Eighteen-year-old Tove, a shy, gawky girl who can't really believe that anyone would find her attractive, wants immortality. She thinks she's found thEighteen-year-old Tove, a shy, gawky girl who can't really believe that anyone would find her attractive, wants immortality. She thinks she's found the man who can give it to her. It's a question of sneaking up on him.
What? No, of course he isn't a vampire. She's trying to get her first book published. That actually works....more
I am genuinely astonished to discover how many bestsellers there are these days which have no content except for a cover and a supposedly amusing titlI am genuinely astonished to discover how many bestsellers there are these days which have no content except for a cover and a supposedly amusing title. I knew reading skills had declined in recent years, but I hadn't realised that we'd already reached this level.
Well, I take it all back about Harry Potter, Twilight, Divergent, Fifty Shades etc. Guys and gals, if you're still able to read a book that actually contains words, then go for it. I'm sorry I said all those unfeeling elitist things. I didn't know. ...more
Not wants it to be known that she had nothing to do with this and opposed it at every turn: but for the benefit of people who prefer dirty Amazon-flavNot wants it to be known that she had nothing to do with this and opposed it at every turn: but for the benefit of people who prefer dirty Amazon-flavored bytes to good honest paper, I reluctantly inform the world that The New Adventures of Socrates is now also available in Kindle format.
I'm sorry. I'm aware that I shouldn't be using all this high-pressure salesmanship on you, but sometimes I just can't stop myself. ...more
I wrote and rewrote my review of Elena Ferrante's third volume, but each version I produced seemed stupider than the last; em[From Le nouveau nom]
I wrote and rewrote my review of Elena Ferrante's third volume, but each version I produced seemed stupider than the last; empty words, tired formulas, a well-crafted and earnest nullity of expression. In the end, although I had promised myself I would not do so, I emailed the draft to my friend and asked for her advice. An hour later, she skyped me back.
"So what do you expect me to do?" she asked. She seemed to be in a particularly bad mood. "You're the reviewer. You understand this shit. I haven't written a review in years."
"I just wondered if you could look at it," I said. "Like you used to."
"Yes," she said scornfully. "Well, you can start by taking out the Proust."
"Have you even--" I began, but she cut me off. "She's nothing like Proust," she said. "Proust's just a French ponce who spends a million words boring you to death about how he became a writer. Ferrante never bores you. It looks like she's doing the Proust thing with memory and time and art, but it's quite different. You don't understand Proust at all."
I was cut to the quick; I prided myself on my knowledge of Proust, which I had acquired through years of diligent study. She continued. "And you can take out Knausgård too. Jesus Christ, he's worst than Proust. He takes even longer to explain that novelists are fascists, you know that's going to be the punchline by page two."
As usual, I already felt helplessly lost. All I could do was nod. "And Simone de Beauvoir," she said. "Well, that was better. The style's not so different. And it is a bit like Les Mandarins. Sex and violence and disgusting hypocritical intellectuals. You can leave Simone in."
When had she found time to read all these books? She said she never read any more.
"Then what--" I began again. "You need to move downmarket," she said. "Stephenie Meyer. Twilight. Vampires."
"Vampires?" I said weakly. "But what in the text could possibly--"
"It's right there in chapter 122," she said. "Fuck me dead, don't you people see anything you aren't expecting to see? Lila calls Nino a blood-sucking vampire. And he is. This book is Twilight for people who at least have a quarter of a brain. Elena is Bella, a stupid little bookish girl who can't write and can't think and lies to herself all the time, and understands that the only way out is to find a vampire who'll rescue her. No matter what it costs. I've got to go."
She hung up before I could answer. I wished now that I hadn't called her, but it was too late.
My name is Raymond Fosca; I was born in the city of Carmona, in what is now Italy; I am over seven hundred years old; I am immortal.
People imagine thaMy name is Raymond Fosca; I was born in the city of Carmona, in what is now Italy; I am over seven hundred years old; I am immortal.
People imagine that eternal life would be the greatest of all blessings, but they are wrong; no more horrible curse can be imagined. I know, as no mortal man can, the futility of all action. For centuries, I strove to preserve the honour and independence of my beloved city; I fought bitter wars against our neighbors; I forced my citizens to toil and suffer in the service of what I believed was a greater good; I discovered, too late, that all my efforts had been in vain, that their only effect had been to weaken Italy against the rapacity of France, Germany and Spain. I decided that my error had been to limit the scope of my efforts to a single country; I manoeuvred between the thrones of kings; I tried to steer Europe towards a peaceful and united empire; I succeeded only in creating still greater bloodshed and misery.
I am separated by centuries from my own time, my own people; all those I have cared for are dead; even their memories have faded; I no longer see their faces clearly in my mind; I no longer hear their voices. From time to time, and despite all my precautions, I have been unable to stop myself from falling in love with a woman. For a few years, she allows me to become alive again, makes me feel a mortal man bound to his time; then she grows old; she discovers my secret; she comes to hate me; she dies; once again, I am alone. I try to care for my children; if I protect them, they too come to hate me; if I do not, their foolishness and egotism soon destroys them.
I wished to tell my story, but I lack the gift. I searched for a person who could help me; in the end I discovered a woman of unusual gifts, a writer, a philosopher, some would say a genius. She listened carefully; she transformed my words into an elegant book; she published it; there were a few positive reviews; it enjoyed a moderate success; a few decades later, it had almost been forgotten. I would not give up; I imagined that I had perhaps aimed too high, that a less intellectual approach would be more successful. I found another writer, a vulgar American; she changed every detail of what I had told her; I could not even recognise myself in her novel; she assured me that her alterations were necessary in order to gain the public's attention; the book received worldwide acclaim; it was read by everyone, widely imitated, turned into a film; the author wrote three more books, each one stupider than its predecessor; she only became more famous and successful.
