So, I probably should have posted at least three times at this point, blogging-wise. To sum up, I came to college, went home, and came back. It's going great. Also, it has eaten up pretty much all the free time I used to spend blogging (and writing email, and reading recreationally, and...).
But, I seem to have been tagged. This seems to be some sort of viral game traveling the internet, eating up people's truths and spitting them out in a form that is much the same or rather, is, in fact, the same.
I post this on my blog, and then it will get imported to Facebook by the friendly Internet Faeries.
The rules:
Link the person who tagged you.
Tell seven truths about yourself.
Tag seven new people. (Certain Facebookers will soon feel my wrath.)
Hmm, seven TRUTHS? Oh my... This could get dangerous. Watch for flying fallacies (they're green, and they look kind of like fish, except in tutus [I seem to be feeling very random tonight]).
1. I have nearly read through the complete works of Mark Twain. The only stragglers are A Tramp Abroad, which is a really thick travel book, Following the Equator, same description, and Joan of Arc, a really thick history book that Twain considered his greatest work. Also, I read his Autobiography kind of loopily: I've read the first quarter or so and the last several chapters several times, and the middle chapters all at least once, though none of this in the correct order.
2. Related to number 1, I think that the best way to get to know someone who writes frequently is through their writing. Through being such a nerd, I feel I have gotten to know Mr. Clemens rather well, insofar as one man is ever able to know another. This may be because he put so much of himself into his writing, and because I have sought out the posthumously published stuff that was often very personal and perhaps shouldn't have seen the light of day. There have been times, however, that I have looked at things and situations and thought I knew what Mr. Twain would say, if he were here. Also, I think I reveal more of myself in my stories than I ever do to most people.
3. As for the dating thing, I hardly ever get asked if I have a girlfriend. Except by my grandparents, who immediately jump to the conclusion that I am, ahem, beating the girls off with sticks. While I have some vague plans and hopes in this department, I am not concerned at all about my "single" status, and I consider the mass of people's obsession with dating rather disgusting. If I say much more on this, I will be on for hours, and will either end up in cynicism or sentimentalism, neither of which is a desirable result. So I'll end here.
4. Some people seem to consider me wise, or some such. I am not wise. I do, however, seem to be a good listener, and I have a policy that if my friends need someone to talk to, they can literally tell me anything. If it's wanted, I do try to offer my advice, for what it's worth. Usually it's "Go talk to somebody who knows more about [this subject] than me."
5. I know more about movies and movie stars and directors and even film genres from 60-80 years ago than I do about modern movies... and I love it that way.
6. I am completely unsatisfied with the current level of my writing. I'm talking fiction here, the stuff I really care about. I can see the level I'd like to write at, and I can sort of see how to get there, I'm just not there yet. And I know the only way to get there involves time and practice. It's a tad annoying.
7. Unlike my psych- er, brother, I actually like revealing things about myself. If you want to know something, ask.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
MacBeth, Version 2.0
Okay, so this may seem a bit hypocritical after my last post. But MacBeth needs a version 2.0. For, while the first four acts are pretty awesome, the climax is just... lame. What? We're going to dress the whole army up as shrubberies? Are you drunk? Oh. You are. Ok then.
Anyway, I have put some effort probably better spent elsewhere into improving the climax of this classic play.
Till Birnam Wood Come to Dunsinane... The climax of this play, in which MacDuff leads his army against MacBeth, is all about the fulfillment--and subversion-- of the two prophecies regarding MacBeth's downfall:
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.
And:
Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.
The way the first prophecy is fulfilled, if I recall correctly, is that MacDuff's army chops down trees from Birnam Wood, makes suit coats out of them, and uses the fact that they now look like a gay pride parade rather than an army to get close to MacBeth's castle. Riiight.
Now, how much cooler would it be if MacDuff had had his men, say, chop down trees in Birnam Wood, make arrows, battering rams, etc out of them, and simply use those to attack MacBeth's castle? Much cooler, in this scribbler's opinion.
