Deadmau5 aut Mus Mortuus?

 My work allows me an hour lunch. I try to consume all my needed food (gotta get that protein in) before lunch, if at all possible. That way, I have an entire hour free to mentally decompress. My workplace is about a one minute drive from a beautiful branch of the Ice Age Trail on one hand, and, across the street, the Janesville Optimist Community Park. The Ice Age Trail is a paved, slowly-winding path through prairie (with restored prairie grasses) and wood (with deer that are so tame, they don't spook until you are very close to them - I've wondered if they might eat out of your hand, but haven't been brave enough to test this yet). The Optimist Community Park has dirt and grass trails that cover 35 square acres.

On my lunch breaks, I like to take a half hour or thereabouts (or even ten minutes, if I have errands to run) and read while I walk. That's how I read the book I most recently finished, Ad Infinitum. I'll also occasionally turn on the Derive App and see where it takes me. And sometimes, I just walk in, stand, and listen to the birds (it's a bird-watcher's paradise). Whatever it takes, I go there to reconnect with my inner self during the work day. I'm dreading winter, when temps and conditions will make this walk far less likely. Maybe I'll use some of that time for writing.

Recently, like within the last two weeks, I came across a dead mouse in the Optimist Community Park. I felt sorry for the little guy, laying there with flies buzzing around him. So I gave him a little private funeral. My Latin is not great, so I had to settle for the (probably incorrectly-structured) text: Mus mortuus non respirare. I then gathered a few prairie flowers and laid them by him. The next day, the flowers were still there, but Mr. Mus was gone, likely eaten by crows. Of course, I knew that he (honestly, I have no idea how to check for a mouse's gender, nor do I want to know) was going to be eaten, whether by bird, bug, or bacteria. But I wanted to celebrate his little life, really celebrate life itself, as I am closer to the end than the beginning of my own. 

Truth be told, I hike the Ice Age Trail more than the Optimist Community Park trails. So fast forward a couple of days and, lo and behold, I find another mouse dead on the trail, likely stricken by a bicycle. Well, that was odd, I thought. What are the chances that a mouse would be schmucked by a bike while crossing an eight-foot wide paved path?

Apparently VERY high.

Over the course of the last two weeks, I've found five dead mice on my short hikes. And I just happened to get there before the scavengers did. Five dead mice in two weeks on the same stretch of tales. This is how conspiracy theories start. It's like the beginning to an X-Files episode. 

So, in all, I held five very brief mouse funerals. I admit that I checked the trail both ways before plucking prairie flowers. I know how prairie flower aficionados are. Had I been caught by one of them, I likely would have ended up paralyzed, stuffed into a bearskin to be burned alive. But I was able to dodge the prairie flower inquisitors and gave my little bit of homage to these little guys:

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Ad Infinitum: A Biography of Latin

 

Ad Infinitum: A Biography of Latin by Nicholas Ostler
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Six months it took me to read this book. Six months. Not because of it's length, not because it was boring (though there were moments), but because it just took that long to slowly absorb the contents, which are expansive. Nicholas Ostler tackles a sweeping overview of how Latin was a force that shaped history, and how history shaped Latin.

I started "studying" Latin a few years ago, I think it was during Covid, but I was really only dabbling. I've covered my reasons for doing so and my plans for the future elsewhere, so I won't belabor that here. If you have any recommendations, by the way, I'm listening.

My reason for reading Ad Infinitum specifically was this: I stumbled on the book at an estate sale where an older professor for the University of Wisconsin-Madison had collected a very, very large book collection. If it hasn't been made clear yet, I am very picky about what I read and buy. There are only so many pages one can read in life, so I will remain choosy until I die, I suppose. I've wasted too much time reading works that I felt were a waste of my time (to be fair, you don't really know until you've at least begun reading the book), so I don't often take in orphaned books. This was an exception, largely driven by the fact that I happened to have dipped my toe in the language and had, at about that time, begun listening to the excellent History of Rome podcast. Here, then, was a book that bridged the gap between the two.

And the book acts as that bridge, and more. It's not a book primarily about linguistics, though there is a skeleton of the more academic issues of evolving phonemes. It is about culture and the influence that language has on culture and vice versa. It is about the evolution of a spoken and written tongue bending to the will of those who use (and abuse) it. It is more of a convoluted map of how we got to where we are today in regards to this seemingly mystic language and its uses.

Being in no way a Classicist, I do realize that there are some problems with the book, which have been pointed out in other reviews. But overall, I strongly recommend it to the lay reader who wants to understand the context of a language that we read and hear almost every day, but know next to nothing about.

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Into the Cosmos

 

I've been a fan of Decadence Comics for years now. I think I first encountered there work in 2017 or thereabouts. My first purchase of their products was Geopolitical Manipulation Through the use of Fungi Based Parasites on 186F, which I strongly recommend. Since then, I've picked up a variety of their works and never been disappointed. Most of their books feature art by Stathis Tsemberlidis or Lando, a pair of brilliant artists who, when one looks at their work combined, is loosely reminiscent of the work of Moebius combined with that of Pepe Moreno and Arnaud Dombre (better known as Arno, from his collaborations with Jodorowsky in what appears to be the now-defunct Heavy Metal Magazine), but in a more organic register. 

Now, one of my favorite movies of all time is 2001: A Space Odyssey. So, when I saw that 50 Watts Books was publishing a collection of illustrations from Tsemberlidis featuring work from his graphic novelization of 2001, Solaris, and Rendezvous with Rama, along with the comic "Protoconscious", I hit the buy button before I even knew what I was doing. Thankfully, sometimes my instincts are right. 

While the entirety of these stories are not contained herein (except for "Protoconscious"), those familiar with either the written or filmed versions of these science fiction staples will recognize the touchpoints. But Tsemberlidis, while providing gracious nods to the originals, makes the works his own with his distinctive (if not evocative of the aforementioned artists) style and impressionistic structuring of panels. 

I am particularly fond of the illustration of the black monolith of 2001:

Now, I might be playing a little favoritism here, as another black monolith of much larger dimensions, which I dubbed The Black Cliff, features in my newest published Mutant Crawl Classics adventure, At the Mutants of Madness. 

TTRPG nepotism aside, Tsemberlidis has provided here a panoply of compelling imagery and storytelling via illustration. If you're looking for surrealistic science fiction art that uses abstraction to trigger the imagination, you've found yourself a treasure. 

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Mus Mortuus Non Respirare

 I've probably written that sentence incorrectly. There are tens of thousands of people who could correct me if I'm wrong. At least I think there are. But now it's my turn to learn Latin.

Where does this poor dead mouse come in? Well, I have to admit, it's a long stretch from this erstwhile rodent to this page, but in my mind it's not far at all. 