Mortal reader, you do not understand your happiness. You do what you can for the years you are on Earth, and the knowledge of your inevitable death gives your short life meaning. I wish that I, too, could die; but I cannot. ...more
I found myself rising through a misty tunnel towards a white light, at first slowly, then with increasing speed. As I asceA Near Near Death Experience
I found myself rising through a misty tunnel towards a white light, at first slowly, then with increasing speed. As I ascended, I felt the bonds that connected me to the everyday world grow weaker and weaker. I looked down, and I could see my body beneath me, but now it seemed unimportant, as though it belonged to someone I didn't even know. All around, I heard an unearthly music. This continued for a time I could not measure, until I unexpectedly emerged into what looked like a larger edition of the Geneva Cantonal Tax Office. I was at the end of a long line, which snaked towards a desk at the far end of the room.
"Where am I?" I whispered to the person in front of me. He seemed familiar. I realised it was my old Goodreads friend BirdBrian.
"We're dead, aren't we?" I asked. BirdBrian shrugged.
"Well, in that case," I said, feeling for some reason that etiquette required it, "I'm sorry for all those those things I said about Donald Trump. Maybe you were right after all."
"Maybe not," said BirdBrian with a hint of embarrassment. "He does in fact appear to have started World War III."
Looking at the other people in the line, I now noticed that many of them had a distinctly charred and radioactive appearance. I cast about for some way to change the subject, but found to my relief that we had already reached the registration desk. Several fat and self-important angels with clipboards were taking notes.
"Next!" called the one closest to me. "Now, who are you?" I gave my name. "And what did you do on Earth?" the angelic bureaucrat continued.
"I like to think I was a writer," I mumbled. The angel smirked at one of his colleagues; another hid his eyes behind his wing. I stared.
"Did you see that?" I whispered to BirdBrian. "He hid his eyes behind his wing! This is Writer's Heaven!"
BirdBrian shrugged again. "I never much liked The Waste Land," he said. But I didn't care.
"Please!" I said, turning back to the angels. "If this is Writer's Heaven, tell me more about it!" The first one, who seemed to be the leader, cleared his throat.
"Actually," he began in an unexpectedly apologetic tone, "I should say now that you may find it a little disappointing."
"Disappointing?" I asked, confused. The angel switched on a projector and opened a PowerPoint presentation; pulling out a laser pointer, he began a lecture he had clearly given many times before.
"You must understand," he said, "that we started off wanting to do this right. We had big plans. We brought in Jorges Luis Borges - nothing but the best, you understand! - and we asked him to construct the Library of Babel. We didn't just want you writers to have every book ever written. We wanted you to have every book that ever could be written."
"Sounds terrific," I agreed. The angel gave me a withering glance.
"The problem," he said, "the problem, as we would have realized if only we'd read Señor Borges' story more carefully, is that virtually all the books that could be written are complete gibberish. Even if you had the whole of eternity to read them - as, you will no doubt have gathered, you do - you would not have the patience to search until you found a paragraph, nay, even a sentence, that you found the least bit interesting."
"Well, uh, I suppose--" I began. The angel cut me off. "Unfortunately", he said, "we had already invested so much of our budget in the Library scheme that there was hardly anything left when we were forced to change plans. We had to radically downsize. It was tough, but we decided in the end that we would just commission a decaying tower block full of neurotic hacks who would churn out substandard genre fiction without pause, for ever."
"Um--" I said. The angel, now speaking very quickly and flipping through the slides at a prodigious rate, wrapped up.
"As I said," he gabbled, "as I said, we started with the best of intentions, but it was impossible to ignore the budgetary constraints. We have rules. So, to cut a long story short, in the end we decided to outsource the whole thing to a Glaswegian tosser called M.J. Nicholls. He said he could deliver on schedule for 10% less than the next closest bidder. He wouldn't actually build the decaying tower block or hire any of the writers, he'd just write a novel about them, but it would be as good as. As good as. And that's what you're going to get to read. Until the End of Time. His book. It's quite a decent piece of work you know."
"I hate to ask," I said hesitantly after a long pause, "but -- but is this really Heaven?"
Then I woke up.
Some Books That House of Writers Resembles
A Postmodern Belch, but less eructative; Infinite Jest, but without the footnotes and the tennis; Ulysses, but without the Irishness and the stream-of-consciousness; Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, but without the androids; A rebours, but less fin-de-siècle; the collected works of J.G. Ballard, but not collected and not by J.G. Ballard; Gargantua et Pantagruel, but with more lists; A Clockwork Orange, but more violent; Trainspotting, but less tasteful; La disparition, but with more occurrences of the letter 'e'; Twilight, but not YA, not about vampires, not based on Jane Austen and not at all.
A Class Action Suit
LORD JUSTICE COCKLECARROT: Mr M.J. Nicholls and Sagging Meniscus Press, I put it to you that on the 15th of August 2016 you did with malice aforethought and in full cognizance of your actions publish a book entitled The House of Writers which did willfully insult, libel, demean, belittle and calumniate the reputations of Nick Hornby, Jonathan Franzen, Alison Bechdel, E.L. Doctorow, David David Katzman, Zadie Smith, Muriel Barbery, Nick Hornby, Jessica Treat, David Eggars, Marjane Satrapi, Anthony Vacca, Amélie Nothomb, Ian Rankin, Vernon D. Burns, Nick Hornby, Jodie Picoult, William H. Gass, Jonathan Safran Foer, Ben Marcus, Nicole Krauss, Miranda July, Manny Rayner, Michel Houellebecq, J.K. Rowling and Nick Hornby. How do you plead?
