Saturday, May 23, 2015

Incoming Books: Week of 5/23

I've hit another of the periods when all I seem capable of posting here is lightly annotated list of books. It's not my preference, but the new job gets me out of the house at 6:40 and not back home until 20:05, so time for thinking and writing are very slim right now.

But I did read eight books this week -- all short, and mostly comics, but definitely books -- which is an improvement over my days of unemployment. And so, to keep the cosmic balance, I ended up buying eight books this week as well: also mostly comics.

Those books were:

Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow?, the second full-length graphic novel from Brian Fies (after Mom's Cancer, which I read way back in the misty early days of this blog when I didn't write long meandering posts about books all the time). It's about the dream of the future from the 1939 World's Fair, and it seems to be fictional, unlike Mom's Cancer.

Satellite Sam, Vol. 2 from Matt Fraction and Howard Chaykin. This is a complicated mystery story set in the world of early TV in the '50s, with lots of Chaykin dames in their over-constructed lingerie (and not much else, much of the time). I mostly enjoyed the first volume, despite admittedly not entirely understanding it.

B.P.R.D.: Hell on Earth, Vol. 7: A Cold Day in Hell by Mike Mignola, John Arcudi, Lawrence Campbell, and Peter Snejbjerg. I'm trying to keep up better with Hellboy-verse stories these days, and I might just sit down for a big week of B.P.R.D. soon. (This was one I was missing in the middle; it's not the most recent book.)

Over Easy, a memoir-ish graphic novel -- or maybe a graphic memoir with some degree of fictionalizing -- from Mimi Pond, who did a lot of great work for National Lampoon in the '70s and whom I haven't seen much lately. (I see that she did a long-running strip for Seventeen magazine for part of that time, which was way off my radar.)

Dungeon: Twilight, Vol. 4: The End of Dungeon, the last book in the series -- well, more will be published, but this one is at the very end of the internal timeline -- which is written by series creators Joann Sfar and Lewis Trondheim. The two individual French albums collected here are drawn by Alfred (of Why I Killed Peter fame) and Mazan (who seems to have had several long-running series in Europe that have never been translated into English).

Bandette, Vol. 2: Stealers, Keepers!, the second book collecting a comic by Paul Tobin and Colleen Coover. I really enjoyed the first one, and I always like Coover's sunny, expressive art.

Grendel vs. The Shadow by Matt Wagner. I probably heard about this at some point -- I'm not completely cut off from all sources of information about the usual comic-shop stuff -- but I was surprised to see it on the shelf. I like Wagner, though I think he's spent too much time this century doing Hunter Rose stories -- and I also think that's what the market-slash-editors keep asking him for. And I guess I'm the problem, because I keep buying them, and providing financial incentive to keep making them.

Last is the one book with only words on the pages: Defender of the Innocent, a complete collection (so far) of Lawrence Block's stories about Martin Ehrengraf, the criminal defense attorney whose clients are always innocent, no matter what else has to happen for that to be true. Block's short stories are sharp and sneaky -- possibly even better than his novel -- so this should be fun.

Monday, May 18, 2015

Reviewing the Mail: Week of 5/16

In a world of uncertainty and strangeness, there are only a few things you can count on. And one of them is that every Monday morning, I'll post a list of the books that arrived in my mail the prior week. You might not be interested in any of those books, and I might not make them sound enticing, but, by gum!, that post will go up on time!

(There might not be many other posts here on Antick Musings, since my new job is both time-consuming in itself and is at the end of a substantially longer commute than I've been used to from the last few years, but this one string you can count on for as long as I keep getting books in the mail.)

This week, I have four books: two that I've seen before, now returned in perfected published form, a la Gandalf the White. And then I have two books I haven't seen before, though they're both in series and by familiar authors. As always, I will point out that I haven't read any of these, and anything I say about them could easily be wrong because of that.

