Book recommendation: If I Go by Diane Molberg

If you enjoy coming-of-age novels with well-written characters, may I recommend If I Go by Diane Molberg?

Here's my review from the book's Amazon page:

Diane Molberg's debut novel is an excellent coming-of-age story, reminiscent of Larry McMurtry's The Last Picture Show. Young Buck Malone wants to be a writer, an ambition his friends don't understand and his family doesn't support. One night, in the local drugstore, he sees a woman who's been beaten; she is Pauline, and soon she and Buck enter into a relationship that will change both of their lives, and the lives of Buck's friends Lorrie and Ray.

Molberg has a deep understanding of her characters, who are always engaging and sympathetic even when they flounder looking for direction in their lives; she has a deft way with location as well, taking the reader from a small Colorado town that's airy yet stifling to the fog-shrouded hills and smoky jazz clubs of San Francisco.

Highly recommended!

If I Go is available in both print and ebook.

Reading recommendations: Underrated or little-known books

It's a new year and I'm sure we're all on the lookout for some good books to read in the coming months. And if you're not sure what should be next on your reading list, may I recommend some books that are underrated or not as well known as they should be? You'll see some familiar author names here, but you may not know the titles.

Boys and Girls Together - William Goldman
Years before he brought us the story of Wesley and Buttercup, and before he made us all a little bit nervous about going to the dentist, William Goldman gave us a fantastic story of five ordinary young people brought to their fates - and in some cases their dooms - by the city of New York. It's sprawling yet intimate, often heartbreaking, and occasionally funny.

Cavedweller - Dorothy Allison
Dorothy Allison's second (and to this date, last) novel hasn't the raw power of her debut Bastard Out of Carolina, and it loses its narrative focus halfway through, but it is still a remarkable tale of sisterhood, family, and healing the heart. When her rock star ex-husband dies in a motorcycle crash, singer Delia Byrd takes her daughter Cissy back to Delia's small hometown in Georgia, to reunite with Delia's two other daughters from her abusive first marriage. Though not without its dark moments, it's a much more optimistic book than Bastard Out of Carolina.

Til We Have Faces - C. S. Lewis
Though not nearly as well known as the Narnia books or The Screwtape Letters, C. S. Lewis' retelling of the Cupid and Psyche myth is fascinating. Told from the viewpoint of Psyche's sister Orual, it deftly addresses the question of faith and where the line is between loyalty to the divine and to the earthly.

Fevre Dream - George R. R. Martin
If you're waiting oh so patiently for the next book in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series, you could do worse than to read this intriguing mix of 19th-century riverboats and vampires. Yes, you read that correctly. Martin not only makes this unlikely combination work, but he does so while skewering the tropes of vampire fiction and ending things in a way you don't quite expect. It doesn't have the sprawl, scope, or grandeur of the Westeros books, but is still a fine read.

The Getaway - Jim Thompson
I'm cheating a bit, as The Getaway isn't really that unknown of a Thompson book. But The Grifters and The Killer Inside Me get all the press, so I want to stump for The Getaway. Married criminals Doc and Carol pull off the proverbial last big score without much of a hitch - it's escaping to safety (a South American town that's a semi-legendary haven for criminals) that's the hard part. Bad luck, miscalculations, and distrust escalate into a grim, almost existential final chapter that's unlike anything else I've read in crime fiction.

13 for Halloween

It's usually a surprise to friends and acquaintances to learn that, despite my love for the horror genre, I'm not a fan of Halloween. Mostly it's kind of an inconvenience, having to remember to buy candy which I don't want in the house anyway because of the temptation. Also, I am no good at all when it comes to coming up with costume ideas. Happily enough, these days my kid is perfectly happy to wear a store-bought costume, and my employer isn't interested in company Halloween parties.

But as I do have a great love for the horror genre, I should do what everyone else on ye olde internet is doing, and post some suggested scary entertainment. Following are 13 completely random stories and movies that have given me the chills over the years (ask me a week from now and you'll likely get a different list - like I said, it's random).

