anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(bo...moreanyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone’s any was all to her
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake up and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain(less)
SETI picks up an alien signal. You get to find out all the details of what the message looks like, including how they decode it. And there's some sex!...moreSETI picks up an alien signal. You get to find out all the details of what the message looks like, including how they decode it. And there's some sex! What's not to like? (less)
He's rather more than two and a half meters tall. After trying various other things, he decides to join the circus. They're glad to have him. On his s...moreHe's rather more than two and a half meters tall. After trying various other things, he decides to join the circus. They're glad to have him. On his second day there, he's approached by a sexy woman.
"I'm a sword-swallower," she says significantly.
"Huh?" he replies.
She looks at him disbelievingly. "You mean you don't know about giants and sword-swallowers?" (less)
[Swirling patterns. Weird, vaguely familiar, futuristic music. Is it the Doctor Who theme tune? Slowly the camera pulls back to show the title
Celebri...more[Swirling patterns. Weird, vaguely familiar, futuristic music. Is it the Doctor Who theme tune? Slowly the camera pulls back to show the title
Celebrity Death Match Special: Blackadder versus The Culture
and we realize it's an unusual setting of the Blackadder song.
Dissolve to ROWAN ATKINSON and HUGH LAURIE, who looks rather unhappy]
ATKINSON: Is everything alright, sir?
LAURIE: Oh yes, rather, absolutely spiffing, top hole, couldn't be better. Except for one little thing.
ATKINSON: And that is?
LAURIE: Well, I made a rather foolish bet with a chap named Iain Banks. I'm afraid I lost, so I need to write him a full-length science-fiction novel by tomorrow. Otherwise I'm going to be dropped in a block of concrete and buried for the next twenty million years.
ATKINSON: Dear me, how very unfortunate. Please accept my commis--
LAURIE: So you think you might be able to take care of it?
ATKINSON: To be honest, there are certain technical--
LAURIE: Excellent, excellent, I knew I could count on you. Well, I'm just off to dinner at my club. I'll drop by and collect it later on.
[Exit LAURIE. Enter TONY ROBINSON as BALDRICK]
ROBINSON: I couldn't 'elp overhearing that.
ATKINSON: Baldrick, what are we going to do?
ROBINSON: I 'ave a cunning plan.
ATKINSON: I might have guessed.
ROBINSON: No, really sir, it's very cunning. I took this collection of old novels by Mr Banks, and I fed them into this computer, and I told it to cut them up and make us a new one.
ATKINSON: Baldrick, don't be ridiculous. You can't just create a novel by cutting and pasting old ones. You need characters--
ROBINSON: I know sir. I've put in plenty of characters. Me and 'is 'Ighness to start with.
ATKINSON: Baldrick, do you and His Imbecility look like characters from a science-fiction novel?
ROBINSON: Well sir, we could come from a backward planet.
ATKINSON: Anyway, two characters aren't enough.
ROBINSON: I agree sir. I also added Mr Shakespeare's 'Amlet.
ATKINSON: Hamlet??
ROBINSON: And Miss Lara Croft.
ATKINSON: Lara Croft???
ROBINSON: From the video game sir. Very fetching young lady. Well-proportioned.
ATKINSON: Are there aliens?
ROBINSON: Yes sir. More aliens than you could shake a stick at. I've thought of everything. 'Ere, 'ave a look.
[He hands over a large pile of paper. ATKINSON flicks through it]
ATKINSON: Hm. Well, it's nice and thick.
ROBINSON: Thank you sir. 593 pages.
ATKINSON: We might just get away with this.
ROBINSON: I was hoping so sir.
ATKINSON: You did put in an ending?
[Pause]
ROBINSON: Ah, well, sort of sir. In a manner of speaking.
[ATKINSON turns to the end and looks up, appalled]
ATKINSON: You have scrawled in pencil, "Then they killed the bad alien and Baldrick lived happily ever after."
ROBINSON: I'm sorry sir. The printer broke down.
[ATKINSON is just about to start hitting him when LAURIE enters and sees the manuscript]
LAURIE: Already finished? Marvellous, Blackadder, marvellous! I must say, I just don't know what I'd do without you.
Celebrity Death Match Special: In Search of Lost Time versus Harry Potter
The francophone world was stunned by today's release of papers, sealed by Pro...moreCelebrity Death Match Special: In Search of Lost Time versus Harry Potter
The francophone world was stunned by today's release of papers, sealed by Proust for 100 years after publication of the initial volume of his famous series, which finally reveal his original draft manuscripts. In the rest of this review, you can find out what Proust's books looked like before his well-meaning but unworldly editor decided that French literateurs would prefer something slightly different.
Traumatised by years of living in the cupboard under the stairs and never getting a goodnight kiss from Aunt Petunia, Marcel can't remember a thing about his childhood. One day, he eats a magic cookie and it all comes back to him.
2. Marcel Proust and the Change of Plan
Marcel is briefly involved with Hermione, but decides, after a heavy petting session goes wrong, that it's not such a good idea after all. He spends a nice summer holiday at the seaside where he meets Ginny or possibly someone else.
3. Marcel Proust and the Dodgy Duchess
Rita Skeeter has turned up at Hogwarts pretending to be a member of the French nobility. A star-struck Marcel falls for it and starts stalking her everywhere. In the end, he sees through her ruse and realises that she's just a hack journalist.
4. Marcel Proust and the Cottaging Baron
Marcel is astonished to discover Lucius Malfoy and Hagrid [The rest of this paragraph has been withdrawn following legal advice]
5. Marcel Proust and the Abusive Relationship
Marcel and Ginny are not getting on very well. Marcel keeps cross-examining her about what she's doing when she claims to be attending meetings of Dumbledore's Army and accuses her of having a lesbian affair with Cho Chang. When Ginny denies it, he rants at her in page-long uppercase sentences.