The second prophecy is fulfilled/subverted by the fact that MacDuff was "From his mother's womb untimely ripped," a sort of nast C-section, apparently. Now, this is much less lame, and it did give rise to one of the oddest and coolest phrases English literature has perhaps ever seen. However, it doesn't quite work here.
Apparently this is supposed to make MacDuff "not of woman born"; however, he still comes from a woman (his mother), and he is still, in fact, born--however unnaturally.
This scribbler's idea may not be much better, but at least it's a better fit. Attack dogs. Or, trained hawks. Or something. Some form of vicious animal, trained to kill, could seize upon MacBeth and take him down.
"Ah, but Spot here was not of woman born! Ahahahaha!"
(Yes, when I rewrite Shakespeare, there is evil laughter involved.)
Anyway, I have put some effort probably better spent elsewhere into improving the climax of this classic play.
Till Birnam Wood Come to Dunsinane... The climax of this play, in which MacDuff leads his army against MacBeth, is all about the fulfillment--and subversion-- of the two prophecies regarding MacBeth's downfall:
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.
And:
Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.
The way the first prophecy is fulfilled, if I recall correctly, is that MacDuff's army chops down trees from Birnam Wood, makes suit coats out of them, and uses the fact that they now look like a gay pride parade rather than an army to get close to MacBeth's castle. Riiight.
Now, how much cooler would it be if MacDuff had had his men, say, chop down trees in Birnam Wood, make arrows, battering rams, etc out of them, and simply use those to attack MacBeth's castle? Much cooler, in this scribbler's opinion.
The second prophecy is fulfilled/subverted by the fact that MacDuff was "From his mother's womb untimely ripped," a sort of nast C-section, apparently. Now, this is much less lame, and it did give rise to one of the oddest and coolest phrases English literature has perhaps ever seen. However, it doesn't quite work here.
Apparently this is supposed to make MacDuff "not of woman born"; however, he still comes from a woman (his mother), and he is still, in fact, born--however unnaturally.
This scribbler's idea may not be much better, but at least it's a better fit. Attack dogs. Or, trained hawks. Or something. Some form of vicious animal, trained to kill, could seize upon MacBeth and take him down.
"Ah, but Spot here was not of woman born! Ahahahaha!"
(Yes, when I rewrite Shakespeare, there is evil laughter involved.)
The Wal-Mart Theology Department
So the other day, my brother and I are wandering around Wal-Mart (having lost my dad somewhere) and we wander past the Books section. Naturally, me being there, we have to stop. So I peruse their collection of Steamy Romances, Clever Romances, Not So Steamy But Also Not So Risque Romances, the racks of westerns with one story but so many different covers, the poorly written novels meant to thrill adults, the poorly written novellas meant to scare children....
And I happen upon their Bibles. My eye immediately went to the one most obviously designed for someone in my demographic. This book was not called The Bible, or even The Holy Bible; oh no, this was "The Message: Remix." In fact, it was Version 2.0. Because apparently version 1.0 or even 1.5 wasn't quite up to snuff, Word-of-God wise.
I was giving voice to some of these thoughts (aimed in the direction of my brother), when a Wal-Mart employee with pink hair wandered past (though I'm sure she had a purpose). Apparently she overheard me, for she said, "Okay now, making fun of themed Bibles is just too easy."
We talked with her for a couple minutes, and she told us about a Bible they had once that was even worse. Apparently it was bright pink, and, in sequins, had the word PRINCESS emblazoned across the front.
If anybody sees Charles Finney, give him a good kick for me, ok?
And I happen upon their Bibles. My eye immediately went to the one most obviously designed for someone in my demographic. This book was not called The Bible, or even The Holy Bible; oh no, this was "The Message: Remix." In fact, it was Version 2.0. Because apparently version 1.0 or even 1.5 wasn't quite up to snuff, Word-of-God wise.
