Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated
Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten.
This is the story all about how Mort's life got flipped, turned upside down... One day, Death decides to find an apprentice. His all-seeing eye lands on a young lad [MORT!] who is rather disliked by his father and uncle.
It was also acutely embarrassing to Mort's family that the youngest son was not at all serious and had the same talent for horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. It wasn't that he was unhelpful, but he had the kind of vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learn to dread. There was something infectious, possibly even fatal, about it.
His father and uncle decide to send him off to an apprenticeship so the unfortunate boy who appeared to have been built out of knees would become someone else's problem. On apprentice market day, nobody seems keen to pick Mort, until that evening, Death shows up. But don't fear the reaper, he isn't here to collect souls.
Once taken up by Death, Mort is given a vague explanation of his duties then he shadows Death on his journey as he reaps souls. Death is an enigmatic and fatally pragmatic figure. He wields more power than he'd have you believe but refuses to interfere with fate. However, something rather dangerous has happened. Death has grown bored. But before he can let Mort fully take over, he lets the lad [MORT!] do some household chores like cleaning up muck in the stables where Death's horse, Binky, resides. Mort deals with this by realising that
The awesome splendour of the universe is much easier to deal with if you think of it as a series of small chunks.
I don't know if theoretical physicists know about this but someone get one on the line and show them this. It may be helpful to their understanding of the universe.
This book was delightful. The plot really kicks off when the boy [MORT!] meets Princess Keli when Death goes to reap the soul of her father, who'd just experienced a successful assassination plot. When the King's soul turned to ether, Mort's and Keli's eyes meet, which shocks him because Death (and his entourage) are usually not visible to mortals until they meet their mortality.
Death receives word of souls to reap through this elaborate system involving hourglasses and books that outline fate. Everyday, he hops onto Binky and goes off to guide different souls into their next phase of life, which Death makes clear to Mort is none of his business. Not that he's not powerful enough to intervene, remember that. Always remember that.
When Mort is handed the reins to Binky and sent to deal with the reaping of souls, one name appears that has him feeling rather hot under the collar. Princess Keli is due to die and she must because of the fate that Sto Lat is yet to face. Mort must do everything to make sure that Keli meets this fate for the sake of history. Fucking with history is a no no. So what's a stupid, shortsighted, impulsive, little boy with a crush supposed to do? Let the girl that barely knows he exists die?
This book follows Mort on the misadventures that unfold because of his thoughtless decision making. The boy [MORT!], Great A 'Tuin! Ok sorry, Mort, (he really hates being called anything else) dawdles while we wait to see if he'll realise he's in over his head and is seeking help in all the wrong places. Like a teenager trying to deal with a clogged toilet by pouring more water into the bowl. Meanwhile, Death is realising how lonely and unhappy he is and seeking to rectify that through human means. He starts by trying to attend parties, drinking the entire stock of a bar and eventually meeting with a magical headhunter to get a nice job with cats and flowers. I too would like a nice job with cats and flowers. Sniffs.
Anyway, this book was delightful. I found myself laughing a lot more often than in Guards! Guards! which I also loved. I think GG has better writing and plotting. There were moments I had to go back to reread a passage I just read because Pratchett was being a little too oblique. But I will say that this book does a better job of explaining how Discworld works. GG is a lot more concentrated on the affairs of Ankh Morpork. If you ask me, this is a better entry point into the world than GG but both are still absolutely divine. The hilarity surpasses that of Blackadder, Men in Tights and Princess Bride combined. I hope I get to meet Death in more Discworld novels. Considering he's a morbid, sarcastic primordial being obsessed with cats, is it any surprise he's an absolute favourite character of all time?
Never was there a story that rocked so hard than that of Ankh-Morpork and her city guard.
This book reads like if Men in Tigh
FABRICATI DIEM, PVNC
Never was there a story that rocked so hard than that of Ankh-Morpork and her city guard.
This book reads like if Men in Tights and The Princess Bride had a baby in a death metal concert where everyone wore clown suits because the lead rocker said so. It's wild absurdism at its best. But perhaps what shocked me was how well-written it was.
I assumed the book would be tongue-in-cheek, satirical and self-aware. It is. It's taking Tolkien's intricate craft, turning it on its head and giving you a dragon that can propel itself with a rocket butt. But what made me realise this is a book I will love forever is the introduction to the Elucidated Brethren. The scene where the Supreme Grand Master accidentally tries to gain access to the Illuminated and Ancient Brethren of Ee, I almost fell out my seat laughing.
The story carries on in the same comedic vein. Tapping into such surgical moments of levity it feels like the MCU should take classes from Sir Terry. But first, what this book is about.
