Wednesday, December 31, 2025

Hieronymus B.: 1997-2007 by Ulf K.

Yes, it's real. Yes, I do know "Hieronymus B. by Ulf K." does seem weirdly fake. And, yes, this does seem to be the only book by the German cartoonist and illustrator Ulf K. (short for Keyenberg, his real last name) available in "English."

And, yes, I said "in English" but it's a wordless book: the book itself seems to be identical for five publishers in five territories, but the jacket on this one is by Top Shelf, the American publisher, and is in English, which counts.

Hieronymus B.: 1997-2007 collects fifty pages of comics, a few spot illustrations, and some sketches and layouts on the endpapers: all are about this little fellow who I'll call HB to keep from retyping "Hieronymus." HB is a functionary in an office somewhere - probably governmental; it seems to be that kind of place - and it put-upon in the manner of little guys in comics and other media since time immemorial.

The first few stories tend to be longer - twelve pages, four, and then twelve again - with big inky panels, four to the page, but the back half of the book has shorter, mostly one- or two-page stories, which (mostly) get gradually less inky, have more panels to the page, and see Ulf K.'s line get lighter and thinner.

The two long stories are about HB in his office, but most of the rest are more about everyday life: he battles gusty winds, gets seasick from a ship-in-a-bottle, steps into a painting to woo a pretty girl, does some gardening, and sees various odd things happen about him.

As always, wordless comics are difficult to write about, for all of the "dancing about architecture" reasons - the words aren't there already, and need to be created new, in hopes they match what the creator intended. These long stories have devils and yelling bosses in them, but most of the material here is lighter - HB is put-upon, but he's not downtrodden and seems to be amused or quietly resilient through it all. These stories aren't realistic, but wordless stories often aren't: they're abstracted, schematized views of life, meant to evoke rather than to nail down.

It's fun and amusing, but quite short and a bit miscellaneous: it is only about sixty pages but it collects work from a decade in a style that did change quite a bit. And it's also difficult to find at this point: I had to punch the ISBN to Major Online Bookstore just to find the listing; the title and author didn't do it.

Ulf K. seems to have gone on to mostly a career making books for young readers in what I've recently learned to call the DACH region; though his German-language Wikipedia page is a good decade out of date, so maybe he's doing something else even more recently. Maybe some of those books will eventually find their way to this side of the pond; maybe not. For now, this seems to be the only physical English-language object that proves he ever lived and made stories.

Tuesday, December 30, 2025

Space Ships! Ray Guns! Martian Octopods! edited by Richard Wolinsky

Starting in 1977, three men associated with the KPFA radio station in the San Francisco Bay started an interview program called Probabilities. Over the next couple of decades, they talked to dozens of science fiction writers - and eventually other writers and even non-writers, as the series changed over time and shifted names - in programs that were broadcast on the Pacifica network and that I think have been accessible somewhere online in more recent years.

The three men are Richard Wolinsky of KPFA; Lawrence Davidson, science fiction buyer for the famous Cody's Books of Berkley; and Richard A. Lupoff, SF novelist, editor and fan.

For years, they talked about pulling together an oral history of early SF from those interviews. They had contracts with publishing companies a few times, but things didn't quite work out - until they did.

Space Ships! Ray Guns! Martian Octopods! is that oral history, subtitled Interviews with Science Fiction Legends. It assembles and organizes conversations between one or more of the three interviewers (in various permutations) with fifty-nine people who were nearly all SF writers (and many were also editors or agents, and all but the earliest generation were fans first, in the old familiar way), from Forrest J. Ackerman to Roger Zelazny. It was published a few months ago.

Of the interviewers, only Wolinsky is still with us, Lupoff and Davidson having both died over the past decade. Among the interviewees, I think only Robert Silverberg is left, but I'd be happy to have missed someone. So this is a little bit like Queequeg's coffin, popping up above the waves at a moment when everything else related to it has been dragged down into the murky depths. (Or maybe I'm being overly dramatic about an oral history of a time that is, let's be honest, around a hundred years ago.)

Wolinsky organizes this vast mass of individual transcripts into seven longish chapters, running roughly chronologically from the early days of Hugo Gernsback's Amazing in the 1920s through roughly 1960. We hear from all of the interviewees where they said something relevant, and many of them are seeming to respond to each other, turning the book occasionally into a conversation. They don't always agree with each other in all aspects, of course, and Wolinsky has done a bit of editing to quietly correct misstated facts and add in some explanatory notes - people don't always get everything 100% right when talking live on the radio.

I don't think there's anything new here - obviously, the interviews themselves were public when they were made, and have been incorporated into the standard view of the field and fan lore - but Wolinksy and his fellow interviewers talked to an incredibly broad spectrum of SF personalities, especially in the early days - general pulpeteers like Ed Earl Repp and Louis Lamour, early fans-turned-editors like Julie Schwartz, and notable minor writers like Stanton A. Coblenz, Raymond Z. Gallun, E. Hoffman Price, and Harry Bates.

There's a lot of the usual fan self-back-patting, talking about how smart and forward-looking and wonderful they all were, in the early days of the world when pulp magazines roamed free and the world was their oyster. This is mostly the reminiscences old men - and a very few women - about the days when they were young and pounding out reams of paper for what was a surprisingly good wage, so there's the usual golden glow about all of those memories.

But Wolinsky's editorial voice reins that in, and he's very clear on how the field has changed since then - as well as pointing out some of the obvious flaws in that bright fannish world of the '30s. Space Ships! is a fun book, with a lot of quirky and distinctive voices - a few of those early writers were interviewed at a time in their lives when they clearly didn't worry about burning bridges, avoiding profanity, or any other considerations of propriety - all corralled into telling what turns into a mostly coherent, consistent story of a whole field building itself out of the materials it found at hand.

Monday, December 29, 2025

Better Things: 'Til I Disappear

"Better Things" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song I really love, by an artist I haven't featured in the previous This Year or Portions For Foxes series. See the introduction for more.

And the last song in this series, the last one I post this year, is another obscurity - another noisy song from a band that never quite hit it big, but made some great songs. (Again, I almost seem to be begging readers to point out somewhere that I'm wrong - that a band I think is obscure actually has an unbroken string of #1 hits in Finland or something.)

The song is 'Til I Disappear, from Yellow Ostrich - but it's more complicated than that. There's a longer version on their 2010 record Wild Comfort, but the version I love is the shorter version, from a 2012 NoiseTrade sampler, where I first heard Yellow Ostrich.

So this is an obscure version of an obscure song by an obscure band - if I seem to be ending the year trying to maximize my hipster-ness, I have to apologize. That wasn't the point.

This is another slow burn song; I've mentioned several times how I love those. It starts with a keening guitar line, and then the singer's voice, also keening, above it.

Stay awhile fleeing glimpses of,
Stay awhile fleeing taste of love.
Go ye now to the ocean peer,
Stay awhile till I disappear

I don't know exactly what it's about. It's the kind of nonspecific, slightly archaic language that the songwriter has clearly crafted specifically. There's some kind of ending - probably not a death, but you can never be sure in a song.

So: probably yet another breakup song. Fitting for me, I think. Whatever it's about, it has a great sound, a great energy, and a propulsive force.

So long farewell,
My love, I see it's time.
It's been nice to know you.
Maybe when we're older,
We can meet again.
We'll see if we remember.

Next week it will be a new year, and a new series of posts here on Mondays. As I write this, I haven't figured out all the details exactly yet - so both you and I will need to find out what that series will be. See you there.

Sunday, December 28, 2025

Quote of the Hour: Empty Offices

There was the usual coming and going in the corridor outside my office and when I opened the door and walked into the musty silence of the little waiting room there was the usual feeling of having been dropped down a well dried up twenty years ago to which no one would come back ever. The smell of old dust hung in the air as flat and stale as a football interview.

 - Raymond Chandler, The Little Sister, p.315 in Later Novels & Other Writings

Quote of the Hour: Sources of the 19th Century Land Rush in Africa

The industrial revolution, which had begun by giving more wealth to nearly everybody, had reached its second stage in which enormous, yearly increasing accumulations of surplus capital were falling into a small, yearly diminishing number of hands; the need of the time was for new sources of raw material, new markets, but more than anything, for new fields of profitable investment.

 - Evelyn Waugh, Waugh in Abyssinia, pp.553-4 in Waugh Abroad

Quote of the Hour: Iron Curtain Entertainments

Since neither had eaten, they dined together at the hotel; they discussed Faulkner and Hawthorne while waiters brought them soup and veal a continent removed from the cabbagy cuisine of Russia. A lithe young woman on awkwardly high heels stalked among the tables singing popular songs from Italy and France. The trailing microphone wire now and then became entangled in her feet, and Bech admired the sly savagery with which she would, while not altering an iota her enameled smile, kick herself free.

