Discovering Terry Pratchett at the ripe old age of 27 - Sunday 27 March 2011 @ 02:27
I know, I know, you're gonna say "My god have you only just discovered Terry Pratchett? Where exactly have you been all this while?" Ah well wherever it is I've been, I've been there long enough to know the age old adage of "better late than never" so there.
Luckily, at the age of 27, mere moments from when I will be collecting my pension and choosing my walking stick, I happened across a bookshop selling the Terry Pratchett graphic novels for cheap. And then Good Omens by Pratchett and good old Neil Gaiman (age 50 *gasp!*) somehow came floating along on the "hey can I borrow that and never return it?" pipeline. The final nail came in the form of a big Kinokuniya sale of just about every Terry Pratchett novel known to man, animal and quite possibly small species of literary fungi, and as such I am now, quite officially, a Terry Pratchett fan.
For the uninformed, Pratchett is most renown for the Discworld series of novels. I'd always wondered how many stories you could tell about an air hockey table but, no, apparently what they are about is a world, quite like ours, except that it's flat and sits on the backs of five heap big elephants who sit on the back of an even heaper bigger turtle swimming lazily through the depths of space. Oh and did I mention vampires, trolls and golems count as everyday inhabitants of Ankh-Morpok, its main city, as well? Discworld is laugh-a-minute silliness with absurd situations and groan inducing wordplay that is fun for the whole family (batteries not included), topped, in fact, only by the laugh-a-minute absurdity of our own world.
I recommend, mostly because I've read them,
And,
because I haven't but it sounds like it'll be a blast.
P.S It's come to my attention that there are also movie adaptations of some of Terry Pratchett's novels in existence. But a little voice in my head tells me these books don't lend themselves too well to cinematic reinterpretation. I'd listen to him.
Haruki Murakami: On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning - Wednesday 28 April 2010 @ 08:27
Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
Wolf Hall - Hilary Mantel - Thursday 15 April 2010 @ 07:02
I know Wolf Hall is supposed to be the 2010 Man Booker Prize winner and indeed the covers of the book are literally inundated with the lavish praises of a dozen respected reviews but...gosh...Super-Caveman say this book hard to read :/
Ok the upside first. Wolf Hall is undoubtedly historical fiction of the highest calibre. Mantel reconstructs English history under the reign of Henry VIII (Henry Tudor) and brilliantly fleshes out the drama and intrigue of the King's court, especially the events that surrounded what is perhaps the most (in)famous divorce in history (yes Brad and Jenn too, get over it), and the birth of the Anglican Church as a result. I always appreciate good research and Mantel has obviously bothered to do her homework, that of everybodyaround her, and probably the teacher's notes too. Even better she takes the perspective of Thomas Cromwell, a historically much maligned figure, and casts him in if not a more forgiving, then certainly a more human light.
Unfortunately the cast of characters in such a monumental work is just mind-boggling and I had to keep flipping back to the 5-page list of them in front. It doesn't help either that every other person in 16th Century England seems to have been named Thomas or Mary, although that's hardly Mantel's fault. What is her fault though is her seeming reluctance to use nouns in the book. Every male character is simply referred to as "he" and every female "she", leaving the reader sometimes completely bamboozled as to which "he" is "he" and which "she" is "she" and what on earth are they getting up to.
Good book overall but you're going to need persistence.
Axe Cop! - Friday 9 April 2010 @ 19:36
Awesomeness has a name and these days it goes to the tune ofAxe Cop!
Illustrated by 29 year old Ethan Nicolle and, more importantly, written and created by his 5 year old brother Malachai, Axe Cop is without doubt the newest and probably the absolute best way to waste time in the office. Just try not to fall out of your chair laughing. You might hurt your boss' feelings if he thinks you're actually enjoying what you're doing :p
The results of having a 5 year old as your main author are plain to see, not that that's a bad thing. A cop finds an axe and becomes Axe Cop who recruits Flute Cop who becomes Dinosaur Soldier who eats an avocado and becomes Avocado Soldier and shoots avocados from his hands and...well you get the picture. Axe Cop is absurd, silly, fun and absolutely brilliant. Brilliant silliness and silly brilliance. My we do have a flair for the oxymoron don't we.
