Terry Pratchett's Discworld 14- Lords and Ladies

Lords and Ladies

 

Corgi Press

Terry Pratchett

1992

The Colour of Magic - The Light Fantastic - Equal Rites - Mort - Sourcery - Wyrd Sisters - Pyramids - Guards! Guards! - Eric - Moving Pictures - Reaper Man - Witches Abroad - Small Gods-  A Blink of the Screen - Sky1 Adaptations

"There was something about the eyes. It wasn't the shape or the color. The was no evil glint. But there was... ... a look. It was such a look that a microbe might encounter if it could see up from the bottom end of the microscope. It said: You are nothing. It said: You are flawed, you have no value. It said: You are animal. It said: Perhaps you may be a pet, or perhaps you may be a quarry. It said: And the choice is not yours." 

Right, so where were we? Well, after my superlative-filled review of my favourite Discworld book, Small Gods, the next installment moves from a one-in-done set of characters and story lines to return to three of the series' more popular characters, the Witches of Lancre (although how do you split between them, Rincewind, The Watch and Death?). We last saw Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlic only two books ago in Witches Abroad, as they went on a trip to the city of Genua, where they freed the fairy-tale version of New Orleans from the grip of none other than Granny's sister, Lilith, and her dastardly plot to control it through the power of unavoidable narrative causality.

While Pratchett tends to slyly incorporate somewhat metaphysical references to the power of stories in  all of his books, the first three Witches books are, I think, the most relevant to this. In Lords and Ladies Pratchett is at it again, returning from fairy tales to the Shakespearean territory of Wyrd Sisters and of certain aspects of fantasy in general. After the coven return to their very magical and very backwards home country of Lancre they're quickly forced to deal with their most dangerous threat yet; a group of appropriately idiotic young witches (including future character of importance Agnes Nitt) have opened the dimensional gates to the pocket universe of the elves. What happens next is essentially a tongue-in-cheek version of A Midsummer Night's Dream, where the author plays with the general expectation of fantasy fans and the typical portrayal of the humble Elf.

Over the course of my life and the Internet I've encountered a fairly large number of people who consider Lords and Ladies to be another Pratchett classic and perhaps the pinnacle of the Witches series. I, however, am not one of those people, but I think I've figured out why. Pratchett's prose and sense of adventure are sharp as ever, and he continues to develop the characters well. For Magrat Garlic (youngest witch of the three and also fiancee to King Verence and thus future Queen of Lancre), this is somewhat of a coming of age story where Pratchett finally pushes her forward as a competent and powerful woman. Meanwhile, Granny Weatherwax is pushed even more as an unbeatable magical force as she faces her deadliest opponents yet. The problem for me is that I think a lot of the subtext to this book relies on the reader knowing and embracing the typical J. R. R. Tolkien portrayal of elves as graceful, beautiful and heroic so that Pratchett can turn it on its head and make them the most vicious of all bastards.

I get the concept of the danger of an evil Legolas, but, despite currently reviewing a fantasy book series that's got about forty installments, I'm not a great fan of fantasy for fantasy's sake, and so the satirical aspect left me a little cold. It's the same for Midsummer Night's Dream really, I do like some Shakespeare but that one never particularly appealed. Anyway as a result of all this I didn't find Lords and Ladies brilliantly funny, nor did the villains stick in my mind to the same effect as Lily Weatherwax or say, Coin of Sorcery. Similarly, Pratchett does quite a similar version of this story replacing elves with vampires in Carpe Jugulum, the twenty-third book, which I rather preferred due to my propensity for indulging in vampire fiction outstripping that of elves by a billion to one.

So, in conclusion, Lords and Ladies isn't one of my personal favourites simply because I don't care for the subject matter as much as I do a typical Discworld novel. That isn't to discourage anyone from reading it; in fact, if you're a big fantasy,Tolkien or Midsummer Night's fan then run out and get it right now. Or use Amazon, whatever.

Argh I Must Write Something

This is one of those posts that's designed to make the writer write something for god's sake, since it's been about a week. In my defence, I did move house again which kind of threw me off. Plus, after reading Breakfast at Tiffany's I took a while to pick up another book. That turned out to be Underground- The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche. It's a non-fiction work of investigative journalism, as my favourite author of modern fiction analyses the Sarin gas attack on the Tokyo underground railway that occurred in 1995.

