Tuesday, January 06, 2026

The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe by D.G. Compton

Some SF novels seem to predict the world we actually got, and are brought back out of the depths and lauded for that, as if being right was the point of fiction. I wonder if it bothers the traditionalists that those novels tend to have been the quirky, oddball ones when they were new - so much Philip K. Dick reads like reportage these days, minus the occasional thriller plot elements.

The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe is one of those books: a 1974 near-future SF novel by the British writer D.G. Compton, published in the US as The Unsleeping Eye and filmed a few years later as Death Watch. It's set in the media landscape of the time, so some elements are old-fashioned - TV shows are broadcast at a particular time, and only seen in whole on big screens, for one major issue - but the depiction of a type of reality show, and how the public reacts to it, is true and prescient and starkly crisp. And its psychology, as Jeff VanderMeer notes in the introduction in the edition I read, is deep and nuanced and masterful.

Continuous has two main characters; I'll get to the title character second. Roddie is a reporter for the major outlet NTV in near-future Britain. He's recently had a major operation to install a TV camera in his eyes; we don't get the exact details, but it captures everything he sees and somehow transmits back to his company. He has additional tech for capturing sound; how exactly it works is not important. This is new technology, and a secret: NTV hopes to launch it in the world with a spectacular new series of some kind. Roddie is a rising star, and narrates his sections in first person.

Katherine is seen in third person. She's a middle-aged woman working in publishing - for Computabook, more-or-less creating complex AI prompts and then editing the output into a stream of romance novels that will be published under house names. This world has the usual '70s contract marriage with specific terms; her first marriage ended after the initial five-year term, and she's now remarried to Harold Clegg.

The time period is fuzzy: let's say two generations after it was written, but with no details of the geopolitical or even the UK-governance situation. Call it 2024 if you want; that's reasonable. It's not our 2024, because it never is in fiction. In this world, phones are still corded '70s tech and computers have somewhat enhanced capabilities but are still floor-filling '70s mainframes. But biotech has advanced much further, as we see with Roddie's eyes. In fact, it's advanced so far that it's vanishingly rare for anyone to die of any reason besides old age - diseases and syndromes and conditions can pretty much all be managed and cured, other than a tiny handful of exceptions. (Presumably, violent death, from accident or deliberate action, can't be guarded against in the same way, but Continuous isn't about that kind of death, so we don't learn the details.)

Katherine is called in to see Dr. Mason, her usual doctor. Behind a one-way glass are Roddie and his boss, Vincent Ferriman, a powerful producer at NTV. She's told that she has a terminal disease, that there is no possible cure. The details are a bit fuzzy as Compton tells it - a long list of symptoms he mostly glosses over, and an overall description that, frankly, read to this reader like bullshit. (Later in the novel, there's a reason for that - I won't explain further, but it does sound like bullshit, and that's on purpose.) She has perhaps four weeks to live, and might rapidly decline during that time.

Ferriman wants to give Katherine a contract; she'll make a small fortune by being the center of a "Human Destiny" TV show for as long as she lives. Roddie will film it; at some point they'll explain his eyes but maybe not at first. Ferriman intends to reach out to her later that day; he does contact her husband Harold before she even comes home from work for the day. He also - we infer from other things - leaks this story, with a garbled version of Katherine's name, which makes other media outlets start nosing around Katherine almost immediately. "Terminals" are media sensations: we don't get a good sense of how many there are, or how often, but they seem rare - one or two a year, perhaps, so surprising and novel and exciting every time.

Continuous is broken into eight sections, each named after a day, from Tuesday to Tuesday. We follow Roddie and Katherine, first separately and then eventually together, as they live through the media frenzy and navigate their changing lives. The world is fairly utopian, but we see mostly the underside of it - rapacious media packs, the "fringies" who have dropped out of normal life, protestors and youth gangs and sex cults.

Katherine doesn't want to sign with NTV - to sign with anyone, since it's basically a given (at least from the media companies) that she will sign an exclusive contract with someone to broadcast the details of her dying. She wants to stay private, not to be splashed all over the media. And her actions are mostly driven by trying to subvert that expectation, to get away from the camera eye and the public scrutiny, in a world where all of the forces push the opposite direction.

Roddie is more conflicted. He wants to make a great TV show, but he also wants to present "the true, continuous Katherine Mortenhoe" - to show her as she is, in context of her whole life, in a way she would recognize and agree with, and yet also be a big media splash in the way the audience wants. The reader might suspect Roddie can't possibly get what he wants, and might not like or trust him, particularly as he meets Katherine and doesn't tell her who is is or how his eyes work.

