It’s all Shirley Jackson’s fault, this review.

I love Shirley Jackson; she and children’s author Sylvia Cassedy are the two authors I’ll read over and over again, finding some new little detail to love every time. So, when someone names an award after a such an author, I end up expecting a lot from the nominees.

In past years, I’ve not been disappointed. I read all the novels on the finalist list for 2009, and was actually a little distressed that only one of them could win. (After weeks of pondering the qualities of each book, I finally placed my hopes with Big Machine by Victor LaValle. This turned out to be the judges’ pick as well, but I’d like to think it was a pretty close competition.)

This year, I was concerned that the intervention of life’s typical chaos would keep me from getting all 6 nominees finished, so I read a little about them and ranked them by interest. Mr. Shivers topped that list: a supernatural/speculative tale set during the Great Depression was a completely new idea to me, and Bennett does evoke that setting quite well. There’s  mix of modernity with backwards superstition, and there are strange, uncivilized places yet in America. The characters and dialogue fit smoothly with their time as well; you could just as easily be reading Steinbeck as a new author.

The plot, on the other hand… well. The first one-half to two-thirds was fine, as the scene laying and character development took center stage. But once all the pieces were laid out, the movement of the plot became a trifle predictable. Okay, really predictable. And despite the enormous “warning: plot twist ahead” banners that litter the last several chapters, none of the characters are genre-savvy enough to look up and read them. Maybe this was supposed to be a comment on inevitability or fate or some such, but instead I was left with the sense that these characters, who were smart and careful about their plans for so much of the story, have suddenly been stricken with plot-necessitated idiocy so that the author can get them into the dumb and dangerous situations he’s planned.

I feel like maybe I’m slamming this work over-much. It isn’t a bad book, really: it’s just that it’s a merely okay book. And merely okay isn’t sufficient to stand in Jackson’s footsteps.

I look forward to seeing Mr. Bennett’s next work; I have a sneaking suspicion he’s capable of improving upon this books weaknesses, and coupled with the setting and character skills he already possesses, he should develop into an excellent author. I despair for the rest of this year’s nominee pool though.

• Logicomix: An Epic Search for Truth by Apostolos Doxiadis, Christos H. Papadimitriou, Alecos Papadatos, and Annie Di Donna. There was quite a bit to like about this graphic novel biography of logician Bertrand Russell. Starting with the fact that someone, somewhere, bothered to assemble a graphic novel biography of Bertrand Russell at all. Both the art and writing were good, and the transitions between eras, and thus between the authorial narration and Russell’s own words in the past, were particularly well crafted. However, I didn’t have the energy lately to grapple with the concepts presented, and the math was so far beyond what I’d ever learned that I thought my brain would melt and dribble out my ears.
• How Fiction Works by James Wood: This was a neat little adventure in narrative prose. It gives the reader the skills to look closely at the seams in a work (so to speak) and evaluate what they see. I love exploring the craft of writing, and I do want to get back to this one some day, but I haven’t read enough on the works that Wood references, and I was too often lost. More reading of Serious Novels and I’ll try this one again.
• Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake: I will go back and finish this odd gem, but it is massive. I couldn’t finish it in the time I was able to have it out of the library. Partly because Steerpike planning to set a library on fire made me so heartsick I starting avoiding this one in favor of the other two for the last bit before the due date. I will soldier on later, as the books merits should outweigh this horror when I’m in a more forgiving frame of mind.

Well, that’s the news from here. I should actually finish a book sometime in the near future, and ponderings upon a complete work shall thus follow.

This may in part be my fault as the reader – I’ve learned by the third book that the fate of nice, likeable characters in this series is never pleasant, so I had hardened my heart against Pin a few pages after he was introduced, rather than sympathize with him through whatever horrors were inevitably in store. (Fool me once, shame on me, etc.) So, by the time Pin hits (literally?) rock bottom, I had forced myself to stop caring about him a good 200 pages previous. Thus, much of the emotional punch of the event was gone, because I simply refused to fall for the same trick another time.