I was giving voice to some of these thoughts (aimed in the direction of my brother), when a Wal-Mart employee with pink hair wandered past (though I'm sure she had a purpose). Apparently she overheard me, for she said, "Okay now, making fun of themed Bibles is just too easy."
We talked with her for a couple minutes, and she told us about a Bible they had once that was even worse. Apparently it was bright pink, and, in sequins, had the word PRINCESS emblazoned across the front.
If anybody sees Charles Finney, give him a good kick for me, ok?
Sunday, August 19, 2007
1,000,000
So I read that Mr. Bradbury says, in regards to becoming a good writer, that once you've written a million words you start to know what you're doing. Hmm.
Doing some quick math, I've determined that at a thousand words a day (the rate Mr. Baradbury claims to have written since age 13), it would take around three and a half years to write a million; say I started in six days, at that rate I'd "know what I'm doing" by partway through senior year.
Of course, I'm no Bradbury, and (as proven by the bestseller status of The Da Vinci Code, Eragon, and James Patterson's novels) the general public in this country doesn't give a rip about writing quality these days.
Still, I figure I'm at somewhere over three hundred thousand words. It's something to think about.
Ok, enough bloody introspection. I need to carve up some literature.
Doing some quick math, I've determined that at a thousand words a day (the rate Mr. Baradbury claims to have written since age 13), it would take around three and a half years to write a million; say I started in six days, at that rate I'd "know what I'm doing" by partway through senior year.
Of course, I'm no Bradbury, and (as proven by the bestseller status of The Da Vinci Code, Eragon, and James Patterson's novels) the general public in this country doesn't give a rip about writing quality these days.
Still, I figure I'm at somewhere over three hundred thousand words. It's something to think about.
Ok, enough bloody introspection. I need to carve up some literature.
Diaspora, and Such
Well I've grown sick and tired
Of trying to stand still
I've learned to let the wind
Blow me where it will
To throw myself into the will of the wave
How can we ever be brave until we're free
-Dustin Kensrue
Though I doubt there is anyone who's had any contact with me over the past couple months who doesn't know this, I'll be going to Bethany Lutheran College this fall. And by this fall, I mean starting in six days. Yikes.
I'll be an English major. I've made no secret of my desire to become a sucessful fiction writer; and I have no delusions as to what that will entail. As to life immediately after college (assuming that bestseller doesn't hit while in school), I really have no idea. Oh, I'm not scared of not making money, of not working. I just don't know what form that work will take. There are a couple jobs abroad I may go for; I'd like to get out and see the world somewhat, before getting too tied down.
I have evangelical friends who like to remind you to "factor God in" to your plans, as if He's a girlfriend or something and you want to make sure not to move too far away from Him. One must make sure one is honoring God in all one does. This last part is Biblical, of course, but the phrasing is deceptive.
I personally find it rather arrogant to be "facoring God in", implying that if we don't remember the Creator of the Universe then, well, He can't do anything with us. It seems rather pointless for me, a fallen, sinful being, to try and determine the will of God, at least on a personal level where he has not inspired a Biblical passage about it (ie, "Where thou shalt go to school" as opposed to "Thou shalt not murder").
Rather, I have faith that despite my blindness, God will lead me down the path He has set forth for me. Even though in my sinful nature I fight him, he has already cleansed me of that nature. Nothing I can do, no "factoring in," can either help or harm this. I simply have faith that He will lead me down the path and, in the end, lead me home.
Of trying to stand still
I've learned to let the wind
Blow me where it will
To throw myself into the will of the wave
How can we ever be brave until we're free
-Dustin Kensrue
Though I doubt there is anyone who's had any contact with me over the past couple months who doesn't know this, I'll be going to Bethany Lutheran College this fall. And by this fall, I mean starting in six days. Yikes.
I'll be an English major. I've made no secret of my desire to become a sucessful fiction writer; and I have no delusions as to what that will entail. As to life immediately after college (assuming that bestseller doesn't hit while in school), I really have no idea. Oh, I'm not scared of not making money, of not working. I just don't know what form that work will take. There are a couple jobs abroad I may go for; I'd like to get out and see the world somewhat, before getting too tied down.