But, in the end, they do meet. Katherine does run away. It does all get televised. And it does end, for both of them, strongly and inevitably. Continuous is a novel about people, the kind of SF book where the technology is there to heighten the human drama, to make choices and options starker and crisper, and a book that does a great job of delineating those people, making them real and true, conflicted and contingent, specific and particular.

Monday, January 05, 2026

All of This and Nothing: The Driver

"All of This and Nothing" 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, Portions For Foxes, or Better Things series. It alternates between Obscure and Famous songs; feel free to argue either way if you're so inclined. See the introduction for more.

I don't know who Andrew Deadman is. I half-suspect that's a stage name, or otherwise not the name he was born with - but I don't know. The world is large and contains multitudes.

I got his record Santa Monica Airport 1987 around when it was released in 2019 - probably as a publicity thing. (Yes, I get music for publicity purposes. I find it hard to believe myself; I can't see how I've ever been useful in the slightest to publicize anything.) It's a solid record, atmospheric and discursive, all supporting Deadman's tense, cracking voice.

My favorite song from that record is The Driver, the story (true or false or fictionalized) of one ride in a car, from somewhere to somewhere. Like a lot of the obscure songs I like, this year and previously, the lyrics don't exist anywhere online I can find.

So I'm sitting here typing, listening to the guitar solo at around three minutes in, wondering how much I want to try to transcribe lyrics myself. Maybe just the chorus; that's always a good thing. Maybe that's what I want to leave you with.

Driver please
I'm too young to be bleeding
Dead on the side of the road
And I'll take what you give me
I will take what you give me
As long as I live 'till I'm old

Sunday, January 04, 2026

Books Read: December 2025

As always, this is mostly an index, mostly for me, and not-particularly-useful until the posts actually go live and I come back and update this. (And that will be roughly six weeks from now; I'm running about that far ahead.)

René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo, Asterix and Cleopatra (12/6)

George O'Connor, Asgardians: Loki (12/7)

Mervyn Peake, Mr. Pye (12/11)

Wiley Miller, The Non Sequitur Guide to Finance (digital, 12/13)

Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell, The Joy of Snacking (digital, 12/14)

Ana Ocina, Croquette & Empanada: A Love Story (digital, 12/20)

James Thurber, The 13 Clocks (in Writings & Drawings, 12/20)

John Allison and Max Sarin, The Great British Bump-Off: Kill or Be Quilt (digital, 12/21)

Jason, Death in Trieste (digital, 12/24)

Jack Vance, Wyst: Alastor 1716 (in Alastor)

Roger Langridge and Ryan Ferrier, Criminy (digital, 12/25)

Jeff Lemire, Fishflies (digital, 12/26)

Edward Welch, ed., Captain Cuttle's Mailbag (12/26)

Sergio Aragonés, Louder Than Words, Actions Speak (digital, 12/27)

Gilbert Hernandez, Lovers and Haters (digital, 12/28)

Evelyn Waugh, Robbery Under Law (in Waugh Abroad, 12/28)

Kazuo Koike & Goseki Kojima, Lone Wolf & Cub, Vol.8: Chains of Death (digital, 12/29)

Kenji Tsurata, Wandering Island, Vol.2 (digital, 12/30)

Stan Sakai, Usagi Yojimbo, Book 9: Daisho (digital, 12/31)

Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye (in Later Novels & Other Writings, 12/31)


I plan to keep reading books in 2026. Not all my plans come true, but I'm pretty sure that one will.

Reviewing the Mail: Week of January 3, 2026

This year, I got one book as a Christmas present - and it wasn't even something I bought for myself! (I got myself a computer, which is why I didn't buy myself any books.)

So this notice is actually a week late, because I've been busy being on vacation the past week or so.

The book is Mystery Science Theater 3000: A Cultural History, part of a larger series of books about notable TV shows from the Rowman & Littlefield publishing house. This one is written by Matt Foy and Christopher J. Olson, both academics who seem to specialize in TV and TV-adjacent studies. It sounds a lot like The Worst We Can Find, a different history of MST3K I read in mid-2025, so I suppose I should get to  it quickly enough that I can compare the two in my head.

How many histories of a basic-cable comedy puppet show does the world need? As with anything else: it's not a question of need, it's about who wants to do it and if they can get it published. And at least these two did - I bet there are several more, too.