1. "The October Game" by Ray Bradbury (short story) For Bradbury, October is usually a wondrous time, though not without its dangers. In this story, he turns his usual celebration of October on its head, as the season drives a man trapped in a loveless marriage and family to extreme measures. It's a great little tale whose horrors are deftly (and mercifully) understated.
2. The Thing, directed by John Carpenter (movie) Carpenter's made so many movies that are fit for this time of year (including, of course, Halloween). But The Thing is not just a good scary movie, it's a good movie. There's genuine menace in every frame, from the isolation that takes its toll on the characters, the unforgiving Antarctic climate, and the alien that can masquerade as any living creature. 
3. Under the Skin by Michel Faber (novel) Faber became well-known for his fantastic Victorian novel The Crimson Petal and the White, but his debut novel is well worth seeking out. On the lonely highways of Scotland a woman named Isserley prowls, on the lookout for strapping young men. We learn early on that her interest in the men isn't sexual, nor is it murderous (strictly speaking), but something much more disturbing. This is one that will stay with you for a while.
4. "It's a Good Life" episode of The Twilight Zone  Adapted from Jerome Bixby's short story, "It's a Good Life" shows us a small town in the midwest that's isolated and completely under the control of an all-powerful being - who happens to be a young boy. It doesn't seem that scary at the outset, but think about unlimited power to bend reality and command life and death combined with a child's amorality and deadly sense of whimsy.
5. Audition, directed by Takashi Miike (movie)  The best horror is often that which lulls you into a false sense of security. Think of Janet Leigh in Psycho, making the decision to return to her old life with the stolen money and then...  A similar thing happens in Audition, when a lonely, likable widower finds that the new love in his life is a bit unhinged. The audience learns this a bit before the character does, so much of the horror comes from knowing things are destined to end in a bad way.
6. Suspiria, directed by Dario Argento (movie)  A fever dream in vivid Technicolor, Suspiria lacks much in the way of plot, but makes up for it with stunning atmosphere and the dread that comes from never knowing what's around the next corner (for both the movie's story and the freaky dance academy where the movie takes place). Think of Jessica Harper's ballerina as a heroine out of a fairy tale, up against some monstrous witches.
7. Pet Sematary by Stephen King (novel)  I probably shouldn't include this one, for while it's arguably King's scariest novel, the horrors are a bit too close to home, particularly if you're a parent. Confronted with the worst when his child dies, a young doctor decides to play God and resurrect his child. Possibly the scariest part of this book is how its inevitable tragedy results from sorrow and good intentions rather than malice.
8. "The Monkey Treatment" by George R. R. Martin (short story)  A comical horror tale that's yes, by the author of A Song of Ice and Fire. A chronic over-eater wants to lose weight but hates to give up food stumbles upon what seems like a foolproof method called the Monkey Treatment. No spoilers, but it's a nifty take on humor, horror, and pizza.
9. The Changeling, directed by Peter Medak (movie) It's a trope I've often noticed in horror that there's nothing like some recent bereavement to put one in touch with the supernatural. That's what composer George C. Scott discovers when, several months after the death of his wife and daughter in a freak road accident, he moves into a gorgeous old house and soon makes contact with a ghost that lives there. It's a quiet film, full of creepy touches (anyone else notice that the ball is wet when the ghost tosses it back to Scott, after Scott has thrown the ball into the river?), creepy atmosphere, and a nicely restrained performance by Scott.
10. "I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream" by Harlan Ellison (short story)  Aside from having one of the best titles in the history of fiction, Ellison's story of a murderous computer and the humans it tortures with every fate imaginable - save for death - also has one of the most horrifying endings ever.
11. "The Cask of Amontillado" by Edgar Allan Poe (short story)  The horrors of this story are more subtle than those in much of Poe's work. It's only afterward that you realize the protagonist condemned poor Fortunato to an appalling death just because Fortunato had insulted him once too often. Yikes.
12. Witchfinder General, directed by Michael Reeves (movie)  The uneasiest horrors are those rooted in reality. This film finds a restrained, coldly malevolent Vincent Price as real-life witchfinder Matthew Hopkins, who roams the English countryside condemning innocent people as witches; in exchange he gets power, glory, money from bribes, and isn't above extorting young women for sex to protect their relatives from witchcraft charges. Also known as The Conqueror Worm (a title given to make it appear as one of the Poe adaptations popular at the time).
13. The Getaway by Jim Thompson (novel)  It's not horror per se until its final chapter, though many horrific things happen along the way, from a person who's suffered so many grievous physical injuries in his youth that his chest bones have fused into a bulletproof shell to having to spend several days hiding out from police in a manure pile. But its final chapter is grimly poetic in its depiction of a place that seems to be heaven for its fugitives from justice, but is really hell.

There you have it! Happy Halloween!

Favorite secondary characters

Secondary characters can often be the most fun to write. There's a bit more freedom to make them fun and interesting, and less worry about all the backstory and flaws you need to give a main character. One of the things that's been most enjoyable with my own books is finding out which characters people like, and I'm happy that so far my secondary character Eskimo Sally (from The Day After Yesterday) is a favorite with some fans.

So without further ado, here are some of my favorite secondary characters:

Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter series (books 5-7)
Dreamy, eccentric, and surprisingly wise, Luna is also just plain fun (highlights are her roaring lion hat, and her spaced-out commentary at a Quidditch game). Her whimsy is a good thing, considering how angsty the last three Potter books become. Her combination of goofiness and insight was a big inspiration to me when writing my aforementioned Eskimo Sally character.

Partridge in The Shipping News
A well-read, well-traveled, life-loving copy editor who befriends the friendless protagonist Quoyle and introduces him to the art of journalism, Partridge does what any friend should do - help a person out when help is needed. In addition to his friendship, Partridge helps Quoyle get a newspaper job in Newfoundland that helps Quoyle transform his life. The only downside is that Partridge isn't in the book enough (would have loved a chapter in which he visits Quoyle in Newfoundland).