6. Marcel Proust and the Deceased Girlfriend
Ginny is killed in a freak broomstick accident when she falls off her Nimbus 3000. Marcel is very sad for a while, but then returns to interrogating Cho about what was really going on.
7. Marcel Proust and the Commercial Success
Although Voldemort's forces are poised to strike, Marcel's thoughts are elsewhere. He's always wanted to be a bestselling novelist but can't think how to get started. As the Death Eaters storm Hogwarts, he suddenly understands that he just needs to write down all the things that have happened to him, changing names and a few details, and he will sell a zillion copies plus movie rights. (hide spoiler)](less)
In a status update earlier today, Booknut 101 suggested that Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series could be summed up by the question "How can I get a vam...more In a status update earlier today, Booknut 101 suggested that Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series could be summed up by the question "How can I get a vampire to fuck me?" It's a good line, but, as I said, I disagree. Really, I think that Meyer is asking a more important question, which I would paraphrase roughly as: "How can I best sell my body and soul to become a member of the elite few who are really in charge?" She takes it for granted that most people would like to do this, given the chance.
The exchange reminded me of Zelazny's 1965 story The Graveyard Heart, which features in this collection. It's set in a near-future world where cryogenic technology has been perfected to the point where people can easily be frozen and revived at will. The most exclusive social group in the world is the Party Set. Members stay frozen most of the time and only come alive one or two days a year, when they attend fabulous parties. It is extremely difficult to become a member of Party Set. Not only do you have to be very rich, you must also be approved by the Set's autocratic and willful leader, the Doyenne.
Alvin, a young engineer, meets the beautiful Leota and instantly falls in love with her. There are practical problems: she is both a member of Party Set and also the girlfriend of another member, a famous poet. (view spoiler)[Nothing deterred, Alvin sets out to woo her. He succeeds in making enough money to pass the financial threshold, and with some difficulty is approved by the Doyenne. Eventually he wins Leota's affection; it helps that his rival is moody and unstable, and doesn't treat her very well.
Alvin and Leota are married at the most talked-about wedding of the year. She is pregnant with his child. He couldn't be happier; he has achieved everything he ever dreamed of. After the festivities are over, they retire to the cryogenic facility to sleep for the next year. Leota is scheduled to be frozen first, while Alvin has to wait an hour. He is sitting, smoking a cigarette and looking at his watch, when he hears a dull banging sound.
After a couple of minutes, he gets up to investigate. He realizes to his horror that it's coming from his new wife's room. He enters. She is in the cryogenic coffin, hard as stone. Standing, looking at her, is the spurned poet. He has driven a stake through her heart. (hide spoiler)] (less)
This is perhaps my favorite SF anthology of all time: pretty much solid gold. Despite the fact that I last saw a copy 40 years ago, I look at the tabl...moreThis is perhaps my favorite SF anthology of all time: pretty much solid gold. Despite the fact that I last saw a copy 40 years ago, I look at the table of contents and immediately recall every story in considerable detail. Anne McCaffrey contributes her first episode of Dragonriders; she spent most of her life writing sequels. Michael Moorcock's Behold the Man is a brilliantly provocative time-travel piece where the guy goes back to the first century A.D. to meet Jesus, and finds he has to become Him. Fritz Leiber's Gonna Roll the Bones is the best dicing-with-the-Devil story ever written. J.G. Ballard's Cloud-Sculptors of Coral D and Samuel R. Delaney's Aye, and Gomorrah are elegantly incomprehensible. Well, the New Wave was just getting started.
But my favorite was Harlan Ellison's Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes. Maggie, a beautiful, imperious call-girl with a weak heart, is in Vegas. She's just had a falling-out with her client, a minor Mob figure. He wanted her to do something that even she wasn't prepared to offer. (What was it? I'm still wondering).
"You pig, Nuncio!" she spits, and then she takes all his money as he watches helplessly (he is in love with her, there is nothing he can do). She goes down to the casino and buys a basket of silver dollars. Then she stands in front of the old-fashion silver dollar slot machine, feeding in the coins and pulling the handle and hating Nuncio and herself and her life and the whole world. Suddenly, her heart gives out, and she collapses dead on the floor. But her hatred is so strong that her lovely, evil spirit finds its way into the machine.
A few weeks later, a loser named Kostner is standing in front of the same machine. He thinks he's just blown everything he had at the blackjack table. Now, to his surprise, he puts his hand in his pocket and finds a silver dollar. He puts it in the slot and pulls the handle.
I won't tell you what happens next, except to say that Ellison does not waste his terrific intro. If you like classic SF, you should check out this book. (less)
He put an exploratory hand on her thigh, but she removed it and turned to face him. I want to know what you think of the book, she said.
Ah, he replie...moreHe put an exploratory hand on her thigh, but she removed it and turned to face him. I want to know what you think of the book, she said.
Ah, he replied, conscious that he might be entering dangerous territory, it's well-written. But I found it a bit dull in places.
C'est bien écrit mais il y a des longueurs. Ou bien, il y a des longueurs, mais c'est bien écrit.
I'm sorry? he said.
Something from Simone de Beauvoir. It doesn't matter.
And why are Louis and Murphy so taken with Nora? You never find out what she's like. There's the reference to Jules and Jim at the end, but it seemed a bit artificial. She didn't really remind me of Kathe.
She's young and attractive. They're middle-aged men. Maybe they aren't so interested in knowing what she's like.
And the ending was more or less what I'd expected. Okay, some nice turns of phrase on the way, but there was no surprise.
Like sex then? she asked.
In what way? he replied, confused.
You know what's going to happen at the end, she said, getting out of bed and beginning to scoop up her clothes from the floor. Though there can be some nice bits on the way.
That doesn't seem a reasonable comparison, he said. Where are you going?
