osprey_archer: (books)
[personal profile] osprey_archer
Kicking off my Halloween reads with Tasha Tudor’s Pumpkin Moonshine! This was Tudor’s first book, about a little girl who climbs up the hill to get the very best pumpkin from the field to make a pumpkin moonshine (known as a jack-o-lantern to us non-Vermonters). But the pumpkin is too big to carry, so she has to roll it; and when she starts to roll the pumpkin down the hill, well, it starts to roll faster and faster…

I rather expected this to end in pumpkin pie, but this pumpkin is made of stern stuff, and survives its roll down the hill to be carved into a toothiest, scariest, most beautiful pumpkin moonshine in Vermont.

You can tell this is an early work by Tudor, as the style seems not quite fully formed yet, perhaps more Currier and Ives than her later works. I really liked the vignettes around the first letter on each page, particularly the ones on the pages where the pumpkin is rolling down the hill: you have the big illustration on the left-hand page showing the pumpkin scaring the goats, say, and on the right, the first letter features a goat standing atop the I and staring down in dismay at the progress of the runaway pumpkin.
sovay: (Cho Hakkai: intelligence)
[personal profile] sovay
The sheer lamination of meta in the source material must have attracted Orson Welles to The Immortal Story (1968): a story about the failure of the creation of a story. Perhaps to cap the parallel, it should have remained, like so many of its writer-director's projects before and after, unfinished, but instead it was the last non-documentary feature he completed in his life, a lyrical, theatrical, troubling curio around which the rest of a projected anthology of adaptations never materialized, stranding it like a chip from a mosaic of dream. The 58 minutes it clocks in at are at once ethereal and formal, so sensorially precise, what they detail cannot be real. If I had heard of it before last week, appropriately I had forgotten.

The screenplay by Welles from the 1958 Isak Dinesen novella preserves its nest of narratives sometimes down to the word, even as it chronicles how slipperily they can twist away from even the most controlling teller. Late in the nineteenth century of tea-trading Macao, the autocratically self-made Mr. Clay (Welles) has become obsessed with a story he heard long ago on his passage to China, of a penniless sailor hired by a childless old man to service his beautiful young wife for a fee of five guineas. It is not the titillation of this scenario that occupies his gout-ridden hours in the great house that belonged originally to the partner he ruined over the miserly debt of three hundred guineas, which may be the stuff of scandal to the European colony but for the aged merchant is merely one more sum in the million-dollar litany of his own ledgers read nightly back to him by his head clerk Elishama Levinsky (Roger Coggio). It is its unreality, which so offends this man of closed accounts and futures only in the sense of investments that he determines to render this maritime legend fact: "People should only record things which have already happened." Unmarried himself, he will arrange for the union of a woman procured for the role of the wife and a sailor authentically solicited from the docksides, wined and dined, proffered the traditional piece of gold and brought to the candlelit bride-bed "in order that one sailor in the world will be able to tell it from beginning to end as it actually happened to him." They will engender between them not a child, but a true history. The defeat of this project will be apparent to anyone with half a head for story. The tale of the lucky sailor has its own reality to which historical truth is irrelevant, its own vitality of the oral tradition which is predicated on exactly the fact that it can be told by any man on the sea as if it happened to him because it never did. It is known across ships, it lives on them, it replicates itself through the reception of travelers from London to Singapore. It can never be made to happen for scare-quotes real because in the narratological sense which eludes the literal-minded god-game of Mr. Clay, it happened the first time it was told. The most he can achieve with his mortal marionettes is the second order of a reenactment, inescapably aware of its own script—Welles doesn't need to force the further metatext of capturing this stagecraft of bodies on film, it shimmers under the surface of the production like the ironies inherent in Dinesen, the pitfalls of collective art. "You move at my bidding," Mr. Clay crows at the hymeneal scene, directorially prepared to oversee its consummation until the curtains like a furious proscenium are jerked closed in his face. "You're two young, strong and lusty jumping-jacks in this old hand of mine," but his desire can dictate only the act. The idiosyncrasies of their chemistry, their conversation, their lovemaking and most of all what any of it may mean past the morning remain out of his grasp, these surrogates for his authorial potency whose own histories he seems curiously, adamantly oblivious to. Does he recognize the elegant, embittered Virginie Ducrot (Jeanne Moreau) as the daughter of the man he drove to suicide, now the mistress of another of his clerks after her own tumultuous sexual adventure at sea? Can he hear more than fantasized frustration in the reticence of his choice "catch out of the harbor of Macao," the ragged yet quietly independent Paul Velling (Norman Eshley), shipwrecked a silent, solitary year? It seemed not to register with him when Elishama alluded to a flight from Poland before reading from the amulet of the prophet Isaiah which is his one remnant of a trauma-drowned childhood. All these true stories lie within his reach and he disregards them, hellbent on masterminding the simulacrum of a meme, perhaps because in his greed for realism he prefers the roles to the actors, more likely because it has never occurred to him to listen. It is left to the other principals of this chamber fable to share themselves through their stories, their silences, their songs, their lies, a cat's cradle of relationships at once foreclosed and facilitated by the moves of the tale which from the start is unraveling beyond its boughten bounds. "No man in the world can take a story which people have invented and told and make it happen . . . One way or another, this story will be the end of Mr. Clay."