I've been "studying" Latin for a year now. Meaning I've been doing Duolingo. Meaning, I haven't really been studying, but more . . . familiarizing myself with Latin. 

This winter, I intend to begin an honest attempt to learn some Latin. I understand, I'll probably die before I'm fluent. But I'm going to give it my best college try.

Meaning, I'm going to treat it like a class. Sort of. 

As you know, I recently finished I, Claudius. And I'm currently reading Ad Infinitum: A Biography of Latin. I have SPQR lined up to read, as well. And I've listened to a fair clip of The History of Rome podcast. And, of course, I've been trying to translate the little quips from Asterix and Obelix since my youth. 

So, I've read around the language and dabbled a bit. But now it's time to get a little more serious.

I've got a little thumb drive with something like 200 Latin primers. Nice pickup from Etsy. But only recently have I picked up some honest to goodness books. Physical books. Something I can sink my eyes and brain into. They are:

Lingua Latina per se Illustrata: pars 1: Familia Romana, because I hear that this is truly the best book to learn Latin from (Reddit told me so)

Winne Ille Pu, and this one for a couple of reasons, not least of which is that when I lived in Italy, my third grade teacher, Mrs. Wells, who was the best teacher I had until college, read us Winnie the Pooh with all the voices, just like in the movies and when the movie came out at the Air Force base we lived at at the time (San Vito de Normani, if you must know), I stood in line for an hour only to have the theater sell out as we were ten people back in line and I cried and I cried and I cried. Yeah, I was a sensitive kid. But now I get Winnie the Pooh in Latin, and I will always hear in my mind Mrs. Wells, who could have slotted in on any of those movies and given all those professional voice actors a run for their money. No, I'm serious. She was *that* good!

Perseus et Medusa, because I have this recent fascination about Medusa that I can't explain and I'm fairly certain she is going to creep into my next piece of fiction. Almost 100% certain, in fact. 

And, finally, Medieval Latin Lyrics, because I understand the language was very different during the Middle Ages than it had been during the Classical Era and I want a taste of them knights-in-shining-armor kicking but while poorly-quoting Cicero. 

I think I'm going to just dive into all four at once. And I might also give a shot at De Spectris Lemuribus et Magnis because who doesn't like books about ghosts in Latin? 

I'm curious how others have fared in studying Latin outside of the context of a formally-taught course in a bonified educational institution? I suspect that it would benefit me to try that. Maybe later. Much later. When I can take college courses for free because it's interesting to watch retirees march to their grave with their nose in a book. 

Did I mention a book about ghosts in Latin? 

By the way, yes, I laid those flowers by the dead mouse. He just looked so vulnerable there, and I wanted him to be remembered. Plus, it gave me a reason to practice what little Latin I do know, even if it's wrong. Besides, when the world is cold and dead outside and I'm trying to just survive the Wisconsin winter, I can look at this post and think back on the very hot day I took that walk and realize that there's always another spring coming. Well . . . almost always. 

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I, Claudius

 

I, Claudius by Robert Graves
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Why "I, Claudius"? It's a good question. I, Forrest, typically hate biographies, even historical biographies (and I am, by training, a historian). When I lived in Italy, as a young child, I was mostly ambivalent about the place, outside of the amazing food (which is only vaguely like 99.9% of "Italian" food served in America), some of the architecture (we found pillars to old Roman shrines out in the artichoke fields and WWII bunkers on the beach when out exploring), and my initial exposure to Asterix & Obelix. Later in life, as I reflect back on it through nostalgic glasses, Italy was alright. In fact, I'd like to go back and visit.

So, naturally, I should study some Italian, write?

No.

I'm studying Latin. Slowly and haltingly, much in the way Claudius spoke. And I find myself not just trying to learn the grammar and vocabulary, but poking around the language itself and exploring it's origins, it's metamorphosis over time, and the cultures which spoke and wrote it. That is reason number 1.

Reason number 2 is a little more banal. I really liked Robert Grave's book The White Goddess. It's not perfect, but it is compelling enough, warts and all, that I will revisit and reread it again in the future. I can't say that about a lot of non-fiction, if I'm being honest. I wanted to see what Grave's did with a fictional book, based strongly on historical accounts (many of them fictionalized, no doubt).

Reason 3 is Caligula. Who isn't interested in Caligula? If he doesn't at least pique your interest, I don't know if we can be friends. He's one of the more intriguing crazed megalomaniacs in the historical record and if even half the things that are claimed about him are true, he makes even contemporary crazed megalomaniacs (take your pick from any of the superpowers) look tame in comparison. Besides, I don't know if you know this, but Thomas Negovan has worked on a team that has re-done (not "restored," but actually "re-done") the titillating movie about Caligula into something coherent that showcases actor Malcom McDowell's greatest performance, the "Ultimate Cut".

Now, my assessment. It continually held my interest, which is not something I can say about most biographies (fictional or, ha-ha, "non-fictional"). I had listened to the History of Rome podcast some time ago and got to Diocletian or so, so I had a little bit of an idea of what was going to happen. Still, already knowing the end, Graves held my interest enough that I blasted through the last third of the book fairly non-stop. As is usual, I was reading two other books at any given time while reading "I, Claudius," but the lame, stuttering emperor kept me coming back for more, taking up more of my "spare" time than I'd care to admit. Most of the time the book read as smooth as butter.

I attribute this to the voice that Graves breathed into Claudius. Claudius comes across as very human, full of foibles and fears, but with a good sense of humor. Wise, witty, and clumsy as an oaf. I felt for the guy, or at least for his fictional representation. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, as he points out in the ultimate non-sequitur of an ending, he considered himself, first and foremost, a historian.

And were the Claudius parts juicy? If by "juicy," you mean bloody, yes. If you mean "sexy," there's nothing sexually graphic in the novel. Graves uses hints, allegations, and some colorful allusions to hint at the debauchery that was happening (mostly) behind the scenes. But if you're allergic to violence, you might want to reconsider. You think horror movies are violent? Brace yourself.

Overall, though the language was very straightforward (and I like my prose a little more stylized), this was an extremely satisfying read. Graves shows a light touch in the areas that are speculative and chooses to emphasize certain aspects of the historical record (which may or may not be factual, but are at least based on fact) in order to "wow" his readers.

I have to add that my copy of the book is a 1953 paperback that I bought on Ebay. This book has seen some years and, while it arrived in great condition (i.e., I got what I paid for), the thing literally fell apart in my hands as I read it. I can't think of a more apt representation of the slow crumbling of the Roman empire under a trio of despots, the broken chunks of which were put into the hands of the man who chronicled its decay, Claudius himself.