The city of Ankh-Morpork has turned into a perennial bacchanalia where chaos is the order of the day. Instead of having law and order rule civilisation, there is instead a guild of thieves and beggars and harlots wherein they can steal to a point and pay taxes from their spoils. The Patrician, current ruler of Ankh Morpork, sees this as the best way to maintain a kind of peace.
However, someone doesn't agree. The Supreme Grand Master has stolen a very important book from the library, from whence he plans to summon a dragon and use its power to get remake Ankh Morpork in his image. Or at least as far as his imagination would let him.
You spend most of the book trying to figure out who the Supreme Grand Master is and wonder what will happen to the Watch. They're made of Vimes-the captain, Nobby, Colon and Carrot-a human raised by country dwarves who has no inclination for idioms and sarcasm. They each endear their way into your heart in a way that's as subtle as it is sneaky.
Scenes unfold like a film but there are times I caught myself reacting to something, then there's a change, and when we cut back we're experiencing the fallout of the event. I'd have liked to read the event itself inasmuch as Sir Terry trusts me to use my imagination and make inferences. There are times when cutting away to the result of the matter is hilarious but sometimes I would like to be indulged.
There's nothing I don't love about this book except perhaps the fact that it ended. But with Jurassic patience, I am sure I can find and read through all Discworld books. I wonder what I should read next outside of the City Watch series....more
This is a question that leaves our debonair swanky GUP (Gay Uncle Patrick) reeling as he wonders wh
What was the last day you were a child?
This is a question that leaves our debonair swanky GUP (Gay Uncle Patrick) reeling as he wonders when he last felt shielded from he harrowing realities of adulthood. Which have become even more complicated since he had to take care of his young grieving niece and nephew, Maisie and Grant.
GUP is a retired Hollywood actor who moved to Palm Springs to get away from things. For approaching fifty. Which he most certainly isn't ready to process.
"...if you must know, I'm young in Palm Springs. Okay? This is the sad truth for gay men. Forty is ancient in Los Angeles, middle-aged in San Francisco, but young in Palm Springs. That's why I live there." "You're forty three!" Maisie bellowed. "Who are you, the DMV? Lower your voice." "That's almost fifty!" Grant's eyes grew big. Patrick took the jab, then closed his eyes and bit his lower lip; the observation was just shy of a hate crime. Do not punch a child, do not punch a child...
Patrick's pragmatism and hilarity are what made this book special. At least for me. It dealt with a lot. Death of friend, death of a spouse, systemic homophobia but somehow Patrick came out of it laughing. A grieving widower who has just lost his best friend and the mother of his niblings, and months before the death of his--for all intents and purposes-- spouse. Patrick has high key Oscar Wilde energy, except wilder. He has an affinity for the bizarre, like a pink Christmas tree in the summer. But he is dichotomous, with a studied consideration of his surroundings that dares perilous fools to under-estimate him.
When his agent convinces him it's time to rejoin the Hollywood elite, he throws a party in honour of his rebirth as Hollywood dzaddy. However, his sister Clara, a woman mistaken in the belief that abolishing the patriarchy means complaining about men and braying about her victimhood as a white woman, shows up uninvited and threatens to take the children away from Patrick "for their own good". Patrick doesn't understand how a so-called feminist would fail to grasp the precarities of homosexuality.
Patrick used to like having a sister... Clara was his playmate, she was older—she set the agenda. But she eventually moved on, wanted to do other things. As a teenager she liked reading and, it seemed, just about nothing else. She read a book by Alice Walker about female genital mutilation in Africa and refused to speak to a member of the opposite sex for a month. She read Simone de Beauvoir and fumed about the patriarchy to any male in earshot—even if he were four years her junior.
The problem with Clara (and commodified white feminism) is that she never learns, she never listens. At one point Patrick informs her of her veiled homophobia after the death of Joe and she replies with the patriarchal classic hit, "If I said that, I'm sorry..." Patrick observes his sister with almost predatory precision. He infers the grief that is happening in her life that would cause her to threaten the stability of two mourning children whose father is absent for treatment. In the same breath, he threatens to bury her in litigation so deep she wouldn't see the light of day for years behind the paperwork. Patrick was a badass.
The thing about Clara is how she was a well fleshed out character, who although brief in appearance served subtle socio-political commentary. She's not a bad person. Or even inherently evil. She's not a big bad wolf out to blow Patrick's foundation away. She's human and she's hurting. Rowley's prose captures their sibling relationship so well and Clara's pain is masked behind even more pain. She feels replaced by Sara. Patrick is surprised by this but doesn't fight it. He's the bigger man. Something which Clara, in her misguided attempt to extirpate the patriarchy, opts not to do. Patrick even tells her
You don’t hear me, do you. Every conversation we’ve ever had, you don’t listen. Not really. You look at me. Your mouth stops moving. But the entire time, you’re just waiting until it’s your turn to talk again.
And she. still. doesn't. listen.