I have evangelical friends who like to remind you to "factor God in" to your plans, as if He's a girlfriend or something and you want to make sure not to move too far away from Him. One must make sure one is honoring God in all one does. This last part is Biblical, of course, but the phrasing is deceptive.
I personally find it rather arrogant to be "facoring God in", implying that if we don't remember the Creator of the Universe then, well, He can't do anything with us. It seems rather pointless for me, a fallen, sinful being, to try and determine the will of God, at least on a personal level where he has not inspired a Biblical passage about it (ie, "Where thou shalt go to school" as opposed to "Thou shalt not murder").
Rather, I have faith that despite my blindness, God will lead me down the path He has set forth for me. Even though in my sinful nature I fight him, he has already cleansed me of that nature. Nothing I can do, no "factoring in," can either help or harm this. I simply have faith that He will lead me down the path and, in the end, lead me home.
FOR YOU
This year's HT conference was great, of course. I found it a lot harder to write summaries of this year than last year, as we didn't do a whole lot of stuff that makes for good reading. Heidi posted as good a summary of that as I can write.
I do have a few thoughts, though (and all the people run away screaming). One is that, unlike many of the various sorts of youth gatherings I went to in my younger days *cough*, HT conferences aren't designed to be "mountaintop experiences." They're designed to be a great time, of course, and there's all sorts of euphoria that goes along with that. But you will NEVER see, for example, an emotional call to repentance delivered by a pastor who is nearly crying himself, backgrounded by soft praise music that suddenly gets louder as said pastor declares an Altar Call.
There were several moments that brought tears to my eyes, but they were tears at the sheer beauty contained in our faith, rather than those coerced by provocative preaching and mood music. One example, perhaps, is in order.
The closing service was glorious, as always at HT conferences. We took Communion while 1000 people sang At The Lamb's High Feast--now if you want beauty, there you go. I'd been hearing teaching about Communion (among other things) all week, and as I went back up into the balcony after taking the body and blood of our Lord, thoughts that had troubled me were laid to rest. I had looked down on someone, but (I suddenly realized) Christ died for that sin. I had resented someone, and He died for that sin too. I had unthinkingly snubbed someone, and he died for that too. A whole host of sins, some of which I'd forgotten, some of which I hadn't let myself think about, came rushing back to me--and they were all laid to rest, defeated, by the body and blood of our Lord, given and shed for me--and for you.
I do have a few thoughts, though (and all the people run away screaming). One is that, unlike many of the various sorts of youth gatherings I went to in my younger days *cough*, HT conferences aren't designed to be "mountaintop experiences." They're designed to be a great time, of course, and there's all sorts of euphoria that goes along with that. But you will NEVER see, for example, an emotional call to repentance delivered by a pastor who is nearly crying himself, backgrounded by soft praise music that suddenly gets louder as said pastor declares an Altar Call.
There were several moments that brought tears to my eyes, but they were tears at the sheer beauty contained in our faith, rather than those coerced by provocative preaching and mood music. One example, perhaps, is in order.
The closing service was glorious, as always at HT conferences. We took Communion while 1000 people sang At The Lamb's High Feast--now if you want beauty, there you go. I'd been hearing teaching about Communion (among other things) all week, and as I went back up into the balcony after taking the body and blood of our Lord, thoughts that had troubled me were laid to rest. I had looked down on someone, but (I suddenly realized) Christ died for that sin. I had resented someone, and He died for that sin too. I had unthinkingly snubbed someone, and he died for that too. A whole host of sins, some of which I'd forgotten, some of which I hadn't let myself think about, came rushing back to me--and they were all laid to rest, defeated, by the body and blood of our Lord, given and shed for me--and for you.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Door Co. Reflections
So I was in Door County last week and part of the week before (for the ignorant--if you look at a map of Wisconsin, Door is the little thumb-ish peninsula jutting out into Lake Michigan). The digital camera ran out of batteries on the second day, which was a pity because there really are some spectacular shots to be had up there. (There's a restaurant with goats on the roof, for one thing...) Ah well. At least half of that place's charm is incommunicable to someone who hasn't actually been there.
