God save the booklog
Dec. 21st, 2009 05:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneMy dad bought the whole family tickets to Avatar without asking if we wanted to see Avatar, so I ended up seeing Avatar. My review, in brief: EW. All of these books were better than Avatar, even the ones I hated. The end.
101. The Sheriff of Yrnameer, Michael Rubens — An enjoyable sci-fi/comedy/pastiche/parody/adventure that, for all that it lacks originality, almost makes up for it in enthusiasm. It's a fun, fast-paced flight through regions of space where men have gone before, most notably Douglas Adams; however, unlike others who owe Adams their lifeblood, Rubens is genuinely funny—I especially enjoyed the universe's stupidest computer (he likes pebbles!). There are even moments of actual character development amongst the wackiness, and—points again—Rubens gives his female characters more to do than Adams ever did. This book won't change your life, but it might brighten it for a few hours.
102. A Madness of Angels, Kate Griffin — This book contains one truly fantastic conceit: magician Matthew Swift is brought back from the dead, but he doesn't come back alone; he contains within him entities known as the Blue Electric Angels, and so parts of his story are narrated in the first person singular, I, and parts in the first person plural, we. I love the shifts between Matthew's perspective and that of the otherworldly Angels; I love how throughout the book they start to come together a bit, to merge. There is such a fascinating book to be written with this premise!
Unfortunately, this book isn't it. The actual plot is dull, dull, dull, and the characters didn't entrance me, either. Griffin's magical London is just the kind of fantasy setting I usually adore, in which the urban landscape is infused with the same kind of mysticism the countryside is usually granted in fairy stories. But in this book, I felt more like Griffin had simply chewed up the best aspects of Neverwhere and a bunch of Hellblazer comics and spat them out wetly onto the pavement. The novel's opening left me intellectually tantalized but I was never emotionally engaged.
103. God Save the Queen, Mike Carey — Mike Carey is very hit or miss for me. This is unfortunately a miss. There are some idiot junkies, and some fairly standard scary faerie shenanigans, and John Bolton’s art is sometimes atmospheric and cool, but always full of lots of bare breasts. Next!
104. The Big Book of Urban Legends, Jan Harold Brunvand, et. al. — A variety of artists provide graphic interpretations of famous urban legends as collected by Brunvand, whose books, starting with The Vanishing Hitchhiker, I find entirely too addicting. Depending on the artist, these versions are also fun, but I miss Brunvand's analysis and the variations of the stories—their evolution—that he provides. I'd recommend the more in-depth writings instead.
105. The Ninth Circle, Alex Bell — This book starts out rather promisingly, with a dude name Gabriel waking up with no memory of who he is but with weird things happening all around him. The opening’s got a bit of a “Castiel with amnesia fic” vibe to it, which made me very excited for obvious, dorky reasons. Unfortunately, Gabriel, unlike Castiel, is an idiot—his efforts to find out who he is and what’s going on are pitiful; apparently he’d rather spent his time whining and moping. Thus the narrative swiftly becomes an exercise in frustration: one wants to shout, “Buy a clue, Gabe!” at the nonresponsive pages. And then when Gabriel finally has several clues charitably donated to him, the book just becomes ridiculous. It’s like Bell started off with one premise, and then veered sharply in another—dumber—direction. In fact, it’s pretty much the very very worst of J.J. Abrams in here, guys.
In conclusion: people need to write more “Castiel with amnesia” fic, and I need to read less crap.
106. Locke & Key: Welcome to Lovecraft, Joe Hill — Exciting first volume in a new comics series by Joe Hill that combines horror, fantasy, and Hill's massive daddy issues. There's a fascinating plot set up here, with good use of flashbacks, and also some cool characters—both male and female (which is in large part an improvement over Pops).I'm looking forward to the release of the next volume in September. It was good! Review forthcoming! (I am so on top of this. Really.)
107. Sandman Slim, Richard Kadrey — The last in a series of books I read because I actually (not-so-)secretly wished I was watching Supernatural instead. This is, in terms of writing and plot, actually by far the best of the bunch, but it also had me the closest to falling off the couch with laughter. Let’s just say: Eric Kripke may owe Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett a fruit basket, but Richard Kadrey owes Kripke one like whoa. Or, okay: maybe it is a coincidence that Sandman Slim’s main character, James Stark (any relation to Tony?), crawls out of Hell, thinks fondly of the vintage Chevy Impala his father gave him, and then heads off to fight a demon named Azazel. And maybe Eric Kripke should soon be able to whip himself up a nice fruit salad for brunch.