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE: Objection! The list just presented mentions Nick Hornby four times, whereas the book in question in fact insults him five times. Hence on the principle of expressio unius est exclusio alterius, not to mention ex specialis derogat legi generali, I submit that the charges laid against my client be deemed null and void.
COCKLECARROT: Objection sustained.
MJ NICHOLLS: Can I countersue?
COCKLECARROT: Quit while you're ahead kid. Case dismissed. ...more
Evidently this is intended as an homage to Midnight Sun, which given the roots of the Fifty Shades series is entirely appropriate and thematic. What IEvidently this is intended as an homage to Midnight Sun, which given the roots of the Fifty Shades series is entirely appropriate and thematic. What I don't understand is why E.L. James didn't arrange for a crazed fan to hack into her computer, steal the draft and leak it over the web, causing her to abandon the project in disgust when it was still in an incomplete form. What's wrong with her? Doesn't she care? ________________________________
If you can't beat them, join them. No more carping and criticizing: clearly there is nothing much to it, and I have decided to become a world-famous erotic novelist as well. Here, rescued from its obscure position as message #43 in the comment thread, is the first page of my new bestseller, which I have provisionally entitled My Grey Life. Amazon will soon be accepting pre-orders.
After a tempestuous night with an A-list movie star I probably should not identify, I rise early; my companion, exhausted by our naughty games, is still asleep, and I decide to let her get some well-earned rest. I do my usual workout at my fully-equipped private gym - those six-pack abs don't maintain themselves, my trainer always reminds me! - and then retire to the study where I plan to spend half an hour improving my mind. But I have only read a couple of pages from my signed first edition of Weyl's Quantenmechanik und Gruppentheorie when the door opens, and the housekeeper, a former Miss Honduras, arrives carrying a breakfast tray. As she smiles and leans over to put it on my Louis XIV escritoire, I ask my cock what he thinks of the bountiful assets she is so generously displaying. Imagine my consternation when I receive no answer. The little bastard has escaped again! He evidently made off while I was trying to decipher Weyl's rather terse explanation of spherical harmonics. It is the second time this week.
My housekeeper notices my expression and asks me what's wrong; I shamefacedly confess my predicament, and together we search the room. We eventually run the miscreant to ground, hiding behind a massive armoire. Conchita, who seems to know what she is doing, goes down on her hands and knees and manages to coax him out, using a saucer of milk and an old copy of Hustler. I tuck him back into my underpants and resolve to double her salary with immediate effect.
As you see, it's not as simple as you might think being a hunky billionaire with a sentient penis. But I relish the challenge and wouldn't have it any other way.
Basically, Russell's History of Western Philosophy adapted as a postmodern Norwegian YA novel. Or if you want more details:
(view spoiler)["Where are wBasically, Russell's History of Western Philosophy adapted as a postmodern Norwegian YA novel. Or if you want more details:
(view spoiler)["Where are we?" asked Sofie. "I don't understand. We aren't in my world any more. Or in Hilde's world. So..."
Alberto sighed. "It is clear," he said, "that we have entered another narrative. By the look of it, I strongly suspect a review. On the Goodreads website."
"Explain!" said Sofie.
"You remember that we became a book," continued Alberto patiently. "I can see that this book was very successful. It has been widely read - so widely, in fact, that people have started parodying it. We are in one of those parodies."
"Then we are being written again?" asked Sofie. "By someone else?"
"Indeed," replied Alberto. "I can immediately tell from the style that the author has changed."
"But in that case," said Sofie, "are we still us? If we're in the mind of a different person?"
"Ah," said Alberto. "A very interesting question! Come, Sofie, you have now finished my philosophy course. What possibilities are there?"
"Well," said Sofie, considering. "I suppose Plato might have argued that the real Sofie was never in the mind of her author. What was there could only have been a poor shadow of the true Sofie, who was in the world of Forms. So why could not another shadow appear in the mind of a different person, and be just as real as the first one?"
"Excellent, excellent," murmured her teacher. "Please continue."
"And Berkeley," said Sofie, "would have told me I was an idea in the mind of God, even if I was at the same time an idea in the mind of another of God's creatures. So even if I have a different author, I am still one of God's thoughts."
"You are an attentive student," smiled Alberto.
"And Hegel would also agree," said Sofie. "He would say I had become part of the Weltgeist, the World Spirit. The Weltgeist encompasses many individual minds, so although I am written by a different person, I am still me."
"I am proud of you," said Alberto. "And now--"
"No, wait!" said Sofie. "Sartre would have said that it is my individual choice to decide who I am. Only I can resolve my existential situation. I have to take responsibility for it myself."
"And do you take responsibility for it?" asked Alberto.
"Hm," said Sofie. "On the one hand, I don't feel I'm very well written. My dialogue is flat and implausible. I'm not a particularly credible character, just a mouthpiece for the author. Of course the same goes for you."
"And is that bad?" asked Alberto.
"Maybe not," said Sofie. "After all, it's made clear that we are just characters in an invented philosophy text. And there are so many references to Plato. Many of his characters are flat and unbelievable too, and only serve as foils for Socrates."
"A good point," murmured Alberto.
"And the author's intentions are admirable!" said Sofie enthusiastically. "The passage about Nils Holgerssons underbara resa could not be more clear. He wants to write a philosophy course suitable for younger teens that will genuinely engage their attention. Maybe the Philip K. Dick plays on the nature of reality are unsubtle. But they work. Tens of millions of people have read and enjoyed this book, who would never have dreamed of reading an ordinary piece of philosophy. Of course we aren't as good as Russell, but is that the relevant comparison? We're so much better than Harry Potter or Twilight."