That’s not to say there weren’t redeeming qualities: new characters, more world building, yet another Ministry of Hell explored and subsequently obliterated (yes, repetitive, but still fun to read). Inari’s role in the story was also greater than in previous books, and she interacts with (and thus is described from the point of view of) someone who isn’t attracted to her – meaning we get more of an idea of her personality this time, instead of just another description of her pretty face. Which made for a nice change.

I still stand firmly behind my high opinion of Snake Agent. It really was unlike anything I’d ever seen before in modern fantasy.  However, unless you love the genre for its own sake (in particular, you’re waiting for the next Dresden Files to come out), I’d suggest saving your valuable reading hours for other innovators instead of the rest of the series.

Full Details: Precious Dragon: an Inspector Chen Novel, by Liz Williams. Original copyright 2006; paperback edition by Night Shade Books 2009.

This one’s a chronicle of cases by a forensic psychologist. Each section explores a specific aspect of psychology in legal system: competencies to stand trial and to waive Miranda rights, and the often misunderstood insanity defense. In the last section, she also discusses the issue of defendants who fake psychological symptoms.

I generally enjoy books featuring the “supporting cast” of the legal system, particularly scientists in forensic specialties. And while many of the cases here were quite interesting, there were a number of drawbacks that disrupted the narrative. I get that the arrangement of cases into groups by common features is a good set-up in theory, as the reader does get to see the same issue from a number of angles unique to the various situations. Unfortunately, this also led to a serious repetitiveness problem. Not only for the reader, I suspect: the explanatory paragraphs for certain psych tests and legal concepts are phrased identically from one chapter to the next, in a way that whispers “copy-and-paste”.

The explanatory paragraphs are also part of my other major issue with the book: the frequent tone of condescension. The one that bothered me the most was one page 130, explaining the psychology term “neologism”. I suppose the idea that we poor non-psychologist readers might be familiar with the neo- prefix AND the loan word logos from Greek never occurred to the author. (Yes, I realize the amateur classicist in me got all puffed up and offended over that one, but in addition to classics dorks, anyone with an interest in linguistic history, or bible scholarship, or has simply studied for the SATs is either well aware of what ‘neologism’ means of can divine the basic idea from a prior knowledge of its parts.)

The only other problem is with psychology itself: there is a clear tone of authority throughout the text, but when psych’s “soft science” underbelly is showing, the unintentional irony can be too much. This is especially apparent when the author administers tests in which the patient is asked to draw and those drawings are interpreted by the psychologist. Things like a tree with its roots showing are viewed as proof of delusion. I would think that a botany nerd, or someone who’s worked in landscaping, or even someone who’s lived in a maple tree region (surface roots can be visible 10 and 20 feet from the larger trees) might draw what they know a whole tree looks like, rather than just the surface portion. Conversely, not including the groundline with a house or tree indicated the patient is not “grounded” in reality. That one really strikes me as a trick question: you ask them to draw “a house”, but what you really want to see is “a house placed in a yard or similar scenic marker”.  See how that works? You have to draw the ground (even though you weren’t asked to, so literalists beware) but don’t draw anything that might be under the ground. Never mind simple variation in artistic ability. And yet this silly “test” is explained with the same gravity as the rest of the text, as if you could determine someone’s entire mental makeup by whether or not their little house drawing includes a doorknob.

Ultimately, interesting concept and middling fair execution.

Full details: The Measure of Madness: Inside the Disturbed and Disturbing Criminal Mind by Cheryl Paradis, Foreward by Katherine Ramsland. Published 2010 by Citadel Press.

You remember that first teenage crush, maybe on an older student, maybe even a teacher, and how you thought this person was sooooooo amazingly perfect? How no evidence of mere clay-footed humanness on the part of your object of affection would penetrate the sparkly bubble of adoration you saw hovering about them?