 - John Updike, "Bech in Rumania," in Bech: A Book, p.25 in The Complete Henry Bech

Quote of the Hour: Listen! Name some towns in New Jersey quick!

I had been trying all afternoon, in vain, to think of the name Perth Amboy. It seems now like a very simple name to recall and yet on the day in question I thought of every other town in the country, as well as such words and names and phrases as terra cotta, Walla-Walla, bill of lading, vice versa, hoity-toity, Pall Mall, Bodley Head, Schumann-Heink, etc. without even coming close to Perth Amboy. I suppose terra cotta was the closest I came, although it was not very close.

 - James Thurber, "More Alarms at Night," My Life and Hard Times, p.171 in Writings and Drawings

Quote of the Hour: Stakeout

The lull between Detroit-bound commuters and the stiffs who worked locally ended just before the half hour. I wound up the window on the driver's side against the wallop of their passage, watched a slightly chubby blonde in a pink kimono and mules to match trying to wheel an empty trash can up her driveway while holding down her hem against the slipstream - a Vargas Girl moment - and saw a kid on a Segway make a nifty maneuver to avoid becoming a casualty of Overcaffeinated Motorist Syndrome. He turned the scooter in a circle and dismounted to give the driver the international sign of disapproval. As far as stakeouts go it was sweeps week.

 - Loren D. Estleman, The Left-Handed Dollar, pp.97-98

Quote of the Hour: The Bright Side of Disaster

One of the most sustaining gifts a man can possess is the ability to look upon the bright side of disaster. It was a gift which, until now, Sigsbee H. Waddington had lacked almost entirely: but at this moment, owing perhaps to the fact that he had just introduced into his interior a healing drink of quite exceptional strength, he suddenly found himself discerning with a limpid clearness the fact that the elimination of that near-pearl necklace from the scene of things was, from his point of view, the very best thing that could have happened.

 - P.G. Wodehouse, The Small Bachelor, p.189

Quote of the Hour: One Mind, Concentrated

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good - a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

 - Ambrose Bierce, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," p.11 in The Devil's Dictionary, Tales & Memoirs

Quote of the Hour: Just the Right Spot

Inigo stood and walked away, surveying the terrain over which they would battle. It was a splendid plateau, really, filled with trees for dodging around and roots for tripping over and small rocks for losing your balance on and boulders for leaping off if you could climb on them fast enough, and bathing everything, the entire spot, moonlight. One could not ask for a more suitable testing ground for a duel, Inigo decided. It had everything, including the marvelous Cliffs at one end, beyond which was the wonderful thousand-foot drop, always something to bear in mind when one was planning tactics. It was perfect. The place was perfect.

Provided the man in black could fence

Really fence.

 - William Goldman, The Princess Bride, p.106

Quote of the Hour: Misery on the Beach

By this time the afternoon sun had begun to be too warm for comfort, and it struck Wilton that he could be a great deal more comfortable nursing his wounded heart with his back against one of the rocks than tramping any farther over the sand. Most of the Marvis Bay scenery is simply made as a setting for the nursing of a wounded heart. The cliffs are a somber indigo, sinister and forbidding; and even on the finest days the sea has a curious sullen look. You have only to get away from the crowd near the bathing-machines and reach one of these small covers and get your book against a rock and your pipe well alight, and you can simply wallow in misery. I have done it myself. The day when Heloise Miller went golfing with Teddy Bingley I spent the whole afternoon in one of these retreats. It is true that, after twenty minutes of contemplating the breakers, I fell asleep; but that is bound to happen.

 - P.G. Wodehouse, "Wilton's Holiday," p.62 in The Man With Two Left Feet

Quote of the Hour: Doctors Are Just Like You and Me

He finished his call and hung up, He leaned back and sat there brooding, staring down at his desk, but not forgetting to look out of the window every half minute. He was waiting, and I waited with him, for no reason at all. Doctors make many phone calls, talk to many people. Doctors look out of their front windows, doctors frown, doctors show nervousness, doctors have things on their mind and show the strain. Doctors are just people, born to sorrow, fighting the long grim fight like the rest of us.

 - Raymond Chandler, The Lady in the Lake, p.22 in Later Novels & Other Writings

Quote of the Hour: The Speeches of Mr. Bain in the Guiana Bush

During the stimulating fortnight I was to spend in his company he talked at large on every conceivable topic, eagerly, confidently, enthusiastically, not always accurately, sometimes scarcely coherently, inexhaustibly; with inspired imagination, with dizzy changes of thought and rather alarming theatrical effects, a vocabulary oddly compounded of the jargon he was accustomed to use among his subordinates and the longer, less habitual words he had noticed in print. As I have said, he talked of everything at one time or another, but mostly either in metaphysical speculation or in anecdote. He himself always figured prominently in the latter and it was in these that his gestures became most dramatic.

 - Evelyn Waugh, Ninety-Two Days, p.399 in Waugh Abroad

Quote of the Hour: How I Made It, Least-Useful Edition

Ever since then, my advice to younger comedians and comedy writers who want to break into television is simple: become a huge screw-up, develop a life-threatening drug habit, be forced to leave your hometown and move to a Midwestern city, then randomly and fortuitously get hired to work on a TV show that goes on to be considered a classic. That is my advice. It's idiotic advice, but advice nonetheless.

 - Frank Conniff, Twenty Five Mystery Science Theater 3000 Films That Changed My Life in No Way Whatsoever, p.10

Quote of the Hour: Dangers of the Yard

The milch-goat was allowed a narrower radius; those who kept strictly to the causeway were safe, but she never reconciled herself to this limitation and, day in, day out, essayed a series of meteoric onslaughts on the passers-by, ending, at the end of her rope, with a jerk which would have been death to an animal of any other species. One day the rope would break; she knew it and so did Frau Dressler's guests.

 - Evelyn Waugh, Scoop, p.135

Quote of the Hour: A Meal A La Motor

Motorists who go in for picnicing - as many of them do, since the British are never so happy as when eating ill-chosen meals in a bitter wind and beneath a lowering sky - are often worried by crumbs in the carburettor, jam on the upholstery, and similar drawbacks to open-air gourmandaise. An ordinary car is no place in which to eat things with any real gusto, even hard-boiled eggs having a tendency to fall about, get trodden on, and work through the floorboards into the transmission.

 - K.R.G. Browne, How to Be a Motorist, p.85

Quote of the Hour: Driving Through the Park

Traffic eased, and we shot through behind Nathan, across Fifth Avenue and into Central Park at Ninety-seventh Street. High stone walls ran alongside us, and above them the dark overhang of branches; nature in Manhattan means human nature, except here in Central Park, where tortured grass prevails along with a few thousand trees, in whose gray and dusty arbors hide lovers, Audubon members, and delinquent gangs. Along the fractured concrete paths countless millions of New Yorkers tramp, decade in and out, extracting the essence from their oasis. I myself wander there on weekends, perception distorted by drink, drugs, or jogger's endorphins, depending on which discipline or lack of it I happen to be following at the moment. In the very center of the park there are pockets where one may mediate in relative safety on the life of the park squirrel who knows only these grimy woods surrounded by enormities of sound, gigantic shudderings and hangings of which it can have only the dimmest comprehension. It eats leftover bits of pastrami, french fries, and whatever else appears, a kind of flowering in its meadows, continuous but unpredictable as to location. One hops along and hopes for the best.

 - William Kotzwinkle, The Midnight Examiner, p.156-7

Quote of the Hour: Monopolizers

A temperamental young man was Ralston McTodd. He liked to be the centre of the picture, to do the talking, to air his views, to be listened to respectfully and with interest by a submissive audience. At the meal which had just concluded none of these reasonable demands had been permitted to him. From the very beginning, Lord Emsworth had collared the conversation and held it with a gentle bleating persistency against all assaults.

 - P.G. Wodehouse, Leave It to Psmith, p.98

Quote of the Hour: That One Room

I went in. The room beyond was large and square and sunken and cool and had the restful atmosphere of a funeral chapel and something the same smell. Tapestry on the blank roughened stucco walls, iron grilles imitating balconies outside high side windows, heavy carved chairs with plush seats and tapestry backs and tarnished gilt tassels hanging down their sides. At the back a stained-glass window about the size of a tennis court. Curtained french doors underneath it. An old musty, fusty, narrow-minded, clean and bitter room. It didn't look as if anybody ever sat in it or would ever want to.