But this isn't about Clara, and my frustrations with her (nuanced and well-written as they are), this is about GUP. Gay Uncle Patrick. Guncle. And he has rules.
Guncle Rule number one. Okay? If we must? Cameras are your enemy as much as they’re your friend. Scratch that. That’s Guncle Rule number two. Guncle Rule number one: Brunch is splendid.
Almost his entire life is a portmanteau. He lives for brunch, lupper and haruths-- harsh truths.
You know the secret to staying young? Money. Guncle Rule number four. Not so you can carve up your face, mind you; don’t do that. But if you have money, you’re not stressed. Stress is what ages you. And winter and not getting out of your hometown. You guys really should be writing these down.
But at the end of the day, this story is about Patrick finding his step. Reclaiming his life and LIVING. You can have all the money in the world and be a tragedy. A mere existence. Even when you have people who would give anything to make you happy.
Turns out it's painful to be loved. Intolerable even, at times.
It took two precocious children whom Patrick relates with as equals for him to realise he's been running away. He's been hiding. Chester Bennington sings, It's easier to run; Replacing this pain with something numb; It's so much easier to go; Than face all this pain here all alone. Patrick comes to terms with his grief,
Pain doesn't lift until you feel it.
You need to be present in your sadness. There's a quote by Ursula K Le Guin, All of us here are going to know grief; if we live fifty years, we’ll have known pain for fifty years… And yet, I wonder if it isn’t all a misunderstanding — this grasping after happiness, this fear of pain… If instead of fearing it and running from it, one could… get through it, go beyond it. There is something beyond it. It’s the self that suffers, and there’s a place where the self—ceases.
I am currently going through a lot right now. And I am not ready to talk about it because saying it out loud, to my friends will make it real. And I want to be in denial a bit longer. However, this book (and others, of course) will hold my hand through it.
Finally what GUP would love for you to most internalise,
Guncle Rule sweet sixteen: I want you to really live. To live is the rarest of things. Most people merely exist.
Oscar Wilde said it first, whom I'd like to believe is our greatest guncle who ever lived....more
This is the most popular book I'd never heard of. It popped up on my list of recommendations after I finished reading that ghastly book about poo and This is the most popular book I'd never heard of. It popped up on my list of recommendations after I finished reading that ghastly book about poo and "hibernation".
The story follows Keiko, a young girl who grows up into becoming a convenience store woman. When Keiko was young, she didn't understand the basic tenets of... well, life. When she was young she provided very er literal solutions to problems that required nuance. One that had me cackling was
There was also that big commotion soon after I started primary school, when some boys started fighting during the break time. The other kids started wailing, “Get a teacher!” and “Someone stop them!” And so I went to the tool shed, took out a spade, ran over to the unruly boys, and bashed one of them over the head.
Perhaps I am supposed to be horrified but she's technically not wrong. And all the adults around her had to tell her was, "We don't go around hitting people to stop a fight. We can also ignore the fight" But maybe that's the Nairobian in me. Another instance where she made me laugh was a conversation she once had with her mother while at a park
I saw a dead bird in the park. It was small, a pretty blue, and must have been someone’s pet. It lay there with its neck twisted and eyes closed, and the other children were all standing around it crying. One girl started to ask: “What should we—” But before she could finish I snatched it up and ran over to the bench where my mother was chatting with the other mothers. “What’s up, Keiko? Oh! A little bird … where did it come from I wonder?” she said gently, stroking my hair. “The poor thing. Shall we make a grave for it?” “Let’s eat it!” I said.
And I'm sorry, but why couldn't they eat the thing? It was already dead. And if they cooked it really well, there was no risk of salmonella.
Keiko strikes me as the person who needs to be told exactly what to do in "normal" situations or left alone. Aka me but turned up to eleven. I related to Keiko's eccentricities to an alarming degree. The difference is, I don't care to mollify those who question my life choices. Are we paying taxes together? Do I own a share in your oxygen? No? Then mind your business. I remember when an auntie asked me why I am not married yet. I told her I'd hold the wedding on the date of her choice if she was going to pay for everything.
But for Keiko, life isn't that easy. Dismissing those who seem to care about her isn't an option. Keiko wanted to be "cured". At 18, she found a job at the convenience store. The convenience store is considered a stepping stone for people entering the job market, immigrants, housewives etc. At that moment, for the first time ever, I felt I’d become a part in the machine of society. I’ve been reborn, I thought. That day, I actually became a normal cog in society. This makes me sad because I can't tell whether it's conditioning from capitalism (though you could argue that in our hunter gatherer past lives we still had to contribute) or Japanese culture.
The store and its idiosyncrasies and routines became a lifeline, a purpose for Keiko. I still don’t have a clue how to be a normal person outside that manual. It meant everything to her
I think about the transparent glass box that is still stirring with life even in the darkness of night. That pristine aquarium is still operating like clockwork.