Aside from these similarities—and the fact that every single character in this book is, for some reason I can’t discern, weirdly obsessed with The Beverly Hillbillies—Sandman Slim is a better-than-average urban fantasy with a pretty good narrative voice and some nice action sequences. Still pretty much empty calories though. I think the greatest, most lasting piece of entertainment I got out of it was the moment when James, the graveyard dirt still on him, started thinking wistfully of his Impala. I was nearly on the floor.
108. Savvy, Ingrid Law — Cute story about a family with magical abilities that manifest on their 13th birthdays. "Cute" is about as far as I'd go, though—I did not find this particularly memorable. It was pleasant. "Cute" and "pleasant." I do not mean to damn with faint praise, but with all the awards and raves this book has won, I was frankly underwhelmed.
109. Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, Geoff Dyer — This is one of those books that makes me feel stupid. It’s made up of two interrelated novellas, the first of which follows an English reporter named Jeff as he covers the Biennale in Venice; the second finds a nameless English reporter, possibly the same man, losing himself in Varanasi. Both halves have moments of beauty, of occasionally wonderfully incisive description and even humor, and both also have their share of extreme WTF. The Venice portion, in particular, is full of lengthy and highly-detailed descriptions of, frankly, some of the least-erotic-sounding sex I have ever encountered. It’s kinky (UNEXPECTED GOLDEN SHOWERS ARE UNEXPECTED) but never sensual, and what I kept coming back to was—what is the point of this exactly?
I felt that way about the whole book. Dyer is clearly a smart, clever writer, and I felt like he was obviously reaching toward some deeper meaning…but I could never touch it, could barely glimpse it. So what I was left with was mostly the story of a privileged white dude being emo in exotic locales. Which, you know, yawn.
Possibly I am missing something awesome. But I am still missing it, and I am not sure if that’s my fault or Dyer’s.
110. No Girls Allowed, Susan Hughes — Nice graphic collection of stories about women throughout history who disguised themselves as men for various ends. This book is far from perfect: far too many stories rely on speculation or stumble into "It's not known what happened to her at this point..." territory, and it's also kind of depressing how frequently the tales end with it all going horribly wrong for the women in question. But I'm still glad I read it, especially because I learned about James Barry, a British surgeon who implemented all sorts of medical reforms and performed one of the first successful Caesarean sections—and was also probably a woman who lived her whole life as a man. I really want to read a whole book just about Barry now.
Total Reviews: 110/196
101. The Sheriff of Yrnameer, Michael Rubens — An enjoyable sci-fi/comedy/pastiche/parody/adventure that, for all that it lacks originality, almost makes up for it in enthusiasm. It's a fun, fast-paced flight through regions of space where men have gone before, most notably Douglas Adams; however, unlike others who owe Adams their lifeblood, Rubens is genuinely funny—I especially enjoyed the universe's stupidest computer (he likes pebbles!). There are even moments of actual character development amongst the wackiness, and—points again—Rubens gives his female characters more to do than Adams ever did. This book won't change your life, but it might brighten it for a few hours.
102. A Madness of Angels, Kate Griffin — This book contains one truly fantastic conceit: magician Matthew Swift is brought back from the dead, but he doesn't come back alone; he contains within him entities known as the Blue Electric Angels, and so parts of his story are narrated in the first person singular, I, and parts in the first person plural, we. I love the shifts between Matthew's perspective and that of the otherworldly Angels; I love how throughout the book they start to come together a bit, to merge. There is such a fascinating book to be written with this premise!
Unfortunately, this book isn't it. The actual plot is dull, dull, dull, and the characters didn't entrance me, either. Griffin's magical London is just the kind of fantasy setting I usually adore, in which the urban landscape is infused with the same kind of mysticism the countryside is usually granted in fairy stories. But in this book, I felt more like Griffin had simply chewed up the best aspects of Neverwhere and a bunch of Hellblazer comics and spat them out wetly onto the pavement. The novel's opening left me intellectually tantalized but I was never emotionally engaged.
103. God Save the Queen, Mike Carey — Mike Carey is very hit or miss for me. This is unfortunately a miss. There are some idiot junkies, and some fairly standard scary faerie shenanigans, and John Bolton’s art is sometimes atmospheric and cool, but always full of lots of bare breasts. Next!
104. The Big Book of Urban Legends, Jan Harold Brunvand, et. al. — A variety of artists provide graphic interpretations of famous urban legends as collected by Brunvand, whose books, starting with The Vanishing Hitchhiker, I find entirely too addicting. Depending on the artist, these versions are also fun, but I miss Brunvand's analysis and the variations of the stories—their evolution—that he provides. I'd recommend the more in-depth writings instead.
