Mini-Reviews
Well, guess who is galloping around the house, screaming about the Headless Horseman, and eating everything that isn’t nailed down?
You guessed it. Sir Pewksalot, my happy little third child, is all right after yesterday’s spewing episode. More than all right, he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. *sigh* The constitution of the young.
I found this about an hour ago, and it just tickled me pink. I adooooore Steven Brust. Srsly, his handling of dialogue in homage to Dumas in The Phoenix Guards…I’ll stop before I embarrass myself.
Anyway, since I have no energy for real in-depth reviews, I’ll just mini-review things I’ve read lately. ‘Kay? Mmmm’kay.
* Heartsick, by Chelsea Cain. Taut writing, very nicely done mystery (though a bit undercooked and full of deus ex machina as my kitchen is full of yeast) and a female serial killer, for once. A few problems though: the femme serial killer isn’t a female serial killer, she’s just a recycling of the Dark Emasculating Feminine. The “good” female character is so hopelessly f!cked-up she’s lost most of her power, which is common in books featuring the DEF. STILL, worth a read and very nicely done; the writing is crisp and lovely.
* All Heads Turn When The Hunt Goes By, John Farris. Talk about the emasculating Dark Feminine. I know this book is a classic of the horror genre, but for Christ’s sake, could there be any more exposition??!!? I don’t like huge chunks of infodump. Still, I waded through it off and on for a week, and the opening and closing scenes are nicely dramatic and gory. If one reads this book, it should be as an examination of the history of the horror genre in the 70s, and it should further be an examination of racial attitudes. I don’t know if Farris is from the South, but he got the breathtaking endemic racism down cold.
Speaking of which, the equation of the Dark Emasculating Feminine with the just-plain-anything-darker-than-milk (I am speaking here of the conflation of miscegenation and the emasculating feminine) and the breathless denigration of any religion other than Christianity that usually accompanies it is beginning to wear on me. Time to go read some Octavia Butler and Sjoo and Mor, stat!
* Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane Grey. I am sorry, I know I promised the Selkie, but I just couldn’t do it. I just can’t. I know it’s the formula for much of what comes after, but I just could. Not. Take. It. And not because of the portrayal of the Mormon church in that time period, because the portrayal is largely correct. (Mountain Meadows, anyone?) Especially when it comes to the polygamy. *sigh*
No, it’s just plain bad overwrought writing and I am not that interested in Jane Withersteen’s moral struggle. I just ain’t. If I need to know about this book I’ll just ask the Selkie.
* As an antidote to everything, I’ve picked up Runciman’s The Sicilian Vespers. (He did a marvelous history of the Crusades, too.) Last night I got a few paragraphs in before I got to the death of Constans II (hammered on the head with a soap-dish, by a disgruntled servant) and Runciman’s dry treatment made me laugh out loud at the absurdity of history. I mean, what a gruesome, idiotic death.
What else? I lately reread And Never Let Her Go, about the murder of Anne Marie Fahey. Every once in a while I go on an Ann Rule jag. The only ever true crime I’ve really read is Ed Sanders’ book on the Manson Family and The Unicorn’s Secret about Ira Einhorn.
The Selkie has me starting Lonesome Dove. I tried Streets Of Laredo and had a hard time with it, but Lonesome Dove won a Pulitzer. Maybe it’ll be easier. At least I have Runciman for the antidote.
Wish me luck…