Of this folkloric quartet, I am predictably fascinated by Elishama, effectively the stage manager of this devil's comedy who explains his complicity in it with a sort of corporate stoicism: "I'm in Mr. Clay's employ. I cannot take on work anywhere but with him." With his Dickensian wire-rims and slicked-ink hair, he looks a familiarly servile figure in his coat as pen-black as his eyes, his hands so often folded as if with his hat in them, pale-faced as a horn-shell. The film flags his Jewishness long before he introduces himself by name, but any threat of caricature blows off with the wry courtesy with which he contradicts his master as to the nature of the story which he heard so many more times in the tempest-tossed travels that led him to Macao, and the longer the film spends with him thereafter, the more enigmatically he will emerge as a small man of substance, disillusioned, ironical, not without compassion, not even old for the concentrated fatalism of his scant room by the company's godown, "things not yet to be recounted which moved, like big deep-water fish, in the depths of his dark mind." Dispatched on a pimp's errand, he approaches it without excuse; the straw of his sober pork-pie hat is a concession to the climate, but it lends a dapper silent clown's dignity to the implacable matter-of-factness with which he waits for Virginie to realize that, like himself, she is infinitely purchasable by the mad rich men of the world. "I suppose that nobody could insult you even if they tried," she appraises him challengingly, meaning it to, like the slap in the face she gave him for delivering his master's proposition. With the same grave lightness as if taking it as a compliment, Elishama replies, "Why should I let them?" The executor of his employer's whims, he makes at the same time a strange, tacit confederate for his chosen heroine, so unfailingly respectful of her person rented for the three hundred guineas of her father's final debt—instructed to offer her a hundred, he in fact brought the correct amount—that when she begins to disrobe vehemently in front of him, the haste with which he gets the door slammed between them is the clumsiest we have seen this self-contained man, his faintest compression of reluctance as he reopens it at her call as good as another character's monologue. Paul he deals with as an impersonal factotum, but to Virginie he reveals his own stark, poignant history, hears out in turn her fears of reentering the house of her childhood, play-acting the seventeen-year-old innocent she has not been since the night of an earthquake in Japan. Her table is scattered with a time-stained deck of Tarot, but it is Elishama who foretells like the pattern in a shawl or a bottom line of figures the fatal conclusion of Mr. Clay's desire. He alone discerns that her real price is revenge. In our one direct insight into his interiority, we were assured by the intermittent narrator that he "might well have been a highly dangerous person except that ambition, desire in any form had been washed and bleached and burnt out of him," but he does not seem all that much more innocuous in its absence, a dispassion that should not be mistaken for weakness. From the right, unpredictable angles, his sharp-lined, heat-sweating face is more beautiful than the tall young sailor's in its aureole of angelically fair hair. "I thought you were a small rat out of Mr. Clay's storehouse," Virginie reconsiders him, standing before her still like a question she cannot avoid answering, "et toi—tu es le Juif Errant."

It is a stupidly gorgeous film to look at. If Welles had never worked in color before, if he spoke disparagingly of it as an element of film, he knew how to use it: cinnabar-red, malarially gold, boat's-eye blue or the bridal white of mourning, contrasted in such lapidary profusion by DP Willy Kurant that even open-air shots such as the veils of smoke against a dust-lichened wall that bloom across the initial conversation of Elishama and Virginie look as dreamily artificial as the room red-walled as sealing wax and side-splashed with the sheen of a five-guinea coin in which Mr. Clay makes his ritual pitch to Paul. The set decoration by André Piltant fabricates its port of Macao—in Dinesen it was Canton—out of landlocked Chinchón and a handful of its Spanish neighbors through the gloriously stagelike expedient of dressing their balconies and pillars and arcades with lanterns and banners, papering the walls like theatrical flats with signs in Chinese and the occasional Portuguese and stocking the market square with Chinese extras from chestnut-sellers to children at play. The harbor is suggested by nothing more than the ragged tilt of sails, just as the ellipses of the climactic sex act will be explicitized by the chirping of crickets in the equally imaginative sound design of Jean Nény. The score itself is selected from the melancholy solo piano of the Gymnopédies and Gnossiennes of Erik Satie. Edited chiefly by Yolande Maurette, the film moves at a pace it is not meant as a disservice to call entrancing, since it isn't a euphemism for glacial, especially when it strolls into handheld camera or breaks itself up in a quick-cut flourish of gossip or conspicuous consumption or the blowing out of candles lensed like calla lilies. Every now and then it can feel caught between its art forms: the greyed and jaundiced streaks of makeup used by Welles for the ailing Mr. Clay would convince even from the front row of a theater, but at the distance of a close-up are obviously paint, all the odder since Moreau's rouge and powder are judiciously in character. If it makes the film feel a little handmade, it's of a piece with the carefully spare props and costumes, an ivory-headed cane, a poppy-colored wrapper, the nacreous whorl of a turban shell, a print of the Empress Eugénie of France. It's too tactile to reduce to a hall of narrative mirrors. After all its talking, it ends with an unheard song.