Will Somers in The Autobiography of Henry VIII
Henry's fool Will is the character who "inherits" Henry's journal and comments on it throughout the book, providing his own perspective (particularly valuable when Henry disappears up his own ego) and  filling in some blanks of historical perspective for the reader. It helps that Will is witty, sarcastic, and insightful, and his interludes in the journal are always welcome.

The Old Turk in Boys and Girls Together
William Goldman's underrated story of damaged souls is at its most heartbreaking with the story of Rudy, a kind child who's ultimately destroyed by his hideous parents. The one bright period in Rudy's life is when his family moves in with his maternal grandfather, a deli owner known as The Old Turk. He's a caring, sensitive, and sarcastically witty old man whose loving bond with his grandson is well realized and too, too brief.

Dr. Lilith Ritter in Nightmare Alley
All the secondary characters I've listed so far are nice people for the most part - ready for an evil one? Dr. Lilith Ritter is a psychiatrist who uses her brains and the information she's privy to from therapy sessions to help her erstwhile partner Stan Carlisle, a fake spiritualist minister. She's merciless and chilling, particularly when she robs Carlisle and uses what she's learned about him to drive the emotionally unstable man to a breakdown. And the best/worst part is that she gets away with it all.

Eustace Clarence Scrubb in The Chronicles of Narnia
I don't know if it's entirely fair to call Eustace a secondary character. He's secondary indeed in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, but has a more substantial role in The Silver Chair, then is back to secondary in The Last Battle. But I'm including him here because he's arguably the only character in the series who has an actual arc. The Pevensie children start out nice and stay that way (well, except for that whole bit with Susan blowing off Narnia in favor of parties and lipstick, but that's a topic for another time). Eustace starts off as a smarmy little pill who's petty and nasty. He's turned into a dragon for a while, as a direct result of being a smarmy little pill, and after he's turned back into a human by Aslan, turns over a new leaf. The transformation isn't instantaneous and Eustace still has his douche-y moments, but overall it's quite a convincing and nice character arc.

Who are your favorite secondary characters?

Little help here?

I am desperately trying to figure out a way to use the line "This learned constable is too cunning to be understood" in daily life, preferably at the day job.

Why, yes, I've just seen Much Ado About Nothing, and it was wonderful. Like a tall glass of ginger beer on a summer day. Kudos to all involved.

Literary places I don't want to visit

One of the most enjoyable things about writing my novels The Day After Yesterday and Ashes was creating the towns that are key settings in the books: Los Cielos and Haven Cove, respectively. They are places I wouldn't mind living in, let alone visiting.

I can think of many fictional places I'd love to visit... and a few I'd avoid like the plague. Let's tackle the ones I don't want to visit.

Leaving out the obvious dystopias (Oceania, Panem, Gilead), here are some places that I don't want to get any closer to (beyond the printed page):

Peaksville - from "It's a Good Life" by Jerome Bixby
It's never clear where Peakesville is. It used to be somewhere in the Midwest United States, but now it's literally in the middle of nowhere. That's thanks to Anthony Fremont, who either made the rest of the world disappear or took Peaksville somewhere else - no one knows. And it hardly matters, because the residents are trapped. Anthony has the power to do anything with his mind, and he combines unimaginable power with the no-limits mindset of a sociopathic child. In the story's opening pages he forces a rat to devour itself, and all the townsfolk have to be perpetually cheerful lest their true thoughts draw Anthony's wrath. The tale is best known as an excellent Twilight Zone adaptation, but the story is just as good and well worth seeking out.

Morgantown - from The Brave by Gregory McDonald
I've talked about The Brave before in my "Most Depressing Books" post, and no small reason for that book's depressing qualities is its setting. Morgantown is a shantytown in the American Southwest, perched on the edge of a dump that provides subsistence for the residents. The people who live there are society's castoffs, living without clean water or electricity. Even the government assistance has abandoned the town, which isn't on any official maps. Yet it's home to those who live there. It's a trap as well, easy to get into and difficult to get out of, and one man's desperate attempt to help those he loves escape may only make things worse.

Derry and Castle Rock - from numerous works by Stephen King
Evil clowns. Stranglers. Rabid dogs. Evil shopkeepers. I could go on and on. Chances are if you've read more than one book by King you've encountered these towns and you know what I'm talking about.

Mordor - from The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien
For about the first half of the Lord of the Rings saga, Mordor is just a distant name of dread. But once Frodo, Sam, and Gollum get to the Dead Marshes, things get real. Tolkien's descriptive language makes it clear what a hellish wasteland this place is, from the stinking marshes with their faces of the dead (a detail apparently inspired by Tolkien's World War 1 experiences) to the endless vistas of barren rock and ash, where even the memory of sunlight, water, and plants is forgotten. If Sauron gets the Ring back, all of Middle Earth will be like this - by experiencing Mordor with the characters, we realize just how high the stakes are.