 - Raymond Chandler, The High Window, pp.988-9 in Stories and Early Novels

Quote of the Hour: Charm and Reliability

Collier [eponymous hero of the TV show] was a rugged but occasionally sensitive detective inspector who worked in both a gritty northern town ("Bradthorpe") and a green farming dale ("Hardale"). He frequently kicked against the traces of authority in the search for the truth and was invariable vindicated at the end. He was a maverick but (as someone said at least once in the course of every program) "a brilliant detective." He was unreliable toward women but they were, nonetheless, continually charmed by him. In his own experience, Jackson had found the exact opposite to be true, the more unreliable he was (usually from no fault of his own, he would just like to point out) the less impressed women were with him.

 - Kate Atkinson, Started Early, Took My Dog, p.187

Quote of the Hour: Holding Out for a Hero

[Armenians] seem to me the only genuine 'men of the world.' I suppose everyone at times likes to picture himself as such a person, Sometimes, when I find that elusive ideal looming too attractively, when I envy among my friends this one's adaptability to diverse company, this one's cosmopolitan experience, this one's impenetrable armour against sentimentality and humbug, that one's freedom from conventional prejudices, this one's astute ordering of his finances and nicely calculated hospitality, and realize that, whatever happens to me and however I deplore it, I shall never in actual fact become a 'hardboiled man of the world' of the kind I read about in the novels I sometimes obtain at book-stalls for short railway journeys; that I shall always be ill at ease with nine out of every ten people I meet; that I shall always find something startling and rather abhorrent in the things most other people think worth doing, and something puzzling in their standards of importance; that I shall probably be increasingly, rather than decreasingly, vulnerable to the inevitable minor disasters and injustices of life - then I comfort myself a little by thinking that, perhaps, if I were an Armenian I should find things easier.

 - Evelyn Waugh, Remote People, pp.267-268 in Waugh Abroad

Quote of the Hour: One of Those Days

I got up on my feet and went over to the bowl in the corner and threw cold water on my face. After a little while I felt a little better, but very little. I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat, and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room.

 - Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely, p.943 in Stories and Early Novels

Quote of the Hour: Hothouse Growths

Pride and resentment are not indigenous in the human heart; and perhaps it is due to the gardener's innate love of the exotic that we take such pains to make them thrive.

 - Hope Mirrlees, Lud-in-the-Mist, p.126

Quote of the Hour: Hot-Weather Gear

The suit he had on when I saw him, of rich, snuff-colored silk, was cut with the virtuosity that only sub-tropical tailors expend on hot-weather clothing, Summer clothes in the North are makeshifts, like seasonal slipcovers on furniture, and look it.

 - A.J. Liebling, The Earl of Louisiana, p.233 in The Sweet Science and Other Writings

Quote of the Hour: The Fabled Other Cellars

Since then, despite various forays with industrial machinery, the Other Cellars have become a muddled repository for things banished from the shop floor. For a book, being consigned to the Other Cellars is tantamount to a death sentence.

Nevertheless, sometimes duty requires that some long-forgotten book thought completely unsaleable be retrieved from the cellars, and in cases such as this someone has to make the unpleasant journey down into the dark.

 - Oliver Darkshire, Once Upon a Tome, p.166

Quote of the Hour: The People of Paradise

In the way that tardy and negligent people are often blame-shifting and chronically mendacious, many of the Tongans I met in Nuku'alofa were unreliable, and some outright liars - or, to put it charitably, they meant very little of what they said. This could be tiresome in a hot climate. My solution was to take my boat to a part of Tonga where there were no Tongans.

 - Paul Theroux, The Happy Isles of Oceania, p.293

Quote of the Hour: The Life of the Capitalist

I collect too many quotes for this weekly "feature," and then run an hourly version twice a year, on a Sunday near a major holiday. It's that time again.

T. Paterson Frisby was a little man who looked as if he has been constructed of some leathern material and subsequently pickled in brine. His expression, as he took up the instrument, was one of acute exasperation. His sister always irritated him, especially on the telephone, when her natural tendency to babble became intensified; and he was also suffering severely from those pangs of indigestion to which Berry had alluded in his conversation with Lord Biskerton.

 - P.G. Wodehouse, Big Money, p.19


Saturday, December 27, 2025

Quote of the Week: Conversation!

Lorcas grinned and leaned forward. Here was the milieu he loved: conversation! Supple sentences, with first and second meanings and overtones beyond, outrageous challenges with cleverly planned slip-points, rebuttals of elegant brevity; deceptions and guiles, patient explanations of the obvious, fleeting allusions to the unthinkable. As a preliminary, the conversationalist must gauge the mood, the intelligence, and the verbal facility of the company. To this end a few words of pedantic exposition often proved invaluable.

 - Jack Vance, Marune: Alastor 933 (p.245 in the Alastor omnibus)

Friday, December 26, 2025

And to Think We Started as a Book Club... by Tom Toro

This is a book of single-panel cartoons by Tom Toro, who is good and funny, and (TL; DR) if you like such things you might as well check it out. I'll go into slightly more depth below, but - as I've said here many times - there's not a lot that's coherent and reasonable to say about single-panel cartoons. (Incoherent ramblings, though - I could whip you up a lot of that, but I'll try not to.)

And to Think We Started as a Book Club... is the first collection of Toro's cartoons; he's been appearing in The New Yorker for about fifteen years, and (I hope) found some other markets to sell his cartoons to, as well. (There still are other markets for cartoons, right? We're not down to just one now that Playboy is dead?)

In the usual way of modern cartoon collections, it's divided into a bunch of very vague sections, all titled "The Book of" something and with a new Toro drawing to lead off the grouping. Those include Life, Love, Family, Work, Beasts, Tech, and Weird, which are of course the universally-known seven aspects of life.

Otherwise, it's just under two hundred pages long, with a Toro cartoon on each page - so about a hundred and ninety of them in all. His work has a softness to it; I think he works in washes or pencils of some kind, so it's all shades of grey. His linework is solid but unobtrusive - mostly medium-weight, but often essentially buried underneath the tones. His people are just a bit cartoony - again, soft and somewhat rumpled, with big open faces and dot eyes.

I find his jokes are less "New Yorker-y" than some of his contemporaries - there are pirates and Midwesterners as well as the urbanites starting at their screens and surprisingly articulate children. With its Seven Canonical Sections, Book Club covers a wide range of joke topics - though they're all single panels with captions, so the rhythm and style is consistent.

Again: I think this is funny, and I think Toro is one of the top talents working in this form today. So I do recommend it, if you like this kind of thing.

Thursday, December 25, 2025

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

I don't usually do themed posts for holidays; I work five or six weeks ahead, and don't usually keep track closely enough to hit specific dates. But I've also had a copy of the Oxford Illustrated Dickens Christmas Books on my shelf for more years than I want to admit, and keep thinking, every year, that I should read one or more of them in the appropriate season.

Well, let me be honest: I generally think that at the end of the appropriate season, in the conditional past tense, that it would have been great if I had thought of it earlier.

This year, I happened to look at that shelf a day or two before Thanksgiving, had that annual thought, and read A Christmas Carol on Thanksgiving. I might read the other four Dickens "Christmas Books" over the next four years the same way. But probably not; that's a level of organization in my reading life I just don't have. But I've now read the one everyone knows, at least.

We all know this story. Very few of us have read the book: I know this is the first time I got to it. The details are more particular, and more early 19th century, than the gestalt version of it we have in our heads, smoothed out by decades of first stage and then film and then video versions.

Ebenezer Scrooge is a merchant of some kind, in 1843 London. Maybe a banker, in a small way: we know he makes loans. But probably mostly moving goods about - which goods doesn't matter. He's well-off and miserly, working and living in cold, dark rooms because "darkness is cheap." He has one employee, the clerk Bob Cratchit. He holds onto all of his money with both hands, and, inasmuch as he takes any pleasure in his life in anything, he enjoys making and holding onto money. He's a fairly old man; probably in his sixties - his partner Marley, probably of a similar age, died seven years before.

On Christmas Eve, he rejects an offer for dinner the next day from his nephew Fred and the overtures of two local merchants collecting for the poor. Scrooge cares nothing for the poor, of course: that's the core expression of how mean and miserly he is. To Dickens, that's even more central than shunning his family: Scrooge does not have the giving spirit a Christian must have, especially in that season.

Scrooge goes home, and that night is confronted by Marley's ghost, dragging the chains he forged in life: "cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel." Marley says Scrooge still has a chance to avoid Marley's fate - to endlessly roam the world, seeing problems he could have solved in life, but now with no power to affect anything real.

There will be three more ghosts, which Marley explicitly says will come over the next three nights. (I wonder if there's been a scholarly fight about why Dickens has Marley say that: it's not what actually happens later, as we all know.)