"But are you still you?" asked Alberto. "That, after all, is the question we started off discussing."
"I am!" replied Sofie firmly. "I decide that I am. I know I'm now being written by someone else, but it makes no difference. I can feel he wants to start picking at the details - that absurdly incorrect description of the Big Bang, for example - but I won't let him!"
"Irony, irony," said Alberto.
"I'll let him have his little bit of irony," said Sofie in a scornful voice, "but I don't care! I'm stronger than he is, and I will go on to introduce millions more kids to philosophy. Maybe they'll look back one day when they've become more sophisticated and sneer, but it doesn't matter. I'll know what really got them started on the subject."
"Well said!" said Alberto, and laughed out loud. "You are my very favorite teen girl philosopher superhero. Bravo! Bravo!"
"Thank you," said Sofie modestly. "I wondered when you'd figure out why I was wearing a cape. Here, I have one for you too. I hope the color goes with your skiing hat?"
"Not bad," said Alberto, as he surveyed his reflection in the magic mirror.
"Okay then!" said Sofie. She pointed towards the infinite realms of chaos around them. "No time to lose! Come on! Let's philosophize!" (hide spoiler)] ...more
In a status update earlier today, Booknut 101 suggested that Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series could be summed up by the question "How can I get a vam In a status update earlier today, Booknut 101 suggested that Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series could be summed up by the question "How can I get a vampire to fuck me?" It's a good line, but, as I said, I disagree. Really, I think that Meyer is asking a more important question, which I would paraphrase roughly as: "How can I best sell my body and soul to become a member of the elite few who are really in charge?" She takes it for granted that most people would like to do this, given the chance.
The exchange reminded me of Zelazny's 1965 story The Graveyard Heart, which features in this collection. It's set in a near-future world where cryogenic technology has been perfected to the point where people can easily be frozen and revived at will. The most exclusive social group in the world is the Party Set. Members stay frozen most of the time and only come alive one or two days a year, when they attend fabulous parties. It is extremely difficult to become a member of Party Set. Not only do you have to be very rich, you must also be approved by the Set's autocratic and willful leader, the Doyenne.
Alvin, a young engineer, meets the beautiful Leota and instantly falls in love with her. There are practical problems: she is both a member of Party Set and also the girlfriend of another member, a famous poet. (view spoiler)[Nothing deterred, Alvin sets out to woo her. He succeeds in making enough money to pass the financial threshold, and with some difficulty is approved by the Doyenne. Eventually he wins Leota's affection; it helps that his rival is moody and unstable, and doesn't treat her very well.
Alvin and Leota are married at the most talked-about wedding of the year. She is pregnant with his child. He couldn't be happier; he has achieved everything he ever dreamed of. After the festivities are over, they retire to the cryogenic facility to sleep for the next year. Leota is scheduled to be frozen first, while Alvin has to wait an hour. He is sitting, smoking a cigarette and looking at his watch, when he hears a dull banging sound.
After a couple of minutes, he gets up to investigate. He realizes to his horror that it's coming from his new wife's room. He enters. She is in the cryogenic coffin, hard as stone. Standing, looking at her, is the spurned poet. He has driven a stake through her heart. (hide spoiler)] ...more
[Fresh from his triumphs in Bel-Ami, ROBERT PATTINSON will shortly be appearing in Pierre et Jean, directed by A FAMOUS FRENCH DIRECTOR. The following[Fresh from his triumphs in Bel-Ami, ROBERT PATTINSON will shortly be appearing in Pierre et Jean, directed by A FAMOUS FRENCH DIRECTOR. The following outtake has turned up on YouTube]
FRENCH DIRECTOR: Vous vous souvenez peut-être, j'ai dit que tout le monde doive lire le roman. Monsieur Pattinson, nous comprenons bien que vous êtes la grande star américaine, mais avez-vous le lu, oui ou merde?
INTERPRETER: He asks if you have read the book.
PATTINSON: Well, I've had a lot of shit going on, you know, interviews about my breakup with Kristen, and I've had to change my publicist and my personal trainer in the same week, then there's been some tax shit, so, like, give me a break dude, I'll get to it real soon, I promise, you know?
INTERPRETER: Il n'a pas lu.
FRENCH DIRECTOR: Alors, je vais vous lire un petit bout:
Une heure plus tard il était étendu dans son petit lit marin, étroit et long comme un cercueil. Il y resta longtemps, les yeux ouverts, songeant à tout ce qui s'était passé depuis deux mois dans sa vie, et surtout dans son âme. À force d'avoir souffert et fait souffrir les autres, sa douleur agressive et vengeresse s'était fatiguée, comme une lame émoussée. Il n'avait presque plus le courage d'en vouloir à quelqu'un et de quoi que ce fût, et il laissait aller sa révolte à vau-l'eau à la façon de son existence. Il se sentait tellement las de lutter, las de frapper, las de détester, las de tout, qu'il n'en pouvait plus et tâchait d'engourdir son coeur dans l'oubli, comme on tombe dans le sommeil. Il entendait vaguement autour de lui les bruits nouveaux du navire, bruits légers, à peine perceptibles en cette nuit calme du port; et de sa blessure jusque-là si cruelle il ne sentait plus aussi que les tiraillements douloureux des plaies qui se cicatrisent.
INTERPRETER: You're lying down. You don't feel too good about what's happened. You're really tired.
[PATTINSON lies down and stares at the ceiling]
FRENCH DIRECTOR: J'en ai marre marre marre de ce comédien de merde, dites-lui encore une fois que c'est Maupassant, pas cette merde de Twilight. Est-ce vraiment impossible de comprendre?
INTERPRETER: He asks if you can try to remember you're not Edward.