So despite an overabundance of obnoxious yuppies (mostly from Illinois) and a slightly smaller but still overabundant crop of obnoxious pizzles (most of these, sadly, from Wisconsin), it was a good time. There weren't many experiences to report: went to every bookstore in sight, (as well as every antique store, that one being my mom's fault), went go-karting just after it rained, barely keeping the kart under control and having loads of fun almost-crashing; saw Ratatouille and Pirates at the Drive-In Theatre. There seemed to be fewer pretty girls there than in other years; I have no idea why. I managed to read three books and write most of a short story while there.
I'm thinking of working at Wilson's next summer.
So despite an overabundance of obnoxious yuppies (mostly from Illinois) and a slightly smaller but still overabundant crop of obnoxious pizzles (most of these, sadly, from Wisconsin), it was a good time. There weren't many experiences to report: went to every bookstore in sight, (as well as every antique store, that one being my mom's fault), went go-karting just after it rained, barely keeping the kart under control and having loads of fun almost-crashing; saw Ratatouille and Pirates at the Drive-In Theatre. There seemed to be fewer pretty girls there than in other years; I have no idea why. I managed to read three books and write most of a short story while there.
I'm thinking of working at Wilson's next summer.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Note
Starting tomorrow, until the 15th, I will be in Door County, WI, with my family. Feel free to contact me, but I probably won't get back to you till I return. Hopefully I'll have pictures.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Reading Goals
So, about a month ago I realized I might want to have some kind of goal or project to work on during my free time (a laughable concept, right enough) this summer. I realized, however, that 1) I'm pretty sure I've never finished (nor even usually half-finished) a summer project I've set about in the past; and 2) that I would probably want to spend any time I might get for a project reading. Hence I have decided to make that my project.
I already had the rather vague goal of catching up on my sci-fi/fantasy reading before school started. But I have more specifics, now: finish the Harry Potter series; finish The Company series (the last book of which also comes out in late July); read up on "old" (pre-Tolkien) fantasy; and Other.
As for HP, I am currently reading the Blue Brick and will probably be done with the Dark Green Brick by July 21st. I will soon start the fifth Company book (including the last one, there will be 8). (And btw, it's too long a sysnopsis to put here, but the Company novels are awesome. That's with emphasis.)
In case anyone was wondering, the reason I'm doing the old fantasy stuff is because I've noticed the best fantasy writers are extremely well-versed in the formative works of fantasy literature. That is, not just Tolkien, but Dunsany and ER Eddison and Robert Howard and other really great authors who somehow nobody's heard of. I think I have a lot of my bases covered here; the only glaring omission so far is that I've yet to read any Lovecraft.
Other is just, well, other stuff I've been meaning to read. Battle Royale, the second Abarat book, Galilee (another Clive Barker), Altered Carbon, Mistborn--the road, er, list goes ever on and on and on...
I already had the rather vague goal of catching up on my sci-fi/fantasy reading before school started. But I have more specifics, now: finish the Harry Potter series; finish The Company series (the last book of which also comes out in late July); read up on "old" (pre-Tolkien) fantasy; and Other.
As for HP, I am currently reading the Blue Brick and will probably be done with the Dark Green Brick by July 21st. I will soon start the fifth Company book (including the last one, there will be 8). (And btw, it's too long a sysnopsis to put here, but the Company novels are awesome. That's with emphasis.)
In case anyone was wondering, the reason I'm doing the old fantasy stuff is because I've noticed the best fantasy writers are extremely well-versed in the formative works of fantasy literature. That is, not just Tolkien, but Dunsany and ER Eddison and Robert Howard and other really great authors who somehow nobody's heard of. I think I have a lot of my bases covered here; the only glaring omission so far is that I've yet to read any Lovecraft.