Because Welles hardly ever met financing without conditions, The Immortal Story was a co-production of the Office de radiodiffusion-télévision française and can in fact be viewed in the alternate cut of Une histoire immortelle, shorter by eight minutes, deeper by a few lines, texturally altered by the revision of voices as well as language—Moreau handled her own ADR in French and English, but Welles was dubbed by Philippe Noiret while Coggio in the French-language version can actually be heard as himself; he has a drily musical, effective voice that runs against his deferential appearance and I prefer it to the lighter dubbing of Warren Mitchell, although the two versions are best viewed in any case as their own movies. I discovered the English-language one on TCM and it turned out to have an entire small collection on the Criterion Channel, but it can be watched on the Internet Archive from its fairy-tale-like opening to its ultimate, perhaps inevitable punch line. "Yes, a comedy. I'd forgotten the word." It would be nice if further little jewel-boxes of Dinesen had followed, but then I'm still bummed that Welles' film of Charles Williams' Dead Calm (1963) once again with Moreau fell apart in the final stages of production. At least, unlike Mr. Clay, he made this one story as real as any performance ever is. This ambition brought to you by my recounted backers at Patreon.
sovay: (Rotwang)
[personal profile] sovay
I started the afternoon by sitting under the shade of some kind of ornamental cherry while my godchild pruned and weeded the sprawling twenty-one-gourd salute of a vine that has taken over the lawn, but then the sun moved to reflect itself directly into my eyes and I relocated to the fire lane on the grounds that technically I was not parked in it.



Highlights of the later afternoon included napping for at least an hour, Japanese-style egg salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and [personal profile] fleurdelis41 notifying me of the identification of the Sanday Wreck and its four decades of service in the Royal Navy and the Arctic fishery. My godson spent most of the evening repainting and rebuilding a chair, partly by lantern-light out on the deck where he looked like some DIY Tarot draw of the Star.

Wildcat Bus (1940) is the definition of a programmer in that its premise of a small commercial bus line suffering a mysterious string of sabotage is reasonably disposable and in execution it is a thorough delight, starting with third-billed Paul Guilfoyle for once not playing a sleaze, a stooge, or any kind of crook at all, but the steadfast and sarcastic, textually acknowledged heterosexual life partner of the hero, the former oil heir played by Charles Lang who cracked up so badly in the wake of personal tragedy that the film opens with his spectacular eviction from the penthouse he couldn't afford on an installment plan, burrowed avoidantly into his bedclothes until spilled out onto the floor blinking at the receiver like the repossession of Bertie Wooster. Technically the chauffeur even when that 1937 Packard Twelve represents the totality of their possessions, Guilfoyle's Donovan is generally the person in the room with the brain cell, although Fay Wray gives him fair competition as the mechanically minded general manager of Federated Bus Lines who if she has a more feminine given name than "Ted" is never once addressed by it, while Leona Roberts' Ma Talbot does almost as good a bait-and-switch as Why Girls Leave Home (1945) as a criminal mastermind camouflaged as a little old charlady. What looks like a comic bit with a voluble Mexican turns into the lesson that if you want to drive a bus in southern California, you had better be fluent in Spanish. When a Chinese-American passenger sounds like a houseboy, he's doing it to razz Lang's Jerry Waters. There's some sweet if rear-projected footage of the Golden Gate International Exposition, a climactically left-field donnybrook, and the breezily Code-blowing demurral, "Why, no, Mr. Casey, I do my entertaining at the Athletic Club." It's not quite Only Angels Have Wings (1939), but when asked point-blank by Ted about the man he's pulled through more than one wipeout, "You really like him, don't you?" I'll take Donovan's thoughtfully frank, "Yeah, I guess I do." He has eloquently mordant eyebrows and an absentminded habit of tidying any office he's left to his own devices in. The whole thing came off the shop floor of RKO in a month and barely clears an hour in runtime and its attractions are unpretentious but satisfying, especially where character actors are perennially concerned. Guilfoyle may always have had a case of resting hangdog face, but come on, it worked for Walter Matthau. "I've taken an awful lot of guff from you for six years, you can take ten minutes from me."
sonia: Quilted wall-hanging (Default)
[personal profile] sonia
Common Moon Mistakes by MinutePhysics. I knew about the full moon rising opposite the sun, and the crescent moon rising near the sun, but there was a lot here i didn't know presented clearly with quick line drawings. 5 minute video, very worth it!