To buy cigarettes, she said, as she checked her hair in the mirror.
But you don't smoke, he said.
It's what people say, isn't it? she replied impatiently. You always were so slow.
Before he had adjusted to the new situation, the door was closing. He listened automatically, trying to hear her footsteps moving away, but the thick carpet in the corridor meant there was no sound. (less)
Although superficially similar in form, most scholars do not consider that the Abridged Pericles belongs to the Madelinian Canon; the most plau...morePreface
Although superficially similar in form, most scholars do not consider that the Abridged Pericles belongs to the Madelinian Canon; the most plausible theory holds that it was partly or wholly composed by an imitator, possibly a Manfred Reiner (the spelling is uncertain), who lived in Geneva around 2013.
Pericles, Prince of Tyre (abridged version)
ANTIOCHUS: Here's a riddle: if you can't guess, I'm going to kill you. What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three legs in the evening, and sleeps with his daughter?
PERICLES: Humbert Humbert?
ANTIOCHUS: Close enough. But I'm going to kill you anyway.
PERICLES: Hey, no fair!
[Dumb show. Pericles flees Antioch, is shipwrecked, falls in love with Thaisa, marries her, incorrectly believes she has died in childbirth, dumps her body in the sea, places his newborn daughter in the care of an idiot and his homicidal consort, etc. Distressed by this unfortunate series of events, he decides to stop visiting his hairdresser]
PERICLES: [much longer hair] Her voice was ever soft and low An excellent thing in woman.
ATTENDANT: His wits are wandering, he thinks he's Lear.
PERICLES: And my poor fool is hanged.
ATTENDANT: He means his wife.
[Enter MARINA and THAISA]
MARINA: Hello Daddy!
PERICLES: Thou livest!
THAISA: There was a mixup. They hanged a different fool.
PERICLES: Yay! Group hug!
CHORUS: Don't you wish you could write like William Shakespeare and his unknown collaborator?
[Night. Interior. The REVIEWER, an elderly man, is seated alone in front of his laptop; a large screen above the stage shows that he is currently look...more[Night. Interior. The REVIEWER, an elderly man, is seated alone in front of his laptop; a large screen above the stage shows that he is currently looking at the Goodreads page for "Krapp's Last Tape". Sounds of thunder, lightning, torrential rain from outside. The REVIEWER shakes his head, reaches into a drawer, changes his mind, reaches in again, takes out a banana, eats it. He continues to look at the same page. He takes out another banana and eats that too.]
REVIEWER: I've reviewed it eighteen times.
[He clicks his way to one of his reviews, which is clearly very long. As scrolls up and down, we see fragments of text:
A harsher Proust, in a major key and without the redemptive quality of art... reductio ad absurdum of the theatre of the absurd... distillation... semantics...
He jumps up and paces around the room.]
REVIEWER: Jesus Christ, what a fucking wanker. Did I really write that?
[He shakes his head]
REVIEWER: Wanker. Let's look at one of the autobiographical ones.
[He clicks to a second review:
I sat, looking at the stage, but more at my companion, who was leaning comfortably against me, sound asleep. I wondered if I should adjust her dress, which was showing a generous amount of cleavage; but in the end, I only smoothed her hair. She turned towards me and smiled, half pleased, half irritated. I couldn't tell if she was was still asleep.
The REVIEWER suddenly screams twice, then smiles at the audience.]
REVIEWER: Here's my first one.
[He clicks to another review. The whole text consists of the single line:
I DONT GET IT. BORING.
He shrugs.]
REVIEWER: Well, at least that's honest.
[He clicks back to the second review and scrolls down:
... I wondered if I should adjust her dress, which was showing a generous amount of cleavage; but in the end, I only smoothed her hair...
He starts shaking his head again.]
REVIEWER: I shouldn't have done that. She never liked me touching her hair.
[He starts to open another review, then suddenly closes the laptop.]
REVIEWER: Enough. I'm glad I don't have to do any more of those.
In his review of Lysistrata, Bird Brian argues that soldiers in WW II were willing to give up sex for several years in order to rid the world of the s...moreIn his review of Lysistrata, Bird Brian argues that soldiers in WW II were willing to give up sex for several years in order to rid the world of the scourge of Fascism. But is this true? Read another Brian's novel for a dissenting voice...(less)
First, an apology for only giving it three stars. I am well aware that this is a brilliant piece of poetry, but my Latin is very poor, and I rapidly a...moreFirst, an apology for only giving it three stars. I am well aware that this is a brilliant piece of poetry, but my Latin is very poor, and I rapidly abandoned my initial plan of reading it in the original with the English translation alongside. In a way, though, I'm following Lucretius's advice: he explicitly says at one point that it's wrong to allow yourself to be swayed by beautiful words, and you should judge an idea on its merits. Reading him in my barbarian's tongue is certainly one way to do that.
I have often debated the question of whether it is right to call atheism a religion, and with Lucretius it seems natural to argue that it is. The poem reminded me rather strongly of Dante - when I got to the bibliography, I was interested to see that Santayana had written a book comparing Lucretius, Dante and Goethe - but while Dante loves the One, Lucretius goes a step further and praises the Zero. His noble goal is to convince you that divine intervention is never required in order to explain what happens in the world, and that, if we just stop and and think carefully enough, we can liberate ourselves from irrational terror of the supernatural. Given that he's writing in the first century BC and science barely exists yet, this is ambitious indeed. But Lucretius has faith in his project; it's hard to avoid using the word.