The high rise apartments - High Rise by J. G. Ballard
The new high rise apartments outside London have everything its residents could want - restaurants, playgrounds, pools, gardens. Things start going wrong, first on a small scale - random (or are they?) power outages, territorial squabbles - escalating quickly. Before three months have gone the residents are engaged in full-scale warfare within the building. It's Lord of the Flies with all mod cons, and its closing pages will leave you very unsettled.

April is the cruelest month - the most depressing books I have ever read (flashback post)

“April is the cruelest month” begins T. S. Eliot’s masterpiece “The Waste Land.” I don’t agree, myself. I always find January, with its post-holiday letdown, to be the most depressing month. September isn’t much better with its blazing weather lingering long after summer has worn out its welcome. But Eliot is my favorite poet and until I can write something as good as “The Waste Land” or “Ash Wednesday” or “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” or “Marina” I’ll defer to him.

In honor of the cruelest month I offer the most depressing books I’ve read. And they are all, in their own ways, good books. They aren’t depressing in the “trees died for this” way but in the bleak, brutal beauty of their stories and the empathy they generate for their characters.

1984 by George Orwell

Probably the grand-daddy of excellent-but-depressing books. These days Brave New World is more relevant to our society, but at least in that dystopia most of its inhabitants are having what they think is fun, at times. But 1984’s world is a grim, shabby place where even the Inner Party members lead lives devoid of much in the way of comfort or sensual enjoyment. Combine that with the ruthless efficiency of the brainwashing and the inevitable betrayal and renouncing of humanity, and you’ve got one downer of a book.

The Book of Sorrows by Walter Wangerin, Jr.

Wangerin’s sequel to his popular Christian fable The Book of the Dun Cow is an example of truth in advertising: its very title tells you this is a book brimming with sadness. Mind you, The Book of the Dun Cow wasn’t exactly a rollicking fun time: Rooster Chanticleer and the animals he’s lord of must fight for their lives (and their souls) against a demonic half rooster/half snake beast called Cockatrice and his horde of poisonous snakes; the battle is won by the self-sacrifice of humble dog Mundo Cani. The Book of Sorrows takes up shortly after the battle has been won, but implies the war may be nearly lost. The losses of the battle, particularly of Mundo Cani, weigh heavily on Chanticleer as he descends into depression and paranoia. As a brutal winter takes its toll on the remaining animals, the characters who triumphed over external enemies start to succumb to those within, facing starvation, infertility, suicide, the semi-accidental killing of a mother and child, and more. It’s a beautiful book, though, with marvelous characterization and effective use of both Christian and pagan stories and myths. But very hard going at times.

The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kozinski

Kozinski’s 1965 novel is somewhat overshadowed by its author’s personality and by his claims about the book’s inspiration (once described as largely autobiographical, it was later revealed to be not so autobiographical after all). But despite that and some occasionally clumsy writing/translation, it’s a stark, grim novel that’s more frightening in its depiction of the depths humans can sink to than many horror genre novels. The story follows a nameless child in World War 2 Poland, sent to the country by his parents to escape persecution (it’s implied he’s Jewish, though he’s at times assumed to be a gypsy). When his guardian dies he’s left to wander alone in a countryside that’s populated more or less exclusively by ignorant, savage peasants. Halfway through the book (right after he’s tossed into a cesspool to drown after he accidentally drops a Bible during Mass) he’s so traumatized he’s unable to speak. It ends on a (not entirely convincing) happy note, but the horrors witnessed by the child linger in the reader’s mind, as does the suspicion that this kid is going to end up as one seriously messed-up adult.

The Bridge by John Skipp and Craig Spector

What do you get when you combine no-holds-barred splatterpunk with apocalyptic environmental horror? You get The Bridge. The titular bridge is in a small town called Paradise, and is the favorite dumping ground of the local polluter. At least until the toxic waste becomes this sentient, unstoppable force that mutates everything it contacts, inhabits the minds of every living thing, and takes over the world in a matter of days. What makes the book frightening is that the toxic force doesn’t kill – everything from plants to people just becomes an extension of the force, trapped forever in a kind of living death. What makes the book so depressing is the inevitable doom for everyone, including some very likable people.

The Brave by Gregory McDonald

Fans of McDonald’s lighthearted Fletch series definitely had to reach for the Xanax after reading his 1991 effort The Brave. Young Rafael lives with his family and some other lost souls in a shantytown community in the Southwest. There are no jobs, no government assistance, no money, and almost no food. The primarily Native American populace’s life consists of foraging in the nearby dump for food and for other goods they use to survive. Alcoholism is rampant, even among children, and if the people aren’t shot by the dump’s armed guards they die quickly in accidents or lingeringly from untreated cirrhosis or cancer. So when Rafael is given an offer of $30,000 to be tortured and murdered on camera for a snuff film, he agrees – to give his family and friends the means to escape the shantytown, and to have the chance at a quick (if agonizing) death instead of his miserable existence. And his sacrifice will help his family and friends, because the sort of people who make snuff films would never go back on their promise to give his widow thousands of dollars, and they’d never use a phony contract to bamboozle a naïve, illiterate young man. Would they? The Brave is a very good book but bleak doesn’t begin to describe it – it’s for those who thought Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle just wasn’t grim enough.

