this song. You knew what it was when you saw the post title.

(Well, maybe not - if you're substantially younger than me, maybe you've never heard it. If so, you are one of today's lucky ten thousand.)

If the band is Romeo Void, the song can only be Never Say Never.

Oh, they had other good songs. A Girl In Trouble. Myself to Myself - and so on. But Never Say Never is a force. If I had to name the hundred best singles ever, it would be on that list. Maybe even if I had to cut it down to the top twenty.

I put the video below, but that's a single edit. For the full experience, you really need the album version.

I might like you better
If we slept together
But there's somethin'
In your eyes that says
Maybe that's never
Never say never

The song has two powerhouses, over a pounding rhythm section, tight drumming and pulsing bass: first is the half-spoken, languid, almost dismissive lyrics from Debora Iyall, always in control, always on the edge of a sneer - the kind of rock & roll voice we heard a million times from men but rarely with this intensity, this purity, from a woman.

The other powerhouse is Benjamin Bossi's saxophone - this is a punky song and an '80s song, so it's a single instrument rather than the blast of brass you get in other kinds of music. The punk comes out as Bossi circles pure noise during parts of the verses, the '80s sax centrality is most obvious in his big mid-song solo and the bap-bap-bap riff that opens several of the verses and becomes a central motif of the song.

This is a song that punches, a song with places to get to, a song that will roll right over you if you get in its way. It is one of the greats.

Books Read: September 2024

Here I am again, with a list of what I read last month. This post is mostly an index, and only becomes useful later, when I add links after the posts go live. But here it is, in its corruptible, mortal state.

Stan Sakai, Usagi Yojimbo, Book 4: The Dragon Bellow Conspiracy (digital, 9/1)

John Hodgman, Vacationland (9/1)

Matt Kindt, Spy Superb (digital, 9/2)

Matt Haig, The Midnight Library (9/2)

Michele Botton and Dorilys Giacchetto, Audrey Hepburn (digital, 9/7)

Jean-Claude Forest, Barbarella, Book 2: The Wrath of the Minute-Eater (digital, 9/8)

Rose Macaulay, The Towers of Trebizond (9/9)

Yves Challand, Freddy Lombard, Vol.1: The Will of Godfrey of Bouillon (digital, 9/14)

Patrick McDonnell, The Super Hero's Journey (digital, 9/15)

Flann O'Brien, The Third Policeman (in The Complete Novels, 9/15)

Box Brown, Is This Guy For Real? (9/21)

Mikhail Bulgakov, Andrej Klimowski, and Danusia Schejbal, The Master and Margarita: A Graphic Novel (9/22)

Jonathan Carroll, Sleeping in Flame (9/22)

Van Jensen and Nate Powell, Two Dead (9/27)

Tim Bird, Adrift on a Painted Sea (digital, 9/28)

P. Craig Russell, The Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde, Vol.4: The Devoted Friend/The Nightingale and the Rose (digital, 9/29)

Mary Roach, Animal Vegetable Criminal (9/29)

In October, I expect to read more books. Keep tuned to this station for the latest updates.

Reviewing the Mail: Week of October 5, 2024

This is the second of three posts listing a big box of books I got from the remainder dealer HamiltonBook a couple of weeks ago. It has the fiction that is not SFF, which mostly means mainstream. There is one mystery novel, from a writer I have a shelf of and may need to read a great big batch straight through at some point. As before (and like the third post coming next week), these are all things I paid money for, which is at least a mild recommendation.

Shrines of Gaiety is a novel by Kate Atkinson, from 2022, and I think I'm going to read everything she's written until I hit something that makes me stop. (I've hit three of her "Jackson Brodie" novels so far, most recently When Will There Be Good News?, and found them all brilliant.) This one is a standalone, set in high society of 1926 London, and that's about all I know about it - and about all I want to know before diving in.

Snow is a 2020 John Banville novel set in 1957 Dublin and about a murder investigation by a policeman. I've read a bunch of Banville's books, though not as many recently - and I have his first book as Benjamin Black, which are more specifically genre mysteries, also set in 1950s Dublin, on the shelf. For this one, I want to keep reading Banville, and I wonder what makes this one a "Banville" book, while others on similar themes are published under his pseudonym. I doubt I'll have the time or energy to read this back-to-back with Christine Falls, but that would be fun to do.

Make Russia Great Again is a humorous novel by Christopher Buckley from 2020, which I probably will need to let a few years lapse until I'm interested in reading it. It is about You-Know-Who; Buckley has done a bunch of political satires in his day - Thank You For Smoking is way above the rest, but the others are all at least amusing and fun to read. I think the last book of his I read was They Eat Puppies, Don't They? a decade ago.

City Walls is a mystery novel by Loren D. Estleman, in the series about Detroit-based PI Amos Walker, from 2023. Looking at my shelves, I have eight of them that I haven't read, plus now this one, and three more just before this one that I missed. Estleman, I think, writes at the usual mystery book-a-year pace in this series, so I'm a little over a decade behind. But I caught up on a dozen books in this series once already, so I know I could do it again, if I feel like it. And, who knows? maybe I will feel like it soon.