I would love to know what his contemporaries thought of his arguments. From our perspective, there are a few cases where he definitely gets it right. I was impressed with his arguments about lightning, where I thought he pretty much nailed it. If lightning is the wrath of Zeus, why does it only come when there are clouds in the sky? Why is it particularly likely to strike high objects? Why does it strike godfearing and upright men as often as reprobates and sinners? A natural explanation does indeed seem more plausible. At the other end of the scale, his astronomy is completely bogus, and anyone who knew the first thing about the subject would have groaned in pain; Lucretius ignores all the careful empirical work that had been done over the preceding five hundred years and makes it up from first principles. And his explanation of magnetism is if anything even worse. He claims that a magnet sucks out the air between it and the object it's attracting; five minutes of experimentation with an actual magnet should have been enough to determine that no such thing happens. Perhaps he never saw one.
But it's his beloved atomic theory that provides the most interesting passages. Was he extremely far-sighted or just lucky? In one place, he makes a very sensible analysis of what happens when wood burns. He argues that it's a case of the atoms being rearranged, and uses a nice analogy: the atoms are letters, and they are recombined to make different words. You feel he's just about to invent the concept of the molecule. But then, a bit later, he discusses the different behaviors of oil and wine when you try to pour them through a fine sieve. The oil goes though with difficulty, and he says this shows that the atoms of oil must be much larger than the atoms of wine. But if he'd stopped and thought about it a moment longer, he'd surely have realized that this was not quite right. You can burn oil, and then it becomes something different. So oil can't be atomic; the atoms must initially be combined into the large units characteristic of oil which have trouble passing through the sieve, but these large units are broken up by burning. So near to an extraordinary insight, and he walks right past it!
Poor Lucretius. The bitter passages about sex give the impression that things didn't work out for him with women, and he died young, "driven mad by a love potion". But people are still reading his poem, long after he was dissolved back into his component atoms. It's the immortality he wanted. (less)
An attractive, well-brought-up young woman from New Y...more**spoiler alert** New Orleans, 1938
White: "Jane" Black: Young Tennessee Williams
King's Gambit
1. e4
An attractive, well-brought-up young woman from New York who finds herself living with a drunk, bisexual strip-show barker in a disreputable Southern boarding house will of course be longing for a chess partner. She will be overjoyed to discover that the penniless but gifted writer across the hall is also a devotee of the noble game, and try to arrange an encounter at her earliest opportunity. Various incidents, including insane landladies pouring boiling water on the downstairs neighbors through holes in the kitchen floor, may delay the start of play, but once it has commenced there is no question about her first move. As Bobby Fischer (who wouldn't be born for another five years) later said: 1 e4, best by test.
1... e5
Black's choice is less straightforward. He no doubt had to think carefully about the tubercular homosexual painter in the adjoining room's attempts to teach him eternal truths about art while possibly also getting into his bed, the two genteel ladies at the back who were quietly starving to death, and the black maid (still, in 1938, a "Negro"), who quarrels incessantly with the landlady, breaking off only to praise the Lord and fruitlessly attempt to hinder the other inhabitants of the house from taking His name in vain. But, after mature consideration, he picks the classical reply, at the time the main choice of then World Champion Alexander Alekhine.
2. f4
White, who has been in denial throughout the course of the game, finally admits that she is dying of leukemia. Under the circumstances, the romantic King's Gambit is an obvious choice for her next move.
Draw agreed
White offers a draw, which Black accepts. He starts writing a play about the game and the events leading up to it, but first needs to research the chess background, and it is consequently not completed until 1977, when it opens to lukewarm reviews on Broadway and only lasts five performances. It is not often performed after this, though a recent production at the 2013 Melbourne Midsumma Festival is moderately well received. (less)
For reasons too complicated to explain, Not recently received a French DVD of The Rescuers as a birthday present. She was somewhat nonplussed, and I t...more
For reasons too complicated to explain, Not recently received a French DVD of The Rescuers as a birthday present. She was somewhat nonplussed, and I tried to explain that it was a treat for anyone who had an ounce of romance in their soul, worth it just for the flying scene with "Tomorrow is Another Day". I told her that the lovely Miss Bianca - surely the sexiest mouse in movie history - was voiced by the late, great Eva Gabor, and showed her pictures. But Not was still very sceptical.
This morning, my alarm woke me at 8 am; annoyingly early, since I had just reached a point in my dream where I was about to enjoy a threesome with two extremely hot women, who had already taken off their clothes. As usual, most of the details had disappeared within seconds, but I could still remember their names: Eva and Bianca.
Well, if that won't convince you, nothing will. Though I'm afraid I can't definitely promise that The Rescuers will always have the above effect.(less)
Gideon ushered me into the elevator with a firm, masculine hand behind the small of my back, and as always I felt an electric shock go through me. As...moreGideon ushered me into the elevator with a firm, masculine hand behind the small of my back, and as always I felt an electric shock go through me. As soon as the doors had closed, I sank to my knees, hardly even noticing the teak interior with its antique silver accents, and began to pleasure him. He sighed and plunged his hands into my hair.
"Oh Eva!" he groaned. He came just before we reached the penthouse level, and I smiled up at him. He was so adorable. We stepped out into his apartment, Gideon still looking just a trifle unsteady, and I drank in the magnificent view of Central Park offered by the handmade Venetian glass windows.
"Why don't you take a shower," I said tactfully. "Meanwhile, I'll make us a snack." Within moments, Gideon had removed his Italian cotton shirt, understated but formidably well-cut graphite-gray chinos and handmade Peter Leko silk boxer shorts. I gazed, awestruck, at his sculpted abs, lats, pecs, traps and fabs as he moved towards the bathroom. Although we had had sex 31 times since breakfast, I felt myself get wet and a wave of pleasure radiated through my core. But I controlled myself and headed for the kitchen. I needed to get my darling hunk something to eat!
The brushed-platinum Caruana refrigerator looked different. I suddenly realized that Gideon had rearranged the 18 carat diamond magnets to spell "I LOVE YOU EVA". My heart skipped a beat. He really did care about me then! I took out a jar of Levon Aronian Ossetia caviar and put a heaped spoonful for each of us on a couple of Sevrès plates, garnishing them with a little caoili, some chopped chives and a few slices of handmade English toast. I stepped back to admire the effect.