Now, I can hear rumblings from the peanut gallery – people asking why on earth I read these in the first place. Well, I don’t really have an answer for that. I’ll blame some of my early reading, particularly Russell Hoban’s The Mouse and His Child, a children’s book that’s grim, almost existential fare. And those Choose Your Own Adventure books – no matter what I did, I always got the “and you were never heard from again” endings. Just lucky, I guess.

Happy birthday, John Steinbeck

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, "Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men," and he would have meant the same thing. 

John Steinbeck would have been 111 today. Do yourself a favor and read Cannery Row and its sequel, Sweet Thursday.

Listen up: Dylan Thomas' reading of "A Child's Christmas in Wales"

So beautiful. Listen, enjoy, and have a very merry Christmas.

Ray Bradbury

We lost one of the good ones today. Ray Bradbury passed away at the age of 91.

I became a fan of Ray's work relatively late in life - for some reason it never clicked with me when I was young. But once I was properly introduced to his work I became a fan for life. His stories could be nostalgic and sweet or dark and terrifying. His use of language was unparalleled, but I think what I came to respect most was that he never spoon-fed his readers. He trusted you to understand what the story was about (think of the horrifying revelation in "The Aqueduct," a story that actually made me screech).

It seems wrong that we should lose Bradbury in June. Autumn was his time. So I'll close with a quote from "The Lake," the story that made me fall in love with Bradbury.

It was September. In the last days when things are getting sad for no reason. The beach was so long and lonely with only about six people on it. The kids quit bouncing the ball because somehow the wind made them sad, too, whistling the way it did, and the kids sat down and felt autumn come along the endless shore.

All of the hot dog stands were boarded up with strips of golden planking, sealing in all the mustard, onion, meat odors of the long, joyful summer. One by one the places slammed their covers down, padlocked their doors, and the wind came and touched the sand, blowing away all of the million footprints of July and August. ... Sand blew up in curtains on the sidewalks, and the merry-go-round was hidden with canvas, all of the horses frozen in mid-air on their brass poles, showing teeth, galloping on. With only the wind for music, slipping through canvas.

Thanks for the stories, Ray.

Now that's what I call writing: funny stuff

Comedy is so subjective - that's why it's my least favorite movie genre, because when it doesn't work, it's deadly.

The following selections are from books that may not necessarily be great writing - they won't win awards for the beauteous lyricism of their prose - but they made me laugh, and that's always a good thing.

First, from Bridget Jones' Diary by Helen Fielding:

Tuesday 19 December

9:45 a.m. Oh God, feel awful: horrible sick acidic hangover and today is office disco lunch. ... Better go to work - but will not have anything to drink at disco lunch, just be friendly and professional, stay til about 3:30 p.m., then leave and do my Christmas cards.

2 a.m. Course is OK - everyone drunks office Christmas parties. Is a good fun. Must gust sleep doen mattr about clothesoff.

Wednesday 20 December

5:30 a.m. Oh my God. Oh my God. Where am I?

And this one's from David Wong's John Dies at the End, as a group of people are about to face a horde of demons.

John said to me, "If I die, I want you to tell everybody I died in the coolest way possible. You can have my CDs. My brother will demand the Playstation, since I borrowed it from him a year ago, so don't fight him for it."

Jennifer hesitated for a long moment before saying, "Um, there's a loose floorboard under my bed. I keep stuff down there. There's some pot and a little notebook with like, some guys' names in it, and - some other stuff. If I die I want one of you to go in my bedroom and get all that stuff out so my mom doesn't find it."

Next Fred piped up. "Okay. If I don't come back, and say they don't got my body, like if Justin eats me or somethin', tell everybody you don't know what happened. Make it mysterious. And then a year later spread rumors that you've seen me wanderin' around town. That way I'll be like Bigfoot, everybody claiming to have seen me here and there. Legend of Fred Chu. And then, like, once a year go out and mutilate some livestock. Tell everybody I did it, that you saw me flyin' my UFO around that night it happened."

It turns out that the character John is the singer for a band, and the band's songs have an effect against demons, in particular the song "Camel Holocaust". Given the lyrics, you can understand this.

My melon soul

Crushed by your Gallagher of apathy

Sledgehammer! Hammmerrrrr!

Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!

There's a wolf behind you

No wait, it's just a dog

Oh, shit! Badger! Baaaaadgeerrrr!

Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!

I'd happily cough up some money to make this song a reality.

So if you need a laugh, check out both of these books. They're lots of fun.

Read this now: Ray Bradbury's The October Game

Best Halloween story EVER! Includes illustrations from the EC Comics adaptation.

Read The October Game now.

EC Archives are back on track!