Jump the Paywalls and Help Others Over the Top by Alan Levine. I keep forgetting to try this, so let me know if it works!
right in your browser, where the address reads https://www.wired.com/2004/03/honey-i-shrunk-the-url/ stick right in front of it archive.ph/ making the full link http://archive.ph/https://www.wired.com/2004/03/honey-i-shrunk-the-url/


symbol.wtf. A page of useful Unicode symbols like superscript TM, paragraph, accented letters, musical symbols, etc. Labeled with names so you can search. It doesn't have the accented consonants I need for Balkan languages, but on a Mac I can just hold down the letter to get a list of accented versions to choose from.

Good source of masks

Oct. 4th, 2025 07:20 pm
sonia: Quilted wall-hanging (Default)
[personal profile] sonia
Bona Fide Masks has a 15% off code active on the site, and a good price on Powecom KN95 masks ($11.70 for 10 masks, not individually wrapped, black or white. $16 for 10 masks in exciting colors). I tried a few different kinds of masks as masklab.us was clearly fading out and settled on these, in black.

They also have Covid and Flu tests, although the prices didn't look as good to me on those.

via [personal profile] redbird, thank you! She posted it on Oct 1 and I thought I had missed the sale, but it was still active today. I don't know how much longer it will be active.

Fall, leaves, fall by Emily Brontë

Oct. 4th, 2025 03:33 pm
conuly: (Default)
[personal profile] conuly
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.


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Link

There's a Dunkin Donuts by my house

Oct. 2nd, 2025 09:32 am
conuly: (Default)
[personal profile] conuly
And every once in a while I end up there during the morning rush, which I try to avoid, and find somebody else bitching about how they "always" mess up their order and "always" take forever.

This is true, by the way - or, maybe not literally always true, but frequently true - but all the same, every time I hear the incessant whining I want to turn around and say "You knew what it was like when you placed your order!"

It's not like they're the only place to get coffee and a breakfast sandwich that's not your own home. There are three corner stores, every once of which will be happy, or at least willing, to make your standing order every day or week or however often you like. There's McDonald's right there, there's Wendy's right there, there's a Dunkin Donuts on the boat and another one just down Bay a bit, if you drive. Or, as I said, you can go home and make your own coffee for faster and cheaper, but you didn't do that, so you can't really complain that you're getting exactly what you obviously expected!

(It is my lack of whining, I think, that always gets me out of there a smidge faster. Should they be more efficient? Should they make fewer mistakes? Should I be able to order a muffin without fear that it'll be a bit raw in the middle? Yes to all three, and I've stopped ordering muffins! But they're close and I don't have to cook it myself, and I imagine that's why everybody else is there, so whatever.)

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Cow facts

Oct. 3rd, 2025 07:36 am
asakiyume: (turnip lantern)
[personal profile] asakiyume
A couple of weekends ago was the B'town fair. I didn't get to see the parade, but I did seize some time to go to the exhibit hall and the 4-H tent. The theme for the fair this year was "Shake, Cattle, and Roll" (lots of good entrants for the brochure cover contest...), and inside the hall was this poster with cow** facts:

Cow facts

(You can click through to see it bigger)

These are amazing! Cows only sleep three hours a day? They are great swimmers and can swim for miles? I had no idea ...

Though ... it gives me a wicked desire to make up other cow facts that aren't true at all. After all, if a kid's display is going to have me believe that cows can swim for miles and steer with their tails, what else might be true?

--I have perfect night vision
--I have a kind of moo I use only with my calves. It's called the lullaby moo
--If the circumstances are right, I can live to be 80–90 years old

I mean, why not? Any fake cow facts you'd care to add?

**Isn't it weird that in English, we don't have a common, nongendered, singular word to use for this type of animal? We have "cattle," which can be either sex, but that's plural. But all our other words are gendered: "Cow" does not include bulls or steers (castrated bulls), which as terms in turn exclude cows. And "heifer" is a young cow, "typically one who hasn't had a calf."

Cars and trips and maps we ripped

Oct. 2nd, 2025 09:41 pm
sovay: (Sovay: David Owen)
[personal profile] sovay
So that was definitely the Yom Kippur that was, but I have eaten a phenomenal quantity of unagi and seaweed salad as well as a sweet rice donut with red bean paste inside and part of [personal profile] selkie's cream bread and am inordinately entertained by this TikTok from the Fenimore Art Museum which N. shared with me. [personal profile] spatch lit last night's yahrzeit candle for remembrance of the dead. The rest of us are still here at the start on the other side. G'mar tov. My godchild gave my laptop existential angst.

conuly: (Default)
[personal profile] conuly
Honestly, my worst thoughts about what was going to happen in that meeting of the generals were both so much more terrible and so much less terrible than what actually went on.