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Dreamland RPG Preview

 If you know me, or if you've read my blog for any length of time, you'll know that three things that inform a great deal of my life are dreams, "weird" fiction, and tabletop roleplaying games. So when I learned, several years ago, that Jason Thompson, artist behind the amazing graphic novel version of The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath & Other Stories was behind a TTRPG focusing exclusively on the dreamlands, I was very excited. 

Then, last year at Gameholecon, I had the privilege to play in a game and, frankly, was blown away. This is a game that rewards creativity, it is not a player's game, but a creator's game, and I am ALL in on it! The mechanics use word cards that players use to influence and create actions and even the environment itself (a malleable dreamworld where creation is the ultimate power). I had been prepared to be disappointed (just in case), but that preparation melted away as the game play far surpassed my cautious emotional hedging. It was one of the most fun games I've played at a convention (and I've played a few). 

So now, you can download the quickstart rules in preparation for the upcoming Kickstarter next year. I'll be saving my gold pieces to be able to splurge on this one. I only get excited about Kickstarter campaigns every few years - yeah, I'm a skeptic and a bit of a cheapskate at times - but 2025 is going to be the year I get excited. 

Go here to download the quickstart rules. And have a gander at this art! This is just a sample of the goodness that is and will be the Dreamland RPG

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The Book of Monelle

 

The Book of Monelle by Marcel Schwob
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"When Marcel Schwob published The Book of Monelle in French in 1894, it immediately became the unofficcial bible of the French Symbolist movement," claims the back-cover copy of the (always amazing and criminally under-rated - and, incidentally, publisher of one of my favorite books of recent years) Wakefield Press edition of The Book of Monelle. One can easily see the segue from the artistic themes of the Symbolists (particularly the Belgian contingent) to Schwob's work here. This might also have something to do with the mood and themes of his short story collection The King in the Golden Mask, so, perhaps my artistic synesthesia bleeds into one morass of mythicaly-ethereal dream oceans.

I ascertain that one of the main ways that Monelle fed the symbolists was through a sort of literary sleight-of-hand, in which the title of the book's sections intentionally put one in an emotional state, ready to "receive" what the title had to offer, only to be slipped a story that contrasted with the story's title, sometimes directly opposing it, at other times, skewing meanings in unpredictable ways. This is particularly true in the first section "The Sisters of Monelle". For instance, the story "The Voluptuous" is anything but sexually attractive, while "The Savage" ends on a note of purely innocent love. In some ways, I see this baiting as a very mild precursor to what the dadaists and surrealists would take to extremes later on.

The second section, the actual "Book of Monelle," is a logically-slippery slope, a time-less (meaning that time has become a sort of stew with bits and pieces of past, present, and future swirling before the reader) dreamstate or fugue. Only on reading the translator's notes did I realize that Schwob had written the book using his lover, Louise (surname unknown), a young woman, likely a prostitute, with whom he had fallen in love before she was riddled through and killed by tuberculosis, becoming, over time, a sort of saintly figure in Schwob's mythology. Of course, this was deeply affecting to Schwob, and one can feel the emotional tug of "Monelle" throughout. We can feel Schwob's sorrow and his longing, especially in the pleading of Monelle's suitor to stay with or return to him and the children (not their children, but any child that is trying to escape the entrapment of adulthood and its banalities). So, besides the intellectual and philosophical exercise of the symbolism herein, we are swept up in a powerfully-emotional, softly-turning whirlwind, pushed aloft, then dropped to the depths of sorrow. It is a moving journey, and not one to be soon forgotten.

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Bootleg Reverse

I believe the last bootleg vinyl I owned was a really crappy live recording of Metallica's "Creeping Death" I got back in 1986 or so. Since I've been bitten again by the vinyl bug, I've avoided bootlegs, but in this case, I couldn't pass it up. The reason is that I can't find any "legitimate" vinyl releases of Pink Floyd's Live at Pompeii, which I consider, along with Blue Oyster Cult's ETI Live and Heaven and Hell's Live at Radio City Music Hall, to be one of the best live performances ever recorded. This was before the Floyd burst into popularity with "Dark Side of the Moon". In fact, it was the year before that high watermark and many, many years before their next biggest hit, "The Wall". This is the Floyd I missed because I was so young and because before the days of the interwebs, one just couldn't find copies of this thing or, as in my case, one didn't even know such a thing existed. 

But now, thanks to a birthday gift from my wife (I'm incredibly surprised by this because she hates most rock music, though she is incredibly musical), I am back in the bootleg business. 

This puppy is soooo bootleg it doesn't even have a sleeve, just this printed piece of glossy in a mylar bag. Please excuse me while I go listen to some psychedelic wanderings. Don't worry, I'll be back. I'm not going to go Syd Barret on this one, tempting as it is.

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Going to Gamehole 2024

 Alright! I just got into the following events for Gamehole 2024! I will see you there!

Thursday:

9 AM - 1 PM: Branches of Bone (Cthulhu Dark Ages)

2 PM - 6 PM: Into the Clouds (Empire of the Petal Throne)

7 PM - 11 PM: Catastrophe Island (Dungeon Crawl Classics)

Friday:

9 AM-11 AM: Resurrection Men (Achtung! Cthulhu)

12 PM - 4 PM: Death Station (Classic Traveller)

4 PM - 8 PM: Black Letter: Legacy (Call of Cthulhu)

8 PM - 10 PM: Intro to Warhammer 40K RPG: Rain of Mercy (Warhammer 40K RPG)

Saturday:

8 AM - 12 PM: Thicker Than Blood Part 1: Forgotten Island (Troika!)

2 PM - 4 PM: Classic Battletech Grinder (Battletech Miniatures)

4 PM - 10 PM: Black Sun Rising (Call of Cthulhu)

So, as usual, a preponderance of Call of Cthulhu-and-adjacent games, 1 DCC/MCC game, 1 minis game (Battletech), 1 game I've never played before (Warhammer 40K RPG). This is my preferred mix for cons, so I'm pretty happy with it. The only things I couldn't quite fit were a Vaesen game and Cthulhu Invictus session. Maybe next time around. 

I usually get in a Wednesday night off-the-books game, as well. Usually something incredibly stupid and over the top involving DCC. And, frankly, that's usually my favorite game of the whole con. We'll see what shenanigans happen then. 

I'm seriously thinking I will run something for Garycon: Taking the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons coloring album dungeon (which is absolutely ridiculous) and running it using DCC. Gotta work on 1st edition AD&D monster conversions to DCC this winter, though. 