First up is Darwin's Watch: The Science of Discworld III, from Terry Pratchett, Ian Stewart, and Jack Cohen. Like the first two Science of Discworld books (and the fourth, which hit the UK several years ago and is still forthcoming on my side of the pond), it combines alternate chapters of a Pratchett-written Unseen University story about wizards poking at a created "Roundworld" with chapters about the actual science implied by those pokes, written by working scientists and popularizers Stewart and Cohen. I don't remember if I read all four of these books, but they start very strong and glide gently downhill, as the authors have less impressive material each time out. Darwin's Watch is a June 2015 trade paperback original from Anchor in the US, only ten years after the UK publication.

And then there's (R)evolution, the first novel from TV writer PJ Manney, coming on June 1st from Amazon's 47North imprint. (So you might have trouble finding it in any smaller independent bookstores that Amazon hasn't managed to drive out of business yet.) It's a technothriller in the vein of Blood Music, with the plucky genius researcher who injects himself with his own creation and then gets caught up in the usual evil conspiracy to control everything.

Long Black Curl is the third novel in Alex Bledsoe's Tufa series, about a secret race of musically magical people in a (hidden?) county in Tennessee, and their intrigues and problems. (I suspect there's an influence from Manly Wade Wellman's "Silver John" stories here, since Bledsoe is also working with authentic American legends.) In this one, one of the two Tufa ever stripped of their powers and exiled is back, and of course she's pissed. Long Black Curl is a Tor hardcover, on sale May 26.

And last is a big fat fantasy novel from Peter Orullian: Trial of Intentions, the sequel to The Unremembered and the continuation of the "Vault of Heaven" series. It's one of those books where there's an ancient evil god out there, and his millennia-old magic chains are failing, so Bad Stuff is ramping up and will keep doing so until the Cast of Thousands travels across the entire map, learns Important Lessons about themselves and the world, gathers all of the Plot Tokens, and reassemble in the last book for a few of the less important characters to die and the rest to be triumphant. (I may be slightly flippant about epic fantasy here. I may also be less than accurate about this particular series.) Trial of Intentions is a Tor hardcover, also available May 26th, and the cover letter insists that it works perfectly fine as an introduction to the series.

Monday, May 11, 2015

Reviewing the Mail: Week of 5/9

For the past eight years -- yes, I know, that surprises me too, when I come to think about it -- I've posted every Monday morning about the books that came in the mail the prior week. And I'm back for another week today.

I haven't read these books yet, and might not manage to read any specific one of them (even the ones I really want to -- there's already a pretty large collection of books I really want to read). But I can tell you things about them from a quick look, and those things will follow. Are those things guaranteed to be entirely correct? Well, no: but I try not to misrepresent any of the books in front of me.

First up is a new short novel by Alastair Reynolds, Slow Bullets, coming in a trade paperback edition from Tachyon in early June. Like all of Reynolds's work, it looks like smart hard-ish science fiction, set in the medium future among former soldiers from both sides of a long, huge interstellar war who wake up on a ship where things are going badly wrong.

Also from Tachyon is a collection by Hannu Rajaniemi, under the easily-remembered title Collected Fiction. Rajaniemi has written several novels, though I've only managed to read the first one (The Quantum Thief) so far. And this book has about a dozen and a half stories -- and a couple of odder things as well -- from the last decade. Rajaniemi is also a pretty hard SF writer when he wants to be; he has a doctorate in Mathematicial Physics and has run what sounds like a think tank for tech innovation.

And then there's Press Start to Play, an original anthology of SFnal stories about videogames edited by Daniel H. Wilson and John Joseph Adams. It'll be an original trade paperback from Vintage, hitting stores on August 28. And it has new stories from twenty-six very diverse writers, from editor Wilson to Charles Yu, from Seanan McGuire to T.C. Boyle, from Hugh Howey to Catherynne M. Valene, from Rhianna Pratchett to Cory Doctorow, all of whom tell stories inspired by videogames in one way or another.

Deborah Harkness finishes up her bestselling trilogy about witches with The Book of Life, which hits paperback from Penguin on May 26th. The first in the series is A Discovery of Witches, and I'm afraid I haven't read any of them, so I can't tell you much. But this one does see our heroes -- "spellbound witch Diana Bishop and vampire scientist Matthew Clairmont" -- return from Elizabethan London to the modern day and the characters from the first book.