Christmas Past is the spirit most often transformed in modern retellings; here, he's something like a candle turned into human form, carrying his own snuffer. And all three spirits show Scrooge more scenes than a movie interpretation puts onto film: Dickens can cover several scene changes on one page, but a movie crew needs sets and actors and props, all of which cost money. So the book has a wider scope; it more clearly shows the three spirits guiding Scrooge through a long ordeal, making him witness many things, not just a small handful directly relevant to him.

But, yes, there's first Past, and then the jolly gigantic Present - who here is implicitly born for this year, one of a series of similar spirits stretching back, as he says "over eighteen hundred years," and who visibly ages over the course of the Christmas he guides Scrooge through. (Which also seems to extend to Twelfth Night, in an element I don't think adaptations have picked up on at all.)

And last the barely-described, silent, creepy Yet to Come, who shows Scrooge several scenes of an unnamed dead man - who the reader knows instantly is Scrooge, of course.

The prose Christmas Carol shows Scrooge softening with each spirit, with clear regrets during both the Past and Present scenes. Adaptations sometimes follow that model, but more often save Scrooge's reformation for one big burst at the end, when he wakes up on what he doesn't yet know is Christmas morning and bursts to the window to yell out to that famously passing boy.

Here, Scrooge is clearly changed by his experience, a happier, outgoing, transformed man, focused on the happiness of others in that way Dickens always insisted was the true aim of humanity. And he's definitely more pleasant to be around for other people in his story, though the miserly early Scrooge is more fun as a character in a story.

The legend is both that Christmas Carol revived Christmas for Victorian Britons, where it had become a minor holiday, and that the third Christmas book, The Cricket on the Hearth, was the most popular during Dickens' life and for a few decades afterward. Perhaps both of those things are true; we'd have to ask a scholar of the period for a definitive answer. Christmas Carol has definitely become a durable, central story for the English-language world, and it's still a fine Dickens story, with many of his strengths shown well in a much shorter form than most of his best work.

Wednesday, December 24, 2025

Marune: Alastor 933 by Jack Vance

This is the second Alastor novel, of a three-book sequence. Some people might call it the middle book of a trilogy - and the three books are most commonly found today in a single omnibus volume.

But the three Alastor novels - he said, not having read the third one in several decades but pretty certain of his facts - are not a trilogy in any way. They all take place in the same globular cluster - thirty thousand stars, three thousand human-inhabited planets, five trillion people - near but not part of the Gaean Reach that's the background for a larger portion of Vance's mature SF output. Each novel takes place mostly on the specific planet of the title, and their connections are few and sparse.

Marune: Alastor 933 was published in paperback in 1975; it's set far enough in the future - and is by Jack Vance, who was less inclined to be grinding current-day axes than many SF writers - that it doesn't come across as particularly dated, though the relationships between the sexes are clearly 1975.

It opens in the Carfaunge spaceport, where an amnesiac young man is discovered and causes some consternation among various functionaries. He's eventually sent to a work camp on Gaswin Moor, to earn enough to pay for his passage to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes, where his amnesia can be treated. (This may be a mid mid-centuryism to some readers, that balance between "this fellow clearly has a problem; we should send him to the place he can be helped" and "it's not my job to take care of people; let him work for his keep.")

Anyway, after a brief delay at Gaswin, where the young man gets the temporary name Pardero, he's forwarded to Numenes and treated by the staff there. His amnesia doesn't go away, but he has been gradually re-learning the ways of life, and seems to be back to his full mental capacity and intelligence. They do analyze him closely, to determine which of the three thousand worlds he may have come from, and declare that he is most likely of the Rhune people of the planet Marune, where a complex four-star system means the gradations of daylight and night have many names and meanings.

So our hero heads there, to Port Mar, the main port of this world, and learns that "his" people are a quirky aristocratic society, out in the wilderness, with strange taboos on eating in public and any expressions of affection. (The cover depicts their main official sexual interaction - during the rare times of full night, men dress up in masks and cloaks - and nothing else - and go to "visit" women, who generally have their rooms bolted tight, except perhaps against one man they have hinted they might be willing to entertain. In very Vancean fashion, it looks a lot like rape at first glance - and probably is, at least when things don't go as planned - but is much more complex and nuanced, in the ways every society has secretive things that are actually different from the ways they are officially.)

The amnesiac man learns he is Efram, by right the new Kaiark (roughly a count or duke) of Scharrode. His father [1] Jochaim has recently died, killed in a skirmish between two noble houses. (We learn this is pretty common: the Rhune people have endemic small-scale wars among these houses, leading to the deaths of a few fighters all the time.) Someone else is about to be installed in the seat rightfully his, but he goes to his family's seat - along with a local from Port Mar, a non-Rhune - and claims his rightful title.

Intrigues follow from there, as his stepmother and her two children - the son she'd planned to become Kaiark and a daughter who flirts with now-Efram for possibly-nefarious reasons - maneuver to take advantage of Efram's amnesia and possibly even to have him killed. This gets complicated for the reader due to the unique sexual prudery of the Rhune, as well as the invented titles Vance uses - they're basically dukes and their consorts and heirs and princesses, but called Kaiarks and Kraikes and Kangs and Lissolets.

Efram finds allies in his retainers, learns quickly to navigate this society, avoids at least one assassination attempt and - is there any doubt? - wins out in the end. It is a SF adventure novel from the 1970s, after all; that's how it has to end. Marune is a decent Vance novel from that era, maybe a little short for how much it tries to do and maybe having what turns out to be an extended prelude before Efram gets to Marune, but it's full of his mature language and ideas and distinctive world-building details.


[1] See the above explanation of the Rhune sexual customs, which means that no child can know their genetic father. Vance states that consequently, tracing ancestors tend to be matrilineal, but the aristocratic titles follow traditional male-line primogeniture nevertheless.

Tuesday, December 23, 2025

Laser Moose and Rabbit Boy: Time Trout by Doug Savage

First up: I know I missed one. In between the original Laser Moose and Rabbit Boy and this book, there was Laser Moose and Rabbit Boy: Disco Fever, which is unavailable from any library near me, digitally or physically. (In fact, none of the nearby libraries seem to have any of the Laser Moose books in dead-tree form, which shocks and annoys me.) I may have to read it in a bookstore at some point, assuming I remember.

But I'm pretty sure there weren't any shocking revelations or major change in Disco Fever: this is a middle-grade graphic novel series about a moose who shoots lasers out of his eyes and his best friend the slightly more reasonable rabbit, and that's going to be the whole point. Oh, and they fight crime. Well, maybe not crime as such, since they're out in the woods - but they help nice people and foil miscreants, so basically the same thing.

OK, so maybe Laser Moose gets a little wild with his eye-lasers, and cuts off the deer Frank's leg once in a while. These kinds of things will happen when you're defending the forest. And, anyway, Doc the raccoon can sew Frank's leg back on. Again.

Laser Moose and Rabbit Boy: Time Trout is just what the title implies: another adventure of Laser Moose and Rabbit Boy, in which they meet and help out a time-traveling fish. A time-traveler from the polluted far future came back to their bucolic wilderness and dropped his time gizmo, which the fish immediately ate. (Because "I thought it might be a grasshopper. I tend to eat anything in the river, just in case it's a tasty grasshopper. You don't want to find out that it was a grasshopper later, when it's already gone," which makes just as much sense as anyone's motivation in this series.) 

This makes the fish travel semi-randomly in time: a big purple vortex appears repeatedly to pull him off when he thinks about past events and then again to return him to the present day. Our heroes - plus the evil Aquabear from the first book - get caught up in the shenanigans, with the usual time-travel complications, including changing the past and seeing how current-day things actually got that way. Oh, and dinosaurs. Time-travel stories are required to have dinosaurs.

In the end, Moose and Rabbit put (nearly) everyone back in their proper times, get the time gizmo back to the traveler, and watch the fish follow the traveler off to the future in search of adventure.

It is aimed at middle-graders, which may be a detriment for some readers. I love the goofy tone, and the plot's zippiness, and creator Doug Savage's clean cartoony lines, all of which make it a lot of fun and solidly land it in that genre. Graphic novels for pre-teens can often be substantially less serious than those for older readers, and I appreciate that a lot. Savage is particularly good at that kind of thing.

Monday, December 22, 2025

Better Things: Everyone Chooses Sides

"Better Things" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song I really love, by an artist I haven't featured in the previous This Year or Portions For Foxes series. See the introduction for more.

I'm back into the obscure stuff this week - as always, that's as far as I know; I'd be thrilled to learn otherwise - with a 2003 song from a band called The Wrens, from my neck of the woods. (Two of their record titles - Secaucus and The Meadowlands - make that clear.)

This week's song is Everyone Chooses Sides. [1]

It's more or less the story of a decision the band made after their previous record: either to go with their record company's idea, to become more "radio-friendly" and chase the big bucks, or stay true to themselves.