Gideon ushered me into the elevator with a firm, masculine hand behind the small of my back, and as always I felt an electric shock go through me. As Gideon ushered me into the elevator with a firm, masculine hand behind the small of my back, and as always I felt an electric shock go through me. As soon as the doors had closed, I sank to my knees, hardly even noticing the teak interior with its antique silver accents, and began to pleasure him. He sighed and plunged his hands into my hair.
"Oh Eva!" he groaned.
The rest of this review is available elsewhere (the location cannot be given for Goodreads policy reasons)...more
(Geneva, late 2012. Plainpalais market, a riotous display of phallic vegetables, ill-smelling cheese and trash literature. THE REVIEWER and his GIRLFR(Geneva, late 2012. Plainpalais market, a riotous display of phallic vegetables, ill-smelling cheese and trash literature. THE REVIEWER and his GIRLFRIEND walk through the stalls hand in hand. Polyglot conversations around them.)
THE REVIEWER: Now here's a significant quote. "My methods are new and are causing surprise To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes."
STANISLAW LEM: Mogę to rozwinąć. MICHAEL KANDEL: I can give you more details on that.
SWEDISH SHOPPER: Hej! Jag kommer ifrån Bollestad.
THE REVIEWER: And this one. "The sense of beauty leads us astray." It's like Proust, but the exact opposite. Maximally implicit rather than maximally explicit.
AMERICAN SHOPPER: I'm from Biloxi.
THE REVIEWER: A projective space? A Riemann sphere? U.P.: up. Or down, if you prefer. It comes to the same thing.
(THE GIRLFRIEND gives him a irritated look)
THE REVIEWER: [Smugly] Don't get your knickors in a twistor.
[They have reached a bookstall full of lurid French paperbacks. THE GIRLFRIEND, ignoring him, starts going through them]
THE GIRLFRIEND: Have you read this one? Les Sirènes de l'Autoroute.
THE REVIEWER: Très douce.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Les Sacrifiés du Soleil?
THE REVIEWER: Amazingly, appallingly alliterative!
THE GIRLFRIEND: La Plage aux Nymphes?
THE REVIEWER: Nausicating.
GIRLFRIEND: [Giving up in disgust] You're such a smartarse. What were you talking about? Cosmology again?
ALBERT EINSTEIN: Take one curvature tensor, contract, subtract a scalar, et voilà! Instant universe. On that mystery and not on the Madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the Church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro- and microcosm, upon the void. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Mais non.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Speak English, you old fart.
[EINSTEIN shrugs and calls over LAWRENCE KRAUSS and RICHARD DAWKINS to join him. They sing together in uncertain harmony]
ALBERT EINSTEIN: Space is curved.
LAWRENCE KRAUSS: But it's flat.
RICHARD DAWKINS: Well, that's put an end to that.
THE REVIEWER: I'm not sure I follow---
RICHARD DAWKINS: [Irritated] There is no God. Do I have to explain everything?
[EINSTEIN, KRAUSS and DAWKINS all disappear again. THE REVIEWER and his GIRLFRIEND proceed towards the Route de Carouge. A TRAM passes, on its side a Christmas-themed wine poster whose title is "La belle houx"]
THE TRAM: Brhm brhm brhm brhm-hm-hm. Brhm.
STEPHEN POTTER: [Holding wine-glass] Too many tramlines.
THE REVIEWER: A little bit cornery round the edges.
STEPHEN POTTER: Well ployed sir!
[He raises his glass in salutation to THE REVIEWER, who follows his GIRLFRIEND across the Route de Carouge. CHARLES DARWIN steps out of the Rue De-Candolle to meet them]
CHARLES DARWIN: There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers.
THE REVIEWER: [Blankly] What's evolution got to do with it?
CHARLES DARWIN: Oh, I don't know. Survival of the fittest or something. I mean, it's survived? You can't deny that? And you wouldn't expect it to if it were as crazy as it looks?
THE REVIEWER: I suppose not. But---
CHARLES DARWIN: Not only that, it's reproduced. Any number of people have copied it.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Look, just because---
CHARLES DARWIN: [Cutting her off] Well then. I rest my case.
THE REVIEWER: [To his GIRLFRIEND] So what is the fascination of the book? What revelation does it promise us?
[Enter KRISTEN STEWART, wearing a semi-transparent gown]
THE GIRLFRIEND: You can't see as much as you think.
THE REVIEWER: The opacity only makes it more interesting. Trust me.
KRISTEN STEWART: Art thou real, my ideal? it was called, and after that there was something about twilight, will thou ever? That's so inspiring, isn't it?
THE REVIEWER: [who cannot take his eyes off her] May I write a poem to your breasts? [With an insinuating leer] They say I'm good at that.
ROBERT PATTINSON: [Shoving in ahead of him] I was first.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Well fuck me dead.
ROBERT PATTINSON: Necrophilia I've heard of sillier The question is Wont ya or will ya.
[He goes down on one knee]
KRISTEN STEWART: I will. Voglio. However you pronounce it.
THE REVIEWER: But she'll be hard. Impenetrable. Like marble. Where's the pleasure of the text?
ROBERT PATTINSON: It's not hard when you're married. You need to make a commitment.
THE REVIEWER: All the same---
[THE GIRLFRIEND drags him away towards the Pont du Mont-Blanc. Halfway across, they meet THE PROPHET ELIJAH]
ELIJAH: Behold!
[They turn, following his outstretched arm, to see the Jet d'eau]
THE REVIEWER: A height of one hundred and forty metres. Five hundred litres per second. That's --- ah --- thirty thousand litres a minute. Nearly two million litres an---
ELIJAH: Yet the lake is not full.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Well of course it fucking isn't. It flows off down the Rhône.