Saturday, January 03, 2026

Quote of the Week: Tell Us What You Really Think

Hugo Gernsback? That son of a bitch. I never dealt with him, not with the rates he paid. Every time I see someone being awarded a Hugo I see the biggest fraud, swindler, chickenshit fucking scoundrel ever in the business. He's the only editor I've ever known, or known of, who so fully deserved these understatements of mine.

 - E. Hoffman Price, Space Ships! Ray Guns! Martian Octopods! edited by Richard Wolinsky, p.9

Friday, January 02, 2026

Jim Henson's The Musical Monsters of Turkey Hollow adapted by Roger Langridge

I knew I was going to be writing this post on Thanksgiving morning, so I picked an appropriate book. Of course, since time flows forward, you're reading this much later, untethered from any holiday (unless you celebrate Three Kings' Day, in which case, go you), but that's the reason for it.

Jim Henson was the kind of creative personality who generated a lot of ideas. My sense is that most of them never happened; I don't know what that meant for his focus on the projects that did happen, but the work was generally top-quality, so I don't suppose it matters. He generally worked with screenwriter Jerry Juhl, who put Henson ideas into a usable form, and they were credited together with scripts for a lot of projects that did come to fruition.

As well as a lot of things that are still sitting in trunks at the Henson Company, or Disney, or wherever.

One of those was a script from the late '60s for a Thanksgiving special, to include both Muppets and live-action actors. So not quite an early precursor to Emmett Otter's Jug-Band Christmas, but clearly coming from the same strand of Henson's creative output. The special was never made; it's '60s enough that I doubt it ever would get made now.

But, about ten years ago, the Jim Henson Company decided, for whatever reason, they wanted to get this project out into the world somehow, and connected with cartoonist Roger Langridge. Langridge took the Henson/Juhl script, turned it into four issues of comics, and drew it all, with colors by Ian Herring.

And that's how we got to Jim Henson's The Musical Monsters of Turkey Hollow.

Somewhere fairly rural in New England, in a region with a lot of turkey farms, is the small town of Turkey Hollow. Living there is Timmy Henderson, a boy who wants to learn to play his guitar but is finding it difficult, his hippie-ish older sister Ann, their aunt and guardian Clytemnestra, the grocer/mayor/sheriff/postmaster Grover Cowley, and nasty evil landowner Eldridge Sump.

Sump wants to drive the Hendersons from their land, for the usual I'm-evil, I-want-to-take-everything reasons in stories for children. He is thoroughly one-note, and you probably can already picture him in your mind: black clothes, white hair, little round glasses, goatee, sharp face, always scowling and declaiming.

Timmy is out practicing his guitar in the woods one day near Thanksgiving, and a meteor - which we saw crash-land three hundred years earlier in a prologue - opens, with five furry "monsters" emerging. They don't talk, but they're musical Muppets - each one makes a particular sound/note, and they help him with his song. He tries to hide the monsters from everyone else, but Ann and Aunt Cly soon find out, and love them just as much as he does, including at least one musical number. (This was going to be a musical, so the cast breaks into song every ten pages or so.)

Meanwhile, Sump has heard the monsters, and wants to use them to force the Hendersons off their land. He's also got a plot - possibly originally unrelated - to steal all of the other turkeys from all of his neighbors for unspecified reasons, which he puts into action, framing the monsters. The monsters are thrown into jail for eating turkeys, even though we readers know they only eat rocks.

Timmy helps the monsters escape jail - because it's difficult to hold rock-eating monsters in a stone building - and it all comes to a head on Thanksgiving, with a thug hired by Sump running around with a shotgun trying to kill the monsters, Grover investigating both real crimes and the ones Sump alleges, and other tomfoolery.

In the end, there's a song, good wins out, and the missing turkeys are found unharmed and stolen in Sump's house - so they can all be slaughtered and eaten in the final scene. (I mean, yes, that's how it works, but you don't expect it to be so blatant in a story for kids.) Oh, and Grover finally admits he's hot for Aunt Cly, so they start dating.

This would have been a perfectly cromulent 1968 TV special, which would have been re-run annually for much of the '70s and then probably half-forgotten, with revivals now and then. It wasn't, but it's a comic now, so that's close enough. It's not a lost classic, but it's a very Henson-y thing, with all of the music and found-family stuff, and this package also includes photos of the puppets Henson's team built for the network presentations back in 1968 and some other historical material, which adds to the package.

If you're looking for a Thanksgiving-themed comic to read - and I was - there's not a lot to choose from, but this is a solid choice. Langridge always does good work, particularly when trying to depict music on the page or when doing Muppet-adjacent stories, so this fits well with his strengths.