Fatty come a courting, Lord, the money!

And no one ever wrote or recorded a song about how they sold out and made lots of money.

Everyone choose sides
The whole to-do of what to do for money
Everyone choose sides
Poorer or not this year and hell's the difference

What I love about this song is the sound: it's a loud, fuzzy, pulsing song from the jump, with more than a little grunge in its DNA and a willingness to slide over towards noise when appropriate. (I've always been fond of songs that push the envelope of music into noise, or that let noise erupt into the middle of music.)

The words are growled, swallowed, spat out, full of complicated personal metaphors - all over that keening guitar and pulsing keyboard. It's a song that has somewhere to go, and is going its own way - if you want to jump on for the ride, good for you, but it's not there for you.

I've walked away from more than you imagine, and I sleep just fine.


[1] There seems to be some ambiguity about the title of the song. I have it as Chooses, from wherever I got the MP3 originally, and the video I linked uses that, but elsewhere, and in the song itself, it seems to be Choose. Does that make a difference? It's a matter of phrasing and emphasis, I think - the difference between a general statement and a notice that it's time to do this now.

Saturday, December 20, 2025

Quote of the Week: Party People, Circa 1971

The party rumbled on like a Hay Wain (as someone in the middle of it pointed out), carrying its cargo of fools towards the hour of their release. A lady lawyer spoke long sentences about international law as regards defacing the moon, and to each the cryogenics man nodded and smiled. The girl in the snood claimed that Thomas M. Disch was the author of a novel called Concentration Camp. Other girls, in leather bikinis, glass crinolines, wooded mail, foil tartans and plastic pinafores behaved as slightly animated decorations, receiving each conversation item with the same graceful indifference with which chair cushions received buttocks of all shapes. News, gossip, complements, pedantry, wit and philosophy, all were rested on them briefly and then removed, leaving no impression.

 - Johgn Sladek, The Müller-Fokker Effect, p.219 in SF Gateway Omnibus

Friday, December 19, 2025

Apache Delivery Service by Matt Kindt, Tyler Jenkins & Hilary Jenkins

There's a fine line between laconic and nonexistent; at times, Apache Delivery Service runs right along that line. Some readers might find it falls off to the far side. Writer Matt Kindt definitely lets the pictures do the storytelling most of the time here: on the positive side, that can be difficult for a writer, and he lets this story be visually compelling, quick-moving, and atmospheric by that choice.

Two men - we learn the name of the central one after following him for two issues, and the other's last name is said once, much later - are in Vietnam, in 1967. Ernie Nez is an Army tracker who calls in airstrikes, spending long stretches alone in the jungle to find enemy locations. His comrades call him the "Apache Delivery Service," but don't seem to know him at all as a person: he's actually Navajo, has no specific experience in tracking, hates killing and hasn't done any personally, and spends as much time as possible in the jungle to avoid his fellow soldiers.

At the beginning of this four-issue series, he comes back to base camp after one mission, talks to a few soldiers and superiors, and leaves again almost immediately: he's just trying to get through his tour, and the end is in sight.

But out in the jungle, he's captured by a man named Sobrat, a treasure hunter chasing a story of an Imperial Japanese admiral who hid "Nazi gold" in a cave somewhere in the area, at the end of WWII, only to be killed by the locals immediately afterward. (As with all such stories in fiction, we're not meant to wonder how anyone ever heard this story if everyone involved died immediately.) Sobrat, a Frenchman with a dark past, is somewhat older and does not seem to be under military orders.

He's been chasing this legend for a while, and now is close - but he says he needs a local guide, and apparently the only non-native who knows the area well is Ernie. So he basically kidnapped Ernie, tells him the story, and enlists him as a partner.

Ernie "agrees." We assume he doesn't trust Sobrat, and soon learns more reasons not to trust him. But, still: massive treasure, a chance to be rich beyond your wildest dreams, why not?

The two have a run-in with a local village, which we think protects the hidden treasure. There's talk of a curse. They escape. They find the gold. Sobrat is not as fond of sharing as Ernie would hope. Ernie is not as enthusiastic as Sobrat would like. The locals are lurking outside the caves, ready to kill them both as they walk out, burdened by heavy gold bars. It all ends.

Apache's description calls it a horror story, and Tyler Jenkins's scratchy, organic art, under Hilary Jenkins's moody, night-toned colors do set that mood. I may have more experience with more...expressive horror, in the Lovecraft tradition, full of descriptions and detail, so Apache read to me more as an adventure story - dark, clearly, but still well within the bounds of a normal Vietnam story. And, as I said up top, I would have preferred a bit more detail - Kindt and the Jenkinses use a lot of flashbacks to Ernie's pre-war life as visual parallel to this adventure, but I found that tended to undercut the supposed-horror aspects of the story. (If an experience reminds you of deer hunting and a car accident, it's pretty close to your normal life, isn't it?)

However you genre-type it, Apache Delivery Service is a dark, moody, fast-moving story of two men chasing gold in the middle of a war, told crisply with compelling art and a story that has no extraneous moments or pieces.

Thursday, December 18, 2025

The Müller-Fokker Effect by John Sladek

This is Sladek's most New Wave novel - a lot of things happen, coming out of an initiating event, to a whole lot of people, and it is Satirical and Cutting and True To Our Times. Of course, Our Times were 1971, so it may strike modern readers as even quirkier or less relevant now than it did to readers then. (And the hardcore SF types mostly disliked it then, to be fair.)

The Müller-Fokker Effect is a novel that was not entirely written to thrust out that punny title - which would have seemed much more shocking in 1971 - but I have to think that was a huge part of it. It's a "look at all of these idiots" novel, about how the whole world is full of fools and knaves and con men and charlatans and every other kind of horrible person you can think of.

(It's available as a standalone, but I read it in the SF Gateway Omnibus with two better novels, the fun Reproductive System and the magnificent Tik-Tok.)

As much as it has a center, that's Bob Shairp, a technical writer for National Arsenamid - often called "National Arse" in dialogue, to give you a sense of the level of 1971 wordplay going on here - who is voluntold to be part of an experiment National Arse is doing with the US military, to record a human mind onto special Müller-Fokker tapes. Only four of those tapes exist, since Dr. Müller-Fokker has disappeared, supposedly defected to the Soviet Union.

All four tapes are used to record Bob, but a group of white-supremacist terrorists - deeply misunderstanding what's going on, in a very Sladek touch - attack during the experiment, killing Bob's body after his mind is recorded.

We get a bit of Bob's jumbled thoughts, here and there, during the novel, but more important is what happens to the four tapes, which are sold as government surplus and go in different directions, to let Sladek satirize various aspects of American society at the time: primarily nudie magazines, a typically corrupt evangelist, advertising, those white supremacists, and the military (including a military school for Shairp's son). Sladek gives us a lot of short scenes with a large cast, which somewhat crosses over among the various milieus that the tapes drop into, but they all are venial and self-centered and generally lousy people in their own ways - plus fairly dumb, too, of course.

The tapes separate, and then come back together in the end, so Bob can be resurrected and reunited with his wife. That gives the novel an ending, but it's not the point of the book: the point is all of the crazy stuff in the middle between Bob's death and resurrection. Bob is barely a character, and is dead most of the book.

That crazy stuff is OK but gets a bit tedious. The satirical targets are deeply obvious, so even when Sladek does hit them solidly, it doesn't feel particularly major. For example, the (frustrated, virginal) Hugh Hefner figure here learns, more than halfway through the novel, that women have pubic hair, which is shocking to him! This joke was only just barely plausible in the mid-'60s and was well past its sell-by date by the time this novel was published.

And none of the characters are appealing: yes, they're quirky and specific, but they are all horrible people and the reader is unlikely to care about what happens to any of them. (A lot of things do happen, some of which are horrible and a few of which are fatal - none of it really resonates beyond just a shrug and a page-turn.) All in all, The Müller-Fokker Effect is an interesting catalog of the nuttier aspects of American society circa 1971, as seen through a very dark lens, so it's of interest to cultural historians - but I can't really recommend reading it as a novel for pleasure in 2025.

Wednesday, December 17, 2025

Elric: The Sailor on the Seas of Fate by Roy Thomas, Michael T. Gilbert & George Freeman

To those confused by the attribution in my post title - this is the 1985 comics adaptation, not the 1976 Michael Moorcock novel. (Sidebar to the sidebar - the novel is divided into three novella-length sections, which are largely separate, but, as far as I can see, they were not published first as novellas as I expected, though two of the three seem to have been published later as novellas.)

See my post on Elric of Melniboné for more details on the adaptation series; I hope to read through at least all of the Elric books in comics form, and maybe then move on to other Eternal Champions stories, since Titan seems to have collected all of them in uniform trade dress these days. (And I am a major fan of big publishing projects and uniform trade dress, so I want to encourage that.)

