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A novel I found on a public bench in Reykjavik two years ago is apparently being made into a TV movie. I can't remember much about the story, to be honest. Found by accident while looking at cast lists for an entirely other movie.
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Iain Banks (The Steep Approach To Garbdale) and C.S. Lewis (The Four Loves) write almost identically on the subject of being in love with being in love.
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A carpenter thanks Neil Gaiman. (scroll to the last bit of bold text). I suspect this is the sort of thing that makes Mr. Gaiman smile, and possibly a little teary.
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The above line is generally used as an excuse for having a second pint, but evidently it can also be applied to one-day commemorative events that have suddenly become festivals. St. Patrick's Day was the first one I was aware of that made the leap from National Day of Drinking to National Week of Drinking; now I see that Bloomsday, celebrating a book which takes place in a single day, has become the Bloomsday Festival. I'm sure Jimbo would be appalled.
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I met a guy today who I used work with back in 1998. And the first thing that came to mind when he came over to (re)introduce himself was that I'd loaned him a book, and never got it back from him.

Snow Crash, in case you're wondering.
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Lots of scary. Some funny (some of the funniest stuff is also the scariest, though). A fair amount of action. Some drama. No kissing. Late nights. Fish and chips. A werewolf, a vampire, an Assyrian mummy and a small pig. A knife in the dark. (link)

book whine

Feb. 24th, 2008 08:43 pm
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Rama Revealed was awesomely bad. Ok, so I've missed a book or two in the Rama collection (I can't recall if I read the second one or not, and I definitely missed the third), but this is terrible. It's like every page has some internal dialogue with a heavy-handed moral in it. maybe men are from mars and women from venus, thought the ever-present, annoyingly didactic voice in Nicole's head.
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A long time back, I recommended that people read Superchick, not least because it has a very, very good rendition of the fine Irish art of taking the piss out of your closest friends in ways which would cause a fight in most other cultures.
If you liked this book, you should buy the followup, Rock and a Hard Place.

If you did not like this book, or failed to purchase it, or missed my original reference, or indeed if you DID like this book*, you should immediately purchase Ride On, the third book of the series. You do not actually need to buy the first two, although I'm sure the author would like you to; there are some back-references you may be curious about, but they're not essential to the operation of the storyline, which by turns had me laughing and fighting off tears. As ever, the dialogue is easily the best part, but there's also the bungee-jumping story, which practically had me on the floor laughing, and there's the insane accuracy of the Irish countryside to match the previous insane accuracy of life in Dublin. Just go buy it already, and thank me later.

*this covers all eventualities. BUY THE BOOK.
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An Ella Wheeler Wilcox poem called "In The Crowd", which I find somewhat banal, despite the interesting idea behind it, and Barbaresco Orientals, which it turns out are a species of lily. I think both of these are from Special Topics In Calamity Physics, a mostly entertaining book which I thought was let down somewhat by the ending.
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Passed by this morning on my way to the office: Philip J. Dix engraving equipment and supplies.
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How many of you had a 78-year-old woman recite her favourite poem to you this evening, during the course of a conversation about books, literature, and the lost art of reading?

nail, head

Dec. 21st, 2006 01:16 pm
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Dominus describes Reader's Disease , something I seem to find in any of the academic copies of classics that I've read. Of course, I'm probably totally on the opposite side of the plane from these guys: no symbolism, it's all literal. Honest.
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Robert Anton Wilson has a blog. I read too much of this man at an impressionable age, dammit, but I haven't learned from my mistakes.
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On my FROST.BOB trip to Canada, I picked up a James Joyce book in a bookstore in Montreal. Yes, I travelled thousands of miles away from Ireland and bought an Irish book.

This week, I had a starter featuring thin slices of kangaroo.

In an Icelandic restaurant. Go figure.
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I walked past this, wondering what was going on, but too intent on errands to stop and check.

apropos

Sep. 17th, 2006 07:28 pm
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(edited to correct the quote; the one I snagged was a paraphrase for some reason)
In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2.55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning techniques it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.
Good old Douglas Adams; this always made me giggle. Having been on-call, I had to postpone it until about 7pm, though. I think perhaps I need a trip to the cinema to lighten my mood.
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...as any fule no. Tip o' the hat to MetaFilter.
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I picked up two more Transmetropolitan collections today: #8 (Dirge) and #9 (The Cure). For the first time that I can recall I was completely blown away by artwork (the black-and-white sequence of Spider inside his own head while he's unconcious), and I also spent a lot of time laughing. And when I got to the end of #9, which finishes on a full-page depiction of The Smiler no longer smiling, I actually felt like cheering for The Good Guys. This is amazingly brilliant stuff, and the only downside is that I'm just going to have to keep buying the rest of the damn things until I get to the end.
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I've just finished reading Bill Hicks: Agent Of Evolution. It claims to be "the definitive biography by his lifelong friend". It's awful. Really, really, terribly awful. It seems like it didn't have an editor, the supposed lifelong friend spends a large proportion of his time talking about himself, and the "let's have a few people retell the same period over and over" style means you're constantly getting the same crap from different angles, and not in any sort of an interesting way. Frankly, I'm sorry I bought this; Bill Hicks deserves better.

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