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Intermizzio

 I'm closing the following apps on my phone for a month. This doesn't mean I absolutely won't be on them, just that I'm not going to give myself access throughout the day, unless I log in on my PC. It's not quite a social media "fast," but more of a social media "short-term diet":

Goodbye (for one month, at least):

Instagram

Threads

Reddit

Bluesky

Of course, I left Twitter long ago and only get on Facebook maybe every other month or so. For now, my "social media" consists of:

Blogger

Substack

Discord

Goodreads

That's quite enough for now. Though, if Discogs had any social media functionality, I'd be on there, as well. 

If you need me, email me at f*o*r*r*e*s*t*j*a*g*u*i*r*r*e*at*g*m*a*i*l*.*c*o*m*  - you know the trick . . . 

I might pop in to make the occasional announcement about my upcoming book from Underland Press. Yep, time for another collection!

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A Perfect Vacuum

 

A Perfect Vacuum by Stanisław Lem
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is, admittedly, the first time I have read a work by Stanislaw Lem. I'll be reading more, after this. Much more, in all likelihood. Of course, Lem has been lauded for decades by critics and colleagues alike, so he was always on my list of authors I ought to read. But, stubbornness being what it is, it wasn't until I listened to an episode featuring Lem's work on Weird Studies a couple years ago that I felt I needed to read his work. As usual, Weird Studies pushed me again into uncharted territories. More on that later.

I've been a fan of Science Fiction for many decades now, a habit I picked up from my father, who also read a lot of Science Fiction (I have to note that one of my proudest moments as a son was when I was able to call Dad up and let him know I had been published in Asimov's Science Fiction magazine). I don't recall seeing a Lem book on his shelf or his bedside stand, but then again he worked for the US military, so I'm not sure how it would look for him to read Lem's work, given the Cold War and all that rot. All that aside, I have to credit Lem with causing me to question, yet again, the definition of Science Fiction. These are not works of spaceships and laser-blasters. It's not even about aliens, per se, though there are times where the humans in these pages act or at least think in truly alien ways. These stories are, first off, not stories: They are imaginary reviews of imaginary pieces of literature. Fictional reviews of fictional books. The "science" comes in through the imaginary books themselves, in large part, and one might even say that the science involved is actually the philosophy of science and the philosophical implications of science itself.

We start, though, with a purely literary focus. Well, not purely literary, I suppose, if you view comedy as "unliterary". If you're seeking a laugh-out-loud (at times) story rife with self-deprecation and a surprising depth of philosophical thinking, you want to read "Les Robinsonades". It is absolutely brilliant. Right from the get-go of this collection, I could why so many people love (and hate) Lem. He has a cutting wit, which he combines with a sometimes laser-focused logic to create a sardonic, but philosophically-sound critique of a variety of "sciences" that may or may not live up to their "scientific" claims.

One of the funnier notions of "Les Robinsonades" (or the critique thereof) is that the titular Robinson has dismissed his servant Snibbins, a corollary to "Friday" of Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, only to find his thoughts haunted by the servant and completely unable to escape the need to avoid Snibbins at all costs.

Poor Robinson, who wanted so to avoid shoddiness, who intended to surround himself with chosen ones, has befouled his nest, for he has ensnibbined the entire island.

Later, upon encountering Snibbins again (unavoidable on the island, one supposes):

Why does Snibbins, who previously only spat at the whales, turn out to be their ardent admirer, even to the point of requesting metamorphosis (Robinson says of him, to Wendy May, "He wants whaling")?

"Gigamesh," which Lem opines in the first introductory essay of this book "was to the least of my taste," is a labyrinthine chain of literary analytic drivel so abstruse as to drive even the most seasoned of academics mad. Reading it drove me through a safari of emotion, from respect to fascination to skepticism to anger to fury to hilarity. It felt a lot like being in graduate school again. In the end, it's so intentionally bad as to be comical. "So bad it's good"!

"Sexplosion" is, as the title implies, a view of what society might become if all the stops were pulled on the intersection of capitalism and sex. Want all the sex you can have? Be careful what you wish for. And what happens if a catastrophic event suddenly makes sex not only undesirable, but downright anathema to happy living? Well, let me tell you about the intersection of rampant capital and the vice of food . . .

"Gruppenführer Louis XVI" is every bit as crazy as it sounds: a cadre of SS officers flee to South America after WW II and create a kingdom based on bad third-hand history. Yes, the whole story is a fake review of a book never written, but I would read it, for sure. The premise is a fascinating social train-wreck and I can't peel my eyes away. Calvino and Sarban smashing into each other, face-to-face at 100 MPH!

Lem tries to out-beckett Beckett by taking the central conceit of the Irishman's imploding narrative in his famous trilogy and pushing it (or pulling it like a black hole) even further. "Rein du tout, ou la Conséquence" is a review of a book that not only was not written, but indeed cannot be written: a literary perpetual negation machine in which language itself utterly collapses.

"Pericalypsis" is science-fictional prophecy at its worst. Lem essentially foresees the proliferation of bad information that buries all good, meaningful information by its sheer mass (internet and A.I., I'm looking at you) along with the mountains of trash choking the landscape and seas. The solution presented by the fictional narrator is the worst possible solution. I'd leave it to your imagination. But you can't imagine just how bad it is.

"Idiota" is a side-wise examination of Dostoevsky's similarly-titled work. It is at times a condemnation of the Russian's work, and at times laudatory; Lem, tell me you're trying to critique The Idiot without critiquing The Idiot.

What happens when the "sanctity" of classics is besmirched by a tool that allows the easy disassembly and reassembly of great pieces of literature into penny-dreadful, even pornographic content? Ladies and gentlemen, I present "U-Write-It". Lem lambasts the uneducated and the academic elite all in one fell swoop! My, oh my, would he have hated US politics in the 21st-century.

"Odysseus of Ithaca" follows dungeoneers of the trash stratum (note another Weird Studies reference) in a quest for hidden genius, the type of intellect so profound that it is completely unrecognized by geniuses of the second order. You can probably see where this is going . . . or isn't going. Come read a tale of genius eternally undiscovered.

"Toi" outlines the logical impossibility of writing a book about the reader and an author's (failed) attempt to write the impossible. It is the weakest piece in this collection and yet, compelling.

"Being, Inc." presents the impossibility of each person on Earth selecting their fate, down to the fine details, from a catalog administered by corporations that arrange events such that everyone, eventually, has their desires arranged for and met. Of course, things get complicated when one considers capitalist competition in such an economy. One wonders where Lem, who lived through communism and the Solidarity movement in Poland, might fall in his preferences of economic systems. I suspect it was a bit of a sliding scale for him.