Thursday, January 01, 2026

All of This and Nothing: An Introduction

I've been posting one song every Monday for three years now; I suppose it's now a tradition of the blog.

The series for 2023 was This Year, inspired by something John Scalzi did in a single post the end of the year before: one song for each year of my life, each by a different artist, each song somehow important to me. I followed that up with Portions for Foxes in 2024, which was all women: solo artists and women-led bands, to try to make up for what was a bit of a sausage-fest the first year. Last year was Better Things, which continued to follow the only-different-artists paradigm, with largely songs I'd considered for the first two years but didn't manage to fit in.

Each yearly series, as you might be able to guess, had a title song - one that wasn't part of the general schema, but was thematically important in some way, or (maybe more accurately) was a way for me to cram one more song in when the choosing got difficult. 

I wanted to keep going in 2026, and keep the only-different-artists thing going for one more year. So I ran through a few ideas - first Instrumentals (not enough different artists, and I'd want to showcase weird songs by people I already listed anyway). I thought about cover songs, which had the same issue - a fair list wouldn't be all different artists.

Then I toyed with a series of "Second Songs" - the other songs by bands I've already featured once. And that might come up next year.

But, instead, I ended up going with a double theme, or a theme that is two sides of the same coin. With a lot of the songs in the back half of 2025, I found myself musing about which ones were famous and which ones were obscure - and sometimes wondering why that happened for a particular song, or if, maybe, something I thought was obscure was actually well-known.

So this year will alternate - obscure songs with famous ones, back and forth through the weeks of the year.

And the title song - which is not part of the series, but defines it in some odd, indescribable way, is another obscure one (of course), The Psychedelic Furs with a sad, lamenting look back at something completely broken: All of This and Nothing. The Furs themselves are not obscure - I hope, even this many years later - but this song is, which I guess makes it right as the exemplar song for this year's series.

Favorite Books of the Year: 2025

Every year, I post a list of the books I liked best the previous year, early on the New Year's morning. Some years I've read less, and kept it simple, but usually I pick a book as a favorite for each month (and some also-rans worth mentioning) and pull them all together at the end into a list.

First, though, I like including long lists of links, so here are all of the previous installments: 20242023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, and 2005.

And then, before I get into the list: I'm idiosyncratic, and I feel the need to explain those idiosyncrasies every year, so....

Rules & Explanations:

  • This list is finalized on December 31 on purpose; it includes everything I read this year. I occasionally cast shade on people who do "best of the year" lists as early as Halloween; they are slackers and will get theirs eventually.
  • These are favorites, not "best." I can't define "best." I can define "favorite."
  • This is not separated or compartmentalized by genre; it's based on everything I read. Maybe that means I'm lazy, maybe it means I reject tired genre dichotomies: you decide.
  • Each month gets some also-rans; the bolded book is the favorite.
  • I try to chose new(ish) books for the favorites, so this is roughly similar to the big fancy lists; it doesn't always work. My reading is not at all focused on newly-published books, to begin with - that would be nice, and the part of me that used to work in publishing wishes I was still doing that, but I just don't read enough anymore, or in that focused a way.

But Why?

I didn't have some specific reason, originally, for making my list this way - it seemed like a reasonable way to organize a list, maybe a little idiosyncratic, certainly, but defensible. As the years have gone on, making those weird, particular choices for each month loom larger, and have become a more central part of the process. For example: if I read only books that vaguely annoyed me in a given month, how do I pick a "favorite?"

I'm ambivalent about the idea of literary standards to begin with - they've been used as a cudgel often against the kinds of books I like (not to mention all of the other problems with canon-making, starting with which groups are allowed to be part of it and how they get in) - while at the same time I do think there are aspects of a work that can be clearly done badly or well. There are standards, on some level, which I do think serious readers can identify and note. 

At the same time, lousy things can on occasion be a lot of fun, and well-executed works can be tedious, horrible bilge not worth reading. (cf. Henry James) And I didn't have any interest in celebrating the worthy but dull.

So I wanted to do a list, and I wanted it to have rules that constrained it - but not the same rules as anyone else. These rules grew up as I was doing it, mostly that first year, and have been tweaked since then but are still recognizably the same. So that's why there's twelve, and why each month is its own little competition - because listing favorites for a year is already artificial to begin with, so why not emphasize that artificiality?

January

The last few years, I've been reading a lot of older books - that's good for my reading things I actually enjoy (at least most of the time), but it's bad for this list. Maybe some year I'll break down and say some of my favorite books of a given year are decades old, but I don't think I'm there yet.

