Volume 5 of the continuing Season 8 of Buffy (I also read Volume 4: No Future for You recently but apparently forgot to enter it here). This volume is comprised of five stand-alone vignettes, which verge from the dark to the hilarious (I particularly liked the mission Buffy and Andrew take together, which features some classic Buffy-style pop culture references). I love the whole season 8 concept, and the writing is so good, it reminds me of all the things I loved about the show. Looking forward to the next volume.
Every year I read a few books I just don’t care much for—this year, one of them was The Good Thief. On the face of it, the story of a one-handed orphan boy in the early 19th century, adopted by a thief and con man, seems like a great idea. But the execution is colorless, and the characters are weaker than I hoped. Most of all, in the same problem I had with much of Joe Abercrombie’s works, the story lacks shape. It’s redeemed somewhat by the ending, in which many of the plot threads are resolved, but much of the book is a meander of seemingly unconnected events. I think I was also partially uncomfortable as for some reason it seemed like a young-adult story starting out, but it didn’t become apparent until around halfway through that it was exceptionally brutal and graphic. Any way, not on my recommended list.
Pratchett’s latest, hot off the presses. This time, Sir Terry focuses his attention on association football, or what we Yanks would unwittingly call “soccer.” Lord Vetinari (one of my perennial favorites) attempts to tame Ankh-Morpork’s version of the sport, which is little more than an organized mob, into something much nearer our own world, with predictably humorous results. Pratchett is in fine form here, and he gets credit for making me laugh out loud at several parts. Features cameos by a number of his well-known other favorites, such as Rincewind and Sam Vimes—and what would any Ankh-Morpork story be without Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. Surprisingly enough, in a story with as much mayhem as this one has, there’s nary an appearance by our old friend Death. More’s the pity.
A delightful little story for kids and adults alike, following the young title character and his encounters with Norse mythology. Part coming of age story, part timeless classic, Gaiman’s storytelling is as always masterful: at turns both uplifting and sharply funny. I kept thinking as I read it that this would be the perfect story to read aloud to kids. It’s close cousin in some ways to his Newbery Medal-winning The Graveyard Book, with the two protagonists even sharing rhyming names (and, to a certain extent, similar goals). A quick read, but a recommended one.
I’ve been reading this book on and off for the better part of a year (it was a Christmas present along with Roy Blount’s Alphabet Juice) and I’ve at last finished it. Hitchings’s book traces the various influences of English over history, cataloging its borrowings from languages like German, French, Japanese, Arabic, and more. While at times it’s easy to get bogged down in his lengthy list of vocabulary, there are plenty of “a-ha” moments here when you come across a particular word. I especially enjoyed Hitchings’s last couple chapters, which deal with English’s more recent changes and project the kind of development the language is likely to undergo in the future, as non-native speakers outpace native speakers, and other languages such as Spanish and Chinese continue to impart their own influences.
The wizard of Discworld takes a break from his most famous creation to tell the story of two survivors of a giant tsunami in a fictional version of the South Pacific, circa the nineteenth century. Thirteen year old Daphne is shipwrecked and finds herself alone on an island with Mau, a young man whose only family—his whole Nation—have been wiped out by the giant wave. Together, they begin to rebuild the Nation, as survivors arrive from all over—some good, some bad. It’s a wonderful tale, told with Pratchett’s usual whimsical humor, tinged with darker elements of death and the necessity of growing up. Pratchett has long been one of my very favorite authors, and his recent battle with Alzheimer’s makes me savor his work all the more.
Master storyteller Gaiman and artist Kubert team up to tell the last story of Batman, paying homage to his many incarnations in the seventy year history. Particular standouts for me include The Gentleman’s Gentleman’s Tale, which tells the Dark Knight’s tale from the perspective of loyal manservant Alfred, with a twist that reminds me a bit of Gaiman’s A Study in Emerald. Kubert does a great job with artistic references to the different eras of Batman (one particular three-panel page has an extremely subtle example that you could easily miss) and Gaiman does a good job of summing up the iconic superhero’s story. Of course, the weight of the story is somewhat lessened by the fact that this is the world of comic books, where nobody ever really dies. The Deluxe Edition also features a number of Gaiman’s other Batman-universe stories.
Unlike most of his previous books, Miéville’s The City and the City takes place in our world, here and now—mostly. The setting is the most intriguing part of the story, a pair of “overlapping” city states, the decaying Beszél and more modern Ul Qoma, in Eastern Europe. The inhabitants of the two towns pass each other on the streets, ardently unseeing and unhearing their counterparts, and attempting not to “breach” between the two cities. But when a murdered woman is found in Beszél, Inspector Tyador Borlú’s investigation takes him to both cities as he unravels a larger conspiracy. The idea of the split city is fascinating, especially when placed in the context of our modern day world, though the more you progress, the more you realize that the separation is enforced more by the citizens (and the mysterious Breach) than by any other mechanism. Unfortunately, I found Borlú as the hero—and our first-person narrator—is a bit bloodless, as are many of the other characters. Miéville’s prose is a little sparser than usual, perhaps in part an attempt to echo the noir-ish overtones of the story he’s telling. But it’s the city (and the city) that is—are—by far the most vibrant part of this story.
A post-apocalyptic tale of ninjas, love, mimes, friendship, and the horrors of war: this is the first book by British author Nick Harkaway (son of espionage thriller master John Le Carré). Recommended by my dear friend Michael Kleinman, The Gone-Away World is a fantastic epic of a world, much like our own, in which the ultimate weapon—a bomb that makes everything Go Away—has been unleashed on humanity. We follow hero Gonzo Lubitsch through the eyes of his best friend, as they set out to save that world, and we backfill to learn the entire story of Gonzo’s upbringing in the world before it goes to hell. Harkaway’s writing is lush, rife with funny asides and nuanced moments of introspection. It’s so good that it makes you wish you could write that way too—or maybe that’s just how I feel. I await Harkaway’s next book with interest.
The ninth book in King’s usually excellent series of mysteries following an older Sherlock Holmes and his new partner, Mary Russell. This time, Holmes and Russell are sought out by the detective’s son, Damian Adler—the result of a liaison with “the woman”, Irene Adler—to help find Damian’s missing wife and daughter. What follows is an exploration of the bohemian lifestyle and cults of the mid 1920s, with references to Aleister Crowley and other period figures. This is one of King’s better outings, on par with The Game, and much better than the abominable Justice Hall, though not up to my favorite of the series, O Jerusalem. The ending is a bit of a cliffhanger, leading me to believe the story will be continued in next year’s The Green Man.
