“Cosmopolis” by Don DeLillo (Scribner, 2003)

Cosmopolisstar

This is my second attempt with Don DeLillo, the first being last year’s The Body Artist, and having read Cosmopolis, I still don’t know what all the fuss is about this guy.  Maybe it’s an “East Coaster” thing, for the guy just doesn’t impress me much.  He’s the kind of author who attempts to use long words, complex run-on sentence, and go off on long and boring tangents which really have no bearing on the novel, and any real meaning or truth to offer the reader.

Cosmopolis is about a really rich guy who decided that he doesn’t want to have his barber come to his skyscraper with his huge office to cut his hair.  Instead he’s going to take the limo across New York to have the barber cut his hair at his shop.  As Mr. Rich attempts to cross town, the president is at the same time coming through with his vast motorcade, and has his life threatened by an assassin.  So traffic essentially slows to a complete crawl, while Mr. Rich comfortably travels in his limo.

Along the way, for some reason (probably because he’s that rich!), he gets out of the car and meets people he knows, has sex with wives, ex-wives, and “little bits on the side” in their car and their apartment, and all this stuff happens while he is trying to get to the barber shop; essentially about a rich guy using his riches.

So if you would like to read about what it would be like to be so rich that you can get and do absolutely anything you want, read Cosmopolis, and get lost in long sentences that lead you into endless cul-de-sacs.

Originally published on May 12th, 2003 ©Alex C. Telander.

Originally published in the Long Beach Union.

“The Lewis and Clark Journals” edited by Gary E. Moulton (University of Nebraska Press, 2003)

Lewis and Clark Journalsstarstarstar

In this beginning year of the 200th anniversary of the famous Lucas and Clark expedition, the University of Nebraska Press has released an abridgement of the definitive edition of two men’s journals as they traveled across an unknown land, mapping and recording what they saw of this new terrain for the first time in history.

The Lewis and Clark Journals is a welcome abridgement to the full thirteen-volume set that, while significantly shorter, still contains much of the magic and revelation that both Lewis and Clark experienced on their journey.  Organized in diary form with dates for each entry, one is put into the minds of Lewis and Clark as they wrote of what they saw and how they felt about it.  Accompanied with footnotes that answer any question about nineteenth century terminology, or foreign words that the reader of today cannot be expected to know; there are also maps detailing the route taken , as well as occasional pictures of the actual journal entries written by Lewis or Clark.

The Lewis and Clark Journals is a book to be welcomed by any reader interested in discovery and Lewis and Clark, or a student studying the subject and wanting to know more, or just an average reader who has always wanted to know what it was like walking into a land and world that was relatively unknown by any other white man.  This is a book of discovery that is more certainly nonfiction and remarkable.

CLICK HERE to purchase your copy from Bookshop Santa Cruz and help support BookBanter.

Originally published on May 12th, 2003 ©Alex C. Telander.

Originally published in the Long Beach Union.

10/29 On the Bookshelf . . . “In Search of the Multiverse,” “Elegant Universe,” “Johnny Halloween,” “Bards of Bone Plain,” & “Luka and the Fire of Life”

In Search of the Multiverse Elegant Universe Johnny Halloween

Bards of Bone Plain Luka and the Fire of Life

A quintet from the Sacramento Book Review to review.  We some interesting science books: In Search of the Multiverse by John Gribbin (I have a book or book series idea for a scifi story about multiverses) and The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene; a short Halloween collection, Johnny Halloween by Norman Partridge; the new Patricia McKillip (who I’ve never read before), The Bards of Bone Plain, and finally Salman Rushdie’s Luka and the Fire of Life, whom I will hopefully be interviewing in early December.

“An Artificial Night” by Seanan McGuire (Daw, 2010)

An Artificial Nightstarstarstarstar

If Rosemary and Rue was dipping your toe in, and A Local Habitation was getting your foot wet; with An Artificial Night, Seanan McGuire pushes you all the way in!  In this latest October Daye adventure, Toby finds herself on a much bigger stage, with bigger repercussions with each choice she makes, and with a dark Holloweenish feel to it, An Artificial Night is out just in time.

