Sunday Sonnet

THE HARVEST MOON
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

Get your freak on

The Tutu Ballet
Sally Lee

Uh oh! Trouble's afoot (hardy har har) when Ms. Berry teaches ballet to a very diverse group of students in The Tutu Ballet. Instead of following her instructions, each student performs a "signature" move. Ms. Berry decides to make the best of the situation by organizing a ballet that highlights the talents of each of her students. As a result, Ms. Berry and her students perform the best -- or at least the most unique -- ballet ever.

As you could probably tell, The Tutu Ballet is all about individuality. Part of me was a little bothered by the message: Hey! I ranted. Real life isn't like that! You can't jump when you have to twirl! But then I realized this was a book for young children, and I suppose they can have their innocence for as long as possible.

The Tutu Ballet is probably best for really young children: the words, storyline, and pictures are very simple and engaging. I'd read The Tutu Ballet to children six years of age or younger. Or maybe four or five. Hell, we all know I'm bad at judging ages. I'll tell you what: if the kid's really smart, you should probably skip The Tutu Ballet. If, on the other hand, the child is a few bricks short of a load (not that there's anything wrong with that; I'm sure he's just a late bloomer, really) read on.

In a nutshell: Of course, The Tutu Ballet does teach the lesson that "if you want to do it, ef the rules," so caveat emptor and all that.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

Long Live the King

Just After Sunset: Stories
Stephen King

My latest review for Pajiba has arrived. This time I enjoyed Just After Sunset, the latest collection of short stories by Stephen King.

I wasn't blown away by every single story in this collection, but I found the majority to be well-written, compelling pieces that solidifed my admiration for this master storyteller.

You can read the rest of my thoughts on the collection here.

In a nutshell: I'm still haunted by more than a few disturbing images from this collection. Well played, Mr. King.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Sunday Sonnet

SONNET
ON A YOUTH WHO DIED OF EXCESSIVE FRUIT-PIE


Currants have checked the current of my blood,
And berries brought me to be buried here;
Pears have pared off my body's hardihood,
And plums and plumbers spare not one so spare:
Fain would I feign my fall; so fair a fare
Lessens not fate, but 'tis a lesson good:
Gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin-washed ware
Wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.
Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,
That lies not, as it lies upon my clay;
But in a gentle strain of unstrained verse,
Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey;
Rehearses I was fruit-full to my hearse,
Tells that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away!


from Harper's New Monthly Magazine (1852)

Neither so hideous nor so bloody

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer
Patrick Suskind

I hate it when a novel you've fully expected to adore utterly disappoints you.

Recently, litblogs abounded with discussion of Patrick Suskind's Perfume, and, based on the dozens of glowing reviews I'd read, I quickly added it to my TBR list. When I finally managed to read it months after initially learning of this "totally gripping page-turner" (so says one critic quoted on the cover of my edition), I was dismayed to find it, well ... pretty shitty.

Perfume is the story of a murderer, a monster gifted with an inhuman sense of smell but cursed with no scent of his own. The novel follows this character, named Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, from childhood until his becomes (allow me to again quote the cover here) an evil genius, a murderer so depraved that only the most hideous of crimes could satisfy his lust...a killer who lives to possess the essence of young virgins...a vampire of scent, whose bloody, insane quest takes him...

I'm stopping here because I have too many issues with the above text to continue. Allow me to explain.

1. The murders themselves are barely even discussed. Are they bloody? Hideous? I wouldn't know. Grenouille hits his victims over the head and cuts off their hair; any other description is left to the reader's imagination.

2. These murders, by the way, don't even occur until the final quarter of the book. The previous pages are Grenouille's development -- an overly detailed and not-altogether-interesting one, by the way.

What the cover blurb does truthfully indicate, however, is the author's affinity for the ellipsis. At first I didn't mind the author's trailing off every once in awhile...but soon the overuse of this technique smacked of...how shall I say it?...lazy writing.

In fact, it wasn't long before I became entirely bored with Perfume, and it took me months to finish what should have been a fast read. Perhaps my discontent stems more from my own preconceptions about the novel than from the novel itself. Besides the tendency toward trailing off, Suskind's prose is sumptuous, bringing the oft-ignored olfactory sense to life. The plot itself is also intriguing (although, to be fair, some parts are way too drawn-out) -- but not when one is expecting more blood, violence, and overall hideousness. After all, I had anticipated Perfume being a "spooky read," and it fell quite short of the mark.

In a nutshell: Well written but powerfully disappointing.

Bibliolatry Scale: 2.5 out of 6 stars

Mercy shines with even more brilliancy than justice

The Shape of Mercy
Susan Meissner

I've been behind on my blogging recently, but not my reading. One book I've recently torn through was The Shape of Mercy, by Susan Meissner.

I was pleasantly surprised by this novel; I was immediately intrigued by the subject matter (the Salem witch trials), but I still did not expect to find this novel as compelling as I did. Contrary to my expectations, I found myself unable to put this novel down and tore through it in about 2 days.