And last for this week is a SF novel from James L. Cambias, Corsair. It's set in the near future, when asteroid mining has become big business, and top computer hackers battle over the systems dropping the payloads into the ocean -- some on behalf of their employers, the mining companies, and some on behalf of pirates and thieves who want to divert and steal the payloads. (I'm surprised that there's not a stronger regulatory structure around an activity theoretically capable of destroying cities, but that may come up later in the book.) Corsair is a Tor hardcover, and is available now.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Hugo Categories We Probably Don't Need

Some time ago -- I keep meaning to save this here, but keep also forgetting again -- there was a Twitter hashtag #newHugocategories, which was generally an outgrowth of the Puppy eruption.

I had a bunch of suggestions of my own, and since I think I'm witty and smart, I still like them. So I wanted to preserve them somewhere more searchable than Twitter.

Anyway, here were my modest suggestions, in order:










My New Gig

I've been coy over the past two weeks, because I didn't want to say too much too early, but my long national nightmare is over as of tonight: I begin my new job tomorrow morning.

I'll be joining a great marketing team on the Practical Law product at Thomson Reuters, and I'm thrilled about all of it: joining a big, smart company with great resources and reach; working on a major product that provides real value to a professional audience; and both using the things I've already learned and learning more about methods and audiences and marketing tools.

Even more interesting, I'm diving right in: there's a big marketing summit for the Legal division of TR on Tuesday and Wednesday, so my first business trip will be on Day Two of the job, which may be a record. (I'm going to Minneapolis, which is where most of this division is headquartered.)

The Practical Law offices are in Manhattan -- Third Ave in the forties, which I'm amused to remember was the big publishing neighborhood back when I started in the business, twenty years ago -- so I'll be back in town all the time now, and might even start showing up more regularly to events there.

Anyway: I've got a great new job at a great division of a great company, which I hope will lead to less grumpiness here than there's been for the past three and a half months of unemployment. It may also lead to fewer posts here, since obviously real work is always the first priority. But we'll all have to see how things shake out: getting back into the commuting habit will probably mean I'll be reading more again.

(And, since I like to track everything, I'm also happy to note that my unemployment time is on a downward slope, though there are very few datapoints. I was out for 20 weeks in 1990-91, 17 weeks in 2007, and now 14 weeks this year. From this, I can project with presidential-election-level confidence that I will next be unemployed for 11 weeks in 2019.)

Saturday, May 09, 2015

Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux

This book, for me, shares something very specific and personal with Ted Heller's Funnymen and Adam Rex's The True Meaning of Smekday: I read each of them intensively while stuck in a hospital overnight for no good reason. (An irregular heartbeat can completely freak out doctors, and doubly so if the patient seems to be perfectly normal while the expensive machines are beeping like crazy. And I think my heart reacts badly to beeping machines, so there's a whole unpleasant feedback loop thing going on there.)

That connection will be entirely besides the point to anyone who isn't me, but I am me, and this is my blog, so that's how I'm leading off. Suck it, everyone else.

It's possible that Paul Theroux's legendary curmudgeonliness is rubbing off on me from reading Dark Star Safari so intensively (though it was the night of March 26-27, so it wasn't that recent), but I think it's more likely the opposite: I like Theroux so much, and keep returning to his work, because we're similar types of curmudgeons, and have compatible views of the worth of humanity. I still haven't read any of his novels, despite meaning to do so, but I get to one of his travel books at least once a year [1] and always deeply enjoy them.

This one is the story of a trip down the East African coast nearly fifteen years ago -- the book was published in 2003, and I suspect the trip itself took place in late 2001. (And it's a testament to how deeply Theroux does get into the bush and the wilderness that a certain event in early September of that year happens offstage and, as far as I can recall, is not mentioned once in the book.) Theroux started in Cairo and ended up in Cape Town, traveling through Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Mozambique, Zimbabwe and South Africa along the way.