As half-fae Toby licks her wounds from her previous near-death escapade, she wonders if she might have some time to do some normal, everyday things, but soon receives a knock at the door.  It’s her Fetch, Maye Daye, a special doppelgänger that can only exist if Toby’s death is quickly approaching.  Wondering where her day will go next, she soon receives news that the ceremonial hunt is now on: Blind Michael, lord of the Wild Hunt, is looking for new recruits; only his methods for acquiring them are unorthodox to say the least: he kidnaps them.  Toby finds out that Blind Michael has kidnapped a number of fae children and human children, some of them she is very close to.

There are only certain roads that can take her on this mission to the world fae and the lands of Blind Michael; each of them takes a toll.  Toby enlists the help of some unusual allies: Tybalt, Lord of Cats; the Luidaeg, an offspring of Oberon and sibling to Blind Michael; Lily, a powerful fae of the Japanese Gardens in San Francisco; and her fetch, Maye Daye.  And it is in Blind Michael’s lands that she meets another unusual character who has a strong connection with someone important in Toby’s life.  Also it seems like this Tybalt guy who Toby has always had to hold her own against, may in fact not be such a bad cat after all.

McGuire kicks the series into high gear with this third book, blending the worlds of fae and fable, storytelling and nursery rhyme; while using the strong and interesting characters of her world.  An Artificial Night will leave readers demanding the next book, Late Eclipses, which isn’t too far away: March 2011.

CLICK HERE to purchase your copy from Bookshop Santa Cruz and help support BookBanter.

Originally written on October 27, 2010 ©Alex C. Telander.

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Rosemary and Rue A Local Habitation Feed

A Hallowe’en Story

A Hallowe'en Story

And here’s a Halloween story I wrote some years back while living in Davis . . .

A Hallowe’en Story

By

Alex C. Telander

1

It’s been said that dead men tell no tales, but on the night of Hallowe’en in the year 2006, I was presented with irrefutable evidence to the contrary.  Let me set the scene a little.

The night of October 31st— a Tuesday – was a little cooler than usual for that time of year in Davis.  With the usual Indian summer extending to the end of October, temperatures had been pretty average: some days quite hot, others just warm – with cool nights and cold mornings.  But the day of the 31st began icy and stayed cold all day, along an incessant gusting cold wind from the Sierra mountains, it was a day best spent indoors by a warm fire with hot apple cider.  Sadly I spent it researching my next novel at the Yolo county library, where the heater had decided to break down for the day: I spent it in a jacket and scarf, huddled over old dusty books and trying not to fog up my glasses with my own breath.

At six o’clock the library closed, and I was ushered into the dark and freezing cold, my only transportation being my bike.  The ten minute ride home was agony, my hands numb blocks when I locked the bike up at my home.

It was then that I heard a strange whistling in the air, a whistling I could only describe as eerie on this night of all nights.  Anyone else would’ve passed it off as something trivial, the sound of the wind blowing through a bench or crushed plastic cup.  I wasn’t so sure, feeling the whistle whine in my ears.  I looked across the street at the cemetery where a fog had already begun forming.  It acted like an animal, alive and moving, undulating over the grave stones and around the trunks of the trees, through the bushes like they didn’t exist.  As I stood watching, it actually grew in size and thickness, rendering itself further opaque.

I looked to the edges of the cemetery, at the streets bordering the hallowed grounds, and gasped at how there wasn’t fog anywhere else: it was solely confined within the borders of the place of the dead.  I shivered uncontrollably.  Part of my mind – the scientific one – told me it was just a combination of the vegetation and the sinking depth of the graveyard, the moisture in the soil; a number of factors all contributing to the perfectly plausible, logical, and scientifically explainable existence of this fog.  But another part of my mind – a deeper, ancient part, harking back to the days of humanity’s ancestry – said it was something else entirely, something unnatural and best left alone.

As I quickly turned away from the cemetery and fumbled to unlock the door and get inside my warm abode, I knew then this night was to hold up to its name: the night when people hide inside their homes, because uncommon things are about.