I think, in "Die Kultur als Fehler," the critic convinces himself, over the course of the review, that the author of the book is completely correct, which is the exact opposite of what the reviewer implies at the beginning. We see what seems to start as the opening of a Hegelian dialectic, but straightaway jumps to the opposite conclusion, leaving Hegel (and all supporters of "Civilization") behind. I'm reminded of a skeptic on youtube recently flipping his opinion about whether or not the moon was . . . brace for it . . . an artificially-constructed celestial object.

Right at the crossroads of philosophy and physics, "De Impossibilitate Vitae and De Impossibilitate Prognoscendi" examines the intersection and collision of probability theory and existentialism. What is the likelihood that you, as an individual different from all other individuals, exist at all? It's a rich question and Lem tackles it with a great deal of understated humor. You really are amazing!

. . . and so, but for the diarrhea of the mammoths, Professor Benedykt Kouska also would have not come into the world.

I can't understand why people were giving me weird looks for laughing out loud while I was reading this.

In "Non Serviam" Lem asks "the big questions" about life, morality, faith, existence, and God. He does this by positing what would happen, in terms of philosophical discourse, among virtual beings created by humans wielding computers with sufficient programming ability that the programmers become, effectively, gods. It's a compelling read, to say the least. I strongly suspect that the Brothers Quay were influenced by this story (they began their careers in Lem's native Poland, after all), and one cannot avoid comparing this work with the works of Philip K. Dick.

As for the concluding review/story, "The New Cosmogeny," I'll leave you to the Weird Studies examination of the same story. They explore it in much more depth and with more erudite insights than I can provide. Hopefully their analysis will also drive you to read A Perfect Vacuum.

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A Token Derangement of the Senses

 

A Token Derangement of the Senses by Damian Murphy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I never ceased to be amazed by the way I feel when I read Damian Murphy's writings. The settings change, the circumstances of exploration and discovery (always a theme) change, the characters change, yet there is always a specific feeling to a Damian Murphy story. That feeling is indescribable, incommunicable, if you will. And even if I could communicate it, I don't think I'd want to. It's a resonance that must be, by its nature, within me and no one else. But I hope that other readers can feel their own resonance with his work. I sense that many do.

A Token Derangement of the Senses, unlike just about everything I've read by Murphy, takes place in the midst of war, and is told by one of the soldiers. Yes, soldiers, or at least those who appear to have served in the military at one point or another, can be found in other works. But this is the first I've read that takes place on the field of battle . . . but it's a strange battle, one you would not expect, where the enemies are not so obvious (though they are caught in the throes of The Great War), and the front line is less a line and more of a liminal zone between ordered civilization and the chaos of destruction. It is a place of secrets and subliminal communications, where some spaces are permanently sealed off from the rest of the world and one is unable to enter by mundane means. Much is, in a word, Mystery. And it's weaving between these hidden places, these occulted structures, that I find that feeling described earlier. You must journey there yourself to find your feeling, your resonance.

This volume also contains "Wittgenstein," a short piece, also set in a time of war, penned by Alcebiades Diniz Miguel, the man and motor behind Raphus Press. It is of a more philosophical than magical bent, contrasting the high-mindedness of intellectual knowledge against the blood-and-mud reality of combat experience and its aftermath.

The book itself is, as with many Raphus Press books, dignified, with a whiff of fine art; solid, refined; correct to its contents, but elevated out of the trenches, despite its subject matter.

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The Hanging

 Raphus Press have created another beautifully dark, darkly beautiful limited-edition book in Fabio Waki's The Hanging. This is a story of the unsaid, that which is only implied, but the implications loom like thunderheads rolling in unseen at night, the rumble faintly indicating an approaching maelstrom. The descriptive prose reminds one of Cormac McCarthy at his slightest - pure description with no over-riding commentary. The reader is left to pain(t) the picture, allowing for a sparse, but brooding tapestry. The dialogue is obtuse, with dark understanding passing between the characters between the words in a way best characterized by the works of Brian Evenson, particularly his darkest works. The volume of silence is immense, the words only borders or corners of a vast void, with comprehension seeping in through the liminal zones. 

The package is evocative of the prose and the situations within - a dark horse with larger-than-life teeth (or, possibly, teeth bared in terror) and eyes wide with alarum, warns readers from the very cover of the book that they had best beware. A pale equine ghost peers out from behind the front endpaper, haunting the entryway, as if trying to tell you that this is the last warning before you plunge in. 

There really is no "coming out the other side" in this instance. The story, partially because of it's paucity of prose, sticks in the brain, needling thoughts long after one has "finished" the tale. But there is no clean finish. The ragged ends of hints and veiled references flap in the wind like a ghostly vestment. Reading it is a holistic experience, or hole-istic, meaning it leaves holes within the reader. And it's what might fill those holes that agitates the most frisson.

The horses tried to warn you. 

If you're insistent, you can buy a copy at the Raphus Press website or at one of my favorite places to buy books, Ziesings.com. But don't wait too long. These are limited, and they will slip away into the darkness, leaving only questions for the uninitiated. 

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Cathode Love

 

Cathode Love by Matthew Brendan Clark
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Matthew Brendan Clark is an alchemist of decadence, mixing a strong literary and analytical brew to create something more powerful than the sum of its parts. Lead to gold? No. More like silver to gold, but the mix and presentation add significant value to each piece, giving a cumulative effect from beginning to end. One is reminded of the boundaried eclecticism of Strange Attractor and the wonderful Sacrum Regnum I and Sacrum Regnum II.

After an excellent introduction, the post-introduction introduction, "Now Departing . . . Reality," is a careful examination of the impossibility of communicating, something I've addressed myself at length. But Clark does so in a more careful way, I think, exploring to the very dusty corners the limitations we have as humans.

But in doing so, he opens doors, much like a Oulipo philosopher, showing that acknowledging the severe limitations of human ability to share perception actually cracks open the wall to one's own imagination. In our vain attempts to communicate, we give each other seeds that take root in our minds and our imaginations are opened to new vistas that are ours alone.

The first piece of writing not penned by Clark is Michel Leiris' "The Heiroglyphic Monad". It's is a brief philosophical treatise, told by a surrealist, outlining some of the ideas found in the writings of John Dee. A heady mixture in and of itself, which gives hints to the overall thematic content of Cathode Love.

I'm not sure if Marina Warner's essay "The Writing of Stones" constitutes an apologia for metaphor or science, both or neither. In the end, Warner finds a Hegelian dialectic moment in the stones collected by Roger Caillois, erstwhile surrealist. Here "material mysticism" and "convulsive beauty" are brought into contentious focus with one another over the subject of of, of all things, Mexican jumping beans. There is a lot to digest here, and it's a topic I've thought about extensively, so much so that I twirl around, infinitely, like an astronaut orbiting a black hole. The divergent threads might never merge in my mind, at least not as smoothly as Warner presents, so I have to be content to be on the edge, forever circling, until something breaks in my mind one way or the other. Perhaps this is why I like writing so much - the Apollonian side of me is gratified by the order of grammar and syntax, while the Dionysian side of me enjoys wrestling that same syntax into disorder (sometimes slight, sometimes more radical) in order to wedge open cracks in the armor of logic.