Theroux isn't quite as disgusted and appalled by the state of African cities and their mean money-grubbing ways (from the ubiquitous beggars to the corrupt functionaries) as he was in the aborted trip up the opposite coast a decade later in The Last Train to Zona Verde, but Theroux has depths of disgust and pall that most men only dream of. And we read Theroux in large part for that viewpoint, that jaundiced look at humanity at its civilized worst, so those readers will not be disappointed by Dark Star Safari.

As usual, Theroux also meets a lot of interesting people, and draws his interactions with their often larger-than-life personalities quickly and vividly: he might hate humanity en masse, but he's great at finding and cultivating individual characters during his travels. And he's got strong opinions on Africa in general and its countries in particular: he lived for several years as a Peace Corps teacher in Tanzania in the 1960s and has stronger ties to East Africa than you'd expect of a white guy from Massachusetts.

So Dark Star Safari is concentrated Theroux: lots of muck and danger and hard travel, lots of characters, lots of horrible places and the horrible people who make them worse, lots of railing against most of the above, and not all that much hope for better. A new Theroux reader should not start here; I'd recommend one of the train books (Great Railway Bazaar or Old Patagonian Express, for example) to begin with. But he's a great travel writer -- he goes to interesting places, gets deeply into them, and reports on what he sees vividly and enthrallingly.


[1] See my prior posts about The Last Train to Zona Verde, Ghost Train to the Evening Star, The Imperial Way, and The Pillars of Hercules.

Friday, May 08, 2015

F My Life by Valette, Passgalia, and Guedj

There are times when my pledge to turn every book I read into an Antick Musings post is particularly silly: today is one of those times. The current book is F My Life, the print manifestation of a once-zeitgeisty website of sad, amusing and Schadenfreude-ian real life stories, and it is the thing that it is and no more than that.

So, since I work by day as a marketer, I will do the rest of this review in quick, zippy, impactful bullet points!
  • F My Life is edited by the three French creators of the site: Maxime Valette, Guillaume Passaglia, and Didier Guedj
  • The site launched in 2008 as Vie de Merde, and the book followed the next year
  • The book contains illustrations by Marie "Missbean" Levesque
  • Like the site, the book is all user-contributed
  • It's divided into six chapters with vague themes about aspects of life
  • All of the stories are embarrassing, humiliating, soul-destroying, or worse
  • But none of the stories happened to you, so you can enjoy them!
Reading the book of a website is an odd thing at the best of times, with only a few major reasons (to support the creators, to have something easier to read in the john, etc.). When the site is full of such short content to begin with, it feels even odder. But, if you like stories of woe happening to other people, this is a great compendium of them.

Thursday, May 07, 2015

The Great Castles of Britain & Ireland by Lise Hull

I've always been suspicious of people whose reading lives are too orderly and regimented. There are people who claim to read only cozy romances, or military SF, or to be working through the Harvard Classics, and I either don't believe them entirely or pity them for their narrow-mindedness. Books, like any artform, are about all of life, and you can't arbitrarily cut yourself off from life. You have to embrace it, in all its wonder and surprises.

That may seem like an awfully self-aggrandizing way to introduce a book about various piles of worked stone in the British Isles, but it's really about two impulses in the reader. First is the acquisition: you see a book, think it's interesting, hope you might read it one day, and so you keep it. The second impulse is when you finally do read it -- and, for many of us, that impulse doesn't hit nearly as often. (I lost, by a conservative estimate, around a thousand books I hadn't read in my 2011 flood, and I already have at least 500 unread books on my shelves now: even if I stopped acquiring immediately and read intensively, it would take a couple of years just to catch up.)

So the first impulse is the easy one: deciding that this book is one you might like to read, someday, and that you're willing to take the space, effort, and money to get it and keep it. If you're any kind of serious reader, that happens a lot, because the world is interesting and full of things that excite you.

