bookshelves: to-read
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Don
read and liked
Aaron's
review of Await Your Reply: A Novel:
"Many of the reviews on this site have complained that the ending of this book is too obvious. I say that if it was obvious then they cheated. Yes, the general conceit is relatively obvious, but the journey is what's important here and the answers the...more "
"Many of the reviews on this site have complained that the ending of this book is too obvious. I say that if it was obvious then they cheated. Yes, the general conceit is relatively obvious, but the journey is what's important here and the answers the...more "
Surprisingly, marginally more enjoyable than the first two installments. Don't know if that's because it's actually a bit better - the Timewyrm element is actually less present than in the second book, which seems to me a good thing - or because my expectations had so lowered that my reading was at nearly a speed run. In any case, at least this lame miniseries will finish off with a book written by Paul Cornell.... ]]>
This is not a book for everyone. Hell, turns out it's not even a book for ME.
But if the measure of an annotated edition is how ridiculously in-depth it dissects the source material, then this should actually earn TEN stars out of five.
Having just finished Dracula, I thought I'd like to pick up the Annotated Edition and read through that. Especially with tales that have proven so influential and have directed so much of what's come after, reading about the inner workings and background minutiae can be just as fascinating as the work itself. But this edition goes above and beyond the usual remit to a degree that's nothing less than staggering.
There are entire chapters, prefacing and following the novel, detailing the life of Bram Stoker, the historical setting against which the book was written, literary descendants of and dissertations on Dracula, the story's life in other media such as theatre and film, the short story "Dracula's Guest" (likely an excised first chapter reworked into a quasi-prelude), and much much more.
But the true jaw-dropping efforts come with the annotations themselves. Any thought I had of quickly reading just the notes over the course of an hour or two were instantly dispensed with, once I saw the scope I was up against. Merely the first chapter of this 27-chapter novel has 102 annotations - the first 17 of which only cover the first three paragraphs. And these aren't notes of just a few lines each. No, these first 17 annotations take up six full pages (ie, not counting story pages) in tiny annotation-type, on pages slightly smaller than that of a coffee-table book. The annotated novel portion of the book takes up 500 pages, and if I were to hazard a guess I'd estimate that 150 of those are taken up by the novel itself, and the rest by the notes.
"Impressive" is not a strong enough word to describe the amount of work and detailed study that had to go into such a volume. I liked the novel well enough (enjoying certain parts, frustrated by others) ... but not with anywhere near the fascination or fervor one would need to pore over all the details laid out herein. But for those who do find themselves that intrigued by the novel that they want to delve deeper into it than anyone was ever meant to know ... this is the book for you.
Is that an incredibly niche demographic? Perhaps. But for those who this is meant for, it's beyond amazing - something that even those who this isn't meant for, such as myself, can still at least appreciate.
One caveat: The fictional conceit employed by the author - that Bram Stoker was writing a true story - is in fact as annoying as everyone says, even in the very few notes that I scanned. Were one to attempt reading all the footnotes, that constant clash against the reader's patience might in fact be enough to drive one mad as Renfield himself.
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bookshelves: graphic-novels
"When I saw each frame as a unit I remembered something from my youth: as a young person I could completely concentrate on each frame of the comic book. I could see every line and gesture as if it were part of a sole painting hanging in the center of a blank wall. This, I thought, might be what separates me from my younger self. Now I look at the whole page, read far too quickly, and move on before seeing what Jack Kirby saw when he set down his images forty years ago.
And so I increased the size of each frame and I printed them, as large as possible. The result was a return to my childhood. In isolating the drawings of Jack Kirby I was able to see them with clearer, if not childlike, eyes."
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A few years ago I picked up Maximum Fantastic Four, an impressive and fascinating comic book experiment.
The idea was conceived and shepherded by author Walter Mosley, as excerpted above, in an attempt to rediscover what it was about comic books - specifically the early Marvel Comics of the 1960s, and even more specifically the earliest issues of The Fantastic Four - that so affected him as a child. I think we can all relate: Whatever we may think of, and to whatever degree we may enjoy, the comics we currently read, it's usually not with the same sense of magic and wonder with which we read when we were young.
Part of this is certainly due to us being older, and wiser, and less easily open to the wild, magical charms of these tales; when asked about the Golden Age of Comics, Mark Waid's famous answer is that the Golden Age is the comics you read when you were twelve years old. But Mosley also hits the nail on the head when he brings up the issue of relative size. When we were children, lying on the floor, the comic book spread flat in front of us, the pictures seemed huge. And every picture, every frozen moment in time, seemed an entire world ... if you just looked closely enough.
This is also why I can't help but scoff when someone invariably complains about how short comics are these days; that they can read through an entire comic book in five minutes. News flash: Your reading speed is up to YOU. I picture these same goons making a speed run through an art gallery or museum, only glancing at each work to get the barest needed data: "Good. Good. Eh. Good. Weird. Lame. Fine. Good."
I can't say I'm never prone to the same behavior, and you can see why; it is in fact possible to make the words in comic books your focus, only glancing at the pictures to give us the necessary context - who, what, where, when - in which to frame those words. And a convincing argument could be made that's as it should be; that, like the rhythm section in a band, the art works best when it's acting in service to the whole without calling attention to itself.
But then, I enjoy listening to the bass line in a song, and I find a masterful drummer - one with a great beat, and the occasional interesting fill - exciting and energizing, something to focus on while still enjoying the whole. And when reading a comic - any comic - I always try to keep that in mind, and remember that each panel is in fact its own piece of art. Mosley's analogy of panels being paintings is accurate and insightful, because every frozen moment in time, every panel, was conceived as a unit by its artist. A unit as part of another unit (the page), and part of another unit (the comic book), and another (the series), and on and on ... but each picture, each box, is the smallest discrete piece in the work. And when the artist was first conceiving that, sketching that, drawing that ... it's certainly the world that he lived inside.