I was very glad to see Remy de Gourmont's "Introduction to the First Book of Masks," the symbolism manifesto, in many ways, contained in Cathode Love. This piece actually inspired me to compile and edit Text:Ur, The New Book of Masks many years ago, so, for me, it's seminal. I'm sure it was for many others, as well. The symbolism movement, while still a little obscured by time, spawned much of the early modernist movement. And I have to admit here that the Symbolist art movement (which featured two of my favorite artists: Gustave Moreau and Odilon Redon) is, by far, my favorite artistic era. So between the visual art and the written word, I enjoy a sort of artistic-synesthesia, if you will.

In his essay "Prison Food," Clark muses on poetry's ability to blossom from the depths of suffering. Or, in his words, we can benefit our lives by "assuming that poetry operates as an escape from hell". Though I don't think that poetry, whether we are writing it or reading it, can fully alleviate our internal suffering, it can provide some reprieve from the pangs of sorrow.

Antonin Artaud pushes for a mystification of what was becoming, in his day, utilitarian theater, in his essay "Metaphysics and the Mise En Scene". He creates a sort of artistic synesthesia (do you sense a theme here?) in his rolling commentary on visual art (featuring Van Leyden's painting The Daughters of Lot), poetry, and, most of all, theater, pointing out the metaphysical nature of Leyden's piece and Balinese shadow puppetry.

Artaud's "The Theater of Cruelty" is a Dionysian manifesto for the stage, criteria for a ritual more than a play, or the reuniting of the play with ritual. I see now exactly where Hermann Nitsch drew his inspiration for "The Fall of Jerusalem". Here, Artaud is as concerned with occult matters as dramatic matters. His focus on hieroglyphs and holy places betrays a neo-platonic reach to connect with the beyond.

I am not fond of werewolf stories or their ilk, as I find them hackneyed and largely predictable. But Count Stenbock's "The Other Side," of which I've heard rumors for years, has such a beautiful poetic resonance, that it's impossible for me not to love it, just like it was impossible for Gabriel not to love the woman with piercing blue eyes and golden hair, even though he condemned her (and himself) in the process.

Here's a bit of healing for your soul I discovered while perusing the next section of the book: Reading Baudelaire on the back porch on a cool summer evening with Dave Brubeck playing in the background. A sip from the balm of Gilead. A little moment of bliss. You're welcome. Now back to the book . . .

David Tibet's essay "Why I Looked to the Southside of the Door" is, as one would expect with his writing, elliptical, peeking around the corner, just out of sight, and absolutely enveloping in its charisma. From Coptic grammar to more nicknames than I can keep track of to, of course, Current 93 (don't all roads lead to Current 93 after all?), we journey with Tibet through vast halls of intellect, getting a glimpse of how the man sees the world.

In "A Dream Through Death," Matthew Brendan Clark gives a short, if thorough, retrospective on the films of French director Jean Rollin outlining his works, biography, and distinctive ouvre. Am I a huge fan of Rollin's films? No. Will I examine them in a different light and with a more careful eye, especially those films I have not yet seen? Absolutely, and directly as a result of this essay.

After a short eulogy to Roger Gilbert-Lecomte, eight of the drug-addled poet's works are presented in the original French and in translation. I've not read much of the former-surrealist's works, but after this introduction I will be reading much, much more. "Wind out of a space steeper than the edge of eternity" indeed!

"Clarimonde" is not my first encounter with Theophile Gautier, but it might be my most profound. This is the epitome of the gothic romance story, vampirism, and all. It's a crushingly beautiful work, giving full feeling to the experience shared by all humans of being violently-pulled between two natures, two entire beings, Manichean dualism of the heart (and in this case, the body and soul, as well). A profound work.

"An Interview with Catherine Ribeiro" is my introduction to the music of Catherine Ribeiro + Alpes, a genre-melding psychedelic band redolent of early Pink Floyd, but unique. Since I make it a habit to listen to the Floyd's "Live at Pompeii" from time to time, this is a welcome introduction.

Jess Franco's "Lorna . . . The Exorcist" sounds like the sort of movie that would disgust even the 19th-century decadents. Not my cup of tea. I enjoyed the essay, which was informative and insightful, but I won't be watching the movie.

The inclusion of Remy de Gourmont's "Hell" seems appropriate in a book that flies to the heights and descends to the depths. But these are the heights of tortured bodies and the lows of forlorn hopes. Gourmont embraces them all!

"The Lock of Faith" is, by the author's own admission, a fragmentation recounting of a sexually-charged, yet terrifying dream. Unedited, it shows a raw, shattered reality that many will recognize from their own dreamtime forays. Edited, this could be a compelling tale, dark, sensual, and surprising. The germ is there, waiting to grow. Perhaps it's a bit indulgent for Clark to have included this in his own anthology, but it doesn't lessen the impact of the whole.

The short prose-poem "Chlorotic Ballad" by Joris-Karl Huysmans is an exquisite sliver of his larger works, concentrated beauty and grim dreadfulness all wrapped up in velvet and rubies. Each sentence seemed like a little explosion through which one could see the author's longer works, like the heretofore-unseen backdrop to a sky torn asunder, revealing the stunning reality beyond.

Saint-Pol-Roux takes the reader (and the "Yokels" of the story) from banal lust to an apotheosis of the sublime in "The Perceptible Soul". This vibrant account of an esoteric transformation, not only of the stage performer's persona, but of the very hearts and minds of the Yokels, is a wonder to read, a high point of aesthetic beauty and profound reverence, which ends on a suitably surreal note.

A mystical strain of Catholicism (or a catholic strain of mysticism) permeates Saint-Pol-Roux' next piece, "The Immemorial Calvary". At what point does the quest for hope destroy the vessel of hope, only to integrate into one's very soul? Saint-Pol-Roux explores that very question, and finds a bittersweet, if positive answer.

Clark's final essay, "For the Saints of Failure . . ." is a work of beauty and genius, a manifesto, if not for artists, then for those who appreciate art, especially in its strangest, most outre forms. It is a beautiful benediction to the works that appear before it in this volume, and to the volume itself. Finis opus coronat!