2

After a quick microwave dinner and feeding my mangy cat, I returned to the books with a mighty mug of cider by my side.  I was currently entrenched in the intricacies of the Knights Templar when the whistling picked up again, louder this time.

My cat left her food suddenly for the bedroom where she disappeared beneath my bed – her usual haunt, but I was made of stronger stuff.  Taking a strong draught of my cider, I walked over to the window and looked out to the cemetery once more – the street now a noticeable and comforting barrier between me and this land of rotting corpses.  That’s all there was out there, I told myself: the dead in different stages of decay, some young, some old, but all irrevocably dead.

The fog now lay upon the entire graveyard like a blanket of gray clouds, much like a sea in some ways, for it undulated writhed with movement and life.  A sight to behold, I thought to myself, from my safe confines.  Then I saw a light appear amidst the dense fog, increasing in luminosity and flickering, indicating it was a natural flame – a candle or torch.

I felt my mug of cider sliding between my fingers and gripped it harder, using my other hand to support it.  I noticed that both hands were shaking.  This did not bode well.  I put the mug down on my coffee table and looked to the cemetery again.

The light was still, brighter and bigger now, waving in a sensual dance, hypnotizing and paralyzing.  I couldn’t break away, feeling a spell cast over me at this, this . . . well apparition, for wont of a better word.

Its vibrancy began to weaken, as the flame shrank in size, and in my conscious mind I felt a beckoning command, not specifically spoken, but more a primeval command that was hard to ignore.  It was a feeling I’ve never had before nor since.  But I’d read enough literature about this infamous night to know better.  I forced my mind clear, grasping my trusty mug and taking another long draught.  I returned to fourteenth century Europe and those great protectors of Christianity, seeking solace in this religion I had no faith in.

The flame and whistling gone, I was appeased and occupied, for a while.

3

A few hours later I was in bed, surrounded by blankets, warmth and comfort.  The cat was in a similar position below: I could hear her purring in a pleasured sleep and felt myself imitating her.  Within ten minutes I was deep in slumber.

4

Some time later, I’m still not sure how much, I found myself in my pajamas in the cold cold night, the wind passing through the thin material and raising goose bumps on ever inch of my body.  I opened my eyes to find myself just feet away from the east wall of the cemetery.  I turned and looked behind me at my home, all dark and empty looking.  The front door was wide open, my cat standing in the doorway meowing at me.  I couldn’t hear her over the roar of the wind and the familiar whistling now at a deafening level.  The protective barrier of the street was no longer doing its job.

I felt paralyzed like before, my legs locked in place.  When I tried to move I felt nothing down there.  I reached and gripped my thighs, digging my nails in (I would find semicircular groves carved into my flesh the following day), but still had no feeling.  I turned back and through the iron fence saw the sinuous flame, now larger than ever, the beckoning tone in my head almost a physical tugging.

Feeling miraculously returned to my legs, but I knew if I tried to cross the street, I would lose all feeling again.  There was only one direction I could go, so I headed for the open gateway, reading the inscription on the one of the stone fence posts:

DAVIS

CEMETERY

1941

I knew the oldest grave was dated at 1855; I also knew whatever I was going to find within the fog, the origin of that live flame, was going to be much older; words like ancient, primordial, and Neolithic came to mind.

As I entered the boundaries of the cemetery I heard voices, three or four of them, mumbling and unclear in the fog.  Having gained full control of my body, I immediately strayed from the path and made my way behind trees and tall gravestones, crouching down and even crawling in some cases.  Along with my uncontrollable fear, undeniably, my interest had been piqued.  I wanted to know from what supernatural causality these voices were coming from.

The fog grew thicker the closer I got, until I could barely make out the next gravestone in front of me.  I reached out for the cold granite or the rough trunk, using them as crutches, no longer crawling, but blindly walking into I didn’t know what.

5

The fog can play tricks on you, not just with light, but also with sound, and I was certainly a victim of this on that night.

One moment the voices were beside me, in reaching distance; then far away and distant; then somehow either side of me.  All I could do was plough ahead to where I originally thought the sounds had come from and hope I would find what I was looking for.