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Books read, late September

Oct. 2nd, 2025 05:13 pm
mrissa: (Default)
[personal profile] mrissa
 

Kobby Ben Ben, No One Dies Yet. This is one of the most overtly gay books I have ever read. Gosh is there plot-essential homosexuality going on here. It's largely about the relationships between Ghanaians and the Americans who are visiting for Ghana's Year of Return, and we don't get many books like this in the US and I'm glad that's shifting, but also it means that some books will be quite a lot of "interesting in ways for which I am not the target audience."

Sylvie Cathrall, A Letter from the Lonesome Shore. Second and so far as I know last in its series. Not as strong as the first one. When I say that I like books with established pairings and not just watching people form new relationships all the time, this is not what I mean. It felt to me like the central couple's excitement and nervousness in dealing with each other was the main source of tension/anticipation in the first book in retrospect, because here it was a lot of cooing at/about each other in ways that...if these people were my real life friends, I would be happy for them but I would also want to get back to the subject at hand. Same with this. Ah well, still worth reading and I'll keep an eye out for what she does next.

Zen Cho, Spirits Abroad. Reread. Oh gosh I love this collection. It's one of my favorites, and with each story I reread, I thought, "oh, this one! I love this one!" Yay. Yay.

Paul Cornell and Rachael Smith, Who Killed Nessie?. I like cryptics, and I like Paul Cornell's work, but I probably wouldn't have sought this graphic novel out on my own. But since someone else brought it into the house I was perfectly happy to read it; it was fun.

Ben Davis, Art in the After-Culture: Capitalist Crisis and Cultural Strategy. Kindle. Davis uses the art movements of 20th century crisis eras to discuss different responses possible and how well they work. Interesting stuff, useful for the current moment.

Margaret Frazer, Strange Gods, Strange Men. Kindle. Another of her short pieces, a little farther afield but not particularly substantive. I expected this; I've already read the substantive ones.

Carolyn Ives Gilman, Arkfall. Kindle. This was an airplane double-feature with the Cathrall above; I had no idea that the theme of that flight was going to be "undersea science fiction and getting along with our neighbors," but it was and that was just fine with me. The setting was particularly vivid here.

Matthew Goodwin, Latinx Rising: An Anthology of Latinx Science Fiction and Fantasy. Read for book club. Most of the stories I liked were by authors I already liked, and the amount of sexism was startling considering how old a book it isn't. Not a favorite, I'm afraid, despite having some favorite authors in it.

Tove Jansson, Comet in Moominland and Finn Family Moomintroll. Rereads. For a mysterious upcoming project. Is it ever a bad choice to revisit Moomins: of course it is not. Unless you have not visited them in the first place, in which case what joy you have ahead.

Selma Lagerlöf, The Wonderful Adventures of Nils. Reread. So mysterious. The least of the rereads of this fortnight for me, because its didacticism suits me less well than the other books (and in fact less well than this author's adult works; I'm glad I went on to read them, because they're a different beast). On the other hand: idyllic romantic Swedish landscape writing, am I the target audience for that, sure, absolutely.

Suzanne Levine, Unfaithful: A Translator's Memoir. This is an example of a person who lived an interesting life but did not necessarily write an interesting memoir about it. I would have loved more about her translation work, more nitty gritty, what it was like to work with the notable authors she worked with. Instead it was a not particularly deep, not particularly vivid memoir without most of what made the subject of the memoir interesting to me. I suppose we're allowed to be interesting to ourselves in different ways than the obvious ones.

Astrid Lindgren, Pippi Longstocking, Pippi Goes on Board, and Pippi in the South Seas. Rereads. What could this mysterious project pertain to, it is a mystery that is very mysterious. Anyway it had been quite some time since I reread Pippi, and it was interesting which places I had the text so memorized that I could think to myself, "ah, they translated that differently than in the edition I had, they said barley soup in mine." I was actually surprised, given the element of making Ephraim Longstocking "king" of "South Sea Island" that there wasn't more horrifying racism than there was. Granted Pippi lies about people from other countries all the time. But she does lie; it's presented as lies, and it's generally not the shape of lie that reinforces ethnic stereotypes. So okay then, glad to find fewer razor blades than I feared in that lot of Halloween candy.

Linda Pastan, Almost an Elegy: New & Later Selected Poems. These are very straightforward, in places headlong, poems, and they deal with late-life issues for oneself and loved ones, but generally with a fairly light hand. I wanted to connect more than I did, but I'm not sorry to have read them.

Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front. Kindle. And speaking of not sorry to have read: oh gosh. Well, I see why this was shocking at the time and redefined a whole direction of literature. It was a harrowing reading experience. Glad I read it, glad I'm done reading it.

Delia Sherman and Ellen Kushner, The Fall of the Kings. Reread. One of my very favorites. I reread this for my panel on monarchy and non-monarchical forms of government in fantasy, and it was so good about that, and I loved the shape of ending, I loved how it finally completed a social arc that began before Swordspoint, gosh I love this book.