The second impulse is much more specific: a desire to read this book right now. That can strike right after the first, or years later, or never. It can be triggered by a browse through your shelves -- one of the world's great unexamined pleasures -- or a memory of the book, or by an external event. (An award nomination, for example, or a friend who notes she's currently reading that book.)

Now, personally, I've worked in publishing for twenty-plus years, and that's led to one of my pieces of advice: work in an industry that makes things you like, because you'll end up with a lot of them in your house. What you work with tends to stick to your hands, and fill up your life. (This explains why investment bankers have all the money, for example.) These days, I get a lot of books for review, which tend to run in specific categories. But, back in my book-club days, there was a fabled thing called The Giveaway Shelf. It was a bookcase or two, somewhere in whatever office we were inhabiting that year, where editors dumped books they didn't want. And, since the bookclub companies had a lot of operations in a lot of subject areas -- and we paid money to publishers for the books we wanted -- there was a constant flood of books into those offices from far and wide. So we all were dumping pretty regularly, just to keep our offices manageable: there were more books than anyone could read, and almost more than we could keep track of.

So browsing the Giveaway Shelf was always fun: one part an educational exercise in what's being published right at that moment, one part treasure hunt for things of personal interest, and one part continual surprise at projects that actual businesses would put money behind. And, unlike browsing a book store, all of these books were free for the taking -- so I took a lot, for many years.

I think The Great Castles of Britain & Ireland is from that era: I saved a shelf-worth of unread large-format books from the flood, and that shelf is getting read very slowly. (When you read mostly on trains, big books have to fit into the small bits of other reading time.) It was a subject I thought I was interested in -- I'd read a 1926 book, Castles, by the early 20th century military historian Charles Oman, which had a lot of details of warfare and great illustrations. And so I thought this book, written by Lise Hull with great photographs by Stephen Whitehorne, would be in a similar vein.

It isn't, though: this is a more touristy book, aimed at the general public, with thumbnail prose sketches of the history and interesting features of fifty major and historically-important castles in England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. It's a lovely coffee-table book, but I find I want the in-depth details more. I want to hear from an expert in something about the deep knowledge of his specialty, not to get a superficial look at fifty places and a few snippets of history about each of them.

That doesn't make this a bad book, and it is definitely more useful to Britons, since it also includes details about when and how these buildings are open to the public. It's a great guide for people who are close enough to actually visit, and Hull expert enough to tell those people what architectural features of the individual castles to look for. But I missed Oman's schematics: I think I'm just the kind of person who prefers a drawing that tells me how something works to a pretty picture that shows me what it looks like.

But this is definitely a swell, attractive book: the pictures are gorgeous, the text covers the big picture for each of these places, and the whole thing looks impressive displayed in your home.

Tuesday, May 05, 2015

Graphic Witness edited by George A. Walker

The novel is a fairly well defined category at this point: a collection of words (anywhere from about forty thousand of them up to half a million), telling a story of some kind, generally in prose but not necessarily, stuck between two covers. But George Walker here collects four wordless novels -- stories told entirely in pictures on the page -- to shake up that idea.

Despite my tag on this post, these four stories aren't "comics" by most definitions, since they each have one image to a page, and none of the visual language of comics -- no speech or thought balloons, no captions, no panel transitions. They're somewhere in the same family tree, obviously, but they also show by their existence that the prose novel is not that far away in the same tree -- that sequential storytelling has some elements in common no matter what the building blocks of the story, whether prose or poetry or images. As the afterword from the cartoonist Seth makes clear, the "wordless novel" draws its visual imagery and language from the silent movie rather than from comics -- not unlike recent books by Brian Selznick like The Invention of Hugo Cabret and Wonderstruck -- though Selznick mixes stretches of prose with his movie-derived images.

So, Graphic Witness collects four stories from the first half of the 20th century (more or less), when there was a brief flourishing of this form. (Milt Gross's He Done Her Wrong, which I've reviewed twice, is a parody of that flourishing.) According to Walker's introduction, the form was most associated with radical politics, and he implies this is because they could avoid censorship by not including any of the trigger words -- presumably things like "trade unionism" and "socialism" and "worker solidarity." That implied theory does neatly explain why that flourishing mostly ended with WWII, since the world changed significantly at that point, and the politics were no longer the same.