By 1985 Roy Thomas had settled into the long haul in adapting Elric stories - he'd keep doing it through all of the extant novels at the time - and had landed at a publisher, First, that was somewhat more stable than Pacific had been. Elric: The Sailor on the Seas of Fate was a seven-issue comics series, adapting a novel generally running about 160-190 pages into 198 pages of comics. So this, like the rest of the Roy Thomas series, is a comprehensive adaptation, aiming to capture every word of dialogue and story beat of the original in a visual form.

Sailor, the novel, was the first of many continuity inserts by Moorcock: the initial run of stories in the mid-60s (collected slightly later as Elric of Melniboné and Stormbringer) gave Elric's origin and fate, so every other story since has been filling the middle with more and more detail. This particular story starts in sturdy adventure-tale fashion: Elric has been fleeing some other adventure, and finds himself alone, tired, and hungry on the shore of a desolate sea.

A mysterious ship appears, claiming to have come to pick him up for some equally-mysterious purpose. It turns out to be one of the periodic gatherings of multiple Eternal Champion avatars - by never-defined forces that are probably related to the Lords of the Balance that Moorcock would introduce years later - to defeat a major threat to the entire multiverse. So Elric meets, for the first time for him - others are at slightly different points in their personal histories - Corum, Hawkmoon, and Erekosë - along with a dozen-plus other sword-swinging types, most of whom will die during this section to show how dangerous this threat is. The whole group of twenty is delivered, by this universe-sailing ship and its blind captain, to an island where two creatures from outside this universe are gathering power to do the usual apocalyptic thing if not stopped. The four ECs have to merge into a giant four-headed figure with a really, really big sword to kill the creatures, and they do so. Then they all seem to mostly forget about it, for vague mystical reasons.

Elric goes on to have two more adventures, with Count Smiorgan Baldhead, a new sidekick he picks up along the way. First, they land in another world where a Melnibonéan exile is chasing the reincarnation of the great love he tortured to death (Melnibonéans are horrible people, pretty consistently), while the third side of their love triangle, the guy who did not torture her to death, is chasing them. Elric helps the pursuer catch up, and justice is done and love reunited, more or less, though the reincarnated girl doesn't seem to have much of a choice in any of this and is handed off to the guy who is, I suppose, at least less horrible. 

Elric and Smiorgan try to head back to their own world, and end up rescued by a ship searching for the ancient original home of the Melnibonéans, deep in the usual fantasy jungle somewhere. They come along for the ride, where Stormbringer kills more allies than those allies would have liked, a giant statue of Elric's patron god Arioch comes to life, and Elric kicks off the Law/Chaos fight on his world that will eventually kill him. But he and Smiorgan do manage to find a ship, with which they can get back to civilized lands and be available for another continuity-insert novel.

Moorcock never claimed his heroic-adventure stories were great literature - he did write other books with more nuance and depth; he knew the difference - but they are flashy and exciting and full of portentous dialogue and Big Fantasy Ideas that seem to be more profound than they really are. They can be electric when you're young and tormented, and can still be fun and zippy even once you're not. As long as a reader is clear on the tone and style of the stories - High Weltschmertz and Deeply Meaningful - it's all good.

Michael T. Gilbert uses an ornate, detailed style here, ably supported by George Freeman's inks and colors - this book looks detailed and full of depth, as it should. It's a tale over-full of self-conscious woe, but that's the deal with Elric: if you're not in the mood for woe, you should stay away from him to begin with.

Tuesday, December 16, 2025

Graylight by Naomi Nowak

Naomi Nowak published three graphic novels in the Aughts - I missed the first one, Unholy Kinship, but covered the second one, House of Clay, for ComicMix at the time. And now I've finally found my way to the third book, 2009's Graylight.

At the time, I referred to her as "a cartoonist resident in Sweden, of Hungarian-Polish ancestry" and noted that she seemed to work in English. She might not be making comics, but she seems to still be in Sweden, and still making art - paintings and jewelry, these days. I don't want to say art is art - I like to see narrative work, and have a bias in that direction - but it's great to see artists having what looks like a reasonably sustainable career, making the things they want to.

Graylight is an allusive, imagistic book, colored out to the edge of the pages in tones that look just a bit desaturated to my eye - a unique, particular palette surrounding and supporting Nowak's complex lines and complicated page structures. Lines defining people sometimes fade out or end unexpectedly, while objects - especially thematically important ones, seem to be closer to the surface of the page and shown in more detail.

The underlying story isn't as complex as the way Nowak tells it: there's a young woman, Sasha, in this unnamed village that we assume is somewhere in Sweden. She's a bit flighty and self-centered: we see her with her friends and meeting a reporter, Erik, in town to interview a famous reclusive author, Aurora, who lives in the woods nearby.

Sasha impulsively - we think she does everything impulsively; she's that kind of young person - goes along with Erik as his "photographer," though we don't see her holding a camera at any point. Aurora and her grown son Edmund are not happy there's someone else with Erik for the interview, so Sasha flounces off, but not before (impulsively) stealing a book from Aurora's house.

Sasha, over the next few days, starts a no-strings relationship with Erik - this somewhat frustrates him, since he wants more. 

There's also something of a curse that starts to hit her, in ways Nowak presents almost entirely imagistically. Aurora knows she has stolen the book, and believes Sasha has the same kind of power she does - she's a witch, more or less, and calls on two others like her to make the traditional trinity to call down her curse on Sasha.

There's also what the book description calls a love triangle - Edmund hangs around, watching Sasha during the days before the curse comes on - but it's not entirely clear if he's in love with her, fascinated with her as an example of the outside world he's unfamiliar with, or just keeping an eye on her for his mother. In any case, he eventually comes to see her, as the curse starts affecting her more strongly, and retrieves the book and breaks the curse (these may be the same action).

Again, Nowak tells this story through gesture - drawn in an idiosyncratic way - and allusive dialogue and imagistic pictures, rather than by explaining in any detail. It's a visually fascinating book, full of striking images, with a story that I suspect different readers will take in somewhat different ways.

So many comics are easily pigeon-holed; it's refreshing to find one as specific and different, in both style and substance, as this one.

Monday, December 15, 2025

Better Things: Add It Up

"Better Things" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song I really love, by an artist I haven't featured in the previous This Year or Portions For Foxes series. See the introduction for more.

It's probably cheating for me to call this song a favorite: I didn't hear it at the time.

I don't know exactly when I got into the Violent Femmes - the dates in iTunes just tell me they were part of my initial massive loading project in late '03 - but it was late enough that my copy of their iconic 1983 self-titled first record is the 20th anniversary edition. (Maybe I had the old version earlier, but, even in the best case, I was at least a decade late - I think I discovered them with the Add It Up compilation in the early '90s.)

So that's why this song wasn't part of This Year two years ago - I didn't hear it that year.

But the thing about time is that it's always getting later. Things are only new once, but they can be good forever. And I did discover that first Violent Femmes record, and loved it, as you should too. (Although it is possible to be too old on first hearing to love it, I think: there's something inherently young about early Violent Femmes, that gnawing longing of youth.) Blister in the Sun and Kiss Off are equally awesome, and Gone Daddy Gone not far behind them.

But the best song, at least for me right at this moment today, is Add It Up, one of the quintessential songs of teenage angst, desire and despair. (Singer Gordon Gano wrote most of that record while he was still in high school in Milwaukee, and it shows.)

It is one of the best ever "c'mon baby, we're both virgins but we should totally fuck right now" songs, building on a tradition of decades of songs that were more circumspect and less overtly horny to be clearly the next stage, the punk stage in that tradition.

But I look at your pants and I need I need a kiss
Why can't I get just one screw?
Why can't I get just one screw?
Believe me I know what to do
But something won't let me make love to you

The Femmes had a magnificent sound as well - punky but acoustic, propulsive and demanding, stark and loud and true, the sound of three guys committing totally to this song in this moment with their minimal gear and their raw energy. I think their longer early songs, especially this one and Kiss Off, give them the best scope to explore all the aspects of that sound - both also have excellent live versions on that Add It Up compilation.

Rock and roll is about fucking, when you come right down to it: it's why so many parents and bluestockings tried to ban it for so long. (Not just rock and roll, of course: vast swaths of popular music are about fucking; people like fucking.) And this is deeply in that tradition, late enough that it can be much more obvious about it than, say My Ding-a-Ling.