Then I saw Gideon's smartphone lying on the table.
My mouth was dry and my blood pounded in my ears. I knew that what I was doing was very wrong, but I could not stop myself as I picked it up and opened the Outgoing Calls tab. I frantically scrolled to the top. As I looked at them, the names seemed to swell to a gigantic size. Ana Steele. Bella Swan. Carrie Bradshaw. Lizzie Bennet. Mary Magdalene. He had called all of them within the last six hours. I simply couldn't believe the depth of his betrayal. I felt physically sick.
Then I noticed that I was no longer alone. Gideon, still wet from the shower and with a handmade Turkish towel wrapped around his sculpted waist, was standing in the doorway. His eyes widened when he saw what I was doing.
"Listen..." he said. "I can explain..." But I was past caring. Tears blurred my vision.
"You don't need to explain anything," I said in a voice I didn't even recognize as my own. "It's over." I put down the smartphone as though it were a poisonous snake, opened the handmade rosewood door, and fled into the night. (less)
Marvin's review of Fifty Shades of Chicken reminded me of this totally forgotten book from the 80's, which in a similar way tried to cash in on the su...moreMarvin's review of Fifty Shades of Chicken reminded me of this totally forgotten book from the 80's, which in a similar way tried to cash in on the success of Real Men Don't Eat Quiche. It sounds like Marvin's one is better, but this one still had a few amusing moments. My favorite recipe was Morning After Omelette, which recommends that you use what's left of last night's champagne to make the eggs fluffier and gives you quantities for three people. (less)
(Geneva, late 2012. Plainpalais market, a riotous display of phallic vegetables, ill-smelling cheese and trash literature. THE REVIEWER and his GIRLFR...more(Geneva, late 2012. Plainpalais market, a riotous display of phallic vegetables, ill-smelling cheese and trash literature. THE REVIEWER and his GIRLFRIEND walk through the stalls hand in hand. Polyglot conversations around them.)
THE REVIEWER: Now here's a significant quote. "My methods are new and are causing surprise To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes."
STANISLAW LEM: Mogę to rozwinąć. MICHAEL KANDEL: I can give you more details on that.
(No one pays them any attention)
SWEDISH SHOPPER: Hej! Jag kommer ifrån Bollestad.
THE REVIEWER: And this one. "The sense of beauty leads us astray." It's like Proust, but the exact opposite. Maximally implicit rather than maximally explicit.
AMERICAN SHOPPER: I'm from Biloxi.
THE REVIEWER: A projective space? A Riemann sphere? U.P.: up. Or down, if you prefer. It comes to the same thing.
(THE GIRLFRIEND gives him a irritated look)
THE REVIEWER: (Smugly) Don't get your knickors in a twistor.
(They have reached a bookstall full of lurid French paperbacks. THE GIRLFRIEND, ignoring him, starts going through them.)
THE GIRLFRIEND: Have you read this one? Les Sirènes d'Autoroute.
THE REVIEWER: Très douce.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Les Sacrifiés du Soleil?
THE REVIEWER: Amazingly, appallingly alliterative!
THE GIRLFRIEND: La Plage aux Nymphes?
THE REVIEWER: Nausicating.
GIRLFRIEND: (Giving up in disgust) You're such a smartarse. What were you talking about? Cosmology again?
ALBERT EINSTEIN: Take one curvature tensor, contract, subtract a scalar, et voilà! Instant universe. On that mystery and not on the Madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the Church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro- and microcosm, upon the void. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Mais non.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Speak English, you old fart.
(EINSTEIN shrugs and calls over LAWRENCE KRAUSS and RICHARD DAWKINS to join him. They sing together in uncertain harmony)
ALBERT EINSTEIN: Space is curved.
LAWRENCE KRAUSS: But it's flat.
RICHARD DAWKINS: Well, that's put an end to that.
THE REVIEWER: I'm not sure I follow--
RICHARD DAWKINS: (Irritated) There is no God. Do I have to explain everything?
(EINSTEIN, KRAUSS and DAWKINS all disappear again. THE REVIEWER and his GIRLFRIEND proceed towards the Route de Carouge. A TRAM passes, on its side a Christmas-themed wine poster whose title is "Le bel houx")
THE TRAM: Brhm brhm brhm brhm-hm-hm. Brhm.
STEPHEN POTTER: (Holding wine-glass) Too many tramlines.
THE REVIEWER: A little bit cornery round the edges.
STEPHEN POTTER: Well ployed sir!
(He raises his glass in salutation to THE REVIEWER, who follows his GIRLFRIEND across the Route de Carouge. CHARLES DARWIN steps out of the Rue De-Candolle to meet them.)
CHARLES DARWIN: There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers.
THE REVIEWER: (Blankly) What's evolution got to do with it?
CHARLES DARWIN: Oh, I don't know. Survival of the fittest or something. I mean, it's survived? You can't deny that? And you wouldn't expect it to if it were as crazy as it looks?
THE REVIEWER: I suppose not. But--
CHARLES DARWIN: Not only that, it's reproduced. Any number of people have copied it.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Look, just because--
CHARLES DARWIN: (Cutting her off) Well then. I rest my case.
THE REVIEWER: (To his GIRLFRIEND) So what is the fascination of the book? What revelation does it promise us?
(Enter KRISTEN STEWART, wearing a semi-transparent evening gown.)
THE GIRLFRIEND: You can't see as much as you think.
THE REVIEWER: The opacity only makes it more interesting. Trust me.
KRISTEN STEWART: Art thou real, my ideal? it was called, and after that there was something about twilight, will thou ever? That's so inspiring, isn't it?