Still - I did read a bunch of older, excellent books this year. I started the year reading about a corrupt political establishment and a weird, twisty election in A.J. Liebling's classic book of reportage The Earl of Louisiana, for reasons I think I can leave unstated. Later in January, I got to Stewart O'Nan's first novel, the seasonally appropriate Snow Angels, and also continued a vague project to re-read a lot of Jack Vance, starting his "Tschai" novels with City of the Chasch. (I read the rest of the Tschai books and the three Alastor novels in 2025.)

I also noticed that George O'Connor had started what will be a four-book series of graphic novels (officially for younger readers, but don't let that scare you) and got to the first one, Odin, in January and two more (the ones already published) before the year ended.

But the favorite for the month was a new graphic novel by the unique Carol Lay, My Time Machine, which also - to loop back to Liebling - had a lot of relevance to the world we find ourselves in.

February

Starting with old things again, I continued a re-read of Raymond Chandler's novels (as I type this, I'm just a bit into The Long Goodbye, which I should finish before the year ends) with Farewell, My Lovely this month. They're favorites, but, again, it's not fair to claim anything seven decades old for this year.

Not quite as old, and just as much a favorite, was Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli's Batman: Year One, which sent me, a bit later in the year, into re-reading Miller's Daredevil as well.

Even newer - only about a decade old, and new to me - was a fine and visually stunning graphic novel about Brian Epstein, Vivek J. Tiwary and Andrew C. Robinson's The Fifth Beatle. I liked it but didn't love it, and thought it had more than a bit of special pleading.

Two other things that I can't quite call my favorites, for different reasons: Axelle Lenoir's fun collection What If We Were.... is enough not-quite-new that I have to make it an also-ran, and Cathy Malkasian's Percy Gloom is both a bit too old to be a 2025 favorite and quirky in ways that sometimes set my teeth on edge (which I'm finding common with Malkasian - she's a very particular creator with definite strengths, so I want to both read her books closely and argue with them intensely).

The favorite for the month is partly a sentimental favorite - Daniel Pinkwater had a new novel this year, the middle-grade story Jules, Penny, and the Rooster. I don't want to say that any new Pinkwater book would automatically be a favorite, but it's close to that - he's such a unique writer, who I've been reading since I was a middle-grade myself, and this is yet another fine bit of Pinkwateriana for brighten the world a bit.

March

My list of possibilities this month is entirely "old," so my favorite will end up being not as new as I would like. Maybe the way to figure out which one it should be is to start from the oldest books. 

I dug back into a big omnibus of Evelyn Waugh travel books by reading Remote People, the story of his trip to see Haile Selassie crowned King of Abyssina, and read a bunch more in that book later in the year - most of it deeply entertaining, even as Waugh was full of opinions and ideas I can't quite bring myself to agree with.

I re-read David Goodis's fine noir novel Down There, which I think I read in a big bunch of Goodis twenty-five years or so ago, so it was time enough to get back to it.

I found and read two good books of memoir this month: Louise Brooks' collection of essays about her time making movies, Lulu in Hollywood, and the newspaperwoman Helene Stapinski's memoir about her childhood in Jersey City, Five-Finger Discount.

I've been reading Julian Hanshaw's graphic novels as I've found them - he's a quirky, specific creator with something new to say in each book so far, which I appreciate. This month, I made my way back to his 2018 book Cloud Hotel.

And I've been spending the year reading the fine Freddy Lombard books of Yves Chaland, who died unexpectedly and far too young around thity years ago. The one that's the most impressive is right in the middle, and that will take pride of place for this month: Freddy Lombard, Vol. 3: The Comet of Carthage.

April

A few years later than I expected, I re-read Gene Wolfe's quirky sequel to his "Book of the New Sun" series, The Urth of the New Sun, which I found just as quirky this time around.

Also a few years old, but new to me, was Daria Tessler's semi-wordless (there's no dialogue, but a lot of in-world text) graphic novel Cult of the Ibis, which is deeply quirky in its own way.

For newer things, I read two very different, interesting, good graphic novels: Michael Avon Oeming's moody medieval supernatural tale William of Newbury and Craig Thompson's massive autobiographical Ginseng Roots.

The most impressive book of the month - it's a tough read, and about horrible things at times, so I don't want to say "favorite" quite as strongly for this month - was the new collection of Kayla E.'s stories about her childhood, Precious Rubbish.

May

I listed Chandler's The High Window in my first cut for this post, but I don't want to keep mentioning re-reading old things in the same series, so let me instead call out Chester Himes and The Real Cool Killers, about a decade more current and still as cool and smart and electric as it was sixty years ago.