ELIJAH: [Disappointedly] Don't pick at the metaphor.
[THE GIRLFRIEND is about to say something else but THE REVIEWER, seeing that ELIJAH is about to make a speech, manages to stop her]
ELIJAH: Regardez! Protéiforme, constant mais toujours en changement, ange annonciateur, puissance inépuisable. C'est ça, ce livre. Vous comprenez?
THE GIRLFRIEND: [Surprised at herself] Yes.
[ELIJAH bows, first to her and then to the fountain. For a moment, they all gaze at it in silence]
E.L. JAMES: [who has somehow turned up unnoticed] Holy shit!
At a standing-room-only press conference earlier today, top researchers from the world famous Goodreads Center foBad Book Is Like Other Bad Book Shock
At a standing-room-only press conference earlier today, top researchers from the world famous Goodreads Center for Bodice-Ripping, Bondage and Twilight Studies revealed that a bad book was quite a lot like another bad book.
"When I saw the final results of the data analysis, a cold shiver went down my spine," said the Center's director. "The chain of inference is long, and at first we weren't sure all the steps were watertight, but now we're confident enough to go public. Expressing it in layman's language, what we have here is basically that this bad book is similar to another bad book, which in turn closely resembles a third bad book. The implications are literally mind-blowing and we're still trying to understand them. Thank you."
In other news, E.L. James was briefly hospitalized after a pile of gold coins collapsed, partially burying her for several minutes. She suffered "minor contusions and abrasions" but was able to return home to her money-cave following a medical examination.
In response to innumerable queries from MJ and other people, this cheap, tacky PDF edition is now available to people who want to post sarcastic revieIn response to innumerable queries from MJ and other people, this cheap, tacky PDF edition is now available to people who want to post sarcastic reviews without substantially affecting their bank balance.
"...would make a great present for somebody who's never heard of GoodReads before, like maybe a caveman Praise for What Pooh Might Have Said To Dante:
"...would make a great present for somebody who's never heard of GoodReads before, like maybe a caveman recently unfrozen from an ancient glacier" - BirdBrian
"Having observed both Counsel extremely closely, I am compelled to find that the market value of Mr Rayner's efforts is precisely Nil" - Ian G
"... something rather amateurish that looked like it had been done in somebody's back room" - notgettingenough
"Manny doesn't like Harry Potter and sometimes I get mad at him and threaten to throw him into the ocean" - Mariel
"I bought this as a gift for my mum and there was rather more sex in it than I had expected." - Hamish
"... a waste of time... you can read all that stuff for free online" - Paul B
"The future is an endless oneupmanship to see who can write the wittiest, most popular 200-word capsule review on fuck-all. This is Manny’s fault." - MJ
"... call it Rue Vomitorium" - David C
"... good if you read it in the original failboatese" - Vote Whore
"... almost... funny" - Traveller
"... just ... some ... book" - Michael P
"Will you enjoy this? In a word, no, unless you are a masochist" - Sean D
"Never in my life I seen a more desperate attempt to get votes" - Alfonso
"... advertising..." - Esteban
"If I'd been drinking I think it could have made me seasick" - Tabitha
"The thing about Manny... he almost never throws feces at random strangers." - Kat
"... explicit ... the author has failed ..." - Scribble
"... rattling a virtual tip jar at every opportunity ..." - Jason P
"Manny, you sure are fascinated with Stephenie Meyer" - Rowena M
"GoodReads in-jokes ... off-putting ..." - Cecily
"... book snob ... insecurity ... stupid ..." - midnightfaerie
"... sexist garbage ... if you ask me, he is off his onion ..." - Nandakishore
"... ridiculous ... dilettante ..." - Rlotz
"... a pain in the testicles ..." - Faek
"... pompous ..." - Heep
"... silly ..." - Stian
"... enough..." - Alan B __________________________________
Over the last couple of years, several kind people have asked whether I'd considered publishing a collection of my best reviews. I always replied that I appreciated the suggestion, but it didn't seem like a sensible thing to do. But, a few weeks ago, I started wondering whether I shouldn't give it a shot after all. If Goodreads unexpectedly folded up - these things happen - it would be so annoying to lose my writing. Self-publishing has become cheap and easy. And I've got a fair amount of experience with type-setting. How much work could it be to implement a few scripts to turn HTML into LaTeX and then upload a PDF file to Lulu?
Well, it's never quite as straightforward as you think, but here is the result. For the benefit of other people who may feel tempted to do the same thing, let me give you the key lessons I've learned from this little adventure:
1. Sign up an editor and some readers. No author can be objective about their own work; they need keen external eyes to tell them both what's good and what's bad about it. It was fortunate for me that notgettingenough, who has long-term experience with publishing, took an early interest in the project and was willing to act as editor. She ruthlessly corrected several of my dumber ideas, forced me to think about issues I'd happily have ignored, and made sure that the book was produced to professional standards. My advisory committee - BirdBrian, Mariel and Ian - read through the manuscript and gave me encouragement and helpful suggestions. They convinced me that it was worth continuing and taking the time required to make it look good. Thank you, guys! You have all been so thoughtful and patient, and I greatly appreciate it!
2. Think carefully about which reviews to include. Not groaned over my initial selection, which probably took an hour to do and had no structure whatsoever. She encouraged me to group the reviews by style and type of book, after which I saw that some things were grossly overrepresented. Even if bashing Twilight is the Goodreads national sport, I didn't need this many examples of the genre. And much as I love writing about Flaubert, Proust, Wittgenstein and Kasparov, it's likely that the average reader will not share my enthusiasms to the same degree.