Other is just, well, other stuff I've been meaning to read. Battle Royale, the second Abarat book, Galilee (another Clive Barker), Altered Carbon, Mistborn--the road, er, list goes ever on and on and on...
Friday, May 18, 2007
Whales on Stilts & Hugo Cabret
(Two books I've been meaning to write about, so I decided to make them one post. Plus, this will force me to keep my ramblings to a reasonable length.)
Whales On Stilts
("What, Captain? Reviewing juvenile fiction? Is something wrong with you?"
Shut UP! So I have eclectic tastes. So sue me.)
I respectfully submit to you that the fairly recent children's book Whales on Stilts has one of the best opening lines in the past 18.5 years of fiction:
This bit of bombast is followed by a tongue-in-cheek description of Lily's small town, and then gets down to describing Lily herself:
The first thing that comes to mind is that Lily seems to be a classic introvert. The second is that here the tone has subtly changed--this is real character description, relying on an eye for distinguishing features, rather than broad humor relying on preconcieved knowledge of mad-scientist-cliches.
To be honest, the first thing that attracted me to this book was its cover. It looked old-fashioned and pulpy, in the best possible way. The lines, I thought, had some twenties art-deco to them, but the images of the whales on stilts gunning down things with their laser eyes were very fifties-ish, while the kids looked like Nancy Drew, Tom Swift, and a Boxcar Child, putting them somehwere in the thirties-forties. I showed it to my mom, who is supposed to be good with this kind of stuff, and she conclued, "Twenties-thirties-forties-fifties, somewhere in there." So much for inquiry.
As for the book itself: Lily uncovers her dad's boss's maniacal plot to take over the world with his secret weapon, whales on stilts with laser eyes. She enlists the help of her two best friends to thwart this evil plot: Jasper Dash, the boy technonaut, who spends his time inventing things that are really advanced for about 1912; and Katie Mulligan, who lives just off Route 666 and spends her time fighting off zombies, were-goats, and so forth. Both have childrens' book series written about them. Together, the three have to save the world.
I found this book hilarious, though not everyone would. But for someone like me, who's read at least a third of the 150 Boxcar children books, dozens of Hardy Boys, a few Nancy Drew (because girls made him, ahem,), and even a few Tom Swift--well, it's perfect.
In closing, I would also like to note that this book contains one of my favorite chase scenes ever:
Yeah.
The Invention of Hugo Cabret
The subtitle of this book is A Novel in Words and Pictures. After a short introductory couple of paragraphs, you open to "Part 1." The first page contains a picture of the sun starting to rise. The second contains one of the sun higher, the thir page of the sun higher still, etc. There's a shot overlooking Paris, then we zoom in to a train station, then on the face of a boy. We follow the boy into the hidden passages of the train station, and watch as he spies out through a clock on an old man and a little girl in a toy booth.
Turn the page then, and there are several paragraphs of prose, narrated as though the previous series of pictures were also prose. After several pages, there are pictures again, then prose, and so forth.
The story itself is set in Paris in the Thirties, and is kind of hard to describe. Hugo lives alone in the train station, tending the clocks. He is an orphan, and his past and his father's are strangely linked with that of the little girl and the old man. The first third or so is somber and a bit dull, but the novelty of the book's format carries you through. It ends up being an interesting little story, obviously influenced by early (even pre-Hollywood) movies. Parts of it reminded me of Truffaut's 400 Blows, and the Charlie Chaplin silent The Kid.
And the series of pictures used to tell the story are somewhat like watching a silent film-they're a visual medium, and you can even get a sense of movement, but you have to interpret the story by watching it, not reading or hearing it.