THE REVIEWER: (who cannot take his eyes off her) May I write a poem to your breasts? (With an insinuating leer) They say I'm good at that.
ROBERT PATTINSON: (Shoving in ahead of him) I was first.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Well fuck me dead.
ROBERT PATTINSON: Necrophilia I've heard of sillier The question is Wont ya or will ya.
(He goes down on one knee.)
KRISTEN STEWART: I will. Voglio. However you pronounce it.
THE REVIEWER: But she'll be hard. Impenetrable. Like marble. Where's the pleasure of the text?
ROBERT PATTINSON: It's not hard when you're married. You need to make a commitment.
THE REVIEWER: All the same--
(THE GIRLFRIEND drags him away towards the Pont du Mont-Blanc. Halfway across, they meet THE PROPHET ELIJAH)
ELIJAH: Behold!
(They turn, following his outstretched arm, to see the Jette d'eau)
THE REVIEWER: A height of one hundred and forty metres. Five hundred litres per second. That's - ah - thirty thousand litres a minute. Nearly two million litres an--
ELIJAH: Yet the lake is not full.
THE GIRLFRIEND: Well of course it fucking isn't. It flows off down the Rhône.
ELIJAH: (Looks at her disappointedly) Don't pick at the metaphor.
(THE GIRLFRIEND is about to say something else but THE REVIEWER, seeing that ELIJAH is about to make a speech, manages to stop her.)
ELIJAH: Regardez! Protéiform, constant mais toujours en changement, ange annonciateur, puissance inépuisable. C'est ça, ce livre. Vous comprenez?
THE GIRLFRIEND: (Surprised at herself) Yes.
(ELIJAH bows, first to her and then to the fountain. For a moment, they all gaze at it in silence.)
E.L. JAMES: (who has somehow turned up unnoticed) Holy shit!
Nasrudin was at the tea house one day when he heard some idle young students talking about the Qur'an.
"It sounds magnificen...moreNasrudin and the New Qur'an
Nasrudin was at the tea house one day when he heard some idle young students talking about the Qur'an.
"It sounds magnificent, of course," grumbled one, "but half the time you can't even understand it without a commentary."
"It's supposed to respect the Bible," said another, "but Allah often seems to have forgotten about His earlier revelations."
"I don't like its attitude to women," snapped a third.
When Nasrudin got home, he took out his pen and started writing. He returned to the tea house the following week with a thick manuscript and sat down next to the students.
"I have written a new and improved version of the Qur'an," he announced. "Let me read it to you." But before he had even completed the first surah, they begged him to stop.
"This is dreadful!" they shouted. "Horrible! Blasphemous! It's not like the Qur'an at all!"
"Isn't that what you wanted?" asked Nasrudin.
______________________________________
The author has complained to me that the above review is unfair. Let me be more explicit. The book is, both in form and content, an updated version of Ulysses, transposed to 1974 Boston. It is divided into chapters bearing the same names as the ones in Joyce's book, and the two main characters, called "Bloom" and "Dedalus", are in many respects like their Joycean homologues. The storyline is very similar, and the themes used are also taken pretty directly from the earlier book; thus, for example, "The Sirens" is concerned with music, "Oxen in the Sun" includes multiple pastiches of various authors presented in chronological order, and "Penelope" is a stream-of-consciousness monologue by Bloom's wife.
The great difference is in the style. The vatic poetry and near-impenetrable tangle of allusions in Joyce's original, which to me are what give the the book its unique charm, have been replaced by a sub-Wildean stream of wisecracks; the general impression is roughly that of an American sitcom. My first reaction was to read Bloomsday straightforwardly as a retelling of Joyce, and from this point of view I really did not like it. To be blunt, it seemed extremely disrespectful to one of the greatest novels of the twentieth century. Towards the end, though, I decided that there was another way to look at the text. No one can do a second Ulysses. If you think of Lentz's book as a comedy about an attempt to perform this impossible task, it is actually quite funny, and from this point of view I recommend it. I must admit that I couldn't put it down: I constantly had to read on to see how the next episode would be treated, and in fact I completed the second half more or less at one sitting.
Maybe the author will like the above even less than my first review. I'm sorry: I'm just calling it like I see it. (less)
I really wanted to believe that this book was meant ironically, that the narrator was the construction of a clever novelist who enjoyed playing with t...moreI really wanted to believe that this book was meant ironically, that the narrator was the construction of a clever novelist who enjoyed playing with the reader's feelings, but having looked around a bit it's rather difficult to maintain that view. Sad to tell, I think it's no more and no less than it claims to be. Anna Benson, a 27 year old former Swedish table-tennis champion without a gram of literary talent, takes an extremely private story and turns it into an autobiographical novel in a way that makes Erica Jong appear, in comparison, a saint-like paragon of impeccable judgment and good taste.
Without apparently once stopping to ask herself whether she might be doing something tacky or inadvisable, Anna tells us how she falls in love with a woman, "C", who is twice her age and suffering from breast cancer. C, who comes across as a sympathetic character, initially rebuffs Anna's advances, but is worn down by Anna's charm and total inability to accept no for an answer. Anna then spends a large part of the novel complaining about C's "coldness" and the fact that she is not prepared to "give" as much as Anna does. We get to hear all the details of what they do together in bed during the course of a nine month long affair. The general tone is as though a blog has been turned into a sketchily connected narrative after minimal editing by a person who has never read anything more challenging than a relationship article in Marie Claire.
C believes that her cancer is in remission, but then discovers to her horror that it has metastasized to her brain. She is told she has at most months to live. The multiple tumors and the chemotherapy affect her personality, among other things removing her libido. She tells Anna that she no longer feels she is in love with her, but wishes to remains friends. Anna takes this as a personal affront and complains to the reader that she has been "dumped by a dying woman". C's last wish is that Anna should keep the story secret, so that her two sons do not have to deal with the additional trauma of discovering that their newly deceased mother was bisexual and had a taste for much younger women. She responds by publishing this book more or less immediately afterwards and giving interviews about it on Swedish TV.