Then I found it: the edge of the fog, possibly the boundary from this world to another?  The voices were now louder and clear, guttural and croaky.  There was little to distinguish one from the other except for slight cadences in the sounds.  I could distinctly make out four voices, all men.

I found the nearest gravestone and fell to my knees, bringing my head close the ground: I could smell the moist grass, the fresh soil – I didn’t want to know how recently this grave had been filled.  I crawled inch by inch under the cover of the voices, until my head penetrated the edge of the fog and I found myself looking on a most peculiar and frightful scene.

6

Relatively well hidden by the side of the headstone, I peered up at this strange tableau: four people arranged around a bright and tall yellow flame.  From this angle I could see each of their faces, and held back an audible gasp: they were all dead, long dead, in a severe state of decay: one had a black socket for an eye; the other a hanging flap of gray skin on one cheek; another with the side of his jaw exposed, black gums and dirty teeth fully visible; the last seemed quite human except for the absence of a nose, there was just a dark opening with hanging bits of tissue.  What made the scene bizarre and almost laughable was that they were engaged in conversation, as if this were a regular weekly meeting, nothing out of the ordinary to it.  It was when I began listening to what they were talking about that my blood turned cold and my body seized up.

7

“There I was, driving 90 miles an hour, in the pouring rain, and out of the dark comes this big rig in my lane going along at the same speed, probably, and wham, I smashed through the windshield and found myself crushed and dead against the rig’s radiator,” said one dead man.  “It’s the way I wanted to end it.”

“And how did you end up here?” asked another dead man.

“Don’t really know.  Kind of blacked out after that and found myself in that grave over there,” the first dead man said, pointing into the fog.

8

“Mine was a little more flamboyant.  I wanted to go out with a bang, and did!  Threw myself off a ten-story building and did a belly-flop on the street below.  There were a lot of screams and crying people – great audience,” said the second dead man.  “Been here ever since, but it was well worth it.”

9

“I went for a more traditional ending,” said the third dead man who held his hands out to the flame, not feeling anything.  “Took all the pills I could find in the house, every last one and washed it down with Drano.  Hurt like the dickens for a long time, and then it all went black.  Found myself six feet under in this place.”

The third dead man turned to the fourth who had yet to speak.  “Last, but not least,” the dead man said.

10

The fourth dead man nodded, took an inexistent breath, and began the tale of his death.

“From a young age I’d had a fascination with knives, sharp objects, things that could cut.  My favorite was the razor: so small, yet so deadly, so final.  I used to tape ‘em to my fingers, kinda like a real life Freddy Krueger deal.  I tried it on trees first, then went to small animals, and then bigger and bigger animals.  It was then people started finding out, so I had to be more discreet.  The day I gave five slashes to my neighbors throat and watched her slowly die, I knew I didn’t have much time.

“I made a boiling hot bath and got in.  I could feel my body dying with the heat, my insides giving up.  I still had the razors on both hands.  First I made lots of deep cuts into my wrists, and then I just started cutting all over me, relishing the pain and the heat, until it all mixed together.  It was pretty amazing.  Then I died.  Now, here I am.”

11

I put my hand over my mouth, trying to hold back a roar of terror, as well as a gurgitation of revulsion.  I knew if I made a sound I wouldn’t last long.  I drew back a little, staring at the look on the faces of the dead men: the three that had just heard the story were shocked, the fourth wore a smile on his face.  It made me shiver.

Each dead man looked at the other and said “See you next year” in turn.  Then they looked at the flame and all blew in unison.  From their mouths came the dense fog, encapsulating the flame, shrinking it, then extinguishing it.

I felt the heat now gone, the cold falling on me like an invisible wave.  I pulled back still further as they all stood up.  They each turned away and began walking into the fog.  Soon I was alone, but still I did not move, not knowing if they might be somewhere out there, waiting for me.

What seemed like half an hour later, as I’d been watching the fog begin to thin and slowly dissipate, I finally stood up and made my way back to the edge of the cemetery.  My feet no longer felt part of my body, as I crossed the dark and empty street.  I knew not what hour it was, but there was no a single soul about.