I'd never heard of it before. It's not something I'd rush to read if it had the name of any other author on, either. So if I ever finish that, I'll review it. And I'll do Lords and Ladies. At some point.

Truman Capote- Breakfast at Tiffany's

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Penguin Modern Classics

Truman Capote
1958

“You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.” 

I had high hopes for my first venture in to the writings of legendary American author Truman Capote, but even then I wasn't expecting to be so thoroughly entranced by the style, charm and poignancy of the novella Breakfast at Tiffany's. I began the book without any real knowledge of the story or the author. I haven't seen the incredibly iconic 1961 cinematic adaptation starring Audrey Hepburn, I haven't read anything else by Capote, and I haven't seen the Oscar-nominated 2005 Capote biographical film. I did, however, have certain expectations regarding the style of prose, characters and locale, generally based around my impression of American literature of the mid-twentieth century- but also partially from the intensely memorable and stylish black and white images of Audrey Hepburn from the film.

At barely more than one hundred pages long, Breakfast at Tiffany's felt disappointingly short as I finished it, but that was merely a testament to its quality. Capote declines to give his narrator a real name and portrays him as a struggling writer, living in a modest brownstone apartment in Manhattan, It's also hinted that he's gay (which, if I may digress, allows the events of the novella to carry on in the manner that they do, in contrast to the plot of the Hollywood adaptation that I just read) , a series of attributes that resemble Capote's own. It's a simple touch, but served to enhance the realism of these characters in my mind.

It's through his habitation that the narrator encounters the inimitable Holly Golightly, who shares an apartment in his building. At first he knows only of her reputation, as a New York society girl of immense beauty and popularity, but their first encounter leads to a deep friendship and understanding. It's important that our narrator, or 'Fred' as Holly calls him, doesn't fall in love with her, but is so drawn in by her magnetic, feline personality that he pursues her attention and becomes her confidant. It's through these one hundred pages of Holly's trials and tribulations that I fell in love with the character, as Capote sets his characters against a tumultuous backdrop of events caused by Holly's uncontrollable spirit leading to the eventual bittersweet conclusion.

The strength of characterisation and dialogue was so strong throughout the story that it felt to me like an autobiographical look into a brief, real section of the lives of real people. That might sound obvious and a goal of any good story, but it's not something I ever experience with such purity as I did with Breakfast at Tiffany's. Upon finishing the book I couldn't resist reading the plot of the film, and even though I'll have to see it at some point (and I'll probably enjoy it), I don't like the sound of it.

I'm a huge fan of mid-twentieth century American literature, and reading this novel was one of those reading experiences that shall stick with me forever. It's a case of both tons of style and some serious substance as Capote delicately carves a masterpiece with each word he writes. He's clearly too unique to be so easily compared to some of my current favourites (though I'm going to do it anyway) such as Bukowski, Vonnegut or Auster, but his sense of place and relevance in the pantheon of fiction in general is set in concrete for this blogger. I'll be grabbing anything and everything by Capote I see from now on.

Charles Bukowski- Notes of a Dirty Old Man

Notes of a Dirty Old Man

Virgin Books

 Charles Bukowski

1969

"no pain means the end of feeling; each of our joys is a bargain with the devil
***

the difference between Art and Life is that Art is more bearable."

After exposing myself to the drug that is Bukowski for the first time with the seminal Post Office, I knew I'd probably love everything he'd ever written. Naturally it took me about a year to start reading more, but by god I've done it, and here's a hastily written review to prove it. I've got three other Bukowski novels in the cabinet now, so I can safely predict that I'll finish reading the complete Bukowski in about forty-two years.

As has been shown here, I'm a fan of reading various collected editions of shorter works by a favourite author, like Orwell, Thompson and Sir Terry, for example, and there's something about the unrelenting power and pace of Bukowski's prose that I felt would make Notes of a Dirty Old Man a memorable read at the very least. One of a few Bukowski compilations, this edition compiles fifty-seven editions of his column published in L.A.'s' short-lived tabloid Open City, published from '67 to '69. Each of the short articles is at least as surreal as the previous one, and I can only imagine and dream of reading it in the original weekly installments. Reading them consecutively as they're published here is almost an overwhelming experience.