"Well, Manny," said Manny, "You've finished the book. Now obviously you want to post a review? Here, I've got a few all made up. Just say which one yo...more"Well, Manny," said Manny, "You've finished the book. Now obviously you want to post a review? Here, I've got a few all made up. Just say which one you like best. How about this? 'A dazzling tour de force that masterfully pays homage to Joyce, Pynchon and Sterne, while simultaneously deconstructing-'"
"Bollocks," said Manny without even waiting for the conclusion.
"Okay, okay," said Manny hurriedly, "I like to start high and let them beat me down, standard negotiating tactic, right? Let's look at number two. 'A disorienting blend of Philip K. Dick and Charles Dickens which will leave you questioning both the nature of reality and the foundations of our modern-'"
"Bollocks," said Manny, but his delivery somehow lacked the assurance of his first reply.
"I knew I was getting warmer!" gloated Manny. "Third time lucky, perhaps? 'A bawdy, riotous romp, Rabelais as reimagined by J.G. Ballard and John Sladek-'"
"Bollocks," said Manny, but there was no doubt that he had paused to think.
"Aha!" said Manny triumphantly. "Now I get it! Your constant reiteration of that phrase is an ironic reference to the parrot in Zazie dans le métro! 'A loving tribute to Queneau's genius and a brilliant reminder that literature, in the ultimate analysis, is about form rather than-'"
"Bollocks," said Manny firmly.
Manny glared at him. "You're really not being very cooperative, are you?" he spat. "Well, if my reviews aren't good enough for you, let's try a different approach. If you had to sum up the novel in one word, what would it be?"
Manny furrowed his brow. "Amusing," he said at last in a tone of great reluctance. "But I'd really like a second word."(less)
Stuck at Luton Airport most of yesterday afternoon, I got bored enough that I gravitated to the dirty books section of W.H. Smiths and spent a few min...moreStuck at Luton Airport most of yesterday afternoon, I got bored enough that I gravitated to the dirty books section of W.H. Smiths and spent a few minutes flicking through Kama Sutra 365. It's pretty much what you'd expect, except for one nice feature that I rather approved of: the first twenty or so positions are just different forms of kissing.
Well, kissing's sexy! Katey MacKenzie, you've got some class. (less)
There was a young lady from Nyon Who didn't have anything on She said, "It's not rude I'm artistically nude! So who cares where my knickers have gone?"
There was a young lady from Nyon Who didn't have anything on She said, "It's not rude I'm artistically nude! So who cares where my knickers have gone?"
I'm sorry, it just happened. I alluded to this infamous book earlier in the week, and today we went on a day-trip to a town a little further down the valley from Geneva...(less)
Another bandwagon I couldn't resist the urge to jump on...
ASIMOV: Good morning team. Now, I know you're all eager to get started on Authorised Murder,...moreAnother bandwagon I couldn't resist the urge to jump on...
ASIMOV: Good morning team. Now, I know you're all eager to get started on Authorised Murder, but why don't we take a moment to introduce ourselves. You first.
ASIMOV: I'm Asimov. Overall concept. I'm proud to say that it's going to be a sexy, post-modernist mystery...
ASIMOV: You gotta be kidding. How are we ever-
ASIMOV: Shut up, Asimov. Next?
ASIMOV: Asimov. Plot and suspense.
ASIMOV: Like you're going to be able to do plot and suspense! I mean, if we'd had Asimov, it might have been different-
ASIMOV: I said shut up, Asimov! Asimov is busy with Robot 8, but I'm confident Asimov will do a fine job. Next!
ASIMOV: Asimov. Sex and romance.
ASIMOV: Oh come on Asimov, get real. What do you know about sex and romance? What was wrong with using Asimov?
ASIMOV: He's finishing The Gods Themselves. But Asimov knows his stuff. I'm sure we've all read his books on dirty limericks, they're first class.
ASIMOV: Yeah, right. So okay, Asimov, what's the sex and romance going to be like?
ASIMOV: Well Asimov, I got a few ideas. One of the characters is gonna have this weird thing, he's into-
ASIMOV: Spare us the details, Asimov. Is that it?
ASIMOV: No way, Asimov, I was just getting started when you so rudely interrupted me! The weird thing, and then I'm going to describe all the women's breasts every time I get an-
ASIMOV: Jesus Christ! It's worse than I thought. Why didn't we ask Asimov to do this part?
ASIMOV: He's just started Asimov's Guide to the Bible. Booked up. And look, it's not so bad-
ASIMOV: Not so bad?
ASIMOV: Like I said, not so bad. We don't have anyone to do characterization. Describing the women's breasts is a whole lot better than nothing at all.
ASIMOV: You mean, if we didn't know what their tits looked like we wouldn't be able to tell them apart?
ASIMOV: Asimov, stop being so negative. Tell us what you're doing instead.
ASIMOV: Post-modernism. I-
ASIMOV: I coulda guessed. So what's your idea of post-modernism, smartass?
ASIMOV: I'm making Asimov a character in the story. And he co-writes it with the narrator and they have little fights in the footnotes. It's sophisticated and droll-
ASIMOV: Ha! And you were laughing at Asimov. Asimov, why the heck didn't Asimov get this job?
ASIMOV: He's assigned to Asimov's Paradise Lost until September. Stop whining, Asimov.
ASIMOV: Yeah, Asimov, he's right. We got a job to do. Deadline, remember?
ASIMOV: Sorry, Asimov.
ASIMOV: It's alright, Asimov.
ASIMOV: Thank you team, I knew you were all professionals. Now I want a first draft by Tuesday. That okay with everyone?