If this isn't a subtle take on how work defines us, I don't know what is. (I probably don't. See, I happen to be an imbecile). Keiko won't let you forget the convenience store is her reason for being
The tinkle of the door chime as a customer comes in sounds like church bells to my ears. When I open the door, the brightly lit box awaits me—a dependable, normal world that keeps turning. I have faith in the world inside the light-filled box.
She felt under pressure to be "productive". To be a functioning member of society. People who are considered normal enjoy putting those who aren’t on trial. A woman with a well-paying upwardly mobile job. Or a wife with a few kids on the way. Even the men in her circle chimed in. Usually in Kenya, men don't bother themselves with women's affairs. However, you can see how "out of it" Keiko is when it comes to interacting with the human race. When her sister's baby won't stop crying,
The baby started to cry. My sister hurriedly picked him up and tried to soothe him. What a lot of hassle I thought. I looked at the small knife we’d used to cut the cake still lying there on the table: if it was just a matter of making him quiet, it would be easy enough.
Eventually Keiko gets into an entanglement with former store worker Shiraha where they agree to be each other's shelter from the onslaught of expectations. It doesn't end well. Or maybe it does. Only Keiko could ever tell us. And where the book ends, it's fairly certain that Keiko is a Convenience Store Woman™️ down to her cells. By the author herself, Keiko is a true hero.
According to an interview Murata (which means "friend" in Kikuyu lol) did with the Financial Times, the purpose of the book is to eviscerate three of Japanese society’s most sacred cows: marriage, the workplace and the strained concept of the “normal” life. I would say that's mission accomplished.
dreams often die at the encouragement of those who have long since let theirs die.
This collection of essays is one of the most heartfelt,
dreams often die at the encouragement of those who have long since let theirs die.
This collection of essays is one of the most heartfelt, gut wrenching collections I've ever had the privilege of reading.
From worshiping our lordt and saviour Beyonce, to dealing with depression and anxiety, to being a black man in the US, to being a gay man, to being gay and black in Trump's America... Arceneaux is able to give a story that is oft times moving, sometimes gloriously irreverent and all-around addictive.
Here are my thoughts and brief summaries of all the essays.
YOU SELF-CENTERED BASTARD
Visceral first hand account of how the college debt system drives former students to high stress. Resulting in a vicious cycle of anxiety, depression, job dissatisfaction. The saddest thing is perhaps how this isn't unique.
FOR $1500 AN EPISODE
Seems to throw a lot of shade at reality TV while reminiscing that one time he almost enrolled for one due to his desperation for a steady paycheck. Waffles on about how he'd never do it then, how he'd never fucking do it now, shills for Chasing Atlanta then Chasing Dallas and hopes the gay black cast members are getting properly compensated.
QUIT PLAYING ON MY PHONE
Arceneaux speaks about the hell that debt collector agents put people through. As someone who is also in debt, I could relate to this. Tho mine is more of the American equivalent to a payday loan, here they're called mobile money loans. They call daily even after countless messages telling them, no I don't have money or a job. No, I don't know when I will get money (AND WE'RE IN A FUCKING PANDEMIC NOW). Arceneaux's account of the conversations with the mean spirited Zachaeeuses and the anxiety they induce is relatable as hell. And yes, he brought this situation on himself by not knowing any better but is ignorance supposed to be a life sentence? I certainly don't think so.
K STREET THOT (AND OTHER CAREERS CONSIDERED)
This reminds me of articles I wrote for my now defunct blog about how to get rich quick in this economy. My situation isn't quite so systemic but I can't deny that if my country's "democratic" government worked the way the French intended, I would not be in such dire straits. Arceneaux's thorough considerations of other careers-- from sugar baby to republican to a church of Beyoncé shiller (I'd do this too but I agreed with the author Bey is a Christian so this would be insulting to her and my queen is also litigious about taking her image in vain)-- are entertaining and *sigh* beyond relatable.
THIS IS A STORY ABOUT CONTROL
This is perhaps the most difficult minimemoir of them all. At least, it was difficult to get through in the sense of the rawness and realness that jumps off page. I at times want to hug Arceneaux and just smother him with warmed heart emoji pillows and feed him grapes or whatever people deserving great kindness and affection get. He talks about how he has struggled with eating disorder and how much he has over come after realizing that
there has to be a greater love of self that supersedes setbacks, and the dangerous coping mechanisms we turn to in order to deal.
This is the first essay to make me cry. Though I suspect it won't be the last.
NEVER HAVE I EVER
Sweet, hilarious and a call to coupled friends to stop with the demands that a single person in their 30s be in a relationship because their standards demand so.
This seems to be a running theme among black people because here too are always comments and questions as to why you haven't 'settled' by a certain age.