Some years later, did you run into that person again? Something’s very wrong about that later meeting. She’s small-minded and gossipy, or his eyes rove after some barely pubescent girl, or she’s left teaching to engage in some ethically dubious money making, or he’s chapter president of some violently racist organization. Thanks to the addition of years and perspective, they’re just not quite the person you thought they were. The qualities you loved as a foolish kid are still present, but your adoration is rather tempered by the sobering effect of these new discoveries. There’s a tarnish on that shining mental image now, one that you can’t quite scrub away. “How nice to see you again, I really must be going,” and you rush away, more from the evidence of your own teenage stupidity than from the old crush itself, back to your grownup life.

Apparently it takes (me) longer to outgrow the tendency to literary crushes. In my defense, it’s abstract adoration, the love of a mind and a pen, and not so idiotically all-consuming as high school romantic fantasies had been. Still, I’m feeling the awkwardness of the realization that object of my adoration, while still great, is by no means perfect.

I discussed Steven Millhauser’s work some time ago, and I’ve finally taken time to track down some older stories through inter-library loan. And they’re… different. The sense of wonderment was harder to find. There were still moments of perfect prose, and scenes you could practically touch, not just see and hear; but there were long roads between those moments. Long roads full of gratuitous breasts, intrusive fantasies about pubic hair, descriptions of asses in tight white shorts that didn’t contribute anything to the story. Please be aware that I’m not against the appearance of sexuality in literature. Far from it. Sometimes the sex is vital to the story, develops the characters and relationships, or moves the plot along. However, this was not that kind of sexuality. The way these things were brought into the story, both in timing and phrasing, made something cold slither through my stomach. There didn’t seem to be any sort of driving reason behind some of the stories; just streams of words, however pretty those words may be, but without purpose.

I didn’t even read Eisenheim the Illusionist (which was my whole reason for picking up the book) the whole way through. I was so worried that I’d lose my love of the film, that I’d lose my love of Millhauser’s other works, that the tarnish would spread until all the shine was covered up.  It turns out I needn’t have worried so much; the film’s romance was a considerable embellishment compared to the brief mention of a thwarted romance in the original story.I did skip Alice, Falling entirely though. If the narrator had felt the need to intrude there with another pointless sexualized description, the tarnish could have spread not only through all my reading of Millhauser, but all the other Alice-inspired works I’ve previously loved. Too great a risk for me.

I still stand by my assessment of Dangerous Laughter – every story in the collection is great. However, I realize now that producing great work does not preclude sometimes producing the mediocre.

But first I want to talk about something that plays a large role in staff members’ lives all summer: the SRP t-shirt.  It’s the only tee allowed by my library’s dress code, and we’re supposed to wear them every week on program day.

And they are consistently a nightmare.

In year’s past the shirt has been the shade of orange usually reserved for hunting season (it even glowed under black light), or the barfy not-quite-yellow of school buses and highway lines. Other years the print on the shirt was the problem: an otherwise attractive shirt – black with a word search on it, for the “Get a Clue” year – was disallowed at work because some juvenile toilet humor words tucked among the reading themed ones.

This year we have this shirt.

The picture isn’t entirely accurate to the shirts we got: they are long, long shirts (men’s sizes only), and the print begins at the bottom hem.  I’m baffled as to what they were thinking: when you factor in the front line and para-professional staff, most libraries are about 85% female, and I doubt anyone under 5’7″ finds that this shirt hem doesn’t come down to their knees. As a result, from behind the desk we’ll look not like we’re promoting Summer Reading Club, but rather like we all just felt like bright cerulean shirts today.

I decided to do something about it.

This is cut from a men’s XXXL into a women’s 14/16, using Simplicity 4541 (out of print, apparently).

The neckline has a diagonal slit closed with ribbons, like so:

These adjustments knocked a good 8 or 9 inches off the total lengths, moved the shoulder seams up onto my actual shoulders, and banished the horrors of the ribbed t-shirt collar to the scrap bin.

This year’s theme is “Be Creative”… just getting into the spirit.

Now, got sign up for Summer Reading Club at your local library!