As I reached the open doorway of my house, I turned and looked back at the cemetery to discover the fog completely gone.  It looked quite ordinary and harmless now, for a cemetery.

I turned and almost tripped over my cat as I walked into my house.  I picked her up and held her closed, feeling her hot body begin to warm mine.  I closed and engaged all three locks on the door.  I set the cat down on the floor, expecting her to disappear beneath the bed, but she immediately hopped up onto it.  I got in beneath the blankets and she came over and sat on my chest, purring reassuringly.  It was uncanny, but I felt comforted by my cat, and she helped me get to sleep with the warm vibrations on my chest.  I only hoped I wouldn’t be making any more visits to the graveyard this night.  I looked at the bedside clock and saw it was past midnight.

12

The following morning I was awoken by the cat getting off my chest.  I pulled the blankets back and stared at my muddy feet.  What I hoped had been a horrible dream came to reality.

I decided to get to the bottom of it, put on warm clothes and headed across the street.  It was overcast, with a light mist hanging in the air, but nothing like the heavy fog of the night before; by noon it would burn off and be a warm fall day.

It took me some time to trace my steps to the spot.  I could make out four distinct indentations in the ground where four dead men might have sat.  I walked over to the familiar gravestone and was able to make out the disturbed earth from my crawling about.

I began searching every grave in the cemetery.  I was alone and knew I wouldn’t be disturbed at this hour.  It was in the older part of the cemetery that I found them.  They were next to each other, four of them, in a row.  Each bore a small headstone with R.I.P. carved into each, but no name or inscription.  In these graves lay four unknown men.  I stared at the freshly turned earth in each of the graves, and wondered if the groundskeeper would notice.  Maybe this was one day of the year when he chose not to come to the cemetery.

I walked away from the unknown graves with thoughts of where I’d be next Hallowe’en.  I knew one thing: it wouldn’t be here.

A Halloween Post with Some Recommended Halloween Reads

It’s that time of year again — Hallowe’en — and this year I continue a tradition I started in 2007 where I read my personal favorite Halloween book: The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury.  Since ’07 I have built on the Halloween reading, adding some Edgar Allan Poe and whatever else I think my be fun and enjoyable and Halloweeny during the week leading up to the fated night.

This year I enjoyed:

“October in the Chair” by Neil Gaiman

“The Masque of the Red Death” by Edgar Allan Poe

“The Pit and the Pendulum” by Edgar Allan Poe

“The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe

“The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allan Poe

“The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe

The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

And it seems like Neil Gaiman himself wants to do something similar with his modest proposal to have more days during the year where we give books as gifts, and proposes for Halloween to give scary books to people — kids or adults — as well as to read scary stories.  He even put up a quick website that will grow and build over the coming year in time for next Halloween.  On the site there’s a page of recommended articles with suggested Halloween reading from the Washington Post, Joe Hill’s blog, The Huffington Post, and How Stuff Works.

And here are some recommended reviews for books you might to read yourself or to each other this Halloween:

FOR KIDS (OR ADULTS) —

Among the Ghosts Coraline The Graveyard Book

Halloween Tree

 

FOR ADULTS —

Neverland I am Not a Serial Killer Feed Horns Death Troopers The Strain The Terror The Living DeadWorld War Z

 

“The Amber Spyglass” by Philip Pullman (Knopf, 2003)

Amber Spyglassstarstarstarstar

His Dark Materials Boxed Set: Part Three of Three

In the final and lengthier conclusion to the trilogy, the full realization of this story is brought to light to such an extent that everything now becomes symbolic in some way, literature quotes begin each chapter, and the depth and complexity of the novel passes far beyond any childhood or young adult fantasy, presenting a complicated plot and moral for even adults to handle.  It is in this final book that the strengths and beliefs of our heroes will be tested to their extent, while our own beliefs will be in danger, when the basis for all religion and faith in all worlds is brought into question and threatened.

CLICK HERE to purchase your copy from Bookshop Santa Cruz and help support BookBanter.

Originally published on May 12th, 2003 ©Alex C. Telander.

Originally published in the Long Beach Union.