The essay also covers how one should not allow self sabotage to prevent you from dating or meeting new people. If you ever want to be intimate with a partner, you'll always have to simply try.
COGNAC AND CELEXA
I look forward to the Cognac and Celexa drop. This essay points out some of the hoops a gay black rapper would have to jump through to make it in the hip hop industry. It's a shame the industry isn't meritocratic and remains committed to its homophobia.
FLOAT ON
In which Arceneaux comes to terms with his burgeoning alcohol addiction that his father also dealt with. He acknowledges the need for escapism and recreation and how any drug can be abused even if the users are "self-aware". Addiction does have genetic components and knowledge doesn't negate the fact that drug abuse can become a slippery slope for some. As someone who reaches for a bottle every time I "need" it, I often have the same thought processes he had. My family hasn't had any visible history with addiction and they're the kind to demonize consumption let alone understand addiction. Arceneaux also talks about how he's used weed (I didn't gel with Mary Jane but that's a story for a never day) and Adderall (can't afford it).
I LOVE INSTAGRAM. IT SOMETIMES MAKES ME WANT TO DIE.
Well, if that wasn't the most nuanced yet scathing takedown of comparison culture, idk what is.
SWIPE UP
This brings about the topic of ethical consumption of pornography. The internet is inundated with countless sites that distribute porn without compensating the entertainers. While other entertainers have premium accounts on those platforms and so will make their millions regardless, websites like Only Fans have democratized the process allowing entertainers to sell their content directly to fans. However, it does bring about the question of whether or not it's a good thing ultimately considering the choking yoke of capitalism has driven many a desperate person to wiggle their asses for the voyeur with disposable income. How can you as a consumer, be certain that the actors have agency? You can't. And so, at the end of the day, you just have to accept that they're making a living and the least you can do, as Arceneaux says is, tip your porn star.
IT'S CHEAPER TO DIE
Yet another scathing indictment of the American Healthcare system and its government's inability to fix it. The risks are made starker by Arceneaux's account. His pragmatic acceptance that he could end up a statistic of loss of life due to lack of Healthcare fills me with anger and despair. Is there no place black people are just OK?
SHRINKAGE
In which Arceneaux articulates the complexities that plague people like me
...but in terms of my life, having financial security means I can embark on the kind of freedom I’ve long been deprived of. The kind of life he was living. You have to be able to afford choice. Happiness is expensive.
MAMA'S BOY
[image]
TO FREEDOM
The US really needs to get a handle on its student debt crisis. Even if it's for the generations yet to enroll in college.
I DON'T WANT TO DIE POOR
The US student debt machine is familiar to me as there is a near similar system here. Thankfully (?) there is a government bureau that provides student loans and it seems largely manageable. The problem is the economy. People of my generation are losing jobs left, right and centre and the corruption rampant in my country's government would have me ranting until we all die of Covid-19 or Jesus comes back or whatever signals the apocalypse in your belief system.
Arceneaux articulates how debilitating debt can be even with a fairly well paying job. He grapples with the guilt of choosing this path to higher education and a "farfetched" dream. But it's his bed, he will lay in it as he contemplates when he will fix things. Hopefully he will get that TV deal, that billionaire sugar daddy, that "benevolent" plutocrat who will wipe out all student debt or highly profitable book sales.
Whatever the outcome, I hope for nothing but all the best things for the author....more
It was just so fucking... heart emoji that I actually had to take a moment.
Permission to squee for the rest of all time. I know I have of
It was just so fucking... heart emoji that I actually had to take a moment.
Permission to squee for the rest of all time. I know I have often referred to romcoms leaving me a pile of warm gooey goodness, but I can't help it if it's true.
The year 2020 is one that will go in the history books as one where the world went topsy turvy. My 2020 disasters bingo card basically became obsolete when China diagnosed the bubonic plague and there was a rabbit ebola outbreak in the US. Clearly the universe is telling us something, but like the admirable ostrich, I shall bury my head in the sand and lose myself in books that make me feel part marshmallow and swan feather pillows.
Boyfriend Material is my favourite fake boyfriend book along with Trick Play. But while Finley's book was a formulaic contemporary romance, this one isn't. It's a delightful breath of fresh air.
Our narrator, Lucien is a hot mess who works for a dung beetle charity. He is the son of a Mic Fleetwood wannabe who fought with Alice Cooper over a grammy and a French lady who is the best book mum I have come across since Molly Weasley. Lucien is also the funniest narrator I've read in a while, but that may be because I'm partial to sarcasts and Brits. His conversations with his mum may have been my favourite thing ever.
"Your father," she declared. "He has not aged well." "Good to know." "His head is bald as an egg now and a funny shape. He looks like that chemistry teacher with the cancer." This was news to me. But then I haven't exactly gone out of my way to keep in contact with my old school. To be honest, I haven't exactly gone out of my way to keep in contact with people who live on the wrong side of London. "Mr. Beezle has cancer?" "Not him. The other one." ... "Do you mean Walter White?" "Oui oui. And you know, I think he is too old to be hopping around with a flute these days."
