The Scrivener's Bones (Alcatraz, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

(Hushlanders, it might be noted, aren’t very imaginative with their idioms. Personally, I say, “Out of the frying pan and into the deadly pit filled with sharks who are wielding chainsaws with killer kittens stapled to them.” However, that one’s having a rough time catching on.)

You may, therefore, have assumed that all Librarians are evil cultists who want to take over the world, enslave humanity, and sacrifice people on their altars. This is completely untrue. Not all Librarians are evil cultists. Some Librarians are instead vengeful undead who want to suck out your soul.

I’ve spoken to them at length about this. If it makes you feel better, Bastille dies by the end of this book. Oh, you didn’t want to hear that? I’m sorry. You’ll simply have to forget that I wrote it. There are several convenient ways to do that. I hear hitting yourself on the head with a blunt object can be very effective. You should try using one of Brandon Sanderson’s fantasy novels. They’re big enough, and goodness knows that’s really the only useful thing to do with them.

Adults are not idiots. Often, in books such as this one, the opposite impression is given. Adults in those stories will either (a) get captured, (b) disappear conspicuously when there is trouble, or (c) refuse to help. (I’m not sure what authors have against adults, but everyone seems to hate them to an extent usually reserved for dogs and mothers. Why else make them out to be such idiots? “Ah look, the dark lord of evil has come to attack the castle! Annnnd there’s my lunch break. Have fun saving the world on your own, kids!”)

The quickest way I’ve found to feel bad about yourself is to read a self-help book, and the second quickest is to read a depressing literary work intended to make you feel terrible about humanity in general.)

You could be a young boy wanting to read an adventure story. You could be a young girl wanting to investigate the truth of the Librarian conspiracy. You might be a mother reading this book because you’ve heard that so many of your kids are reading it. Or you could be a serial killer who specializes in reading books, then seeking out the authors and murdering them in horrible ways. (If you happen to fall into that last category, you should know that my name isn’t really Alcatraz Smedry, nor is it Brandon Sanderson. My name is in fact Garth Nix, and you can find me in Australia. Oh, and I insulted your mother once. What’re you going to do about it, huh?)