All-in-all, I strongly recommend buying a copy direct from the editor/author. It's an absolutely beautiful artifact, inside and out. It's obvious that Clark poured a lot of love and creative juices into this volume. I honestly wish there were more books like this in the world, where someone has taken great care to curate and present a cohesive group of fiction and non-fiction to form a sort of "world view" artifact. The anthologies I mentioned at the beginning of this review are exactly the sort of anthologies I mean. Anthologies, especially those that combine fiction and non-fiction, are becoming a rare sight these days. Clark, I think, recognizes this and has presented Cathode Love as a rare treasure, indeed.




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Asterix Omnibus

 

(Asterix Omnibus: Asterix and the Actress, Asterix and the Class Act, Asterix and the Falling Sky) By Goscinny (Author) Paperback on by unknown author
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Asterix (& Obelix!) formed much of my sense of humor since I first discovered the series back in 1975. I can trace my first desires to learn Latin back to the series, as well. Only now, when the clever Latin puns start flying, I understand (many of) them.

While this is not my favorite Asterix title (that honor is reserved for Asterix and the Goths), this is a very interesting collection. The three full-length adventures, "Asterix and the Actress," "Asterix and the Class Act," and "Asterix and the Falling Sky" are all fine, funny stories. But what really sets this omnibus apart are the number of short pieces between the longer stories. My favorite of these is entitled "Asterix as you have never seen him before . . .". And how! Here Goscinny and Uderzo show their artistic versatility, drawing (and writing) five vignettes in wildly different styles, each in response to a letter from fans and critics.

My favorite of these is a one-panel piece drawn in a style that looks like a cross between Mad Magazine and Crumb comics, written in response to the letter "Why don't you, like, you know, have the druid inventing modern gadgets? The characters don't talk, like, natural. And even worse, the drawing's just for kids, like Mickey Mouse stuff. Signed, a pal". The panel is a bizarre scene with Asterix (who looks like he belongs at a doom metal concert, stoned out of his gourd) on the phone with Getafix ("Getty"), while, in the background, Obelix smashes a group of Roman Soldiers with a browning machine gun he wields as a club.

You get the point. Yes, this book might be for "completists," but if you love Asterix like me, it's worth picking up, even if it's just for the smattering of short, very clever pieces throughout.

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The Bullet Journal Method

 

The Bullet Journal Method: Track the Past, Order the Present, Design the Future by Ryder Carroll
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I stumbled into bullet journaling back in mid-2015. My usage was sporadic and thin, and my bullet journal remains thin to this day. I have a month calendar on one side, and bulleted/iconified lists on the other of things to do, things to study, and things to buy. Looking back, I missed many, many months, and I absolutely did not use the bullet journal up to its full potential. Now that I am making a conscious effort to be more intentional in bringing my life out of so much social media (don't worry, I'll stick around for Goodreads, my blog, discord, and substack) and making the ongoing effort of re-establishing myself in the analog world, I find that the bullet journaling I've been doing has been slipshod, lackluster, inadequate. I need more.

So, I started following the founder and author of The Bullet Journal Method, Ryder Carroll, on Youtube (a pseudo-social media that I am not giving up), which just whetted my appetite even more. I didn't want to spend an exorbitant amount of money to attend Bullet Journal U (at least not yet), I did order the book the second I saw it.

Well, the book has met and exceeded my expectations. And while much of the information is available "out there," I suspect that some of it is not. Besides, I like having the reference handy in a good old hardcopy book, because that's how I roll. This allows me to peruse things at my leisure wherever the heck I like. It also facilitates me memorizing parts that are important to me, as I have great difficulty memorizing things on a computer screen. I am a visual and kinesthetic learner, so having the book in my hands while I study is important to me. Having the physical book makes referencing things, quite literally, handy.

I won't go into much detail on the guts of the book. It is both a workbook for crafting your own "bujo," and a meditative piece on the art of intentionality. And while the book is divided into five sections (1. The Preparation, 2. The System, 3. The Practice, 4. The Art, and 5. The End), the philosophy of bujo and the nuts and bolts of the actual journaling are threaded together throughout. I find this to be a reinforcing feature, not a division-inducing bug. If you want to find sections focusing more on one than the other, that's easy enough to do. But The System and The Practice are integrated in a sort of familial yin-yang back-and-forth that is unavoidable in writing this sort of guide.

Would I recommend jumping right in and absorbing it all at once? Maybe, maybe not. In my case, that would not have worked. I had to spend nine years on the "thin end of the wedge" before I was ready for the thick end. If I had dived into the deep end, knowing myself, I would have faltered even more than before in those early days. Now that I have a well-established habit of doing the most very basic practice of bullet-journaling (which served me well for many years) and I feel the need, I'm ready to deepen my immersion. Perhaps you're one of those obsessive people who has to do it all at once - go for it! Or, if you're like me, get the book and start slow. As you notice and appreciate the difference it makes over the long haul, you will likely want to do more.

Again, part of the reason for me wanting to do more is to deepen my analog immersion and have reason to avoid the time-wasting of social media; to live with intention. I'm excited to have this tool in my box for that excursion. If my prior experience is any indicator, this will help immensely!

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Pithy Entries and Social Media

 I am again contemplating, as I have in the past, the abandonment of most social media. I've been asking myself, this time, what is it that draws me back to it, what causes the addiction? I've asked many other people who I know and respect the same question: Why do we have to keep coming back?

I'm not going to answer that question at this time. I need to meditate on it longer, possibly much longer, before I can come to a natural conclusion and do what I need to do. 

I swore in the past that I would NOT let this blog devolve into a long-form twitter/instagram/facebook/blusky/mammoth/fill-in-social-media-platform here. I am developing a strong dislike for the pithy. And yet, there are times when I feel the need to post something that is rather short and unprofound. Here I am doing just that right now. I suppose it's part of a transition.

My writing area is in the top floor of my house. My record player (well, my better record player, as opposed to the record player of my childhood) is in the basement. So, I've been slowly migrating records downstairs. Tonight, I brought down Hawthonn's wonderful Red Goddess (of this men shall know nothing) and played it before putting it away on the shelf.  Of course, I gave it a spin. It's one of the first pieces of vinyl I purchased, actually, I think it was the first I purchased since 1987. It really rekindled my love for vinyl. For those who have heard it and held it, you're probably saying "of course it did. How could it not?"

While listening (I am one of those people who can listen and read at the same time), I read David Tibet's essay"Why I Looked to the Southside of the Door," which is, as one would expect with his writing, elliptical, peeking around the corner, just out of sight, and absolutely enveloping in its charisma. From Coptic grammar to more nicknames than I can keep track of to, of course, Current 93 (don't all roads lead to Current 93 after all?), we journey with Tibet through vast halls of implication, intellect, and imagination. 