An unusual rumor is spreading, among both young and old, from city to countryside: a website, accessible only at midnight, where you can request vengeance against another person. Just type in their name, and the Jigoku Shoujo (Hell Girl) will take them away. Seekers with intense grudges will find this rumor to be true, and the price of revenge greater than they could imagine…

The series’ greatest strength is the artwork: the scenery is gorgeous, the layout of the scenes are well done, and the faces of even the many secondary characters have unique elements. As most of them appear for only one or two episodes, this is an especially impressive feat. (Compare to, for instance, magical girl shows where the protagonists are all one face design under various crazy-color wigs.)

My only complaint is the uneven pacing: the set up takes about six episodes, which all follow a very similar format. It picked up in a hurry and was fascinating right up to the end, but I nearly didn’t finish after six nearly identical one-episode stories. In spite of this, the rest of the series is worth the wait.

Review based on fansubbed version by the always excellent Shinsen Subs, though series is now commercially available under the translated title “Hell Girl”.

The best thing about working in a library is getting to skim the first 10 pages of every new nonfiction book that comes in. As reference is part of my job, I do try to look at every book, so that I have some basic concepts about the subject matter when trying to help people find info. In a given day, I’ll peruse political science, criminal justice, home carpentry and fad diets.

Except for the books on my own favorite subjects, those 10 pages are more than enough. Occasionally, however, the material and writing style grab my attention enough that I’ll bring a title along on lunch break for another chapter or two.

Or, in this case, every lunch break for a week so I could finish it.

Now, I should be upfront about why I referred to this book on child rearing “categorically unnecessary”: I don’t actually have any kids. Folks who do have children may interpret it a little bit differently. You’ve been warned.

The book began as an article by Lenore Skenazy on letting her 9-year-old use the subway by himself, earning her a flurry of talk show attention and the title “world’s worst mother” from many of them.

The main point of the text is the huge gulf between most people’s perceptions about the lurking dangers of the world (i.e. an unknown child predator lurking behind every shrub), and the much less dramatic picture offered by actual crime statistics and simple logic. (Apparently Amazon reviewers and Snopes readers are two discrete sets; every single one of the reviews I saw treated the poisoned Halloween candy thing like some Promethean revelation.)

While the above makes for fun trivia, what really kept me reading was the author’s style. Conversational with being cutesy, and imparting knowledge with sanctimony, with plenty of humorous asides. Recommended for just about anyone as a light but thought-provoking read.

An interesting side effect revealed itself when we sat down together to start compiling films to rent: neither of us had seen the other’s favorite childhood movies. So we scattered them through the list, and take turns snickering at one another’s cherished childhood memories as the films arrive. And since I didn’t watch anything else this week, today I’m gonna talk about…


Willow.

In case you were as oblivious as I was to its 1988 release, here’s the basic idea: a human baby marked for some special destiny is found by a dwarven farmer, who must deliver the child safely to a certain wizardess, who will in turn raise the child to defeat the evil queen.

Simple, right? And rather derivative? Oh yes.

Given that this is a George Lucas film, there are plenty of elements that shouldn’t surprise anyone: major gaps in the plot logic, wretchedly bad acting, lines of dialogue that made we want to crawl under the sofa rather than witness them. The section of the film set at the crossroads is particularly puzzling: if the guy in the crow’s cage needs water so desperately, how is he jumping around in there? Would he really have that kind of energy? And when the army goes by, and Willow tries to give the baby to them, he’s unsuccessful because there are no women among them. Seriously? A massive medieval-esque army on a overland march, and there’s not a cook, or a laundress, or a soldier’s wife following them? Not even a prostitute or two? Really?

You do find women characters in places you wouldn’t expect, though. The ones who are the most powerful (though all second-tier as far as screen time) are female: there’s the queen, her daughter (who commands a portion of her army), and the sorceress; even the Child of Destiny is a girl. I must admit I have nothing insightful to say about this choice however – my analytical powers sometimes fail me in the face of a Lucas plot.

This film has all the more entertaining points you’d expect from Lucas Arts as well: Visuals are fantastic, effects are great, the filming locations (and there are many) are all stunning. I’m sure that in a theater, the pretties on the giant screen would have overshadowed all the nonsense, making for an entertaining slightly-over-two hours.