Ille Burn my Books
Oct. 6th, 2006 05:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustOkay, fine, I lied—or not lied, so much, as I’m going to have to do a bunch of these soon enough anyhow, so why not get back in practice? Therefore:
Tropic of Night and Valley of Bones, by Michael Gruber
Smart, swift, sensual thrillers starring Iago "Jimmy" Paz, a Cuban-African Miami detective who just doesn’t seem able to walk around most days without getting supernatural shit stuck to his shoe. Both revolve around really strong/scarily fucked-up female characters, which is also a plus—but I think the moment which really sold me on them came in Tropic, when Jimmy asks our antiheroine du livre what’s going on, only to be told: "Do you prefer the answer that completely topples your established concept of reality, or the one in which my ex-husband just gives people drugs which allow him to hypnotize them into thinking he can do African witchcraft?"
By the way, I’ve had to rethink my initial estimation of these books somewhat…they’re a bit too uplifting to qualify as horror novels masquerading in another genre’s underclothes. For THAT, you’d have to go to—
The Dead Letters, by Tom Piccirilli
Believe it or not, I have never actually read anything by Tom Piccirilli before, and this book hasn’t really made me want to run out and pick up A Choir of Ill Children (though the excerpt at the back does make me want to catch up with his next slated title, The Midnight Road). But don’t avoid Dead Letters because it seems all hardboiled, or what-have-you…the inappropriately literate serial killers, obsessive vigilantes and personal God-building cultists contained within have very definitely been drinking from the same dark trencher as every prime noirhorror stylist from William Hjortsberg to Mike Mignola. Poetry and emotional grue abound, running neck-and-neck through a truly pitch-black obstacle course that recalls the best of Michael Marshall’s The Straw Men series. Enviably brilliant.
Then we have yer basic airport books made good, comfort brain-food that comes in conveniently slurpable sizes, brand-name franchised for steady consumption. I’m not trying to be insulting here, but let’s not confuse the issue by calling pots kettles, shall we? Ladies and gents, I give you:
Gateways and Infernal, by F. Paul Wilson; The Last Coyote, by Michael Connolly
The first two are Wilson’s latest Repairman Jack novels to hit paperback, the last one of Connolly’s best Hieronymous "Harry" Bosch books. While I still count Wilson’s The Tomb as one of the best pure fun reads of my formative years, I’d’ve been perfectly happy not to ever see Jack return again—let alone eke out his familiar basic vengeance case/family problem hook/big bad from the Otherwhere formula over an additional eight installments! Yet here we are again, and here I am along for the ride; of the two, I prefer Gateways, though for sheer freaktitude you sure can’t beat Infernal’s hovering leathery MacGuffin, called (I shit you not) the Lilitongue of Gefreda.
Meanwhile, following Mom’s besotted example (I think she’s read everything Connolly’s currently got in print over the last month or so), I continue to catch up with driven L.A. homicide dick Bosch’s complicated life-story in probably the worst single way, ie by reading it completely out of sequence—I’ve already spoiled myself rotten for several impending future traumas, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because with Bosch emotional context is everything. He’s the ultimate "Caught in a Moment" poster-boy for calcified grief and rage, always packing a nice mix of ironic self-understanding mixed with blind stick-to-itiveness. In this one, he returns to the root of his problems by solving his mother’s murder, which is more than James Ellroy ever did. Does this help? Not much.
Okay, that’s all for tonight. I need food, sleep, and look forward to perhaps doing WORK on the morrow. Sweet, sweet work! What a pity I must pay somebody to take my son away for large chunks of the day in order to serve you as you were meant to be served, my horrid storytelling mistress!
Tropic of Night and Valley of Bones, by Michael Gruber
Smart, swift, sensual thrillers starring Iago "Jimmy" Paz, a Cuban-African Miami detective who just doesn’t seem able to walk around most days without getting supernatural shit stuck to his shoe. Both revolve around really strong/scarily fucked-up female characters, which is also a plus—but I think the moment which really sold me on them came in Tropic, when Jimmy asks our antiheroine du livre what’s going on, only to be told: "Do you prefer the answer that completely topples your established concept of reality, or the one in which my ex-husband just gives people drugs which allow him to hypnotize them into thinking he can do African witchcraft?"
By the way, I’ve had to rethink my initial estimation of these books somewhat…they’re a bit too uplifting to qualify as horror novels masquerading in another genre’s underclothes. For THAT, you’d have to go to—
The Dead Letters, by Tom Piccirilli
Believe it or not, I have never actually read anything by Tom Piccirilli before, and this book hasn’t really made me want to run out and pick up A Choir of Ill Children (though the excerpt at the back does make me want to catch up with his next slated title, The Midnight Road). But don’t avoid Dead Letters because it seems all hardboiled, or what-have-you…the inappropriately literate serial killers, obsessive vigilantes and personal God-building cultists contained within have very definitely been drinking from the same dark trencher as every prime noirhorror stylist from William Hjortsberg to Mike Mignola. Poetry and emotional grue abound, running neck-and-neck through a truly pitch-black obstacle course that recalls the best of Michael Marshall’s The Straw Men series. Enviably brilliant.
Then we have yer basic airport books made good, comfort brain-food that comes in conveniently slurpable sizes, brand-name franchised for steady consumption. I’m not trying to be insulting here, but let’s not confuse the issue by calling pots kettles, shall we? Ladies and gents, I give you:
Gateways and Infernal, by F. Paul Wilson; The Last Coyote, by Michael Connolly
The first two are Wilson’s latest Repairman Jack novels to hit paperback, the last one of Connolly’s best Hieronymous "Harry" Bosch books. While I still count Wilson’s The Tomb as one of the best pure fun reads of my formative years, I’d’ve been perfectly happy not to ever see Jack return again—let alone eke out his familiar basic vengeance case/family problem hook/big bad from the Otherwhere formula over an additional eight installments! Yet here we are again, and here I am along for the ride; of the two, I prefer Gateways, though for sheer freaktitude you sure can’t beat Infernal’s hovering leathery MacGuffin, called (I shit you not) the Lilitongue of Gefreda.
Meanwhile, following Mom’s besotted example (I think she’s read everything Connolly’s currently got in print over the last month or so), I continue to catch up with driven L.A. homicide dick Bosch’s complicated life-story in probably the worst single way, ie by reading it completely out of sequence—I’ve already spoiled myself rotten for several impending future traumas, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because with Bosch emotional context is everything. He’s the ultimate "Caught in a Moment" poster-boy for calcified grief and rage, always packing a nice mix of ironic self-understanding mixed with blind stick-to-itiveness. In this one, he returns to the root of his problems by solving his mother’s murder, which is more than James Ellroy ever did. Does this help? Not much.
Okay, that’s all for tonight. I need food, sleep, and look forward to perhaps doing WORK on the morrow. Sweet, sweet work! What a pity I must pay somebody to take my son away for large chunks of the day in order to serve you as you were meant to be served, my horrid storytelling mistress!
