**spoiler alert** Buck did not read the newspapers...
of course he didn't. he was too busy being a badass. chasing down a big ass moose. saving john th**spoiler alert** Buck did not read the newspapers...
of course he didn't. he was too busy being a badass. chasing down a big ass moose. saving john thornton's life. killing the indians who killed john thornton. running with the other wolves. winning bets. bitch slapping other dogs who got out of line.
buck's first snow experience... "At the first step upon the cold surface, Buck's feet sank into a white mushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a snort. More of this white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but more of it fell upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up on his tongue. It bit like fire, and the next instant was gone. This puzzled him He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers laughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was his first snow."
buck's first theft... "This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland enviroment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and terrible death. It marked further decay or going to pieces of his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence. It was all well enough in the Southland, under the law of love and fellowship, to respect the private property and personal feeling; but in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, who so took such things into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he would fail to prosper."
just before buck's first kill... "All that stirring of old instincts which at stated periods drives men out from the sounding cities to forest and plain to kill things by chemically propelled leaden pellets, the blood lust, the joy to kill - all this way Buck's, only it was infinitely more intimate. He was ranging at the head of the pack, running the wild thing down, the living meat, to kill with his own teeth and wash his muzzle to the eyes in warm blood."
after winning a bet for his best bud john thornton... "'Gad, sir! Gad sir!' spluttered the Skookum Beach king. 'I'll give a thousand for him, sir, a thousand, sir - twelve hundred, sir.' Thornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The tears were streaming frankly down his cheeks. 'Sir,' he said to the Skookum Beach king, 'no sir. You can go to hell, sir. It's the best I can do for you, sir.'
as the man who recommended the book to me would say, "yee-haw." this book fucking rocked.
Maybe my favorite book of 06. Short, sweet(the depressing kind) and well written. I better hurry up and find the fountain of youth, 'cause I don't wanMaybe my favorite book of 06. Short, sweet(the depressing kind) and well written. I better hurry up and find the fountain of youth, 'cause I don't want to get old....more
only 3 stars, but still worth the read. the book is auxilio's (the mother of mexican poetry) reflection on her past and her future and i guess her preonly 3 stars, but still worth the read. the book is auxilio's (the mother of mexican poetry) reflection on her past and her future and i guess her present, in mexico in the 60's. all while holed up in a bathroom in a school that has been invaded and closed down by the mexican army. from the opening sentence i thought the book was going in a different direction than it actually did. expected more out of the book, but was still pleased with where it lead me.
there is something about Bolano and his comma's that i just cant put my finger on. you know, the way he forms his sentences, makes them really work, stretches them out, and then, at the right moment, end them. a whole hell of a lot better than that. Then he will drop a short, but fucking sweet little beautiful sentence about death, the future, mexico, chile, etc. i want to write like that.
"And when I opened my eyes a shadow peeled away from a wall, moved onto the sidewalk about ten yards ahead, and began to come toward me, and I put my hand into my handbag, I mean my satchel from Oaxaca, and felt for my knife, which I always carried with me, as a precaution against urban emergencies, but the burning skin of my fingertips could feel only papers and books and magazines and even clean underwear (washed by hand, without soap, with water and sheer willpower, in one of the sinks of that dreamlike, omnipresent fourth-floor bathroom), but not the knife, ah, my friends, now there's another recurring and terribly Latin American nightmare: being unable to find your weapon; you know where you put it, but it's not there. That's just our luck."
the part that really gets me is near the end when he starts name droppin' all sorts of authors. i think brian may have touched on this already, but after he mentions borges and adolfo bioy casares, two authors i'm briefly familiar with, but love, it makes me want to whip out the laptop, load up my amazon cart, or for starters, wikipedia, to see if all these names really exist and then to amazon, hoping for translations.
bring on the bolano. time to finish up the detectives and get ready for 2666!...more