The Shape of Mercy follows two parallel storylines. First, we're given the tale of Lauren Durough, a young college girl who is looking to break free from her wealthy lineage. Trying to "do things on her own," she seeks a job, and finds one transcribing an old diary for a wealthy older woman, Abigail. The diary in question belongs to Mercy Hayworth, a victim of the Salem witch trials.

Soon, we are drawn into Mercy's world as well as Lauren's. The three main characters (Lauren, Abigail, and Mercy) are nicely drawn and never move into stereotype. Meissner creates sympathetic, intelligent characters and a taut storyline whose many facets both intrigue and surprise.

As might be expected, Lauren's world parallels both Mercy's and Abigail's, and the end of the novel satisfies even as it defies expectations. If you're looking for both a fast-paced and intelligent read, look into The Shape of Mercy.

In a nutshell: A fast-paced read that provided entertainment and insights.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Sunday Sonnet

PRETTY WORDS
by Eleanor Wylie


Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enameled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathered birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver disk,
Blue Persian kittens, fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;
Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.

the dead pull the living down

>Heart-Shaped Box
Joe Hill

I've been hearing a lot about Joe Hill's highly-regarded first novel, Heart-Shaped Box, and, since I've heard so many people sing its praises and because we were approaching my favorite spooky time of year, I knew I had to pick it up. (I also vaguely remembered hearing that Hill is the son of Stephen King, so, with his lineage in mind, I was anticipating a perfect, autumnal read.)

For the most part, I wasn't disappointed. Heart-Shaped Box is a fairly taut tale of a vengeful ghost. I consider myself a genuinely jaded individual, one who often scoffs at anything not truly scary, and I have to admit that Heart-Shaped Box creeped me out quite a few times. That's not to say it was so scary -- it didn't give me nightmares or force me to stop reading -- but it did provide some pleasurable thrills and some spooky entertainment. Overall, I can't complain.

Heart-Shaped Box follows Jude Coyne, an aging metal god who hasn't been so lucky in love, like so many others used to hard living. Coyne, not surprisingly, has an affinity for the darker side of life. When he finds an opportunity to purchase an actual ghost over the internet, he can't resist the temptation. (I wish I had money to burn, don't you?)

Anyway, he's not purchasing a ghost so much as he's purchasing the dead man's suit -- a suit to which the deceased is reportedly very attached. Jude is skeptical but nevertheless intrigued, and, before you can say boo, the suit -- and the ghost -- is his.

Unfortunately, this is no ordinary ghost, and it isn't long before Jude regrets his purchase. (I, like Jude, am also all-too-familiar with buyer's remorse. Sigh.) Try as he might, however, he cannot rid himself of what is not his property, forcing Jude and his long-suffering girlfriend to fight not only for their lives, but for their very souls as well.

My only complaint was caused by the plot. In certain places it lagged, causing me to skim, eager as I was to reach the next major scene. Certain scenes dragged on a bit too long and could have been condensed, especially during the second half of the novel when things should have been most compelling.

Still, I was pleased overall. Ultimately, Heart-Shaped Box was an intriguing, mostly fast-paced read that provided chills in all the right places, even if certain elements were a shade predictable. I was pleased by the quality of Hill's prose, which is rare for spooky "genre" novels.

In a nutshell: Not perfect, but satisfying overall.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

Sunday Sonnet

AZRAEL'S BAR
by Stephen Vincent Benet


He stood behind the counter, mixing drinks;
Pride for the old, who like their liquor tart,
Green scorn frappé to cheer the sick-at-heart,
False joy, as merry as a bed of pinks.
He had the eyes of a sarcastic lynx
And in his apron was a small black dart
With which he stirred, secretive and apart,
His shaker, till it rang with poisonous clinks.
I fumbled for the rail. "The same, with gin?
Love -- triple star -- you like the velvet kick?"
I shook with the blind agues of the sick.
Then, through lost worlds, his voice, "Fini, old friend?"
He poured black drops out, cold as dead men's skin:
"So? This is what we always recommend --"

Disappointing Death

Death with Interruptions
Jose Saramago

My latest review for Pajiba has appeared, and this time I reviewed the latest novel by Jose Saramago, whose Blindness so enthralled me a few years back. Unfortunately, my experience was not repeated this time around.

Click here to see why.

In a nutshell: Ho hum.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

Sunday Sonnet

IN MEMORIAM
by George Moreby Acklom


It fell as softly as the winter's snow:
There was no sound of storm nor any stress,
No fevered daring of Death's mightiness,
No struggle for a strong man's overthrow:
Just some few hours of moaning, soft and low,
Some hard-drawn breathing, quickly hushed, ah yes!
And then,--and then,--small white limbs motionless,
While we who wait must whisper as we go.
A face and voice we looked for lovingly
Lost from the fellowship of our small band:
One little ripple of Life's restless sea
Soothed into stillness by the Master's hand,
And missing here:--but a white soul to stand
In the vast Temple of Eternity.