Perhaps the best part about this rom com, aside from the obvious slow burn romance, is the colourful cast of side characters. They're all so compelling I could almost ask for a book about all of them. There is the James Royce-Royces (yes, they're both called James Royce-Royce), Bridget who is always dealing with a literary crisis that deserves a series all on its own, Priya the tiny metal art sculptor, Luc's workmates at the dung beetle charity, most memorably Rhys Jones Bowen who has only recently heard about hashtags on Twitter and just discovered the instagram.
Lucien and Oliver's love grows so strong and sure because their flaws are there for us to see. I am also beyond ecstatic that the entire book is in first person. The book also managed to subvert a bunch of romcom tropes going as far as giving us a sunrise reconciliation scene rather than one in the rain, or the airport, or the hotel where the love interest ran away to etc.
I can only hope that we get a sequel because I'd love to see Lucien and Oliver when they're playing boyfriend and boyfriend for real. I mean it was so heartwarming to see these 2 men who have to pretend to be a couple for their own reasons and in the process fall in love and learn how they are people worthy of love and though they're imperfect make perfect boyfriend material... Ooooooooh....
Thank you to Netgalley for providing me with a free copy in exchange for an honest review....more
Darling—I wonder if you realize how much I am counting on your coming to England, how much it means to me—it means all the world, and indeed m
Darling—I wonder if you realize how much I am counting on your coming to England, how much it means to me—it means all the world, and indeed my body shall be all, all yours, as yours will be all, all mine, beloved.… And nothing will matter but just we two, we two longing loves at last come together.
If you'll excuse me, I'll be just, gestures vaguely...
I first read this story in high school and I reread it to see whether it still holds up. While it wasn't nearly as rib cracking as I found it when I fI first read this story in high school and I reread it to see whether it still holds up. While it wasn't nearly as rib cracking as I found it when I first read it, I still found myself laughing a lot. This was especially necessary after I watched a summary of John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men.
The Ransom of Red Chief (ignore the vaguely racist title) is a story of two bumbling kidnappers Sam and Bill who fall victim to their abductee. Sam, the narrator, while being the dumb to Bill's dumber is at first the object of our scorn and derision when he plots to kidnap the nine year old only child of a mortgage financier. In the opening scene, Sam tells us how fast things went to hell.
It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South in Alabama - Bill Driscoll and myself - when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't find that out until later.
That Bill confused the word aberration for apparition tells you all you need to know going forward in this story.
So what do you do when you want to become Chief Councillor? You need a son but somehow you have only managed to get nine daughters. Your pregnant wifeSo what do you do when you want to become Chief Councillor? You need a son but somehow you have only managed to get nine daughters. Your pregnant wife is in hospital, having given birth the previous night and upon arrival you are ready to find out if you got yet another girl, or hopefully a boy. Toma Tomei is in this situation.
[image]
Well, gods be praised, it's a boy. Only there is a small problem with baby Tomei. Newborn son of Grace and Toma Tomei. (view spoiler)[The little boy is white! (hide spoiler)]. Toma could not believe that his baby looked so strange.
[image]
"You say it is not sick?" he asked her, confounded. "It's perfectly normal," the Day Matron assured him. "And it is not bewitched?" "It's not witchcraft." "Why is it... different?" "Why?" said the matron, exasperated."Because it is different.
Toma faced a lot of shame because of the appearance of his newborn. But his wife was so happy, she called the little boy, Gift. His sisters adored him too. Only Toma and his main rival for Chief Councillor, Old Noah, had a problem with Gift.
Old Noah conspired with the town witchdoctor, Muti, to sabotage Toma's chances of getting a son.
Muti required a pure white cockerel to see if he could fix the problem when Toma went to visit. Pleasant opportunity for the charlatan to fleece his desperate clients. He would perform a dance then ask his client to "feed the spirits" After which they would stoke the fire and watch the strange man perform a dance while tossing around chicken bones. Then he would provide a solution or prediction that he quite essentially pulled out of his ass.
The story goes on to be dramatic with gut wrenching scenes out of a Spielberg thriller.
[image]
Meja Mwangi, much like he did with The Mzungu Boy, weaves a story that is scenic of colonial Kenya. There was humour in spades. The entire situation is resolved but after tension worthy of Hitchcock's recognition. The questions raised about identity. Should we have a predisposed notion of how to treat various people because of their skin colour? Why is the girl child of "less value" than the boy child? Why is the boy child a sign of "prestige"? How far can suspicion go before it becomes paranoia? At the end of it all, what is most important to you, glory or family? Those are the themes I got from it.