And that's what makes this book an innovation, and an experiment that succeeds, and a treasure. Because this comic book story, which was originally told in 25 pages, is now displayed in over 200 pages. Giving the comic the space to breathe that it hasn't had since we were young, every panel is larger than life, and commands our attention accordingly. Most panels are blown up to the size of an entire page of this coffee-table book, with some taking up the double-page spread - or larger than the book itself, as in the couple of 4-page gatefold scenes. One of these is the scene of the giant, green, burrowing monster attacking the French African installation, which in the original comic took just over a page and is really a very small part of the overall story. But here, with the moment of attack shown as one oversized display of ferocity, you feel the rumble of the earth, you hear the guardsmen's screams, and understand the terror in their hearts in a way you never have before. In a way you'd always just skipped past.
When Maximum Fantastic Four came out, I suspect it flew under the radar for many; after all, as massively important as Fantastic Four #1 was to the development of comics, and the seismic shift it left in its wake, I can imagine even the hardiest of fans scoffing at the thought of paying $50 for a single comic book "blown up real big". What I would like to convey, though, is this:
It's absolutely worth it.
Partly for the experience of reading this seminal comic book slowly, hugely, poring over every panel, and taking in the story at the measured pace it was meant to be read.
And partly for the lesson that this is how we should always aim to read them.
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Dracula is something I've wanted to read for a long time. I read Frankenstein a few years ago - the version gorgeously illustrated with horror artist Bernie Wrightson's creepy renderings - and really enjoyed it. Continuing the theme, this version I've picked up has wonderfully malevolent artwork by Jae Lee.
While still reading it, I was fascinated to see my evolving reaction to the writing style. It's been a while since I've read any sort of epistolary novel, and I'm reminded that it's a format that must be incredibly hard to do well. While the presentation of letters, diary entries and newspaper articles does convey a layering sense of verisimilitude, it's also readily apparent that there are a number of real limitations imposed by such a form. First and foremost, every installment necessarily requires that the action or development be followed by some amount of "down time" in which the character in question could ostensibly put all to paper. This seemingly precludes extended periods of action, which could be why I've heard several people (both friends and professionals) describe the novel as "boring".
Personally, I couldn't disagree more. Yes, there's a paucity of "action" or "monster" scenes, but that's as should be in a horror story; our fears, our dread, play more on what isn't there than what is.
I will admit, though, it takes time to get a hang of. The first five chapters detail Jonathan Harker's journey to Dracula's castle, the gradual realization of his imprisonment, and the icy terror that results. And just as this opening gambit reaches its harrowing climax ... we change scenes to Mina and her friend Lucy, back in England, idling their summer away by the sea. Once more, it takes several chapters before the darker elements start to creep in ... and when they do? We're suddenly treated to a dry, passionless newspaper article about a Russian ship that ran ashore one rainy night.
Each time the novel suddenly changed tacks, I - like many, I suspect - found myself frustrated. Until finally I began to intuit such a reaction was deliberate, intentionally unsettling the reader each time. The pace of the novel is very patient, slowly setting up its participants and then using them to slowly circle in on the plot, bit by bit ... and it's not surprising that this approach might be too measured or frustrating for some. Myself? I really enjoyed it.
But the actual reading was, still, slower going than I'd expected. And why?
Because, like any good horror story ... it really needs to be experienced only at night....
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I suppose the cliche thing to say would be that there's not a lot of depth to it. And, being one of Shakespeare's earliest, that's not entirely wrong. But while it's slapstick and farce, it's very well done slapstick and farce, with at least the occasional hints of complex characters, moral grey areas, and existential themes that would come to be seen in his later works.
And you know what? For a 400 year old comedy, it is still pretty funny. ]]>
bookshelves: graphic-novels
Reading this was enjoyable enough, but the more I've thought about it afterward, the more annoyed I've become.
First, there isn't any new material here; all the material is taken directly from the Zombie Survival Guide. This in itself isn't terrible - it's just not what I had been expecting. But the stories are still as interesting as they were the first time around, and the art does make the incidents more immediate.
What's entirely irritating, however, is the publisher's approach to the book. This is billed as a graphic novel, but Max Brooks is the only listed creator. On the cover, on the spine ... and even on the title page. The artist (Ibraim Roberson) is listed on the bottom of the back cover, but inside he is only credited in tiny type on the publication info page. This is particularly heinous because, given the above note about no new content, it's clear that Max Brooks had little if anything to do with the actual creation of this book. In other words, Ibraim not only drew the entirety of the book, but he also had the not insignificant task of adapting the tales in the first place - as opposed to drawing from a script in which Max had already done the work of figuring out which bits to keep, which bits to show, and which bits to excise. (Unless there was another, uncredited creator doing the adapting work. Which may very well be.)
The difference between an illustrated novel and a graphic novel is that you could, theoretically, take the illustrations out of the former and still have a complete work, while if you take the art out of a graphic novel you don't; this is one of the many reasons why graphic novels prominently list both the writer and artist of a work as its creators, and not just the writer.
Clearly, Three Rivers Press doesn't get that. Or maybe they just don't care. ]]>
Don
took the never-ending book quiz.
| questions answered: | 7 |
| correct: | 6 (85.7%) |
| skipped: | 0 |
| best streak: | 3 |
| questions added: | 0 |