As he is widely known for, Bukowski uses his page space to tell kaleidoscopic visions of his real life experiences, with snarling, aggressive narration. Many of the stories are almost completely obscene, and vary in their narrative coherency. On a few separate occasions Bukowski proclaims his disdain for the work of some of his contemporaries, particularly William Burroughs, though it was quickly apparent to me that much of Bukowski's presentation resembles the style of Naked Lunch, in their bizarre odysseys of semi-recognisable beatnik culture mired in surreal expressions of obscenity.

Bukowski is at heart a poet, and much of my enjoyment of this book comes from the power and rhythm of each of his sentences, where sanity is sacrificed for art. As such I read this book in small portions, finding it works better to savour a briefer taste of the strangeness. It was still over quickly though, as I find Bukowski strangely comfortable to read despite the aggression and downbeat exultation of twisted hedonism.

I think I've come over a bit wordy today, I might need a lie down. 

L-Space 4- The Mega-Powers Explode

Like everyone surely is, I have the tendency to display some rather obsessive-compulsive behavior if you catch me at the right time. It's kind of sat on the boundary of eccentricity, looking over the edge into the abyss of possible madness, possibly developed through a lifelong exposure to modern culture as it rushes past at an incredible rate. For me, I've latched onto obsessiveness through order in regards to the excessive amount of it I consume through movies, music, books, comics, and (my biggest, nerdiest obsession) pro-wrestling. I love that stuff.

For years now I've kept really basic lists of books, movies and TV shows I've read and seen, and my iTunes music collection has been meticulously ordered. I have these completely unrealistic expectations that I'll be able to eventually get around to watching all the classic films I've never seen, and I'll hear every classic band I ever felt intrigued by. It's worse with literature though because I know I'll never feel satisfied until I've read everything I ever wanted to and everything I've never heard of that I might love. It's impossible because I probably won't live for another million years.

It's really very annoying when I come across a book that I really want to read for various reasons, but just can't get into it. I don't really have a problem quickly giving up on your everyday garden-variety book, but when it's a recognised classic it turns me in to a bit of a book emo. In case your wondering, the book that inspired this quick rant was Letters from the Underworld by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Admittedly it's not one of the great Russian's most well-known works, but instead is a small novella.

 

I've never read any Russian literature before. It had been a conscious decision to stay away from the genre because I felt sure that my first taste would lead me on to more and more, and I'd be picking up that many more books to add to the pile. So it felt like a personal moment of sorts when I started reading, chosen simply because of its short length making consumption quicker. The problem was I couldn't find the right mood to read it, meandering through the first few pages without really latching onto it.

I had to abandon it because I knew that otherwise it would sit in limbo forever. In the meantime I binged on graphic novels- completing The Complete Judge Dredd Files Vol. 10, The Walking Dead Book 1, The Boys Vol 7 and Alan Moore's Nemo- Heart of Ice- to my great pleasure. I'm massively tempted to write about them at greater length, but then I'm getting dangerously close to six paragraphs as it is, and I'm lazy. I might do a series review of Moore's League of Extraordinary Gentlemen series (to which the aforementioned Nemo is the latest release) at some point, but the weight of the Discworld series is going to take up my non-random thoughts, non-latest reads posts.

Which reminds me, I should probably go write a Lords and Ladies review. After that it'll probably be back to Chuck Bukowski again.

Richard Matheson- I Am Legend

I Am Legend

 

Victor Gollancz

Richard Matheson
1954

“Full circle. A new terror born in death, a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever. I am legend.”

It always kind of irks me a little when people refer to the details of a story after only seeing the cinematic adaptation, like the other day when my sister asked me if I'd heard of the film War of the Worlds and I almost through her out of the window. The thing is that it's one of those irritations which is just actually a personal affectation to make myself look and feel like more of a literary snob, and in reality we're all the same and we all do it. I first saw the Will Smith sci-fi horror vehicle I Am Legend a few years ago, and although it's not a particularly brilliant film it did stick in my memory. In the years since, as I grow old and wizened, I learned a little more about fan disapproval of the film, specifically due to it's dovetailing from the original story. Curious to see what the fuss was about, I picked up the book.

Richard Matheson's bibliography is totally alien to me aside from this book, which stands out as the definitive note of his writing career as an individual piece of sci-fi/horror in the same way that The Day of the Triffids was for John Wyndham, or Flowers for Algernon for Daniel Keyes (two of my favourite science fiction novels). Prior to reading it I really had no idea of the influence it had on modern things I enjoy, which is probably my brain subliminally filling it alongside the 2007 film version as merely throw-away entertainment. The modern things I enjoy, by the way, are zombies.