I loved this book because of it's complexity in such a simple narrative. If you are a veteran of Kenyan literature and you haven't read this, shame on you. If you have been looking for recommendations... Try this one. You won't regret it. Now, "Feed the spirits."
I didn't particularly like her in Book 1. I'd even go as far as saying I was ambivalent about her. She's brought trouble on Paul's doorstep simply by existing and the author tries to make it seem like Paul is hopeless without her. But there is something hinky about their romance. There's something fishy in the chemistry. The couple does not compute. It's like they were trying so hard to make her Hermione- who is queen of the deus ex machina and makes almost all other fiction geniuses pale in comparison. Hermione was so great in fact that almost all of us wish she had been the main character and hadn't ended up with that waste of meat, Ron.
But I digress. This story begins in a rather annoying fashion. Paul, Bunny and Brigit (ugh) had set up their detective agency but hadn't managed to get a licence to operate yet. Primarily because Paul's a bit of an airhead, Bunny's gone missing and Brigit, motherfucking Brigit, won't talk to Paul because he "cheated" on her. He even sent her photos. Of him unconscious with a beautiful hooker draped over him. And I'm sorry, but for someone who reads crime books and devours true crime TV in all her spare time, bitch couldn't smell a rat? I mean Paul was drop dead unconscious. Shouldn't she have at least heard him out before waving her one woman silent treatment parade?
On top of that, Bunny is the one who smelt a rat. Bunny comes off as a nut. With a body the size of a Mini Cooper, a wonky eye and a mind that works like Sherlock's- he is the one who figures out something is definitely wrong. And when he goes to investigate the happenings, that's when he goes missing.
When Paul accepts a case from a stranger who wouldn't even give him her name, he realizes he's in over his head and goes to grovel at Brigit who finally partially pulls her head out of her ass and gets on the case to track Bunny.
As all this is happening, Ireland is burning. Because three discount Bernie Madoffs have sunk a real estate project that's cost people their livelihoods and life savings. After their case goes to mistrial the country is baying for blood and the Garda have their hands full with protests risings and the madoff-wannabe stooges getting offed one by one.
Once again we are treated to Caimh's unique blend of ambience and humour. I felt like I was smack in the middle of Dublin and wasn't lost. DCI Burns was just the best. After Wilson, who has a weak stomach, throws up on her Louboutins and attends a briefing with his fly open, we get to see her in fantastic element. She is just quite literally the best (I'm sure I've added a bunch of highlights of how she is just one BAMF). I wish she was the one Paul was in love with. Seriously.
Even the damn dog, Maggie, was a better character than Brigit. Gah she was irritating. Infuriating.
UGH.
[image]
Read the book, you'll understand why.
(view spoiler)[I also had a problem with the fact that Megan showed up and hired Paul to tail Hartigan but that amounted to nothing. He basically lost 4 grand and Hartigan ended up dead as a dodo. The whole thing went up in smoke (ha!) and felt like the author changed direction mid-story. (hide spoiler)]
I didn't enjoy this as much as I did the first one. But that's to be said of all sequels. Except The Godfather 2. T2. Winter Soldier. The Dark Knight... You get my point....more
If I met Jeremy Clarkson right now, I would tell him
[image]
Not the literal ones, of course. I couldn't even imagine anything about them.
But I digress,If I met Jeremy Clarkson right now, I would tell him
[image]
Not the literal ones, of course. I couldn't even imagine anything about them.
But I digress, this collection of articles was probably the most hilarious of The World According to Clarkson lot. Jeremy actually theorises that conquering France might solve Britain's immigration problem. He also almost blew out his stomach having ignored a warning label on Insanity Hot Sauce. He complains about the endless beeps of bells and beepers that ding every time something goes poof, or boom, or on, or off. The variations of these articles make me wish I could get a room in Clarkson's unique mind.
I kept laughing out loud in places with extreme quiet- a snort shy of embarrassing the hell out of myself.. The article that killed me was the one where Jeremy was stumped by a high-tech Japanese toilet. Just look at this:
First of all the seat is warmed- and there is no way for the round-eye to know this, which means I had to sit there imagining the heat had come from the lorry driver who'd been the last person to use the motorway service station cubicle. This is unnerving. Soon I become convinced that it was possible to catch encephalitis from the latent heat of a Japanese lorry driver's bottom.
This is the part where you throw your head back and laugh.
Paul Mulchrone is a man with one of those faces. His sheer ordinariness was the whole point... [image] Image from Author interview at Too Full to Write
Paul Mulchrone is a man with one of those faces. His sheer ordinariness was the whole point... his every facial attribute was a masterpiece of bloody-minded originality, an aesthetic tribute to the forgettably average. Collectively they formed am orchestra designed to produce the facial muzak of the gods.