Rebecca Solnit and Susan Schwartzenberg, Hollow City: The Siege of San Francisco and the Crisis of American Urbanism. This is very short and full of photos. I think it's mainly for Solnit completists and people with a strong interest in turn of the millennium San Francisco. I lived in the Bay Area at the time and not before or after, so in some ways my snapshot was Solnit's turning point, which is a very weird place to stand.

Anthony Trollope, The Prime Minister. Kindle. My least favorite Trollope that I've actually finished. The politics stuff is fun and interesting and I like the arc of it over the novel. The other plot, though, oh HELL NO. The Antisemitism! The general, quite intense, narratively supported xenophobia! The convenience of both an infant death and a suicide! I cannot recommend this, and I don't.

Katy Watson, A Deadly Night at the Theatre. When I was reading this, I said to some friends that I felt I'd wished on the monkey's paw for more books that are centered on friendship, only to get this one where the friends can have just as many stupid misunderstandings based on poor communication as any couple in a romance. Sigh. The mystery plot was fine, but I don't actually read mysteries for the mystery plot, so...I hope she figures out other shapes of friend plot to do.

Amy Wilson, Owl and the Lost Boy. Second in its series, and the titular characters are fighting off what seems like an endless summer--in magical form. I like it when people recognize that summer is not infinitely good, and that endless hot weather is in fact quite terrifying in 2025. Also it was a beautiful MG with friend plots that I liked much better than the adult mystery above.

Ovidia Yu, The Rose Apple Tree Mystery. Well, they can't all be bangers. I've really enjoyed this series of murder mysteries set in mid-twentieth century Singapore, and I intend to continue reading it, but the characterization in this was very flat, and the twist was so obvious that I was writhing and yelling at the book for at least half its page count, someone just figure out the thing already.

osprey_archer: (Default)
[personal profile] osprey_archer
I do intend to write about The Problem of Tomboys eventually, but the post is languishing as I struggle to come to terms with the massive amount of material. So in the meantime, I’m writing the companion post about Boys Who Don’t Want to Do Classic Boy Things, a topic to which far fewer Newbery books are devoted, presumably because the general cultural attitude is Who Wouldn’t Want to Do Classic Boy Things? Boy Things Are the Best Things To Do.

In fact, I only found two books that really fit the bill, and in both cases the Boy Thing that our Boy does not want to Do is killing. In Mari Sandoz’s The Horsecatcher (1958), our hero Elk has no interest in becoming a warrior. He wants to become a horsecatcher, which is still valuable and manly work but something you’re supposed to do alongside warrioring, rather than instead of.

Although circumstances conspire to force Elk to kill a raider, proving that he can kill and thus raising his status in the community, he remains true to his own path, traveling far and wide to meet other horsecatchers and learn their secrets. At one point he meets a pair of sisters who are famous for their horse-training skills, who plan when they marry to marry the same man: “We marry together.”

Because it’s 1958 the book of course does not SAY that in a few years time, the sisters marry Elk. But I like to think that sometime after the book ends, the three of them are happily married and surrounded by horses.

The second book is Jerry Spinelli’s Wringer (1998). Our hero Palmer lives in a town that is famous for putting on a pigeon shoot every year. Boys in town are expected to wring the necks of wounded pigeons to put them out of their suffering. Palmer doesn’t want to become a wringer, but also doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t want to become a wringer because he knows the other boys will think he’s a sissy.

This book was absolutely everywhere when I was a kid, and I never read it because the cover is so creepy (look at it!) and the premise seemed both repulsive and borderline incomprehensible. Why are the boys expected to murder pigeons? Why can’t Palmer just SAY he doesn’t want to murder pigeons? “If you don’t want to murder pigeons, then just say you don’t want to murder pigeons!” I would have shouted at Palmer. “NO NORMAL PERSON WANTS TO MURDER PIGEONS.”

Reading it as an adult, I did grasp that the point was the crushing difficulty of bucking gendered social expectations. But uuuuhhh also I did still feel a little “Palmer stop being so lily-livered and just say you don’t want to murder pigeons.” Sorry Palmer. I know this was very unsympathetic of me.

You may have noticed that neither of these boys want to do girl things. They simply wish to be excused from committing indiscriminate slaughter and do other, slightly less manly boy things. To the best of my recollection (which is of course imperfect), there aren’t any Newbery books focused on Boys Who Want to Do Girl Things. Maybe 2026 will be the year.

wednesday books

Oct. 1st, 2025 10:01 pm
landofnowhere: (Default)
[personal profile] landofnowhere
Chronicles of Avonlea, L. M. Montgomery. I've read the Anne series multiple times, but this was my first time with these short stories (which are only very loosely connected to Anne and her books). I was intrigued by [personal profile] ladyherenya's comment that they were mostly about spinsters, especially as I'm still thinking of writing a spinster story myself with this Therese Gauss project. The stories were charming, though by the end it was a bit too much of traditional gender roles and romantic happily ever afters for me. Interesting to note that the book was published a year after Montgomery herself married, unromantically and unhappily, at the age of 37.