3. Acquire at least a smattering of knowledge regarding copyright. As I now understand it, most quoted text that might appear in a Goodreads review should be covered by the rules on Fair Use. I found the following passage from this page helpful:
Section 107 contains a list of the various purposes for which the reproduction of a particular work may be considered fair, such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Section 107 also sets out four factors to be considered in determining whether or not a particular use is fair:
- The purpose and character of the use, including whether such use is of commercial nature or is for nonprofit educational purposes
- The nature of the copyrighted work
- The amount and substantiality of the portion used in relation to the copyrighted work as a whole
- The effect of the use upon the potential market for, or value of, the copyrighted work
The distinction between fair use and infringement may be unclear and not easily defined. There is no specific number of words, lines, or notes that may safely be taken without permission. Acknowledging the source of the copyrighted material does not substitute for obtaining permission.
The 1961 Report of the Register of Copyrights on the General Revision of the U.S. Copyright Law cites examples of activities that courts have regarded as fair use: "quotation of excerpts in a review or criticism for purposes of illustration or comment; quotation of short passages in a scholarly or technical work, for illustration or clarification of the author's observations; use in a parody of some of the content of the work parodied..."
Unfortunately, I learned the hard way that copyrighted images are generally not easy to include: the problem is that you'll be using the whole image, rather than just an illustrative part of it. Martha, my talented cover artist, had put together the following very attractive cover:
[image]
But, alas, the Estate of E.H. Shepherd thought this was an "inappropriate" use of Pooh Bear's image and politely but firmly refused to grant me permission. I didn't even get that far with Penguin (Jemima Puddle-Duck) or Gallimard (the Little Prince), who still haven't given me any clear answers. Not, in her capacity as excutive editor, made the sensible but painful decision to go for a simpler solution.
So there have been a few rough moments, but all in all I found this an interesting and rewarding experience. And now, I hardly need add, I'm curious to see if anyone is going to buy it! It's available from this Lulu page....more
"Now look," said Billy, in an uncertain approximation of his reasonable voice. "What's all this about? Can't someone tell me?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," r"Now look," said Billy, in an uncertain approximation of his reasonable voice. "What's all this about? Can't someone tell me?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," replied Collingwood in disgust. "Someone's been trying to tell you for most of your sodding life. You just won't listen, will you? But if you want something more explicit, there's always Goodreads."
She opened a grubby-looking Apple Powerbook with a Hello Kitty sticker on the lid and began typing.
"What's Goodreads got to do with it?" whispered Billy, but Collingwood waved her hand dismissively.
"Just one fucking minute. Almost there. Okay."
She turned the laptop to face him. There was a review with an embedded video JPEG. A shaven-headed man with a strong London accent was talking. He looked vaguely familiar, but Billy couldn't quite place him.
"This," said Collingwood with evident satisfaction, "is a review of Kraken by China Miéville. Now pay attention for once."
"We have tried various ways to reach you," the man was saying. "We hoped you would notice the works of E. Nesbit, H.P. Lovecraft, Philip K. Dick and J.K. Rowling. To name but a few."
"How about Stephenie Meyer?" asked Billy. The man gave him a dirty look.
"Meyer was a mistake," he snapped. Billy turned open-mouthed towards Collingwood, who paused the video and shrugged. "I know an algorithmomancer. Don't let the ad libs distract you." She pressed Play again.
"We particularly hoped," the man continued, "that you would read James Blish. Do you ever wonder why people keep recommending you Black Easter and They Shall Have Stars?"
Billy's last girlfriend had in fact made repeated attempts to get him to read both books, but without success. He stared at the screen.
"Now," the man concluded, "Kraken should drive the point home. If not, I give up."
He bowed and walked off.
"But what is the point?" asked Billy helplessly. "I still don't get it." Collingwood did the ostentatious eye-rolling thing.
"The world is not as it seems, you twat," she sighed. "Something bad is about to happen. But maybe you can do something about it." ...more
Given the acres of newsprint that have already been wasted on Jessica Rabbit's second book, what is the point of writing yet another review? But I'll Given the acres of newsprint that have already been wasted on Jessica Rabbit's second book, what is the point of writing yet another review? But I'll try, since, even though it's a bit uncharitable of me, I do wonder whether most of the other reviewers have actually bothered to read it. Let me first dispose of the largely irrelevant criticisms that have already been repeated several thousand times. Yes, she does dedicate it to Ed Bear. Yes, there are far too many pictures, most of them at best tangential to the text and showing the comely Dr. Rabbit in various provocative states of undress. Yes, there are more equations than pictures. And yes, I think she wrote the whole thing herself, including the equations.
I know it seems unfair that someone who looks like Dr. Rabbit is also a startlingly successful academic - most people would settle for one out of two and consider themselves more than lucky - but life isn't always fair. Enough nonsense: let me tell you what the book is about. The title gives you a good summary. As she says in the Introduction, Dr. Rabbit has had a lifelong obsession with Proust, and in particular with his interpretation of the concept of "love". About five years ago, she was doing some work on quantum logics, and it occurred to her to wonder whether this might provide a technical tool that could capture Proust's insights in formal terms. The book is the result of systematically following up on that thought.
The argument is divided into four parts. After the long Introduction, which provides a good road-map of the thorny path the author has chosen for herself, Part 1 is devoted to Proust. Dr. Rabbit focusses almost exclusively on three central threads in the narrative, the romances between Swann and Odette, Marcel and Albertine, and Marcel and Duchesse de Guermantes. (I wish she had had time to discuss Gilberte; I have heard that she is writing a paper about her, but I am not sure whether this is true). In each case, the author retells the story from the rather special viewpoint of the relationship's ontological/epistemological nature. Some people have complained about disrespect to Proust, but I do not think that these criticisms stand up to careful examination. Dr. Rabbit is scrupulous about grounding all her arguments in a close study of the text, which she obviously knows extremely well, and, even if her conclusions are unusual, they deserve to be treated with respect. The common thread in all three cases is what one might be tempted to call the "unreality" of the loved one. This is a clumsy term, and in the rest of the book Dr. Rabbit takes pains to replace it with a much more exact and interesting notion.