All four of these books also use the same style of art, which was the standard for this short-lived art form. All are printed from cut blocks -- whether linocuts or woodcuts or otherwise -- and so have that white-lines-on-black scratchboard look, with all of its strengths of immediacy and imagistic power balanced by the difficulty of doing intricate detail work. (Though Lynd Ward, in particular, manages a fantastic array of line widths and crosshatching to achieve all of the effects of ink on paper.)

Franz Masreel, a Belgian who worked in this area mostly during the wars, and had his most success in Germany, leads off with 1918's The Passion of a Man, probably the earliest work of this kind. (It's also made up of only twenty-five images, which may perhaps deform the idea of a "novel" in an entirely different direction.) It's the crudest of the four in its story-telling, covering the story of a poor young man from his illegitimate birth through hard times and rabble-rousing (maybe union organizing, maybe leading a revolution) to his inevitable end. It's clearly agitprop, but strongly conceived and told.

Next is Lynd Ward, the best-known worker in this form to Americans: he made six books in this style over the course of a decade, from 1929's God's Man to 1937's Vertigo. (And, continuing the implication that this was an art-form tied to a particular moment in time, lived another fifty years without quite completing another such story.) Walker has chosen Ward's third book, Wild Pilgrimage, from 1932. It's a more complex story than Masreel's Passion, telling the story of one man's wanderings from a dark industrial city into a more pastoral landscape -- which has its own share of darkness. Ward also mixes the real world, in black, with dreams or visions of his main character, in a reddish tint, to add another level of depth and reflection. There's something like a labor riot at the end of Pilgrimage as well, bringing this nameless man's story to a similar end to hat of Masreel's hero.

Italian-born San Franciscan Giacomo Patri tells the story of a different sector of the class struggle in 1940's White Collar, his only wordless book. White Collar is more naturalistic than Ward's or Masreel's work, telling the story of an advertising artist and his family in a noir-esque '30s style, with only a few intrusions of symbolic art. Patri's hero is firmly above the union workers when his story begins, living in a suburban house with his wife and two children and commuting to his city job. But then the 1929 stock market crash hits, and he's out of work. He tries various things, but none of them succeed and the bills keep piling up, until his family is thrown out of their home and they join the army of similar people: all now equal and unified against the heartless capitalists. Patri's art is not quite as complex as Ward's, but it "reads" more crisply on the page, and he varies the sizes of his images to suit his subjects in a way that anticipates later comics developments.

Walker's last selection is the only post-war choice: Canadian Laurence Hyde's 1951 book Southern Cross, also his only wordless book. (I haven't emphasized just how much work and time goes into each individual woodcut: Hyde spent three years making his book, and Patri about the same amount of time.) The politics have shifted, but Southern Cross is still a book to persuade: it tells the story of a loving family on some South Pacific island -- presumably Bikini Atoll -- who are ripped from their homes by US forces who are testing a nuclear weapon. And that, of course, is not the end of the trials for this family: a persuasive book must pile up the drama to make its case. Hyde doesn't vary his image's size as much as Patri did, but he does break his flow of mostly small, same-sized images to punch specific moments, and his art is supple and evocative.

I don't know the rest of this field well enough to independently verify Walker's description of it, but it fits everything I know: the wordless book did only last for a short time, and its central works are clearly deeply political in motivation and purpose. The four books he's selected and presented here are each strong in their own ways, both in storytelling and in art. I suspect these stories will be more interesting in a social-history context than in looking at the history of American comics, since they draw much more from the general leftist thought of the time than from what was then a minor and disreputable art form. But they're worth reading and thinking about, particularly as our own era rumbles into levels of income inequality not seen since the late Twenties.

