"And by each crime, and every kindness, we birth our future. "
Firstly, one of the few reviews of Cloud Atlas that anyone need bother reading (Peter Debruge, Variety; September 8th). The closing line is prescient: The R-rated epic should find a substantial audience when Warner Bros. releases it Oct. 26, assuming critics don't kill it in the cradle.
But, here's something to lift the spirits: Of all the authors who have, since 1919, been awarded the prestigious James Tait Black Award, the award's committee has chosen Angela Carter as its "best ever" recipient. Specifically, her brilliant 1984 novel, Nights at the Circus. Ironically, near as I can tell, Nights at the Circus is now out of print.* Okay, so that was only mostly uplifting.
I awoke this morning from a dream of red and white Boeing CH-47 Chinook helicopters tumbling from the sky. As I watched them plummet, falling through heavy clouds, I was aware of some oppressive, malevolent alien presence nearby - a weight pressing down - something obviously responsible for the falling helicopters, but something never glimpsed. Only felt. There was much more, but that's all I can recall. One could, possibly, speculate that the dream follows from the novella I'm writing.
To wit, yesterday I wrote 1,482 words on Black Helicopters (working title). It's now more than one quarter done, and, actually, I think it may be one of the best things I've written since finishing The Drowning Girl: A Memoir in January 2011. Which makes it much easier to face, though, in some ways, much harder to write.
After work, Spooky and I drove over to College Hill and stood in the cold with Brown University students to get Korean comfort food from Mama Kim's. I had the beef bulgogi wraps with a fried egg on top, and we shared dumplings and cucumber kimchi. And no, I haven't fallen off the diet. I bloody fucking jumped. I'll consider it again in January. Anyway, later, we finished Season One of Nurse Jackie, I finished the "Solomon Island" portion of my story quest in The Secret World (hard), and then we read "Mount Doom" from The Return of the King. I think I had entirely forgotten how very wonderful is that chapter. And then I read two more chapters of the Charles Fort biography. And that was yesterday.
Her Toes Are Cold, Despite the Wool Socks,
Aunt Beast
* Strike that. Reverse it. Thanks to troublebox for pointing out that Nights at the Circus is, indeed, still in print; Amazon just makes it fucking hard to find.
But, here's something to lift the spirits: Of all the authors who have, since 1919, been awarded the prestigious James Tait Black Award, the award's committee has chosen Angela Carter as its "best ever" recipient. Specifically, her brilliant 1984 novel, Nights at the Circus. Ironically, near as I can tell, Nights at the Circus is now out of print.* Okay, so that was only mostly uplifting.
I awoke this morning from a dream of red and white Boeing CH-47 Chinook helicopters tumbling from the sky. As I watched them plummet, falling through heavy clouds, I was aware of some oppressive, malevolent alien presence nearby - a weight pressing down - something obviously responsible for the falling helicopters, but something never glimpsed. Only felt. There was much more, but that's all I can recall. One could, possibly, speculate that the dream follows from the novella I'm writing.
To wit, yesterday I wrote 1,482 words on Black Helicopters (working title). It's now more than one quarter done, and, actually, I think it may be one of the best things I've written since finishing The Drowning Girl: A Memoir in January 2011. Which makes it much easier to face, though, in some ways, much harder to write.
After work, Spooky and I drove over to College Hill and stood in the cold with Brown University students to get Korean comfort food from Mama Kim's. I had the beef bulgogi wraps with a fried egg on top, and we shared dumplings and cucumber kimchi. And no, I haven't fallen off the diet. I bloody fucking jumped. I'll consider it again in January. Anyway, later, we finished Season One of Nurse Jackie, I finished the "Solomon Island" portion of my story quest in The Secret World (hard), and then we read "Mount Doom" from The Return of the King. I think I had entirely forgotten how very wonderful is that chapter. And then I read two more chapters of the Charles Fort biography. And that was yesterday.
Her Toes Are Cold, Despite the Wool Socks,
Aunt Beast
* Strike that. Reverse it. Thanks to troublebox for pointing out that Nights at the Circus is, indeed, still in print; Amazon just makes it fucking hard to find.