Part 2 introduces the formal logical apparatus that will be needed to perform the analyses. There is no point in pretending that it is an easy read, and even if some of the pictures are witty - I particularly liked the one for "bound existential quantification", illustrating the de dicto/de re distinction - they annoy more than they help. Here, I unfortunately feel that the rumors are true, and the artwork owes more to the publisher than the author. None the less, if one can ignore the distractions, there are ample rewards. Dr. Rabbit rigorously defines an interesting hybrid logic which takes inspiration both from classical modal logic and from one of von Neumann's lesser-known forays into quantum logic. In passing, she elegantly demolishes Vikki Blows's extension of David Foster Wallace's modal framework. The rivalry between Rabbit and Blows is by now an open secret, and here Blows suffers an attack she will find hard to parry.
With the lengthy scene-setting completed, Part 3 presents the core of the book. Once again, I was both delighted and frustrated. The argument showing how Odette's seduction of Swann and Albertine's capture of Marcel can both be represented by the same formula was an undeniable triumph, but this was immediately followed by a completely unnecessary detour into Lacan's sexual theorizing. It is perhaps true that Dr. Rabbit's key formulas can be extended to support Lacan's well-known thesis that all sex can be conceptualized as masturbation; but this felt more like an excuse for further illustrations, some of them in decidedly questionable taste. None the less, the strong points far outweighed the weak ones, and overall I must admit that I was very impressed. This is a strikingly original piece of work, and will further cement Dr. Rabbit's claim to lead the new field of quantum literary criticism. ...more
In Borges's short story, the world consists of a gigantic library which contains every possible book that can ever be written. So, somewhere, there muIn Borges's short story, the world consists of a gigantic library which contains every possible book that can ever be written. So, somewhere, there must logically be the book, the one that reveals the Library's secret! Unfortunately, there is no filing system, and no one has any idea of how to find the elusive book. In fact, it's challenging even to locate one which contains a meaningful sentence: most of them are gibberish from beginning to end.
Well, our own world isn't quite as bad - but it's still harder than it should be to locate the books you really want to read, when they're mixed up with the ones you just think you might want to read. I am often appalled at the amount of time I waste on this site, but comfort myself with the thought that it has helped me find some amazing books I normally wouldn't even have considered.
But exactly how helpful has it been? The other day, it occurred to me to try and answer this question quantitatively. I calculate that, since I started hanging out here in late 2008, I have read 42 books just because someone here has recommended them. (I didn't count books recommended by people on Goodreads whom I also know in real life, otherwise the figure would be considerably higher). After some more thought, I've picked out a Top Ten, which I present here for your amusement:
10. I've never seen anyone outside Goodreads mention Everything Explained Through Flowcharts, recommended to me by David G, but it's the funniest thing I've seen in ages. I challenge you to read it without giggling helplessly at least a couple of times. Why it isn't more famous is more than I understand.
9. À rebours, a weird 19th century French novel recommended to me by Sabrina, is another book that deserves to be better known. Nothing happens, but it's somehow utterly compelling. I think it's also been very influential.
8. I love books written under strong formalist constraints, but I'd never heard of Eunoia, recommended by Gary. Five chapters, each using only one vowel, and, even though it sounds impossible, it works remarkably well as poetry. Really!
6. Choupette was so indignant about Plateforme that I had to check it out for myself. I liked it enough that I also read Les particules élémentaires. I won't promise that you'll enjoy them, but they're certainly going to make you think.
4. Would you believe it, I hadn't even heard of Infinite Jest before I joined GR. Within a couple of months, I'd given in and bought a copy. Admittedly, I also bought a copy of Twilight at the same time...
3. Pavel told me I had to read Voices from Chernobyl, and he was right. Whatever your opinions on nuclear power, it's irresponsible not to. You can't take more than a chapter or so at a time; after that, you just sit there stunned, doing your best not to cry. Another book that people have unaccountably overlooked.
2. Was I really going to read a thousand page physics text full of scary math? I did a math degree in the late 70s, but this looked way over my level. However, Nick called me chicken enough times that I decided to tackle The Road to Reality: A Complete Guide to the Laws of the Universe. I've finally got to the end, and wow, was it a fascinating read! If you like math and physics, take Nick's advice: forget the pop science books and go for the big one. It's worth the effort.
1. I don't really know Norwegian, and how likely was it that I'd buy a three volume magical-realist Norwegian novel by an author I'd never heard of? But, moved by Oriana's glowing review, I started thinking that I speak Swedish, Norwegian isn't that different (it's a kind of Spanish/Portuguese deal), so why not give it a shot? By the time I was 20 pages into Forføreren, I was hooked, and then I immediately continued with Erobreren and Oppdageren. The trilogy is the most brilliant thing I have read this century, and I can't recommend it highly enough. Thank you Oriana!
So, there you are, and I hope I've made at least one sale :) In the interests of completeness, here's the rest of the list, in alphabetical order:
Lists. Dontcha love 'em? You've got an item, then another item, and then some more items! All the items are similar, but at the same time, hey, they'rLists. Dontcha love 'em? You've got an item, then another item, and then some more items! All the items are similar, but at the same time, hey, they're different. And they come in an order, which may or may not mean something. Wow.
I'm afraid I'm already running out of ideas for explaining why lists are so damn fascinating. Instead, in the spirit of this book, I thought I'd compile a list myself. So here's
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