He is also a man shit down on his luck. While doing his rounds of visiting ailing and aging patients at a hospice, Nurse Brigit approaches him and asks him if he could visit an old man who could be breathing his last.
After some hesitation, he agrees over a cigarette with Brigit outside. The frail old man is absolutely emaciated, knocking on death's door, could be wiped away by a strong breeze.
Paul does his thing and then the old man wakes up and started mumbling incoherently. Paul is suddenly attacked and stabbed through the shoulder by the stage 4 cancer patient who ends up dying of a heart attack. He is incensed with Nurse Brigit but she offers to take him home. It's the least she could do, you know? Until an old 'friend' shows up and asks Paul what he's been up to. Unfortunately, Paul is completely unaware of the shit-storm that started the moment he decided to help Nurse Brigit out.
He ends up on the run, unaware of who his enemies are. Unseen forces being helped by people he may or may not know. But one thing is clear, they want him dead because of his conversation with the stabbing corpse and they are always two steps ahead of him. Brigit offers to help him because she's an expert. She has watched all American crime shows and has read all the Hardy Boys and true crime novels. But he refuses until he gets a phone call telling him to run then promptly gets into a life or death situation with a cat. Paul also comes to the realisation that he isn't smart enough to deal with the situation.
At times like this, it was hard for him to run from the suspicion that he might be an idiot.
Brigit was a breath of fresh air. An eager-to-help unapologetic nerd and she wields it as her arsenal in ensnaring you into her wiles. She is magnetic. And you're pulled in- albeit reluctantly. I did not like Brigit at first. But Paul changed his mind about her too. Kissing her in a tender moment that left me with mixed feelings. But I get why Paul would see her differently after such an episode of chaos.
This book was charming. Delightful. And makes me wanna visit Dublin. Also look out for a man named Bunny- the cop in the blurb with a propensity for violence. If not for anything but for what whiskey can do to his bowels.
The first time he farted, it had been novel. It had broken the tension between herself and Paul. The entertainment value had however lasted nowhere near as long as the smell. The man's arse reeked like something had crawled up there and died a slow painful death by cabbage.
Ngugi wa Thiong'o and his co-writer, Ngugi wa Mirii, are men who have a way with words that is unrivalled and incomparable. And with statements like "Ngugi wa Thiong'o and his co-writer, Ngugi wa Mirii, are men who have a way with words that is unrivalled and incomparable. And with statements like "A man must brag about his penis no matter how tiny". I mean, come on
[image]
Tiny penises aside, the saying is stated by our main character, Kiguunda, one of my favourite fuckers ever in Kenyan post colonial literature. He had been admiring his title deed for his one and a half acre piece of land and his wife, Wangeci, had been trying to get him to fix a broken seat in preparation for their guests Ahab Kioi and his wife, Jezebel (Members of the select few who seem to have been successful after gaining independence).
And so starts a play that is rhythmic, poetic, and any other musical -ic you can think of. It is an analogy of oppression. The primary issue being that after being oppressed and colonized by the white man, they were still under a vindictive ruler. Only this time, he was their fellow countryman. Their lands had been grabbed, they worked in their new rulers' industries only to have to spend the meagre coins they earned on the expensive products still produced by the bourgeois.
The play was so powerful that it led to Ngugi's detention from December 1977- 1978. And his eventual exile- where he left the country fearing for his safety. The play raises questions about capitalism, religion, hypocrisy, betrayal, misfortune, poverty and leadership. It shines an unwelcome light on situations that an intellectual elite would otherwise turn a blind eye on. While written in 1977, it still has a significant impact on any 21st century readers. My take on it was different from that of others who have read this. It's a shame the play still remains banned in my country but I would love to see the songs in the play come to life. Especially Kamande wa Munyui's song:
I shall marry when I want Since all padres are still alive I shall marry when I want Since all nuns are still alive...more
I finished this book some time back and finally I have time to write something about it. Now it is no secret how much I adore Clarkson. He has the besI finished this book some time back and finally I have time to write something about it. Now it is no secret how much I adore Clarkson. He has the best metaphors that side of the Atlantic and is quirky, corny and delightfully inappropriate. Of all the The World According to Clarkson series, I love this one best. It starts from 2013 all the way to 2015. Shortly before he got fired from the Beebs. Clarkson is funnier than ever and has some pretty cringe worthy moments. We also get an explanation about how he got started at the Rotherham Advertiser. It goes a long way into explaining why sometimes Jeremy carries the opinion of the village idiot who attended a few classes in school and then went for a lengthy meeting at a local pub where townsdwellers could discuss what was wrong with the world (and what was even wronger with the people trying to fix it) over a coupla beers. You still gotta love him though. Even if he thinks Jesus would have been better off in New Zealand. Because it's less horrible than Bethlehem. Smh, but I have a smile on my face that just won't quit. Who should I consult about that?...more
Loading...