On top of this, after a clear, calm day, an incredible lightning storm rolled in. At first, being in the basement, I thought someone was moving furniture on the main floor, then I felt that telltale rumble that indicates that the gods are angry. I went upstairs (to the main floor) and turned out the lights, watching the lightning storm. A block away, on one of the city's main arterial roads, I watched car lights occasionally zip by while the sky became (quite literally) electric. Just beneath my living room windows, where we have a storied thorn bush growing (storied because we've had two families of children raised in it: three robins last year and a cardinal this year), fireflies glowed, as they do this time of year. I penned the following trite missive which I am including here because it was all part of a moment:

The lacerating chaotic violence of lightning shattering the Gates of Heaven

. . . between . . .

Car lights filing down a busy street,

Humans with

Thoughts,

Passions,

Aspirations

at the wheel

. . . between . . .

A stately procession of fireflies;

lift, light, drop

lift, light, drop

Mating awaits.

"It's the amps that kill"

- They say - 

There you are. A social media post outside of social media. Me, shouting at the social media storm, pissing in the virtual wind. Somehow, I'll find my way.

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The Complete Lyrics 1978-2022 by Nick Cave

 

The Complete Lyrics 1978–2022 by Nick Cave
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I've never read Delueze's Difference and Repetition (though it is on my list), but I am aching with curiosity to see if he has anything to say about song lyrics. Because, by and large, song lyrics suck. There are notable exceptions, but they are notable because they are exceptional. I'll restrain myself from quoting any, because that's not the point of my banal and overly jejune "observation". But really, when you rip lyrics from the context of the music in which they are couched, they most often come across as just plain stupid. I think this has something to do with repetition. Songs don't have to be repetitive, but it helps, especially if you're a music producer whose goal is to shove some catchy bit into the craw of as many brains as you can. Repetition sells when it's associated with a catchy tune. You don't have to think about such music, which is part of the joy of it all, singing inane lyrics at the top of your lungs: The easier, the better.

But this isn't about joy. Well, maybe a little. But we're talking about Nick Cave here. Talk about a man who has suffered. I'll spare the details, but go read about his life some time. Ugh. Yes, he's had fame and fortune and flamboyance, but, ugh, the things he's gone through, especially the death of two of his children - no thank you. It's odd, then, that many of his most poignantly sad lyrics were written before these losses. Or maybe it's not odd at all. Maybe Nick Cave is just good at putting to paper (and music) the inevitability of pain.

Now, Nick Cave is not innocent when it comes to rote repetition in lyrics. This is especially true in his more punk phase while he was with The Birthday Party. Yes, the seeds (pun intended) of brilliance were there, but, really, they were just a pretty good punk band full of, you guessed it, repetitive lyrics. Cave's outrageous energy carried the band's music, and there's something to be said for that, but if you're looking for poetry in his early lyrics, you're going to have to squint.

Now, I can't speak to this musically, but lyrically, the album The Bad Seed (1983) seems to be a watershed moment in Cave's writing. I don't know what exactly triggered this, but here Cave's poetics enter a new phase. From this point on, things are different, and noticeably so. In the past, sheer brute power carried the day, but now you can see that the work has been crafted more carefully. Yes, there is repetition (it's inevitable in music, I know), but that repetition only serves as punctuation marks to the poetry throughout, like lyrical exclamation points or, more often, lyrical question marks.

Song lyrics, like poems, are easy to read but not easy to process, especially if you are reading them. Without voice inflections and different points of emphasis, one must supply these variations oneself, whether audibly or just in one's head. Of course this can make the songs "yours," but you are bound to have to reinterpret upon hearing the singer's expression. And really, the music is an integral part of the lyrics. So, in some ways, The Complete Lyrics didn't resonate with me (no pun intended there, believe it or not). Again, that pesky repetition, when devoid of emotional context, was just plain irritating, at points. Every exception to this, for me as a reader, came because I had a close knowledge of the songs in which the repetitive lyrics were ensconced. Context is everything, in this case, and when I knew the context well enough, my irritation wore off, soothed by the melody (even if it was a raucous one).

I suppose every Nick Cave fan has a favorite album. Mine is No More Shall We Part. It's agonizingly beautiful. Let Love In marches a close second behind as less somber (but still morose) and more animated, sometimes cartoonishly so. There are songs intermingled in all the other albums that I greatly enjoy ("From Her to Eternity" - my introduction to Nick Cave's music back in the '80s by way of Wim Wenders' Der Himmel über Berlin , and "The Carny" both jump to mind), but these two are albums which, from start to finish, I can long and languish in.

Cave, along with the Bad Seeds, has like any good artist, evolved over the years. From punk to strange calliope rhythms to the blues, his music is nothing if not twisting along a path that is unpredictable. If I ever suspected a Nick Cave album to have been written under the influence of an epic dose of LSD, it would have to be DIG, LAZARUS, DIG. It's "way out there," as they say. Definitely the most experimental (whatever that means) album, lyrically speaking. And now, since the publication of this book in it's most recent incarnation, it appears that Cave and company have taken another turn, towards the ethereal and, dare I say it? Religious?

Wherever he goes, I'm along for the ride. While I can't count myself as a member of his cult of personality, I will say that I continue to be interested, even touched deeply, from time to time, as I was when I first read the lyrics to "Nature Boy," which I'll end with here:

Nature Boy

I was just a boy when I sat down
To watch the news on TV
I saw some ordinary slaughter
I saw some routine atrocity
My father said, don't look away
You got to be strong, you got to be bold, now
He said that in the end is a beauty
That is going to save the world, now

And she moves among the sparrows
And she floats upon the breeze
She moves among the flowers
She moves something deep inside of me

I was walking around the flower show like a leper
Coming down with some kind of nervous hysteria
When I saw you standing there, green eyes, black hair
Up against the pink and purple wisteria
You said, hey, nature boy, are you looking at me
With some unrighteous intention?
My knees went weak, I couldn't speak, I was having thoughts
That were not in my best interests to mention

And she moves among the flowers
And she floats upon the smoke
She moves among the shadows
She moves me with just one little look

You took me back to your place
And dressed me up in a deep-sea diver's suit
You played the patriot, you raised the flag
And I stood at full salute
Later on we smoked a pipe that struck me dumb
And made it impossible to speak
As you closed in, in slow motion
Quoting Sappho, in the original Greek

She moves among the shadows
She floats upon the breeze
She moves among the candles
And we moved through the days and through the years

Years passed by, we were walking by the sea
Half delirious
You smiled at me and said, babe
I think this thing is getting kind of serious
You pointed at something and said
Have you ever seen such a beautiful thing?
It was then that I broke down
It was then that you lifted me up again

She moves among the sparrows
And she walks across the sea
She moves among the flowers
And she moves something deep inside of me

She moves among the sparrows
And she floats upon the breeze
She moves among the flowers
And she moves right up close to me

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