Puss in Boots, Ludwig Tieck, translated by Wikisource. Readaloud. I booklogged this fourth-wall-breaking satirical comedy when I first read it, but now I can report that it works as well as a readaloud as I'd hoped! (And I suspect it may even work better as a readaloud than dealing with the difficulties of actually staging it.) It is very clever and I am excessively fond of it. (And probably would be even more so if I got more of the cultural references.)

Silver and Lead, Seanan McGuire. Book 19 of October Daye; don't start here. At this point I'm following along with the story for the ride, but not going back to reread earlier books (though A is following along more closely and able to fill me in with hints and theories). Toby is still not particularly skilled at detective work, but as usual solves things by heroically charging in and assuming that everything will work out, which it does, though with the potential to cause more trouble in later books.

monthly word count - september

Oct. 1st, 2025 09:27 pm
askerian: Serious Karkat in a red long-sleeved shirt (Default)
[personal profile] askerian
TOTAL: 1 077 words.
jeeeeeeeze this is my worst month in years. not surprised.

Posted: nein.

In progress:
-suburban ot4 (1 019 words.)
-svsss cosplay fic (58... words...)

and i haven't posted any ot4 either cause i'm slowly but surely catching up so i need to slow the heck down. last year when i started posting one chapter a month or thereabouts i was writing chpt 20 and now i'm on... chapter 22. not sustenable.

teaser... one teaser..... )

Wednesday reading

Oct. 1st, 2025 01:47 pm
asakiyume: (Em reading)
[personal profile] asakiyume
Thanks to [personal profile] osprey_archer's Newbery project, I got out The Flying Winged Girl of Knossos (thanks for catching that [personal profile] light_of_summer!) originally published in 1933 and reissued in 2017 by Betsy Bird, who's served on the Newbery Committee, reviewed books for Kirkus, blogs about children's literature, and has in fact written her own middle grade novel (Long Road to the Circus --I haven't read it).

It's easy to see why Betsy Bird and [personal profile] osprey_archer loved this story: it's great fun and excellently told. I loved it too. The author (Allena Best, writing under the pseudonym Erick Berry) was entranced with ancient Minoan culture, and that love shines through on every page. And in Inas, the daughter of Daidalos (she's genderswapped Icarus for Inas), she's got a great heroine. Who dives skillfully for sponges? Inas does! Who is the best bull vaulter? Inas is! Whose hang glider experiment leads to realization that flying into the wind works better than flying with it? Again, Inas!

The authorial voice is definitely not contemporary, but it's lively and fresh. Every now and then there's something about people's races or features that's winceworthy, but mainly the 1930s-ness of it wasn't intrusive in a negative way.

Tangentially, I loved this description of archaeologists, from the author's introduction: "Then in our own time came the archaeologists, those magicians who build authentic history out of lowly potsherds." Magician archaeologists.

I also read a hilarious short story about the foiling of a racist: "Supply and Demand," by [personal profile] f0rrest. Why yes, his user name is my IRL last name, but we are not related in any way. We stumbled upon each other quite by chance.

In "Supply and Demand" a pushy racist is hoisted by his own petard, his petard in this case being his successful participation in capitalism: he ends up supporting and promoting what he despises. I loved the hapless narrator (a young employee at a big-box home goods store) and the digs at retail training scripts. I will also offer a content warning, though, because the racist dude says alllllll the negative things you can think to say about "those people," as he calls them. There are no slurs, and he never specifies exactly who comprises "those people," but you may not feel like imbibing his nonsense, even if it's to see him taken down. His vituperations are pretty hilarious though, e.g, his rant about the historical Santa Claus (and later, his praise of Santa Claus as a hard worker up there at the North Pole).

Anyway, if you want to see a racist taken down in an unusual way, give it a try. It's about 7,000 words.

Out of Air, by Rachel Reiss

Oct. 1st, 2025 11:14 pm
rachelmanija: (Books: old)
[personal profile] rachelmanija


Just in terms of the premise, this is The Secret History meets Shadow Divers: a poor girl scuba diver falls in with a group of rich kid scuba divers, and they end up bound together by a shared deadly secret. There's other works it also reminded of, again just in terms of the premise, which are more spoilery: Read more... )

In the present timeline, Phoebe aka "Phibs," a poor aspiring underwater photographer, discovers a hidden underwater cave while on a diving trip with her four rich best friends, Gabriel (hot boy she likes), Will (Gabriel's fraternal twin, a joker), Lani (lost three fingers in past timeline, now afraid to dive), and Isabel (Lani's girlfriend). That is all the characterization Phibs's friends get, though Phibs herself gets a little bit more, or at least more backstory: she's the sole caretaker of her grandmother with dementia, and the women in her family have a possibly uncanny knack for finding things.