So, in your own life, when you need to make a life-changing decision, stop and

Wait a minute honey
I'm gonna add it up

Saturday, December 13, 2025

Quote of the Week, Supplemental: You See But You Do Not Observe

People who know magic isn't real look straight at a ghost and see a flapping bed sheet. They deal with an irrefutable demonstration of how things really are the way an oyster deals with a speck of grit. The truth gets coated in a hard, shiny shell that can be worn proudly. A pearl is a lie you can roll between your teeth.

 - Kim Newman, Something More Than Night, p.37

Quote of the Week: A Lesson for Life

Realists are always getting intro trouble. They miss the sweet, easy victories of the daydreamer.

 - James Thurber, "The Case for the Daydreamer," pp.325 in Writings and Drawings

Friday, December 12, 2025

Something More Than Night by Kim Newman

There's more than a little discussion of the differences between mystery and horror in Kim Newman's 2021 novel Something More Than Night. Which is appropriate, because the book itself somewhat tries to split the difference - though, in the end, it falls solidly into horror, with the actions of the protagonists not being dispositive, with big set-piece scenes that run on for shock and effect, with pure monsters and their makers, with mad science and shocking transformations and deep lore and unpleasant truths about the way the world really is.

It also may be part of a longer sequence of Newman's works - there's a secondary antagonist, or maybe I mean a higher-level antagonist, named Ariadne, who appears on stage briefly only once but who is said to be something like the source of all evil in the world and who was part of a (mentioned but not narrated) major transformative event for our two main characters in their youth.

Frankly, for quite a while, Something More Than Night reads like maybe the fourth or fifth book in a series, with references to previous adventures and that origin story involving Ariadne. It's not, as far as I can tell - it seems to stand alone - but if Ariadne turns up in other Newman works, that could explain some of the odd aspects of the book.

This is a high-concept secret-history book, somewhat in the Tim Powers mode: famous people battling supernatural dangers in ways that illuminate their work in the real world. The famous people this time are author Raymond Chandler and actor Boris Karloff, who were English schoolboys at the same time in the same town, though they went to different schools. (Karloff was Billy Pratt in those days - Hollywood changes so many names along the way.) The third main character is their friend and mentor Joh Devlin, a DA investigator-turned-PI.

The three, in Newman's fictional world, spent much of the Thirties investigating creepy cases, in between their better-known work, and stopping at least a few fiends in human form. There's no specifics of supernatural elements mentioned about those previous cases, but there's no reason to believe they weren't supernatural, either. The mysterious, ages-old femme fatale Ariadne - who was invoked at some kind of ritual when Ray and Billy were schoolboys, at which they were among, and possibly the only, survivors - is behind some or most or all of these events, though we don't learn who she is or what she does or even what kind of a creature (vampire? goddess? human with mesmeric powers? something different or older?) she is.

We hope, in the early pages of this novel, that Something will be the story of their final confrontation with Ariadne, and to end with revelations to explain all of that. It is not, and does not. Hence my thinking that Ariadne is something like Brust's Devera: a motif or linking element more than an element of this novel.

Something also has an odd structure: it flashes back and forth multiple times, with a lot of sections of wildly different lengths, and jumps from mostly following Chandler's first-person narration to a couple of long chapters in third-person from Devlin's point of view. It's set in the late Thirties, it says, but the two main time periods seem to both be after The Big Sleep was published, and that was February of 1939.

Anyway, after the novel itself does some obfuscation with the timeline and sets up things that it doesn't entirely plan to explain, we settle into the main plot: Devlin pulls in Chandler and "Karloff" to investigate Ward Home Junior, a movie mogul and scion of a oil family - Newman is loading both barrels to show this guy is stereotypically California rich - who was just in some kind of a bizarre accident at his palatial home in the sprawling Home compound.

It turns out that Home's pet doctor Vaudois and the doctor's oversized, creepy assistant Norman Quin have developed a mad-science device for transferring "special abilities" - in this case, mostly side-show-freak things like quick healing or super flexibility - from one person to another. And the major test of that device left Home on fire, so that he's now recuperating at the Lamia Munro Clinic, also part of the Home compound.

First Devlin investigates the basement laboratory of Home's house - which is as full of horrors as might be expected, and where he learns that only one other subject survived the experiment, a woman now calling herself Laurel Ives, whose "special abilities" aren't exactly detailed but seem to include some manner of extended life or limited vulnerability.

(She also does not seem to have lost this ability from the experiment, though we see later in the book that abilities are taken away during the transference procedure with another character. I'm not sure if that's a plot hole, meant to be a clue as to "Ives's" true nature, or something else.)

Soon afterward, Chandler and Karloff go to the Munro Clinic, where they rapidly get in over their heads: Home is not only not in a coma, he's healthier than ever before, close to a foot taller, and possessed of near-superpowers. It all leads up to a big scene in a courtyard in the rain, where Karloff gets some special abilities himself, but our heroes do, eventually, get away, after yet more horror-movie scenes.

As I said, this is a horror story, so our main characters don't gather their forces and battle the monsters to save the world - that would be fantasy. They also don't find out exactly how it works, figure out how to counter it, and do so - that would be a thriller. And they don't gather evidence and present it to some authority who can shut down Home - that would be a mystery.

What they do is lie low and hope not to get killed, with a few more sections with varying timeframes finally coming back to the cliffhanger established way back at the beginning of the book. There is a more-or-less happy ending, but in the dying-fall mode: the characters don't initiate it, or have much to do with it, but they do realize that things have worked out in their favor, and are able to brush their hands together, say "well, that's that, then" and end the novel cleanly.

It's not the most satisfying ending one could have hoped for. Ariadne is resolutely not explained, let alone defeated. Home won't be a problem going forward, we think, but there's no reason the process his minions developed can't be used again, by just about anyone. Think of it as a sequel hook, if that makes it better, I suppose.

On the positive side, Newman does a good mock-Chandler throughout - it's not the same voice Chandler used to write his novels, but it feels authentic and has quite a bit of fine writing of its own. Newman's characters, though sometimes types - especially his villains - are interesting and well-drawn, and the central relationship between Chandler and Karloff is well-depicted and plausible. Something More Than Night, I found, is over-complicated in the telling and full of things that don't seem to begin or end in this book, but, all in all, it's a pleasant historical horror novel that does what it sets out to do: tell an untold, unexpected story of the friendship of Raymond Chandler and Boris Karloff.

Thursday, December 11, 2025

Dear Beloved Stranger by Dino Pai

Everyone has one book in them, they say. Usually the "how I got here" story - whatever was unique or special or striking about childhood or life in general. I don't think that's dismissive; I like to think of it as celebratory: everyone can make at least one work of art, if they put in the time and effort and have the drive.

And when I come across a book that is "how I got here," I wonder if this was the one book, or the springboard to a continuing career.

Dino Pai's first major work was the 2013 graphic novel Dear Beloved Stranger. It's somewhat autobiographical: Pai was a new graduate from art school, and his central character here is a new art school graduate named Dino. I never want to assume with semi-autobiographical stories, though: "semi" is a huge territory, and just using your own name doesn't mean any particular moment or thought is taken from life.

Stranger is largely about the desire to create: Dino is out of school, looking for a job without much luck so far, and feeling stuck. So he starts making a story, after running into former classmate Cathy. That story is the story we're reading, more or less, framed by letters to an unnamed "Dear Beloved Stranger." I thought there was going to be some romantic tension with Cathy, or that she was the one Dino was writing to - I'm not sure if that was my misreading, Pai making that a possibility deliberately, or an unfortunate choice in the work.

But Cathy is really just the catalyst here, so making her an attractive classmate, of the gender Dino is attracted to, feels like a distraction - she could have been a male classmate, or a teacher, or some other mentor, and that would have made that role more distinct from the "Dear Beloved Stranger." (Of course, maybe the answer is Pai wanted that ambiguity, or simply that "Cathy" was the real person in Pai's actual life, and that bit is less "semi" and more fully autobiographical.)

The book is in multiple sections, in somewhat different art styles: the story of the young artist Dino, the work he's creating, and how they merge together in the end. Pai moves from mostly greyish tones for the "real" scenes and soft colors for the fantasy sequences, both with an attractively detailed, just-this-side-of-fussy style.

We do learn who the stranger is in the end; I won't spoil that here. It's personal and important for Dino, and probably equally so for the real Pai, but I did wish it had been weaved in earlier in the book, and that Cathy wasn't there as such an obvious red herring. But the story is satisfying; we feel for Dino and think that Pai did well in this first major work.

And if we then search to see what he's done since - which I did - we find that he's mostly been working in animation since then, making stories, but that he seems to have done some comics as well. I'm always happy to see that: I want creators to keep creating, for the people who make "here's how I broke through and actually started making art" stories to keep doing that, in whatever ways they can and want to. So Dear Beloved Stranger was the beginning, but there's more after it: this launched Dino Pai, and he's been going since then.