105. The Ninth Circle, Alex Bell — This book starts out rather promisingly, with a dude name Gabriel waking up with no memory of who he is but with weird things happening all around him. The opening’s got a bit of a “Castiel with amnesia fic” vibe to it, which made me very excited for obvious, dorky reasons. Unfortunately, Gabriel, unlike Castiel, is an idiot—his efforts to find out who he is and what’s going on are pitiful; apparently he’d rather spent his time whining and moping. Thus the narrative swiftly becomes an exercise in frustration: one wants to shout, “Buy a clue, Gabe!” at the nonresponsive pages. And then when Gabriel finally has several clues charitably donated to him, the book just becomes ridiculous. It’s like Bell started off with one premise, and then veered sharply in another—dumber—direction. In fact, it’s pretty much the very very worst of J.J. Abrams in here, guys.
In conclusion: people need to write more “Castiel with amnesia” fic, and I need to read less crap.
106. Locke & Key: Welcome to Lovecraft, Joe Hill — Exciting first volume in a new comics series by Joe Hill that combines horror, fantasy, and Hill's massive daddy issues. There's a fascinating plot set up here, with good use of flashbacks, and also some cool characters—both male and female (which is in large part an improvement over Pops).
107. Sandman Slim, Richard Kadrey — The last in a series of books I read because I actually (not-so-)secretly wished I was watching Supernatural instead. This is, in terms of writing and plot, actually by far the best of the bunch, but it also had me the closest to falling off the couch with laughter. Let’s just say: Eric Kripke may owe Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett a fruit basket, but Richard Kadrey owes Kripke one like whoa. Or, okay: maybe it is a coincidence that Sandman Slim’s main character, James Stark (any relation to Tony?), crawls out of Hell, thinks fondly of the vintage Chevy Impala his father gave him, and then heads off to fight a demon named Azazel. And maybe Eric Kripke should soon be able to whip himself up a nice fruit salad for brunch.
Aside from these similarities—and the fact that every single character in this book is, for some reason I can’t discern, weirdly obsessed with The Beverly Hillbillies—Sandman Slim is a better-than-average urban fantasy with a pretty good narrative voice and some nice action sequences. Still pretty much empty calories though. I think the greatest, most lasting piece of entertainment I got out of it was the moment when James, the graveyard dirt still on him, started thinking wistfully of his Impala. I was nearly on the floor.
108. Savvy, Ingrid Law — Cute story about a family with magical abilities that manifest on their 13th birthdays. "Cute" is about as far as I'd go, though—I did not find this particularly memorable. It was pleasant. "Cute" and "pleasant." I do not mean to damn with faint praise, but with all the awards and raves this book has won, I was frankly underwhelmed.
109. Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi, Geoff Dyer — This is one of those books that makes me feel stupid. It’s made up of two interrelated novellas, the first of which follows an English reporter named Jeff as he covers the Biennale in Venice; the second finds a nameless English reporter, possibly the same man, losing himself in Varanasi. Both halves have moments of beauty, of occasionally wonderfully incisive description and even humor, and both also have their share of extreme WTF. The Venice portion, in particular, is full of lengthy and highly-detailed descriptions of, frankly, some of the least-erotic-sounding sex I have ever encountered. It’s kinky (UNEXPECTED GOLDEN SHOWERS ARE UNEXPECTED) but never sensual, and what I kept coming back to was—what is the point of this exactly?
I felt that way about the whole book. Dyer is clearly a smart, clever writer, and I felt like he was obviously reaching toward some deeper meaning…but I could never touch it, could barely glimpse it. So what I was left with was mostly the story of a privileged white dude being emo in exotic locales. Which, you know, yawn.
Possibly I am missing something awesome. But I am still missing it, and I am not sure if that’s my fault or Dyer’s.
110. No Girls Allowed, Susan Hughes — Nice graphic collection of stories about women throughout history who disguised themselves as men for various ends. This book is far from perfect: far too many stories rely on speculation or stumble into "It's not known what happened to her at this point..." territory, and it's also kind of depressing how frequently the tales end with it all going horribly wrong for the women in question. But I'm still glad I read it, especially because I learned about James Barry, a British surgeon who implemented all sorts of medical reforms and performed one of the first successful Caesarean sections—and was also probably a woman who lived her whole life as a man. I really want to read a whole book just about Barry now.
Total Reviews: 110/196
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