Lessons is a 2022 Ian McEwan novel - well, the only one that year, but you know what I mean. I've been reading McEwan since the late '80s, and haven't given up yet. (I am a few books behind at this point, but that happens.) This seems to be one of his "several important moments over the course of a long life" books, about what may be a piano prodigy about his age.

Quote of the Week: Loss

I still missed my father terribly. Losing someone close is like losing a part of yourself, an arm, maybe. You keep trying to do all the things you used to do, reaching for a book, opening a door, passing the salt. And then suddenly it hits you:" a part of you is gone, and it's forever.

 - Lisa Goldstein, Ivory Apples, p.71

Nineteenth Anniversary Post

Today is the anniversary of Antick Musings! I first posted on this day in 2005; that first post is very tentative and pointless.

In the heady first decade of this blog, I pulled out all the stops for the big anniversary post every October 4th, with long lists of links and pointless statistics that I don't think any of you actually read or cared about. More recently, I've forgotten to do the post entirely about half the time, and have (this may be psychologically important) missed or bobbled all of the round-number anniversaries - five, ten, and fifteen.

This year, this anniversary post will probably turn into something - I'm starting it over a month ahead of time, so with luck I won't forget it - but I make no promises.

History of the Blog: Links to Links

First, though, let me link to the past installments of this annual post: first, second, third, fourth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth. and seventeenth.
Each of those is itself mostly a list of links, making this section the most purely blog-like thing I do regularly. (Remember: I started off in this world writing the SFBC's blog, which was a major link-fest, like so many things of that era. We spent our time pointing to things, and we were happy to do it!)

I usually try to explain that history or origin in more detail here, so maybe one or two more sentences: I started Antick Musings as practice, since the book-club company I worked for was going to start up a bunch of blogs, and I would be tasked to write the one for the SFBC. That corporate blog was scrubbed from the Internet long ago, and the company has changed hands several times and has continued to...let me be kind and say "transform;" I think a few people I knew still work there - so the fact that my personal blog has kept going, even in so ramshackle a state, is a testament to something, I suppose.

Anyway, this was...not an afterthought, but definitely not meant to be a specific thing. It turned into a book blog, which was the one thing I was absolutely sure in 2005 it would not be; I read and edited books for a day-job, so touching that more than very, very lightly here would have been a bad idea.

Such are the dreams of our youth.

I will also point out here that I'm still using the template I picked, nineteen years ago. It's not currently available in the Blogger console, and it's probably broken in at least a few ways - the blogroll, in particular, has not been touched in the slightest since about Year Three. But every time I look at the array of possible Blogger templates, I hate all of them and find them all ugly and generic. If I had a lot of energy and time (and a willingness to spend money of it), I'd port the whole thing to WordPress, refurbish from top to bottom, and have something that looked nice.

That will never happen.

History of the Blog: Easily Manipulated Metrics

I've consistently thrown into this annual post my one random metric: the number of posts each year. It means essentially nothing, but it's a tradition, and nineteen years later, traditions are pretty much all I have. So here goes:

• 2023-2024 -- 405 posts
• 2022-2023 -- 410 posts
• 2021-2022 -- 279 posts
• 2020-2021 -- 265 posts
• 2019-2020 -- 55 posts
• 2018-2019 -- 178 posts
• 2017-2018 -- 368 posts
• 2016-2017 -- 263 posts
• 2015-2016 -- 144 posts
• 2014-2015 -- 258 posts
• 2013-2014 -- 434 posts
• 2012-2013 -- 285 posts
• 2011-2012 -- 332 posts
• 2010-2011 -- 445 posts
• 2009-2010 -- 711 posts
• 2008-2009 -- 880 posts
• 2007-2008 -- 834 posts
• 2006-2007 -- 841 posts
• 2005-2006 -- 809 posts

I had another blog for a couple of years about a decade ago - Editorial Explanations, where I made fun of editorial cartoons at pretty much exactly the point when they began their own extinction event. I enjoyed doing it until I didn't, and then I stopped. It was a long time ago, and it doesn't matter now, so I've stopped adding them in to the blog-post totals. That blog itself is still available for anyone with an interest in decade-old political bullshit. (I will note that bullshit of that era feels almost quaint and homey these days.)

The Inevitable Links: Posts About Books

As I said above, this turned into a book-blog after I lost my editorial job - and I did wonder, years later, if my opinions here did contribute, in some small way, to my never getting another editorial job despite trying off and on for a few years. (Probably not: it's a ferociously competitive field, and almost impossible to get back on the horse once you fall off.) 

Most of the posts here, for the last decade or more, are about books. So the bulk of this anniversary post, every year, is links to those posts, using sentences I wrote that I'm still inordinately fond of. Yes, this is a hugely self-indulgent thing - I do it every year, and I'm going to do it again.

It's not very long, it's funny on every page, and it's true in ways that will sour bad books for you forever - which is a good thing, since who wants to waste time on bad books?

Those are the things that are assumed to be central to an American identity: what's on the left side of the "something-American" hyphen?

The mind can slip into fantasy at any moment - a stream of thought moving from what is to oh god, what if at any time.

