Literature

First, some caveats: I’ve been ill over the last few weeks and so it took me significantly longer than it normally would to consume this book. I also don’t recommend reading semiotics, even informal semiotics such as what is present in this book, with a bad sinus cold. My concentration was not what it could have been, to say the least. Also, I firmly believe that we are all better readers of one or another sort of writing than we are of others. I am not a particularly good reader of non-fiction, and my ability to process academic work has gone down quite a bit since I left the university environment. Anything I write about this book should therefore be read with those factors in mind. The dust jacket billed this book as a collection of informal writerly essays, although with a few exceptions (“On Some Functions of Literature”, “How… Continue Reading →

I’m not entirely certain what to make of this book. It’s technically not the first Terry Pratchett novel I’ve read. Good Omens, the novel he did with Neil Gaiman, is one of my all-time favourite humour books, and in early high school I picked up one of the Discworld novels that featured Death (I can’t remember which novel), and to be honest it didn’t really strike my fancy, and it wasn’t exactly a memorable experience. It probably doesn’t help that I’m not exactly a dedicated reader of fantasy. One of my professors at UW once told me that her experience reading Tolkien when she was younger is among the reasons she decided to study literature for a living. I didn’t get around to The Lord of the Rings until I was in my early twenties and I disliked it so much that “hate” might actually be the most appropriate descriptor.… Continue Reading →

I actually finished reading this last night, but was simply too tired to post about it. I originally picked this book up because of Stephen Soderbergh’s adaptation, which I very much enjoyed, although I know I am in the minority on that score. I haven’t yet seen Tarkovsky’s 1972 film, but I plan to rent it on the weekend. Soderbergh’s adaptation wasn’t quite true to the novel in terms of plot, but I find that it did manage to distill a lot of the atmosphere and thematic thrust of the novel. The novel itself was as advertised: depressing as hell. Reading about a man dealing with the re-incarnation of his dead wife triggered some painful memories from my own life, but ultimately it was an incredible experience to read about a man being destroyed, essentially, with a direct, physical encounter with the deeper layers of his own mind. The book… Continue Reading →

I’ve been dying to read this book since it was released last year, but as I don’t buy mass market paperbacks (and it’s not being released in trade paperback), I had to wait until I could find a used copy of the hardback on the cheap. Having done so, and dutifully raced through it in about a day, I have to say I’m a little disappointed. Allow me to explain. I knew going in that this wasn’t a sequel to American Gods, although it would take place in approximately the same world. It didn’t really feel entirely like the same world, though. To be honest it felt more like Neverwhere. Both novels have some pretty basic similarities; the major protagonist finds his life and his relationship collapsing as he enters a supernatural world just below the surface of his own, a world that has always been there but that he… Continue Reading →

I try not to get into arguments, or even comparisons really, about national literatures. I don’t think whether Canadian books or American books are better is relevant to much of anything, or possible to determine in any case. Who is to judge? As a Canadian I am far more likely to grasp the cultural subtext of what’s going on in a Canadian book, and vice versa. There’s no point, really. However. I also don’t like having The Great Gatsby shoved down my throat every five minutes as to why, no matter how many Atwoods we produce (not quite the metric I would use, but no matter), American literature will always dominate the continent in terms of literary quality. The fact that I find Gatsby trite and dull doesn’t mean I automatically have a book to throw back in response, my nationalist dander having been raised. There’s The Afterlife of George… Continue Reading →

In the interest of full disclosure, I will begin by saying that I am a long-time fan of James Bond. I am not a slavering, unthinking fan; while I enjoyed the action sequences in the Pierce Brosnan incarnation and many of the suave absurdities of most of the post-Diamonds are Forever efforts, for me the definitive Bond will always be the callous brutality of Sean Connery, with Daniel Craig’s vaguely sociopathic return to the character’s roots in Casino Royale coming a close, very close, second. It was in fact the latest Bond film that drew my attention to the recent Penguin re-issues of Fleming’s classic thrillers, complete with lurid covers painted in a vintage 1950s style. I have been reading them in order over the last several months, and so Dr. No marks my sixth literary adventure with the character. Let’s get comparisons with the film Bond out of the… Continue Reading →