Many people ask me if I like comics. I always hesitate before answering because while technically, I do, the only ones I really like are the EC comics from the 1950s. Tales From the Crypt is the most famous title, but there were also The Vault of Horror, The Haunt of Fear, Two-Fisted Tales, Crime SuspenStories, Weird Science, and my personal favorite, Shock SuspenStories.

The EC Archives, a reprint of these comics in gorgeous full-color hardcover editions, had been going along for awhile until the publishing company was hit hard by the recession. Publishing has been on hiatus for the last couple years, but is now scheduled to get back underway. Full details here!

These comics are a treat. The artwork is often astonishing, and the tales, though often gruesome, are quite moralistic, in a good way (the innocent may suffer but the sinners are always punished harshly). The comics weren't just about cheap thrills, though. Adaptations of Ray Bradbury stories made for some of the most memorable stories. And the stories often tackled social issues such as racism and anti-Communist hysteria. (These stories aren't especially progressive by today's standards - I think by now we all know we shouldn't burn down our neighbor's house because he's Jewish - but judging by the letters readers sent in, which are also reprinted in these editions, these stories needed to be told.)

Looking forward to the first installment of Haunt of Fear and the next installment of Vault of Horror this fall!

Now that's what I call writing: Richard Yates

Now playing on the iPod - "Hey Jealousy" - Gin Blossoms

One writer I admire tremendously is Richard Yates. His style is very straightforward and without flash, yet he uses his unadorned style to portray lives of quiet desperation. I can't read his books too often because his characters are so sad, often without even realizing it - they are people who have dreams that will never be achieved, most often because they sabotage themselves or simply don't even recognize their dreams.

Disturbing the Peace is not one of Yates' best books, but even his lesser works have a great deal to offer. In one paragraph, he tell his readers everything they need to know about a character:

[Janice Wilder] was thirty-four and the mother of a ten-year-old son. The fading of her youth didn't bother her - it hadn't been a very carefree or adventurous youth anyway - and if her marriage was more an arrangement than a romance, that was all right too. Nobody's life was perfect. She enjoyed the orderly rotation of her days; she enjoyed books, of which she owned a great many; and she enjoyed her high, bright apartment with its view of mid-town Manhattan towers. It was neither a rich nor an elegant apartment, but it was comfortable - and "comfortable" was one of Janice Wilder's favorite words. She was fond of the word "civilized," too, and of "reasonable" and "adjustment" and "relationship." Hardly anything upset or frightened her: the only things that did - sometimes to the point of making her blood run cold - were things she didn't understand.

You can guess that Janice won't take it well when, in the very next paragraph, she learns her husband has had a nervous breakdown.

I highly recommend Yates' novels Revolutionary Road and The Easter Parade. (Caveat: Don't read them if you're looking for something to cheer you up.)

April is the cruelest month: The most depressing books I have ever read

Now playing on the iPod - "Main Title (Sorcerer)" - Tangerine Dream

“April is the cruelest month” begins T. S. Eliot’s masterpiece “The Waste Land.” I don’t agree, myself. I always find January, with its post-holiday letdown, to be the most depressing month. September isn’t much better with its blazing weather lingering long after summer has worn out its welcome. But Eliot is my favorite poet and until I can write something as good as “The Waste Land” or “Ash Wednesday” or “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” or “Marina” I’ll defer to him.

In honor of the cruelest month I offer the most depressing books I’ve read. And they are all, in their own ways, good books. They aren’t depressing in the “trees died for this” way but in the bleak, brutal beauty of their stories and the empathy they generate for their characters.

1984 by George Orwell

Probably the grand-daddy of excellent-but-depressing books. These days Brave New World is more relevant to our society, but at least in that dystopia most of its inhabitants are having what they think is fun, at times. But 1984’s world is a grim, shabby place where even the Inner Party members lead lives devoid of much in the way of comfort or sensual enjoyment. Combine that with the ruthless efficiency of the brainwashing and the inevitable betrayal and renouncing of humanity, and you’ve got one downer of a book.

The Book of Sorrows by Walter Wangerin, Jr.

Wangerin’s sequel to his popular Christian fable The Book of the Dun Cow is an example of truth in advertising: its very title tells you this is a book brimming with sadness. Mind you, The Book of the Dun Cow wasn’t exactly a rollicking fun time: Rooster Chanticleer and the animals he’s lord of must fight for their lives (and their souls) against a demonic half rooster/half snake beast called Cockatrice and his horde of poisonous snakes; the battle is won by the self-sacrifice of humble dog Mundo Cani. The Book of Sorrows takes up shortly after the battle has been won, but implies the war may be nearly lost. The losses of the battle, particularly of Mundo Cani, weigh heavily on Chanticleer as he descends into depression and paranoia. As a brutal winter takes its toll on the remaining animals, the characters who triumphed over external enemies start to succumb to those within, facing starvation, infertility, suicide, the semi-accidental killing of a mother and child, and more. It’s a beautiful book, though, with marvelous characterization and effective use of both Christian and pagan stories and myths. But very hard going at times.