And if you're looking for a comic strip way more centrally about cannibalism than you suspected was possible, it's really your only choice.

I really like how cartoonists are no longer tied down to linear time. In the bad old days, a comics story might have a flashback - one big one, with huge caption boxes and every other signpost the creators could think of - but that was about it; the audience was assumed to be too young and/or unsophisticated to handle complicated transitions.

Ackroyd is faithful to the religious tone of Mallory's original: they all praise God a lot and are firmly convinced that beating someone up in a joust proves that you're true and righteous, which is a comforting thing for bullies and the strong to believe in all ages.

Reader, there is nothing here you will not predict, nothing that gives a true moment of surprise or wonder, nothing that isn't entirely derivative and utterly pre-determined. This is a piece of product, an engineered jigsaw puzzle piece that slots in exactly in the middle of all of the other pieces to make a bland picture of people punching each other.

The most interesting creators are the ones you have to learn how to read. They tell stories their way, making their choices but not going out of their way to explain. And it can take reading a few books to figure that out: not all readers will want to spend that much effort.

Bagge's worlds are full of mildly updated '50s gender-essentialism: men are hot-headed and often physically violent, because They Are Men and the World Is Frustrating. Sometimes they are divided into the smart ones (effete, tentative, too weak for this world, typically wearing glasses) and the strong ones (stupid as a post, addicted to incredibly counterproductive ideas, full of zeal and energy for all the wrong things, typically wearing mullets).

You might say, "that's a mighty big topic to cover in one l'il 200-page book, now, isn't it, pardner?" (If you weren't pretending to be a cowboy, you might use different phrasing, admittedly.)

But you would think that a class of people who are often annoyed by the "where do you get your ideas?" question would be somewhat more reticent to spin complex tales of "here's how this guy got his ideas." You would think, but you would be wrong, because it happens a lot.

Today, I have a book that kicks that door open, rips it off its hinges, chops it up for firewood, burns it down, dances on the ashes, and then falls over, awkwardly, to get bruised and covered with schmutz.

The creator is Zerocalcare - apparently, that was the jingle for a cleaning product, which the guy named Michele Rech started using as an online handle and then just kept using when he started making comics. (As someone with a blog and other social accounts under the name "G.B.H. Hornswoggler," I understand the impulse.)

So this is a book about, mostly, crazy optimists who are mostly in their mid-twenties, mostly have never failed at anything in their lives, and mostly have never seen a problem they couldn't just solve by working harder. 

There might be some element of the "British phrases help sell humorous SFF to Americans" engine working here - people like me who have read a lot of Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett are prone to think phrases like "luck's not a wheelbarrow; you don't want to push it" are interesting and quirky rather than (as Brits I suppose might) some dull thing Uncle Rupert says every damn day.

But one weird thing about getting older is that I find it's easier to see creators at different points in their lives - that parallax of my own life making it clearer that this is a young man's book and that is from the older version.

The whole point is that people can't take it, of course. They collapse, drop out. You can't have an elimination competition without eliminating people.

It must be nice to be a world-famous and -popular writer. You can get nice little additional revenue streams from normal life stuff such as "owning a lot of T-shirts" and "talking to a guy from a magazine."

What was once a finely tuned engine of precisely drawn gags by Ernie Bushmiller had devolved into a bland collection of glurge, drawn by Guy Gilchrist as the demented spawn of Precious Moments and Art Frahm.

A baby is a wrinkled, red-faced, crying lump, capable only of wanting things. That's not inherently lovable.

Just so you know: I wouldn't pay attention to me about superhero comics. If I wasn't already me, I mean.

When I have to make a random choice of what to read next, I try to ask "what looks weirdest."

But that's always the way: no one is as radical as they think they are, no one is as fearless at confronting their real flaws as they want to believe.

The Inevitable Links: Everything Else

I do, occasionally, post about other things. This year and last, I had a series of posts about songs on Mondays - I like music, though I think I write about it substantially more awkwardly and less well than I do about books, so I try to keep my illusions very minor.

When I get new books - however I get them, after some waffling about tags and titles a few years back - I post a list here under Reviewing the Mail, a title I stole from Chuck Klosterman. I don't claim to do that quickly - lately I tend to take bigger book-shopping lists and break them over multiple weeks - but I do it, eventually.

I also do quotes from the books I read - every Saturday as Quote of the Week, and twice a year in a closet-cleaning exercise. (Also available from that link, in big clumps on New Year's Eve and whatever Sunday is closest to Independence Day.)

But...that was pretty much it. I'm still, a decade later, surprised that my absolutely-no-chance-it-will-turn-into-a-book-blog did exactly that, but there's a limit to how surprised anyone can be by the same thing over an extended period of time. It is what it is.

Valediction

That's it. Year Nineteen is now over, and I guess I'm into Year Twenty. If I keep to form, you won't have to worry about a post like this next year, and then I'll be back at the end of Year Twenty-One with a weird apology. Or maybe noticing the pattern will stop it?

Who knows. I hope the self-indulgent things you do are equally fulfilling to you, now and into the future. Now go forth and read somebody else's blog.