Monday, May 04, 2015

Rex Libris, Vol. 2: Book of Monsters by James Turner

It's only to be expected that a comic about librarians would be wordy, full of dialogue and captions that revel in obscure information and intricate background details. But James Turner's Rex Libris series goes even further than most readers would expect, cramming lots of text into his stylish black-and-white art on its small pages. But if your eyeballs are up to the challenge, Rex Libris is a hoot.

Rex is the main character, a semi-immortal (two thousand years old, give or take, though with a Bronx accent that comes and goes) librarian currently working for the Middletown Public Library. His duties involve spending a lot more time shooting monsters and saving the world than most people would expect from librarians, and much less reshelving, meetings, and time spent at the reference desk. Rex's universe is not unlike that of Thursday Next: books have power and the ideas and creatures in books can escape to the real world with the (deliberate or accidental) application of the right kind of power.

Rex's world also is full of the full panoply of adventure-story fodder: secret societies of supervillains, alien races with cold and cruel intellects, crypto-zoological creatures both hyperintelligent and animalistic, hidden Nazi superscientists, and so forth. So his stories are crammed full of action and detail, from Turner's idiosyncratically toned art -- I think he uses a computer drawing program to get those crisp edges and precise gradients -- to the huge expository lumps in captions that I mentioned before.

Book Of Monsters collects the back half of the Rex Libris comics series from about six years ago: issues six to thirteen are here, following the first five in the companion volume I, Librarian. (See my review from 2008, which is flawed in more than one way, but can give you a sense of the book, I hope.) It contains two loosely-connected story arcs, both of which see Rex and his compatriot librarians battle vast hordes of miscellaneous monsters and evil forces -- first within a book, and then in the South Pacific, where Cthulhu II is rising.

These are incredibly wordy comics, and I did have some trouble just reading all of the tiny type in this small-format graphic novel. I will admit that I wished at times that Turner had been just slightly less in love with his own words, and had tightened things up a bit. But Book of Monsters is still a lot of fun, with hissable villains and fun concepts, and it more than lives up to the concept: a two-fisted librarian, fighting evil with the knowledge in his library and chasing down overdue books.

Reviewing the Mail: Week of 5/2

Hello and welcome back to another week. I'm yet another blogger who lists the books that arrived during the previous week -- I think I was one of the first, but that doesn't actually mean anything. What matters is if you find something interesting to read, so I hope to write quickly about these books in a way that's either accurate or entertaining or (preferably) both.

I am, as always, hampered by the fact that I haven't read any of these books, and possibly also by the fact that it's a bright sunny Sunday morning as I type this, and I could be doing more pleasant things in places more pleasant than this blogger's basement. But here we go, with this week's crop: four manga volumes from two different publishers.

I'll start out with one big book from Yen Press: Etorouji Shiono's Ubel Blatt, Vol. 2, continuing an epic fantasy story in a vaguely medieval-German world (hence the title). I reviewed the first volume -- confusingly numbered zero -- last year, so see that link for more details of the storyline and world. This series could be of particular interest to Michael Moorcock fansa, since Shiono also has a weak, elfin hero with a creepy black weapon and a secret of doom and despair.

The rest of the books this week are all from Vertical, and all are also continuing volumes in series -- which is pretty typical for manga, which tell long stories in anything from three to infinite books.

Tetsuya Tsutsui is here with Prophecy, Part 3, which actually concludes this relatively short story of cybercrime and social-media bullying.

And then there's Ajin: Demi-Human, Vol. 4 by Gamon Sakurai, about a sub-group of humans who cannot be killed and who are thus declared not human because of it. As is typical for manga, the central story focused on a typical teenage boy -- Japan is the world leader in tight audience identification characters -- and his new life once he discovers he's one of these "demi-humans."

Last for me this week is Ryu Mizunagi's Witchcraft Works, Vol. 4. This one is a magical school story, though the main character is pretty much exactly like the one I described a paragraph ago: manga delights in heroes who are essentially interchangeable.