The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kozinski

Kozinski’s 1965 novel is somewhat overshadowed by its author’s personality and by his claims about the book’s inspiration (once described as largely autobiographical, it was later revealed to be not so autobiographical after all). But despite that and some occasionally clumsy writing/translation, it’s a stark, grim novel that’s more frightening in its depiction of the depths humans can sink to than many horror genre novels. The story follows a nameless child in World War 2 Poland, sent to the country by his parents to escape persecution (it’s implied he’s Jewish, though he’s at times assumed to be a gypsy). When his guardian dies he’s left to wander alone in a countryside that’s populated more or less exclusively by ignorant, savage peasants. Halfway through the book (right after he’s tossed into a cesspool to drown after he accidentally drops a Bible during Mass) he’s so traumatized he’s unable to speak. It ends on a (not entirely convincing) happy note, but the horrors witnessed by the child linger in the reader’s mind, as does the suspicion that this kid is going to end up as one seriously messed-up adult.

The Bridge by John Skipp and Craig Spector

What do you get when you combine no-holds-barred splatterpunk with apocalyptic environmental horror? You get The Bridge. The titular bridge is in a small town called Paradise, and is the favorite dumping ground of the local polluter. At least until the toxic waste becomes this sentient, unstoppable force that mutates everything it contacts, inhabits the minds of every living thing, and takes over the world in a matter of days. What makes the book frightening is that the toxic force doesn’t kill – everything from plants to people just becomes an extension of the force, trapped forever in a kind of living death. What makes the book so depressing is the inevitable doom for everyone, including some very likable people.

The Brave by Gregory McDonald

Fans of McDonald’s lighthearted Fletch series definitely had to reach for the Xanax after reading his 1991 effort The Brave. Young Rafael lives with his family and some other lost souls in a shantytown community in the Southwest. There are no jobs, no government assistance, no money, and almost no food. The primarily Native American populace’s life consists of foraging in the nearby dump for food and for other goods they use to survive. Alcoholism is rampant, even among children, and if the people aren’t shot by the dump’s armed guards they die quickly in accidents or lingeringly from untreated cirrhosis or cancer. So when Rafael is given an offer of $30,000 to be tortured and murdered on camera for a snuff film, he agrees – to give his family and friends the means to escape the shantytown, and to have the chance at a quick (if agonizing) death instead of his miserable existence. And his sacrifice will help his family and friends, because the sort of people who make snuff films would never go back on their promise to give his widow thousands of dollars, and they’d never use a phony contract to bamboozle a naïve, illiterate young man. Would they? The Brave is a very good book but bleak doesn’t begin to describe it – it’s for those who thought Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle just wasn’t grim enough.

Now, I can hear rumblings from the peanut gallery – people asking why on earth I read these in the first place. Well, I don’t really have an answer for that. I’ll blame some of my early reading, particularly Russell Hoban’s The Mouse and His Child, a children’s book that’s grim, almost existential fare. And those Choose Your Own Adventure books – no matter what I did, I always got the “and you were never heard from again” endings. Just lucky, I guess.

Of course, not every bleak book works – there has to be a point to the bleakness, and the characters have to be people you care about. When that doesn't happen, bleakness becomes misery porn. But that’s a topic for a future post.

Now that's what I call writing: Bret Easton Ellis

Now playing on the iPod: "Suite #3 in D, BMV 1068 - Air" - J. S. Bach

So I finally got around to reading Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho. I'd always wanted to since its controversial publication. (To whom it may concern: it doesn't matter which end of the political spectrum you're on, if you tell me I shouldn't read a book or watch a movie or listen to an album, I'm going to be all over that book/movie/album like nobody's business. It's in my nature.)

Yes, there are some extremely gruesome scenes (one in particular I wish had never crossed my retinas, but it's too late to do anything about that now). But what no one ever told me is that this book is funny.

Probably the funniest aspect of the book is the descriptions of the food. (I nearly always love food descriptions in books.) Most of this food sounds so perfectly awful - oddball combinations like pinto beans with salmon and mint, or quail sashimi with grilled brioche - and it's clearly ordered just for the diners to show how affluent and stylish they are, not to actually EAT anything.

Which leads to the passage of the book that made me guffaw:

"The client had the boudin blanc, the roasted chicken and the cheesecake," he says.

"Cheesecake?" I say, confused by this plain, alien-sounding list. "What sauce or fruits were on the roasted chicken? What shapes was it cut into?"

"None, Patrick," he says, also confused. "It was...roasted."

"And the cheesecake, what flavor? Was it heated?" I say. "Ricotta cheesecake? Goat cheese? Were there flowers or cilantro in it?"

"It was just...regular," he says, and then, "Patrick, you're sweating."

"What did she have?" I ask, ignoring him. "The client's bimbo."

"Well, she had the country salad, the scallops and the lemon tart," Luis says.