I Am Legend is a short book, more of a novella, and certainly isn't in the same vein as the action-packed Hollywood version. Instead Matheson uses the elements he chooses to pluck from the horror genre to give an intense character study of a man in the strangest of circumstances, using the structure of events to move him to a climactic realisation that puts the whole book, including its title, into a final philosophical context. In this aspect Matheson's pacing and development is masterful; he introduces the reader to the life of Robert Neville, possibly the last human being left alive and unaffected by the vampiric plague that's swept the world- yes, I did say zombies but they're kind of like a cross between vampires and zombies.

I think the selling point might have been Will Smith.

It's a lonely, harrowing story. Neville's day to day survival is somewhat procedural; he's very well-prepared, intelligent, and safe, having isolated himself in an impenetrable home at night while free to wonder the world during the day. Naturally events don't remain so simple and under control, and it's at the introduction of third parties that the differences between the book and the film really stand out, literally, symbolically and very much thematically. Like every other film starring Will Smith ever, the focus there is on hope and success, but that was a large departure from the original source. I can certainly understand devout fans of the book not enjoying the changes at all, but then a direct adaptation would not have worked, at least not for mainstream audiences.

Ultimately I think it's a fact that I Am Legend is a far greater novel than it was a film. I think the quality of its inspiration on the post-apocalyptic strand of the horror novel cannot be understated, although the quality of the novel and its prose itself doesn't quite match up to that legacy. I certainly recommend it to any fan of horror as both an genre innovator and a good, brief read on its own merits.

E.T.A. Hoffman- The Devil's Elixirs

The Devil's Elixirs

Oneworld Classics

 E.T.A. Hoffmann
1815

If you're like me and you've got the consistent habit of collecting books at a much faster rate than you read them, then you'll come across the dilemma of having to choose a next read between something you really, really want to look at next or something you've had for much longer and can't build up the will-power to start. It's kind of silly, really, there's a bunch of Murakami and Bukowski novels that I just know I'll devour, but I have this vague notion I need to mix it up a little bit. So, to be honest, the prospect of E.T.A. Hoffmann's Gothic horror The Devil's Elixirs didn't appeal much in terms of picking a fun read, which begs the question of why I bought it in the first place.

I first experienced an educated look at the genres of romanticism and horror with the genre's most famous example; Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and quickly became more familiar with the development of the genre and web-like connections between authors. While we all recognise Frankenstein now as perhaps the definitive supernatural monster story (originally told, as the story roughly goes, around a prototypical campfire) there's a lot more depth in tone and context to it, representing the culmination of,a style and set of ethics influenced by such luminaries as William Blake, Lord Byron and William Wordsworth.

The Devil's Elixirs was written three years before Frankenstein, and I feel its influence was felt stylistically in Mary Shelley's piece. In regards to the story, however, it seemed to have more in common with the legend of Faustus, as it regards the corruption and descent into madness of a man given too much power. While it was Christopher Marlowe who was the first to write a definite version of the myth in Doctor Faustus, Hoffman's contemporary Johann Goethe's Faust was published in 1808, and surely must have influenced Hoffman's storytelling. I'm yet to read Faust but I do have a copy on the pile.

The Devil's Elixirs tells the harrowing tale of Medardus the Monk, a good, pious man who's fate is settled when he is entrusted with the possession of the titular devil's elixir, a corrupting liquid supposedly secreted by Satan. Naturally Medardus is unable to resist the bizarre mental effects he soon experiences, and the story really begins as he flees the monastery and attempts to create a new identity. It's a fairly detailed plot that focuses on identity and mystery, evoking to me in style (though through translation) the Victorian prose of Dickens and the like. Forgive the lack of a better description, but it screams classical to me.

As such, I found it difficult to engage my full attention to the narrative throughout because I find such a style dry in places. Ultimately I found it to be what I expected, which might be a self-fulfilling prophecy, which was a notable and memorable read that I can't say I particularly enjoyed. As someone still clinging on to the description of English student, I'm always keen to read something that fits as a piece of a large puzzle depicting a genre or a period that I'm interested in. The blurred lines of horror and romanticism are fascinating and alluring through their image and impact on culture through history, through Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto to perhaps the final Gothic classic Dracula, and The Devil's Elixirs is certainly an essential read for anyone wanting to fully explore macabre fiction.