Besides the main storyline check out the "Ask Axe Cop" section. It'll be worth your while I assure you, even if only to find out what happens if Chuck Norris fights our dear hero. Oh and finally in closing I leave you with a video of the Axe Cop creative process. Malachai is seriously too cute. Yes Super-Caveman like Axe Cop big time.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Ken Kesey - Tuesday 30 March 2010 @ 20:35
I love how Penguin has started publishing a whole bunch of classic novels and some rather good non-fiction in these inexpensive no-frills volumes that you wouldn’t have too many qualms about bending and sticking in your back pocket for the commute to work. In the spirit of all things vintage as well, they stay true to the way these imprints used to look way back when. What I wouldn’t give right now for a wall full of these orange numbers.
But I digress. What better way to start than with a classic. I opened One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with mild trepidation that it would turn out like one of those dreary ancient volumes of my schooling days, lulling one into catatonia faster than a rabbit down a hole. Instead I turned out very pleasantly surprised. The story is a promising one already, set in an asylum and pitting Nurse Ratched, the tyrannical Big Nurse, against the new arrival to her ward – the boisterous scoundrel McMurphy who immediately sets about working loose her iron-grip upon the place and its inhabitants. The battle of wits that ensues is classic, a game of cat and mouse in starched white uniforms and olive green patients’ togs; driven by Kesey's lovely easy-to-read style, and making this a far cry from the epic snore-fests that so many "critically acclaimed' and "award-winning" novels turn out to be.
Cuckoo is nothing if not an icon of anti-establishment, Nurse Ratched playing the role of big bad authority and McMurphy the heroic dissident. Yet the deeper you get the more you realise that things really aren't as simple as they seem, and the lines between oppressor and oppressed not as clearly demarcated. Hallmarks of a fantastic read and highly recommended.
Discovering Terry Pratchett at the ripe old age of 27 - Sunday 27 March 2011 @ 02:27
I know, I know, you're gonna say "My god have you only just discovered Terry Pratchett? Where exactly have you been all this while?" Ah well wherever it is I've been, I've been there long enough to know the age old adage of "better late than never" so there.
Luckily, at the age of 27, mere moments from when I will be collecting my pension and choosing my walking stick, I happened across a bookshop selling the Terry Pratchett graphic novels for cheap. And then Good Omens by Pratchett and good old Neil Gaiman (age 50 *gasp!*) somehow came floating along on the "hey can I borrow that and never return it?" pipeline. The final nail came in the form of a big Kinokuniya sale of just about every Terry Pratchett novel known to man, animal and quite possibly small species of literary fungi, and as such I am now, quite officially, a Terry Pratchett fan.
For the uninformed, Pratchett is most renown for the Discworld series of novels. I'd always wondered how many stories you could tell about an air hockey table but, no, apparently what they are about is a world, quite like ours, except that it's flat and sits on the backs of five heap big elephants who sit on the back of an even heaper bigger turtle swimming lazily through the depths of space. Oh and did I mention vampires, trolls and golems count as everyday inhabitants of Ankh-Morpok, its main city, as well? Discworld is laugh-a-minute silliness with absurd situations and groan inducing wordplay that is fun for the whole family (batteries not included), topped, in fact, only by the laugh-a-minute absurdity of our own world.
I recommend, mostly because I've read them,
And,
because I haven't but it sounds like it'll be a blast.
P.S It's come to my attention that there are also movie adaptations of some of Terry Pratchett's novels in existence. But a little voice in my head tells me these books don't lend themselves too well to cinematic reinterpretation. I'd listen to him.