I read two excellent novels - very different from each other - for the first time this month; both are over a decade old. Kate Atkinson's Started Early, Took My Dog is the fourth of her novels about Jackson Brodie, which have been championed by crime-fiction readers but are bigger and more encompassing that that. (For all that "crime fiction" is already a very large bucket that can include a vast number of stories.) And William Kotzwinkle's The Midnight Examiner was a fever dream of an '80s tabloid.

I read a bunch of good graphic novels this month, and am finding it difficult to pick one as a favorite. All had strengths, but all also had things I disliked. So I can't quite make Eric Drooker's Naked City or Noah Van Sciver's Beat It, Rufus or Laura Pérez's Ocultos or Grant Snider's Thinking About Thinking or even Mia Oberlӓnder's Anna as my "favorite."

I will give pride of place to All My Bicycles by Powerpaola, a book and a creator I'd never heard of before I picked them up, a distinctive and interestingly framed memoir of a specific, quirky life, a book that was fun and energetic and colorful and wonderful.

June

On the old side, I read Evelyn Waugh's Scoop again, after twenty-some years, and found it just as cynical and nasty and cutting as the first time.

For newer things, I actually read a first novel around the time of publication! There was a decade or so where I did that several times a month, but times change on us. This time around, it was Auston Habershaw with a fine contemporary fantasy, If Wishes Were Retail.

And my favorite of the month was a graphic novel: Love Languages by James Albon, a fine love story by a creator whose work I need to dig into more deeply.

July

I mentioned a Julian Hanshaw book earlier, so, under my rules, I'm not supposed to say that I also read Free Pass this year. Pretend I didn't.

For old books, I read a few - another Evelyn Waugh travel book that I shouldn't mention, for one. I also re-read Kurt Vonnegut's God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, which I think I got a lot more out of than when I first read it, as a teenager. (But isn't that always the case?) 

The favorite was a no-brainer. Jaime Hernandez had a new collection of his Love & Rockets stories: Life Drawing

August

August is a complicated one. If I hadn't already picked a Carol Lay book for this year's list, I'd be happy to give the nod to her Murderburg, which is a fun, zippy collection of great stories about a small-town (island) where killing people is something of a local hobby. But I had, so I couldn't.

I've been watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 a bunch the last year or so, with my kids, and this year dug into a few books about it, because that's the kind of over-intellectualizer I am. Best of that bunch, no surprise, is the book by the cast & crew themselves, The Mystery Science Theater 3000 Amazing Colossal Episode Guide from the mid-90s.

I should throw the "old" books in somewhere around here: I re-read William Goldman's classic fantasy novel The Princess Bride, which is as bright and cutting as ever. New to me, but nearly twenty years old, was the cultural history How to Be a Victorian by Ruth Goodman, which was smart and full of interesting details of everyday life for a lot of people over close to a century.

And then there were two books that could have been the favorite. One was "new," but largely reprinted old work by a great, now-dead master - so I think I'm going to take half a point off for that and list it first. Richard Sala was a massive talent who died much too soon, and his first book Night Drive was a quirky gem to begin with and made vastly better by the additional material added to the recent posthumous edition.

That leaves pride of place to Jeff Lemire's big, detailed memoir of his life in comics: 10,000 Ink Stains.

September

There were a lot of OK books in September, but not many I want to drag back out here. I got to another Cathy Malkasian book, The Heavy Bright, which I enjoyed and argued with in almost equal proportions. (I've seen reports that she's planning to stop making books, which would be sad: she's a unique, distinctive voice, and I say that even as I argue with almost every page of hers I read.)

I could also mention the fun but slight Who Killed Nessie? by Paul Cornell and Rachael Smith and the gorgeous but weirdly-ending Betty Blues by Renaud Dilles.

And the favorite for the month was another surprise: Smoking Kills by Thijs Desmet, an afterlife fantasy by a creator I've never heard of.

October

I've been reading or re-reading P.G. Wodehouse books, about one every second or third month, for several years now - he wrote about a hundred of them, so I have a lot to get through. I read several this year, all entertaining, all uniquely Wodehousian, but the only one I'll mention was this month: The Mating Season.

Also old, also a re-read, also the end of a re-read project: Dashiell Hammett's The Thin Man. I was less-impressed by his middle novels, but this one is still zippy and bright.

Two random graphic novels worth mentioning: the stylish spy thriller Bang! by Matt Kindt & Wilfredo Torrres, and the major French biography George Sand: True Genius, True Woman by Séverine Vidal & Kim Consigny.

