Bridge of Birds (Barry Hughart) ***** book-shaped awesomeness

[livingbyfiction]

"Take a large bowl. Fill it with equal measures of fact, fantasy, history, mythology, science, superstition, logic, and lunacy. Darken the mixture with bitter tears, brighten it with howls of laughter, toss in three thousand years of civilization, bellow kan pei-which means 'dry cup'-and drink to the dregs."

"And I will be wise?"

"Better. You will

Comments

[froggandie]

I need a book rec for T-day break. I read about 5 fiction bks a year, so something broadly-themed and/or epic would be ideal to maximize my efforts.

[livingbyfiction]

In honor of b-school, how about a fictional study in leadership? The most effective leader I've ever met in fact or fiction comes from the pen of a Minnesotan housewife. Miles Vorkosigan (modeled on T.E. Lawrence "of Arabia"), is insane, hyper-active, and disabled in a future world where everyone is physically perfect. He's an enabler who vaults everyone around him to new heights. The near-future scenery is also interesting from a systems standpoint. The Warrior's Apprentice is the first book.

Or, if you want to visit dear ol' Houston, I liked The Speed of Dark. Women sci-fi writers, solidarity.

[froggandie]

Hmm. Amazon.com wants me to read Midaq Alley (I've never been able to move past that "Islam and Gender" class in cyberspace).

Sounds moderately appealing.

[lesliesage]

If Vorkosigan is Lawrence, who is Gertrude Bell? I'll read that.

[livingbyfiction]

P.S. Bridge of Birds appears to be written by a totally well-adjusted person, but here's an author's note:

When I got out of Andover in the 1950s I suffered from fairly severe depression, but this was back when the only such term recognized by the medical profession was “depressive” following “manic” which was one bad gig until some genius renamed it “bipolar disorder” and after that it couldn’t harm a fly. Since I wasn’t lucky enough to qualify for manic and clinical depression didn’t exist they diagnosed schizophrenia and packed me off to a booby hatch. (Which was not entirely a bad thing. Man, the scene at Kings Count Psychotic Ward was like awesome!) Then I was promoted to a slightly less odorous asylum where Doctor Oscar Diethelm expounded upon the delights of going snickety-snick on my frontal lobes, and while it would take too long to explain I managed to escape to Columbia University. There I found myself groping through weird landscapes obscured by clouds of pot behind which pimpled prophets of the Beat Generation shrieked,

[lesliesage]

Man, THANKS for ANOTHER REMINDER that I need to go and do awesome fucked up shit if I ever want to write a best-selling autobiography.

Look at that competition.

[froggandie]

Save the aweomse fucked-up shit for Bulgaria.

B/c I want a piece, too.

[livingbyfiction]

When I escaped from British military camp I was soaked and the sheep laughed at me from inside their woolly sweaters, but I swung my de-sexing wand at them and now look who's laughing. Since no one cared that it was July 4th, I was packed off to a hostel where we ate strawberries, blueberries, and cocaine. I mean cream. Stella was on sale for 20 pence a bottle, so clearly God intended us to drink, and in the morning the recycling bin confirmed that the whole hostel had understood the sign from heaven, maybe even the little children, which might have been why they were quiet that night. Or maybe it was because we threatened them with death. Anyway. And the poets chanted, "He'll save children but not the British children. He'll save children but not the British children. Washington, Washington, 12 stories high made of radiation. The present beware, the future beware, he's coming he's coming he's COMING." And I said to myself, "He ain't coming, he's HERE. Obama '08!"