Haruki Murakami: On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning - Wednesday 28 April 2010 @ 08:27
Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
Wolf Hall - Hilary Mantel - Thursday 15 April 2010 @ 07:02
I know Wolf Hall is supposed to be the 2010 Man Booker Prize winner and indeed the covers of the book are literally inundated with the lavish praises of a dozen respected reviews but...gosh...Super-Caveman say this book hard to read :/
Ok the upside first. Wolf Hall is undoubtedly historical fiction of the highest calibre. Mantel reconstructs English history under the reign of Henry VIII (Henry Tudor) and brilliantly fleshes out the drama and intrigue of the King's court, especially the events that surrounded what is perhaps the most (in)famous divorce in history (yes Brad and Jenn too, get over it), and the birth of the Anglican Church as a result. I always appreciate good research and Mantel has obviously bothered to do her homework, that of everybodyaround her, and probably the teacher's notes too. Even better she takes the perspective of Thomas Cromwell, a historically much maligned figure, and casts him in if not a more forgiving, then certainly a more human light.
Unfortunately the cast of characters in such a monumental work is just mind-boggling and I had to keep flipping back to the 5-page list of them in front. It doesn't help either that every other person in 16th Century England seems to have been named Thomas or Mary, although that's hardly Mantel's fault. What is her fault though is her seeming reluctance to use nouns in the book. Every male character is simply referred to as "he" and every female "she", leaving the reader sometimes completely bamboozled as to which "he" is "he" and which "she" is "she" and what on earth are they getting up to.
Good book overall but you're going to need persistence.
Awesomeness has a name and these days it goes to the tune ofAxe Cop!
Illustrated by 29 year old Ethan Nicolle and, more importantly, written and created by his 5 year old brother Malachai, Axe Cop is without doubt the newest and probably the absolute best way to waste time in the office. Just try not to fall out of your chair laughing. You might hurt your boss' feelings if he thinks you're actually enjoying what you're doing :p
The results of having a 5 year old as your main author are plain to see, not that that's a bad thing. A cop finds an axe and becomes Axe Cop who recruits Flute Cop who becomes Dinosaur Soldier who eats an avocado and becomes Avocado Soldier and shoots avocados from his hands and...well you get the picture. Axe Cop is absurd, silly, fun and absolutely brilliant. Brilliant silliness and silly brilliance. My we do have a flair for the oxymoron don't we.
Besides the main storyline check out the "Ask Axe Cop" section. It'll be worth your while I assure you, even if only to find out what happens if Chuck Norris fights our dear hero. Oh and finally in closing I leave you with a video of the Axe Cop creative process. Malachai is seriously too cute. Yes Super-Caveman like Axe Cop big time.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Ken Kesey - Tuesday 30 March 2010 @ 20:35
I love how Penguin has started publishing a whole bunch of classic novels and some rather good non-fiction in these inexpensive no-frills volumes that you wouldn’t have too many qualms about bending and sticking in your back pocket for the commute to work. In the spirit of all things vintage as well, they stay true to the way these imprints used to look way back when. What I wouldn’t give right now for a wall full of these orange numbers.
But I digress. What better way to start than with a classic. I opened One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with mild trepidation that it would turn out like one of those dreary ancient volumes of my schooling days, lulling one into catatonia faster than a rabbit down a hole. Instead I turned out very pleasantly surprised. The story is a promising one already, set in an asylum and pitting Nurse Ratched, the tyrannical Big Nurse, against the new arrival to her ward – the boisterous scoundrel McMurphy who immediately sets about working loose her iron-grip upon the place and its inhabitants. The battle of wits that ensues is classic, a game of cat and mouse in starched white uniforms and olive green patients’ togs; driven by Kesey's lovely easy-to-read style, and making this a far cry from the epic snore-fests that so many "critically acclaimed' and "award-winning" novels turn out to be.
Cuckoo is nothing if not an icon of anti-establishment, Nurse Ratched playing the role of big bad authority and McMurphy the heroic dissident. Yet the deeper you get the more you realise that things really aren't as simple as they seem, and the lines between oppressor and oppressed not as clearly demarcated. Hallmarks of a fantastic read and highly recommended.
Hai. My name is yournamehere :D. Yes that's right, I'm yournamehere and :D is my surname! I'm two hundred and twenty two years old this year and that's called young
Prepare those presents on date-month. Yeah, the date is on the Date(th), in the month of Month.
I'm currently attending a school called School and my class is called Class. HAVE A NICE DAY.