A final note on the style. Less is required of the prose in this than in most books; we already have physical descriptions, a sense of setting and an atmospheric feel. The prose is firstly concerned with the interior lives of the characters, mainly Hugo (though it's told omnisciently, switching from character to character). It also has much to do with the telling-Hugo's past, for example, things that need something of a summary, or scenes that need to move fast.
The book is five hundred pages long, and because of the thickness of the pages, looks much longer. However, the prose amounts to 26,000 words or so, less than half the length of a short novel, so this is a fairly quick read.
Whales On Stilts
("What, Captain? Reviewing juvenile fiction? Is something wrong with you?"
Shut UP! So I have eclectic tastes. So sue me.)
I respectfully submit to you that the fairly recent children's book Whales on Stilts has one of the best opening lines in the past 18.5 years of fiction:
On Career Day Lily visited her dad's work with him and discovered he worked for a mad scientist who wanted to rule the earth through destruction and desolation.
This bit of bombast is followed by a tongue-in-cheek description of Lily's small town, and then gets down to describing Lily herself:
... She watched things a lot, and thought about them a lot, but she didn't say much, except to her closest friends. She hid behind her bangs. When she needed to see something important, she blew on her bangs diagonally upward, either from the left or the right side of her mouth. Her bangs parted like a curtain showing a nose-and-chin matinee.
The first thing that comes to mind is that Lily seems to be a classic introvert. The second is that here the tone has subtly changed--this is real character description, relying on an eye for distinguishing features, rather than broad humor relying on preconcieved knowledge of mad-scientist-cliches.
To be honest, the first thing that attracted me to this book was its cover. It looked old-fashioned and pulpy, in the best possible way. The lines, I thought, had some twenties art-deco to them, but the images of the whales on stilts gunning down things with their laser eyes were very fifties-ish, while the kids looked like Nancy Drew, Tom Swift, and a Boxcar Child, putting them somehwere in the thirties-forties. I showed it to my mom, who is supposed to be good with this kind of stuff, and she conclued, "Twenties-thirties-forties-fifties, somewhere in there." So much for inquiry.
As for the book itself: Lily uncovers her dad's boss's maniacal plot to take over the world with his secret weapon, whales on stilts with laser eyes. She enlists the help of her two best friends to thwart this evil plot: Jasper Dash, the boy technonaut, who spends his time inventing things that are really advanced for about 1912; and Katie Mulligan, who lives just off Route 666 and spends her time fighting off zombies, were-goats, and so forth. Both have childrens' book series written about them. Together, the three have to save the world.
I found this book hilarious, though not everyone would. But for someone like me, who's read at least a third of the 150 Boxcar children books, dozens of Hardy Boys, a few Nancy Drew (because girls made him, ahem,), and even a few Tom Swift--well, it's perfect.
In closing, I would also like to note that this book contains one of my favorite chase scenes ever:
... The guards ran after them.
Oh, I don't know about you, but I really hate chase scenes. It's all just chase, chase, chase, up the staircase, down the staircase, bang, bang, bang,"Over this way," "No--that way," under the desk, over the chair, and you know that either they're going to get caught, or they're not. So why prolong the agony?
I'll just flat out tell you.
They made it to an old laundry chute.
Yeah.
The Invention of Hugo Cabret
The subtitle of this book is A Novel in Words and Pictures. After a short introductory couple of paragraphs, you open to "Part 1." The first page contains a picture of the sun starting to rise. The second contains one of the sun higher, the thir page of the sun higher still, etc. There's a shot overlooking Paris, then we zoom in to a train station, then on the face of a boy. We follow the boy into the hidden passages of the train station, and watch as he spies out through a clock on an old man and a little girl in a toy booth.
Turn the page then, and there are several paragraphs of prose, narrated as though the previous series of pictures were also prose. After several pages, there are pictures again, then prose, and so forth.
The story itself is set in Paris in the Thirties, and is kind of hard to describe. Hugo lives alone in the train station, tending the clocks. He is an orphan, and his past and his father's are strangely linked with that of the little girl and the old man. The first third or so is somber and a bit dull, but the novelty of the book's format carries you through. It ends up being an interesting little story, obviously influenced by early (even pre-Hollywood) movies. Parts of it reminded me of Truffaut's 400 Blows, and the Charlie Chaplin silent The Kid.