ASIMOV: Can we make it Wednesday, Asimov? I promised Asimov I'd lend him a hand with Hugo Winners Volume III.
ASIMOV: Fair enough, Asimov. Wednesday it is. Nine o'clock start?
ASIMOV: Sure, Asimov.
ASIMOV: Good with me, Asimov.
ASIMOV: No problem, Asimov.
ASIMOV: Great! Now come on guys, no time to lose. Let's get writing. (less)
- Hi, mind if I join you? The name's Taggart. Dagny Taggart.
- La Carmencita. Ou tout simplement Carmen.
- Great to meet you, Carmen! So I work in trans...more- Hi, mind if I join you? The name's Taggart. Dagny Taggart.
- La Carmencita. Ou tout simplement Carmen.
- Great to meet you, Carmen! So I work in transport technology, and you do, let me see if I can guess, import/export, tax loopholes, am I close?
- Quelque chose comme ça.
- I won't pry. But look, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I heard you singing just now, and I thought, hey, she's just like me. What you said about love being, how did you put it, a wild bird no one can tame...
- L'amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser.
- Yeah, I know, it's better in French. So I said to myself, I bet this girl has man trouble too. Like, I've got this guy, he's great, don't get me wrong, but there's this other man. He doesn't say much, kind of the quiet type, but I just can't get him out of my head.
- L'un parle bien, l'autre se tait. Et c'est l'autre que je préfère, il n'a rien dit, mais il me plaît.
- It's like you can read my mind. So what do you think, should I leave Hank and get together with John Galt? The thing is, I just don't love Hank anymore. That's it really.
- L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre, battit de l'aile et s'envola.
- That love/bird metaphor is great! You're right, it just flew off. Nothing to be done. But hey, I just keep talking about myself. What do you think's going to happen with you and Don José?
- Un jour, il me poignardera. C'est la fatalité.
- OMG, he's going to stab you to death and you just accept it and say it's fate? That's terrible. I've got a more optimistic take on things, I'm going to leave Hank, like, I mean I have to, but we'll still be great friends and at the end he'll help me rescue my new lover.
- Où tu trouves les mecs comme ça?
- Where do I find them? Look, I was written by a woman, you know? I guess your author is a dead white European male?
- Hélas.
- I'm sorry. But, you know, objectively those are the breaks, right? Oh shit, is that the time? I gotta run, crisis meeting in five minutes. Look, it's been great talking. Do you think we'll ever meet again?
- Peut-être jamais. Peut-être demain. Mais pas aujourd'hui, c'est certain.
- You're so philosophical! But strong and passionate at the same time. I could learn a lot from you. Wish I could stay longer. Bye! (less)
Hector was sitting on another airplane, and he was reading a novel he had bought at the airport just before leaving. Curiously enough, it was called L...moreHector was sitting on another airplane, and he was reading a novel he had bought at the airport just before leaving. Curiously enough, it was called Le Voyage d'Hector, and it was about another young psychiatrist with the same name, who took it into his head to wonder what happiness was and went on a long journey to find out. From time to time, Hector looked at the man next to him, who was also reading. He had a thick book, but Hector noticed that he only read one or two pages at a time, and in between he took little naps. And somehow he looked a bit sad.
"What are you reading?" asked Hector after a while, because Hector was always very interested in the people round him. The man seemed pleased to talk to Hector, and he told him the name of the book, which was quite famous.
"I have never read it," said Hector, and the man looked happy for a moment. Then he looked down at the book, and Hector could see he was thinking that he had still read less than half of it, and now he looked sad again. But since he was a polite person, he asked Hector what he was reading, and Hector showed him his book.
The man looked at it, and he said that he had heard about this book, and that it was written in a very simple way, almost like a book for children. And he said that he did not think it was a very good book.
"But some good books are written in a simple way," said Hector. "Le Petit Prince is written in a simple way, and I read it every year. And I am happy when I read this book. Does your book make you happy?"
"Yes," said the man, but Hector, who you will remember was a psychiatrist, had heard many of his patients say things that weren't quite true, and he wondered if what the man said was quite true. And when he started reading again, he only read one page, and then he took another little nap.
Hector thought he had learned another useful lesson. He opened his notebook, and he wrote:
Lesson no. 24: Some books can make you happy.
He thought about it a bit more, and then he added:
Sometimes, reading a book is almost like being with a friend. (less)
- Kids today! I wonder if the 70s won't be even worse than than the 60s. Honestly, you don't know what to think, dropping out of school, letting their...more- Kids today! I wonder if the 70s won't be even worse than than the 60s. Honestly, you don't know what to think, dropping out of school, letting their hair grow, rock and roll music, free love, drugs...
- Another martini?
- Oh, why not! Thank you. As I was saying, I don't understand young people any more, as they would say, I just don't "get" them...
- Have you read the new James Mitchener? The Drifters?
- No?
- You should take a look at it, he'll answer your questions. Great piece of work. A bit shocking in places, he's not afraid to use crude language, hit you with the occasional motherf-
- Harold!
- Sorry. I tell you, I've been reading Mitchener since 1947 and he just gets better. Wish I knew how he did the research for this one. A week ago, I was as "square" as they come, but now, "man!", I'm "with it".
- Harold, don't show off.
- But really, it's opened my eyes! I even went and bought the new Doors LP. L.A. Woman. My secretary recommended it. Shall I put it on?
- Harold, was that the girl at the office party who-
- Ah, yes, that was Karen.
- I think I'd rather have some more Frank Sinatra.
- But-
- Sinatra, Harold.
- Sorry darling. Maybe we should talk about something else. What do you think of Nixon's chances in '72?
- My friends in DC tell me it's a sure thing.
- Well thank God for that anyway. And here are our martinis. Cheers!
IS TO 
IS TO 
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