In the past timeline, Phibs finds five gold coins via the family knack, and something happens that led to Lani losing fingers and someone dying. In the present, Phibs finds a beautiful underwater cave with an air pocket. She and Gabriel rest and kiss in the air pocket... and then learn that there's a legend saying bad things happen to people who breathe the air in the cave. It seems to be true, as deeply creepy things begin happening to their bodies...

The plot and premise are great, and the diving and body horror/transformation scenes are really well-done. Reiss is a professional scuba diver, and you can tell. But the pacing feels a bit abrupt and choppy, which is not helped by the dual timelines cutting between the past and present, so that events that actually are set up still sometimes feel like they come out of the blue. I had a hard time figuring out the geography of anywhere that wasn't underwater, which is not a common complaint I have about books - for instance, I wasn't sure for most of the book whether the island base in the present storyline was a tiny island with only one house on it, or a large one with a town. And of course there's the mostly-nonexistent characterization, which is really the biggest problem with the book. If this had actual characters rather than "hot boy" and "Lani's girlfriend," it would have been so good.

I didn't mind that nothing is explained about what's actually up with the cave and Phibs's family knack, but in case you would mind: nothing is explained. I did enjoy reading the book but more attention to character and taking things slower could have made it excellent rather than just an enjoyable read with some standout elements.

Wednesday Reading Meme

Oct. 1st, 2025 07:57 am
osprey_archer: (books)
[personal profile] osprey_archer
What I’ve Just Finished Reading

Sorche Nic Leodhas’s Heather and Broom, which is accidentally a reread, because I bafflingly forgot to record it the first time I read it. I suspected this from the first story and was sure after the second, which is about a woman who bakes marvelous cakes who gets kidnapped by the fairies. Bake us a cake, they said! But of course, the woman said craftily. I’ll just need my big mixing bowl… and my spoon… and all my ingredients… and I can’t stir at the right rate without the thump of my dog’s tail to guide me, and can’t focus without my baby here so I can see he’s all right (the baby begins to cry incessantly), and ooooh did you remember to get me an oven??

At which point the exhausted fairies send her home, and the baker (as kind-hearted as she is clever) promises to leave them a cake once a week on the mound.

So you can see why I decided to keep on and reread all the stories over again. That one’s my favorite, but they’re all a good time.

I also finished Jostein Gaarder’s The Solitaire Mystery (translated by Sarah Jane Hails), which I’ve been meaning to read for years, and… maybe I should have read it years ago, when I read Sophie’s World and The Christmas Mystery. Reading it now, I found the philosophizing repetitive (isn’t it amazing that the world exists at all! Well, maybe it was the first ten times you said it), and although the way the whole story fits together has a charming puzzle-box neatness, at the same time spoilers )

What I’m Reading Now

I’ve started A Cavalcade of Sea Legends, because I was under the impression that it was a story collection by Sorche Nic Leodhas, but in fact it is an anthology that showed up in my Sorche Nic Leodhas search because it has one (1) story by her. Reading it anyway because who doesn’t like a good sea legend! Started off with a bang with a story about a girl who gives up her soul to become a mermaid to join her drowned lover… only in giving up her soul, she brought him back to life, and now he lives on land and she in the sea and ne’er the twain shall meet.

What I Plan to Read Next

After the two aforementioned failed attempts, I will at last achieve my Sorche Nic Leodhas book with Sea-Spell and Moor-Magic.

And the clock ticks faster every year

Sep. 30th, 2025 09:40 pm
sovay: (Viktor & Mordecai)
[personal profile] sovay
I made landfall chez [personal profile] selkie around three o'clock in the afternoon and my godchild almost instantly wanted to show me the reorganization of his bedroom and take me for a walk as he biked with his familiar in his backpack and for the first time reciprocate in our time-honored ritual of my weightlifting him which I have been doing since he was a lankily small child and it took no effort at all.

Well, no one except you and me. )

My early birthday present from Selkie is a rare copy of Leib Spizman's Women in the Ghettos (פרויען אין די געטאס ,1946) in timeworn but otherwise astonishingly sound condition plus a Gol/Them sticker which I am using as a bookmark. I have been fed chopped liver and lime-yuzu soda and a variety of proteinaceous snacks. I even managed to doze a little on the train once my seatmate disembarked at New York and left me room to stretch my legs out in. I could have done without lightly hitting my head on a chair likely out of sheer exhaustion, but I plan to get as much sleep out of the windowless pit as I can. As a last grace note of the night, I did not expect to find my flash fiction "Teinds" (2007) listed among Maria Haskins' "A Short Fiction Treasures Special: 2 x 25 Gems from Strange Horizons' Archives." May all of it be some kind of template for the year to come.

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