And one more, which almost became the favorite: The Interview by Manuelle Fior, an excellent SFnal story about a decade old now.

But I actually read a big non-fiction prose book, only a few years after publication, and it was full of insights and research and details about forty-some years of underground cartoonists and their followers, so that will take the slot: Brian Doherty's Dirty Pictures.

November

At this point in the year, my links start to give out, since the posts haven't gone live yet. I might go back later in '26 and add them in, but I suspect I won't remember to do that.

To start with the old: this year I finally read A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, which was mostly familiar from a million adaptations but full of specifics that strong originals always have and their adaptations never quite include all of.

I also read the excellent '70s SF novel The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe by D.G. Compton, also for the first time. Vaguely related - since it's about old SF - is the oral history Space Ships! Ray Guns! Martian Octopods!, edited by Richard Wolinsky from several decades of a San Francisco radio-interview program.

On the comics side, I found two excellent books by European creators from earlier this century: Naomi Nowak's Graylight and Ludovic Debeurme's Renée.

For newer comics, also worth noting were Walker Tate's debut Laser Eye Surgery and two books of an unexpected triptych of women cartoonists making memoirs about their relationships with food and eating: Jennifer Hayden's Where There's Smoke, There's Dinner and Debbie Tung's My Perfectly Imperfect Body. (I'll mention the third a section down, under December.)

The favorite was a big new book by Bill Griffith, covering the long, complex, fascinating life of his photographer grandfather: Photographic Memory.

December

In the last month of the year, I read a weird old book worth mentioning: Mister Pye, the other novel by Gormenghast author Mervyn Peake. It is light in tone and amiable and utterly its own odd supernatural thing, in a Christian vein unlike anything else I've ever read.

I mentioned Jaime Hernandez's new Love & Rockets collection above, so, out of fairness, I should also mention the similarly new collection by his brother Gilbert, Lovers and Haters. There: I have now mentioned it. I make no claims for favorites or quality.

Reading Jeff Lemire's 10,000 Ink Stains inspired me to make a list of the books of his I'd missed, and I got to his excellent, recent, mostly horror/crime Fishflies this month.

I need to mention John Allison somewhere in this list, though I seem to mostly read his stuff online these days. I did get to the collection of his recent series with Max Sarin, The Great British Bump-Off: Kill or Be Quilt, which is full of his great dialogue and sparkling plots - plus Sarin's fine cartoony drawing, too.

The third of the three memoirs by women cartoonist about cooking and eating - and the one that made me notice there were three of them, published almost on top of each other, was the smart and insightful The Joy of Snacking by New Yorker cartoonist and standup comic Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell.

And the favorite for the month, to close out the year, was another collection of laconic genre stories told sideways by the inimitable cartoonist known only as Jason, Death in Trieste.

Top 12 of 2024

I read 207 books last year - less than 2024, more than the four years before that, less than my Book-A-Day Years but more than the ones between. I seem to have found a pattern that works for me.

I don't know if you're like me, but I need to find ways to embed reading - like so many other things that I want to make sure I do regularly - into the fabric of my life, so that it just happens. Years ago, I read for myself while commuting and for work (when I was an editor) in long stretches every weekend and many evenings. Losing the editorial job freed up my weekends, though I sometimes miss that life. Losing the commute sent me into a reading tailspin, and it took me years to figure out how to replace that time regularly.

What I mean to say is: think about the things that matter to you. If you read this far, "reading books" is probably one of them. Embed those things in your life regularly. Make time for them, structurally. Don't let the things you really want to do become contingent and secondary.

And, of course: read good books. I recommend the ones above; you'll have others based on your own tastes. 2026 is as good a time as any. Today is the best time to do anything, to start any project.

Photographic Memory by Bill Griffith

At this point, Bill Griffith is as much of a maker of comics biographies as he is a syndicated cartoonist, with four big, good books behind him over the past decade. [1] (I'm not going to judge how "underground cartoonist," the major phase for the first twenty or so years of his career, fits into it - it was clearly foundational to everything else.) So my remarking on the oddity of that transition, for the fourth time, would be too much.

Photographic Memory, Griffith's new book in 2025, is mostly a biography of his great-grandfather, the pioneering photographer William Henry Jackson. Since this is non-fiction, there must be an explanatory subtitle, in this case William Henry Jackson and the American West, which is not untrue, but leaves out the three-year round-the-world taking-pictures-of-railroads project Jackson was part of around the turn of the century, among other projects of his life. Jackson lived to 99, and, as Griffith shows us here, was active and working right up to the end, so it was not just a long life, but a full one.