Sunday, May 03, 2015

Einstein Simplified by Sidney Harris

Sidney Harris has been the premier cartoonist of science and academia for the last five decades: if you've been part of an institution, as student or faculty or whatever, any time since the 1970s, you've certainly seen Harris cartoons tacked up on doors and bulletin boards and shared via e-mail. I used to see his cartoons a lot in Omni, back in the day, and he's also appeared in The New Yorker, Science, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Playboy, and National Lampoon, among many others.

And there have been a number of collections of his work over the years, though mostly from publishers known more for science and scholarship than for funny stuff. Whether that made his work more immediately accessible to its core audience or hampered him in finding an even wider audience, I couldn't say: it's a very rare artist who manages to hit even a majority of his potential audience. But Harris has had a great career, full of smart and witty work, that makes readers feel just a bit smarter every time they get one of his jokes.

One of Harris's major collections was Einstein Simplified, originally published in 1989 by Rutgers University Press and available sporadically since then in other editions. This one focuses specifically on Harris's science cartoons -- he's had other collections with food cartoons, or business cartoons, or environmental cartoons, but this one is mostly people in white coats pointing at blackboards or strange animals talking about their evolutionary path.

Science can be funny, and Harris is one of the best at making science jokes. And, since these are mostly older science jokes -- from the 1970s and 1980s -- they're more likely to be part of common culture than newer jokes on more esoteric branches of science. I'd like to think that just about anyone reading Antick Musings would enjoy Harris, since he's the perfect nexus of cartooning, science,and humor.

Friday, May 01, 2015

Read in February, March, and April

I usually do these posts monthly, but this time is different. I missed two months due to various complications of unemployment -- the wrong kind of nervous energy, focus elsewhere, and a massive drop in books actually getting read -- but I'm catching up today. I've missed months in the past, and backfilled, but that just seemed silly this time around.

I do still want to give each book its own post, even if I just write something short, since that's easier to search. (Mostly for me, since I do look to see what I said about something I can't quite remember if I actually read.) So this will be just a list of links, and thus not all that interesting to anyone who is not me.

February


Scott Stratten, QR Codes Kill Kittens (2/10)

Lemony Snicket, "Shouldn't You Be in School?" (2/19)

Brian Walker, The Comics: The Complete Collection (2/24)

Kate Wendleton, Targeting a Great Career (2/24)

This book, however, will not get a full post, because I what I have to say about it is quick and simple. This is the first of a four-book series about job-hunting by the founder of a company called The Five O'Clock Club. My former employer uses TFOC as part of the package when they do layoffs, so I've been immersed in that methodology and system for the last three months. (I read large parts of the other three books, but only worked through the first one cover-to-cover.) TFOC also includes small groups of job-seekers that meet weekly, to listen to speakers on specific topics, meet with a coach, and help each other out. It's not a perfect system -- there are aspects of the books that clearly show the methodology was developed in the 1980s, and has not been fully updated for changed circumstances since -- but it's a strong system, and it produces results for motivated people who apply the lessons strongly to their own search. If any of you find yourself looking for the next thing to do in your lives, I recommend the books and TFOC as excellent, deeply useful resources.

March


Danny Danziger and Mark McCrum, The Whatchamacallit (3/1)

Michael Cho, Shoplifter (3/14)

Jules Feiffer, Kill My Mother (3/16)

Sidney Harris, Einstein Simplified (3/17)

Lise Hull, The Great Castles of Britain and Ireland (3/23)

Maxime Valette, Guillaume Passaglia, & Didier Guedi, F My Life (3/23)

Peter Matthiessen, Far Tortuga (3/25)

Paul Theroux, Dark Star Safari (3/27)

Hayley Campbell, The Art of Neil Gaiman (3/30)

April


Simon Rich, The Last Girlfriend on Earth (4/10)


Elizabeth Bear, Karen Memory (4/16)

John Lanchester, How to Speak Money (4/22)

Anita Brookner, The Debut (4/27)

Todd Hignite, The Art of Jaime Hernandez (4/28)


As May rolls on, I expect to have dedicated reading time again for a reason I'm not going to explain here yet -- so I hope that I'll at least have a longer list at the end of May. And I will say that this post marks the entire length of a particular era in my life.