"The scallops were grilled? Were they sashimi scallops? In a ceviche of sorts?" I'm asking. "Or were they gratinized?"

"No, Patrick," Luis says. "They were...broiled."

It's silent in the boardroom as I contemplate this, thinking it through before asking, finally, "What's 'broiled', Luis?"

"I'm not sure," he says. "I think it involves...a pan."

Reading over this passage, I'm realizing afresh why I let my subscription to a cooking magazine lapse: they started including recipes for things like green tea cheesecake, which sounds like something the characters in American Psycho would order.

Now that's what I call writing: Charles Dickens

Now playing on the iPod: "Waltz of the Snowflakes" from The Nutcracker - Tchaikovsky

It isn't Christmas until I read this segment from Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which bright, gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there, and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrification of a hearth had never known in Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince pies, plum puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch there sat a jolly giant, glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge as he came peeping round the door.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!"

Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple, deep-green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare, and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark-brown curls were long and free, free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanor, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard, but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

Zut alors, how I love that passage. (The detail of the empty, rusty scabbard nags at me - clearly it has some significance, but what?)

Speaking of A Christmas Carol, I finally saw The Muppet Christmas Carol today and it's a joy to watch. Not only is it remarkably faithful to Dickens' text, but has some great humor ("Storytellers are omniscient; I know everything!" "Hoity-toity, Mr. God-like smartypants!"), and a fantastic performance by Michael Caine as Scrooge (all the more noteworthy because for the most part he was acting opposite some talking puppets). Go forth and watch it as soon as you can.

Now that's what I call writing: Stephen King and Peter Straub

Now playing on the iPod: "Magic and Ecstasy" - Ennio Morricone *

The following passage from Stephen King and Peter Straub's Black House is a favorite of mine. Usually I don't like my foreshadowing quite this blatant (I prefer the "sucker punch" approach to Bad Things Happening to Good Characters), but something about this passage resonates with me.

Still, they are safe. And our guys are safe, too. All of them came back in one piece from the other side, and surely we did not expect that; most quests of this type usually demand at least one sacrifice. All's well that ends well. And this can be the end, if you want it to be; neither of the scribbling fellows who have brought you this far would deny you that. If you do choose to go on, never say you weren't warned: you're not going to like what happens next.

Ooooh, yes! And you know what? They were right!

* Stealing an idea from the Pub Rants blog. Agent Kristin starts every blog entry with what she's listening to at the time, and since I don't talk about music enough on this blog, I'll follow suit.

Bradbury season

It means cooler weather and that I can finally make chicken and dumplings again! (Did that tonight, as a matter of fact. Mmm-mmm good!)

More importantly, it means we're in Bradbury season. If you know what I'm referring to, good for you.

If you don't, by all means educate yourself. Your assignment will be to read a Bradbury story a day for the month of October. Don't worry, they are short (some are only a couple pages long). But if after reading these you still don't know why October is Bradbury season... well, can't help you any more.

My recommendations, in no particular order:

1. Homecoming
2. The Lake
3. There Will Come Soft Rains
4. Mars is Heaven
5. A Sound of Thunder
6. Skeleton
7. The Jar
8. The Small Assassin
9. The Black Ferris
10. The Women
11. The Aqueduct
12. The Shoreline at Sunset
13. The Emissary
14. The Scythe
15. Usher II
16. The Fruit at the Bottom of the Bowl
17. Let's Play "Poison"
18. The Veldt
19. The Kilimanjaro Device
20. The Fog Horn
21. Exorcism
22. The Next in Line
23. The Haunting of the New
24. The Playground
25. The Parrot Who Met Papa
26. Fever Dream
27. Boys! Raise Giant Mushrooms in Your Cellar!
28. The One Who Waits
29. The Screaming Woman
30. The Trolley
31. The October Game

Happy reading!

Now that's what I call writing: Cormac McCarthy

If ever a book warranted a second reading, it's Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian. It's all too easy for a reader to get lost in the Faulkner-on-LSD syntax and vocabulary and overlook the story itself. 

But with a second reading the ornate language becomes familiar and it's easier to enjoy the book (as much as such a bleak, violent book can be enjoyed).

There are so many passages that I love, that border on crazed poetry. Sometimes it will be one line:

He is broken before a frozen god and he will never find his way.

Or whole paragraphs like this:

He rose and turned toward the lights of the town. The tidepools bright as smelterpots among the dark rocks where the phosphorescent seacrabs clambered back. Passing through the salt grass he looked back. The horse had not moved. A ship's light winked in the swells. The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past men's knowing, where the stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

And here's probably my favorite passage in the book:

And they are dancing, the board floor slamming under the jackboots and the fiddlers grinning hideously over their canted pieces. Towering over them all is the judge and he is naked dancing, his small feet lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant. He never sleeps, he says. He says he'll never die. He bows to the fiddlers and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the judge. He wafts his hat and the lunar dome of his skull passes palely under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the fiddles and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, dancing and fiddling at once. His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.