Griffith doesn't structure Photographic Memory to be particularly inspiring, but Jackson's life is low-key inspiring. He started several businesses - all of which ran their course, leaving him to move on to other things - raised a family, did work he cared about for a long time, and had a small but mostly positive role in the history of his country. Add that to the "living to 99, on his own, writing and painting and photographing right up to the end" bit, and it's a model life.

Of course, Griffith is always present in his stories - that's the old undergrounder in him, knowing every story comes from a point of view, from a person - so Griffith himself is a minor character here, both in his youth, as a way into the story, and in his mature "Griffy" persona, as an author stand-in to bring up issues and questions and concerns. (And, in a surreal closing sequence, to mediate a dispute between Jackson and Yogi Bear - I don't think this entirely works, or quite fits with the tone of the rest of the book, but Griffith is clear why he did this, and it's positive and celebratory and silly, so I feel rude for quibbling.)

Griffith has a lot of Jackson's life to get through in Photographic Memory. He starts with his own childhood - he was born just two years after Jackson died - and, initially, it looks like the book will be structured through Griffith's family memories and artifacts of Jackson. But, pretty quickly, he moves to a different framing story: Jackson living in New York in the '30s and early '40s, writing his autobiography, making paintings, traveling out west every summer on the dime of the National Parks Service or the Oregon Trail Memorial Association, and, most centrally, talking with a young acolyte, Elwood Bonney, whose extensive diaries informed the book.

From there, he drops back to do the usual chronological story of Jackson's life, returning to Jackson-and-Bonney scenes regularly. Jackson was born in 1843 in upstate New York - his mother sketched and his father dabbled in very early photography. He went to work early in that 19th century way, setting type, painting, and working in an photography studio in his teens, before serving a stretch in the Army during the Civil War. (That seems to have been less eventful than many solders' enlistment, and ended, on good terms, before the war did - I wasn't aware that was possible at that time.) He was cruising onwards towards a comfortable life in his hometown in Vermont, working in a photography studio and heading towards marriage with a woman he loved, when he had a big breakup with that woman, Caddie Eastman.

Jackson sold off what he had, and immediately made plans to head west, to get away and maybe to seek his fortune in the silver mines. He did so in company with two friends, and the three worked as "bullwhackers" - the crew driving the oxen pulling wagons for caravans heading west through Montana in 1866.

After some adventures, and separating forever from those two friends - the West was huge, and trails diverged all the time - Jackson ended up in Denver, picking back up a photography career. The rest of his life followed a more usual model: marriage, children, business successes. He was hired to photograph various stunning natural features of the West, which turned into a pitch in Washington to found the National Parks system (starting with Yellowstone, which Jackson photographed extensively), and that in turn led to many more trips to photograph all sorts of things, largely for railroad companies, over the next four decades. Eventually, the taking-new-pictures part of the work subsided and Jackson's old photos found a new life for the burgeoning picture-postcard business - and he became an executive in that business along the way.

Again, it was a long life, filled with trips lugging a bulky, balky wet-plate camera: first, for many years on muleback, and then more often by train. Jackson started the business in Denver by 1870, when he wasn't quite thirty - and he lived to 99.

Griffith frames this all through conversations of the nonagenarian Jackson with Bonney, over meals and meetings in Jackson's apartment in Depression-era New York. (The crash of '29 wiped out what Jackson had thought would be his nest egg, which is one reason why he was still making paintings for the parks service at that age.) And he organizes it into twelve chapters, plus the Prologue about his own childhood and the surreal Epilogue set in both the real Yellowstone and the Hanna-Barbera Jellystone.

There's a lot of detail - a man who lived to 99 has a lot of life to cover - and Griffith keeps it organized, relevant, and particular. We don't learn much about Jackson's family life; the focus stays mostly on his work - but that's plenty for a good-length book (almost three hundred pages) filled with captions and notes. There's even a section at the end of Jackson's photographs, so we can actually see the work of the man we've been reading about.

Griffith's books have all been personal, so far - his mother, the model of his most famous character, his artistic idol, and now his namesake and predecessor in a roughly related field. I do think that's the underground in him, and wonder what else he'll find to make books about. Jackson lived to 99 in rugged good health; if Griffith follows that model he's got almost two more decades of productive time ahead of him. I hope that's true; I hope he keeps doing things like Photographic Memory and enjoys doing it.


[1] The first three being Invisible Ink, Nobody's Fool, and Three Rocks.