And the series of pictures used to tell the story are somewhat like watching a silent film-they're a visual medium, and you can even get a sense of movement, but you have to interpret the story by watching it, not reading or hearing it.
A final note on the style. Less is required of the prose in this than in most books; we already have physical descriptions, a sense of setting and an atmospheric feel. The prose is firstly concerned with the interior lives of the characters, mainly Hugo (though it's told omnisciently, switching from character to character). It also has much to do with the telling-Hugo's past, for example, things that need something of a summary, or scenes that need to move fast.
The book is five hundred pages long, and because of the thickness of the pages, looks much longer. However, the prose amounts to 26,000 words or so, less than half the length of a short novel, so this is a fairly quick read.
A Short, Bookish Rant
Often, when recommending a really good book to someone, I find myself biting back on saying something like, "Reading this was like getting punched in the stomach." What I mean, of course, is that whatever book I am referring to is extremely powerful, or wrenching, or just bloody good. But, as I said, I resist this particular description because when you pick up a book, you're not looking for physical abuse. A good book is something euphoric, something that makes you happy. Right?
Not in this scribbler's opinion. Of course, there are books whose intention is just to be funny. Some of them even suceed. But really good books are not one-note, just-funny (or chase-escape-here's-your-happy-ending, or whatever). A good book is like... Like being in love. It makes you happy, sure, but it's also thrilling, exhilerating, maddening, moving, terrifying, bittersweet, uncomfortable. It makes you vulnerable. But in the end, no matter the outcome, there's almost always a reward to be had. Whether one can grasp said reward is a different matter.
I will leave with a quote by Franz Kafka, which, though perhaps a little extreme, suits my purposes well enough in closing:
Not in this scribbler's opinion. Of course, there are books whose intention is just to be funny. Some of them even suceed. But really good books are not one-note, just-funny (or chase-escape-here's-your-happy-ending, or whatever). A good book is like... Like being in love. It makes you happy, sure, but it's also thrilling, exhilerating, maddening, moving, terrifying, bittersweet, uncomfortable. It makes you vulnerable. But in the end, no matter the outcome, there's almost always a reward to be had. Whether one can grasp said reward is a different matter.
I will leave with a quote by Franz Kafka, which, though perhaps a little extreme, suits my purposes well enough in closing:
I think we should only read books which bite and sting. If the book that we read doesn't wake us like a blow to the skill, why do we read the book? To make us happy...? My God, we could be happy even if we had no books, and if really necessary we could write books to make us happy ourselves. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster that hurts us greatly, like the death of someone we love more dearly than ourselves, as if we were driven out into forests, far away from any human beings, like a suicide, a book must be the axe for the frozen sea within. That is what I believe.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Snippet
So this whole Virginia Tech thing inexplicably depressed me. That is, it depressed me moreso than such an incident normally would, for whatever reason. As usual, this took itself out in my writing, and I churned out a whole load of crappy sentences. The whole thing was too fresh in my mind, you see. It needs to work its way further back into my subconcious to become grist I can use to mill something truly worthwhile. Out of that couple days' worth of writing, however, I did like this one little bit:
"We are children of light," said the old man. "And as such, the darkness clusters all around us. We speak of high-minded things, of good versus evil, of slaying dragons within and without. But we forget, sometimes, that our doppelgangers DO exist; we forget that there is truly evil in the world. And when it comes roaring out of the shadows, fangs bared, and tears us and scars us with unspeakable horror, sometimes we lose sight of the good that, in the end, is really the victor.
"And sometimes, lost in Misery, in the dark wood of Despair, there is nothing to do but sing, a song of light in the darkness, and wait for others to answer our call. And soon, oh soon, that song will be ended, and its yearning--fulfilled."
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