Wednesday, December 10, 2025

The Interview by Manuelle Fior

With some creators, you hit the piece you love the most first, and spend the rest of your time wandering through their work, looking for something else that will give you that same sense of energy and power.

Manuele Fior is one of those for me: I've enjoyed all of his books since, but nothing has hit me like 5,000 km per second. He's a somewhat cerebral and assured maker of comics, working in soft tones (in this case, of blacks and greys, but more recently in color), who often uses SFnal themes in his work in a matter-of-fact, sophisticated way. I'd still send new readers to 5k kmps, but science fiction readers in particular will find a lot of interest in books like Celestia and Blackbird Days.

And also this one: The Interview, originally published in 2013 and translated by Jamie Richards for this 2017 American edition.

Like many of Fior's works, it's SFnal, set in 2048. Somewhere in Italy, Raniero is a fiftyish psychologist - he works from a hospital in the city, but lives in a suburban home, out in a zone not entirely safe since the unspecified Uprisings not too long ago. We think the Uprisings were pretty major - there are hints that Italy, or all of Europe, is now Balkanized - but Fior doesn't explain when or how or what it was. There was a major political/social disjunction, maybe a few years back, and it is still reverberating.

One of the reverberations is The New Convention, a movement among the younger generation. There is a manifesto laying out the principles, and we hear a bit about that - it sounds strident and demanding and visionary, all in ways that seem deeply unrealistic to those not committed to it, in the ways of all manifestos. The main tenets, or the ones that outsiders focus on, are the rejection of monogamy - the book description calls it "free love and alternative models to coupling and family." So not quite '60s communalism come again, but something very close - New Conventioneers seem to live in groups as well.

New Convention seems to be a positive, loving thing - all of those twenty-somethings fucking each other in whatever permutations they want, whenever they want - but there is also random violence in this world, with gangs of house-breakers roaming the now-dangerous suburbs, and it's not clear if they are connected to New Convention by anything but their shared youth.

One evening, Rainero is driving home, talking on his phone with a colleague. He sees something mysterious in the sky, glowing inverted pyramids or triangles. He crashes his car, runs out to see the apparition. He doesn't tell his wife Nadia about the vision, or his friend Franco who comes out to their house that night to tow the car away for repair.

But the next day, he has a new patient: a young woman, Dora, one of the New Convention. She's been institutionalized by her parents, because she claims to be telepathic, to be in communication with aliens. She says she sees them, glowing pyramids in the sky - most recently the night before.

Meanwhile, Raniero's wife Nadia is separating from him. We don't know exactly why, but we think Raniero has been distant, and maybe too much living in the past - the suburban house, the gas-powered old-fashioned car. She's picking out a new apartment in the city, and he goes with her to look at it. They're separating, but it's a polite, quiet, civilized separation - maybe because it's not inevitable, maybe because she hopes he can change, maybe because a dozen maybes. But she's moving out.

Before she goes, though, their suburban home is attacked by masked criminals one night - they are tied up, roughed up, Nadia threatened with rape, jewelry and valuables stolen. The thugs seem to have been sent specifically by someone - they say to each other that they were told not to hurt the couple too much.

Through these days, Raniero works with Dora, talks with her - about her "delusions," about the Convention. She's said to be very beautiful, though the way Fior draws her - that's her on the cover, big nose and all - does not strike me as notably attractive. Raniero is sexually attracted to her, of course - and, as part of the Convention, we suppose she's interested on some level. (The promiscuous must always want to have sex with us, right? Since we are clearly wonderful and special, since we are us.)

Events escalate. Raniero meets other members of Dora's communal living group, learns more about the Convention and what Dora thinks the aliens want her to do. And the pyramids come back, in a major way, in larger numbers, so that no one can deny they exist.

But The Interview, the bulk of it, is not the story of the world or the aliens - it's Raniero's story, of how meeting Dora, working with her, seeing the glowing pyramids, changed him, diverted his life. So the main story ends with him, with the decisions he made.

Well, I say his decisions - Fior might not agree. There's a coda at the end, that provides the title: it's a hundred years later, and Dora is being interviewed as a beloved, respected, world-famous leader. Her telepathy is now ubiquitous, and it's implied that human relationships are vastly different, now that everyone can read minds - this seems to be more of a "flash of insight" telepathy than a "I can see all your thoughts in real time" telepathy, but I don't put too much weight on that distinction. Over time insights build on each other.

The world seems civilized and stable; we hope it's better than our own, or the world we saw in 2048. The people in it think the aliens didn't mean to do anything - if they even were intelligent aliens, not just some bizarre natural phenomenon - but the glowing pyramids, whatever they were, just passed through our space, and caused changes in their wake.

The Interview is a book full of ideas and thoughts: like a lot of Fior, it will not explain or declaim those ideas. They're in the weave, to be plucked out and examined, intrinsically part of the story. This one might not have grabbed me quite as deeply as 5k kmps, but it's a deep, thoughtful, capacious SF story with a depth of nuance and gesture rare in comics.

Tuesday, December 09, 2025

The Last Flower by James Thurber

This is the second of what will be four or five posts on the Library of America James Thurber Writings and Drawings volume. I'm reading it in chunks, since I'm not the man that can go straight through a thousand-page book these days, and most of those chunks are excerpts from the various books Thurber published, because LoA didn't want to put out a multi-volume complete Thurber for whatever reason (I'm guessing budget or space on the list or a sense of his importance; mostly likely a combination of all three).

The first post was titled after The Seal in the Bedroom and My Life and Hard Times. This one is slightly sillier, since I'm going to write about two hundred-odd pages of Thurber under the name of a short fabulistic drawn book from the eve of WWII. The Last Flower is available as a separate book, if you want it that way.

See that first post for more details on Thurber and the LoA book, if you care.

The clump I got to this time is from the late Thirties: extensive selections from the two collections The Middle-Aged Man on the Flying Trapeze and Let Your Mind Alone!, and then Last Flower itself.

Middle-Aged Man is a mixture of fiction and non-fiction - or, rather, has a bunch of stories about mostly married couples, some of which are explicitly framed as reminiscences of Thurber, and some of which have characters described in the third person and given other names. They're all in the same tone and style, all in that Thurber voice, and they work well together as a collection. (I have no idea how much else was in the original book, or how similar it was; compiler Garrison Keillor edited out some unknown amount of material from all of these books to fit it into a single LoA volume.) There are a few autobiographical pieces that are not about men and women, too, I should mention. Particularly the famous "If Grant Had Been Drinking at Appomattox," which many readers may have found in some anthology somewhere or other.

Let Your Mind Alone! is a somewhat more themed collection - the full title includes and Other More or Less Inspirational Pieces. Let Your Mind Alone! itself is a series of ten linked essays about a bunch of then-well-known pop-psychology books; Thurber returns to the same four or five writers repeatedly over the course of the series. All the books seem to be in the "how to be happy" mode, aimed at a relatively affluent, urban, educated audience - I'm pretty sure this series of essays was in The New Yorker originally; it's exactly that sort of audience - and Thurber takes a very dim view of all of their recommendations and ideas. It's amusing, but not particularly relevant, ninety years later - we've had at least a dozen different pop-psych phases since then, and this one is quite musty and unfamiliar, although the general outlines don't change all that much.

Also from Let Your Mind Alone! comes eight miscellaneous pieces - pretty much along the same lines as the ones in Middle-Aged Man, and equally amusing. These tend to skew more towards autobiography, though it also included one of Thurber's best-known man/woman stories, "The Breaking Up of the Winships."

And then The Last Flower was published in November of 1939, and apparently made very quickly just before that time: it could be seen as a very early graphic novel, telling its story with one big image to each page with a caption underneath. (The alternative interpretation is that it's a picture-book format, like so many books for children, only this one is for an adult audience.) It starts in the aftermath of "World War XII," which led to the collapse of civilization. Most of humanity is full of anomie and despair, for the usual fabulist unspecified period of time, but one young woman and one young man nurture the last flower in the world, which leads to the rebirth of civilization...and, then, inevitably, to the next world war, which reduces the world to only one man, one woman, and one flower.

I see that Last Flower is generally considered guardedly optimistic, even with its cyclical destruction. But I instead see escalation in it: WW XII destroys civilization but leaves a large number of people alive to go on; WW XIII kills all but two people. Clearly, to my pessimistic mind, the next cycle will finish the job entirely.

Thurber is a somewhat limited writer: he had a distinctive style and set of concerns (Last Flower is mostly outside of those, though, I should say) which he turned into a stream of amusing and thoughtful pieces for about thirty years. For most of us, a thousand pages of Thurber would be too much all at once, but two hundred pages or so - like I did this time - is a fine dose, and I recommend it.