Human Osteology

Human Osteology by Tim D. White
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Why would a fiction writer and reader write a post about a book on osteology? Two words: Reference, inspiration.

As an undergraduate at BYU, I took a Human Osteology class from Dr. Dale Berge, a wonderful man who fanned my flame for academic curiosity. I'll never forget the final for the class. We had to identify, sex and age around 120 random bones, as well as noting and explaining the source of any unusual ulcerations, scoring, arrow wounds (yes, you read that right), etc. One of the more difficult and rewarding tests I've taken. Dr. Berge threw us all for a loop by including a bone that looked *sort of* like a human pelvis, maybe an infant pelvis, but . . . not quite. It wasn't until none of us could figure out what it was that he revealed that it was a whale vertebrae. Now, if I ever encounter a whale vertebrae on the beach, I'll be able to identify it. It's good to have skills . . .

So I use this book as my bible of bones. It is a fantastic reference, with hundreds of black and white photographs, carefully diagrammed, and some text that helps explain some of the features. If you want to know bones, get this book.

It's also served as inspiration, specifically for my story "The Bones of Ndundi," which appeared in Notre Dame Review and which is reprinted in my collection Fossiloctopus. Human Osteology has also spurred other fictions, though none so directly as this.

In any case, it's good to know your bones.

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Fatale Volume 1: Death Chases Me

Fatale, Vol. 1: Death Chases Me by Ed Brubaker
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A couple of months ago I had a sudden hankering for noir. Now this isn't a subgenre I have much experience with. I've read a few short stories in the genre, but if I've read a noir novel, I can't remember (well, in the case of one, I don't want to remember it - see my previous reviews). Still, I had the fever, the fever for more noir. So I poked around the interwebs to do some research and stumbled on a few very positive reviews of Brubaker's Fatale that I felt I had to investigate (no pun intended, really).

I knew, from both the reviews and the cover art, that there was something Cthulhoid going on here, which is almost never a bad thing. I like tentacles and red cowls, they're just my thing. So I figured that this had potential.

Still, I was a bit hesitant. I don't like to read bad books. Really can't stand my time and money being wasted on what I consider to be trite or poorly written. But I gambled on this one, a hedged bet, yes, but still a gamble. I put my money and my time out on a limb for this.

And I WON! I won BIG! I feel like I cheated the house, I won so big!

I'm in literary/graphic novel love. I cannot wait for the next collection to come out. I'm sold.

Even without any deep history in noir, I knew some of the main tropes. Damsel in distress, investigator being played by his client, crooked cops, etc. And, yes, Fatale has all of this, and more. But the way Brubaker and Philips introduce and develop the plot and characters is sheer genius. They've taken what could have been trite and made it a thing of utter, horrific beauty.

There's a certain darkness, a fog or mist, that overlays the mood of this graphic novel. It's like walking on the edge of a slow-motion nightmare of conspiracy and entrapment. And, just when you are about to sink and give in to the gritty depression of the story, you are awakened only to discover that the reality behind the dream is more terrifying than you had imagined. There's also a certain complexity to the characters that I don't often see in graphic novels. Their motives are believable, even if their stories are fantastic. I am amazed that the writers could pack this much complexity and subtlety into a book of this size. Pound for pound, this is the best deal on criminals and tentacles that money can buy. Don't say I didn't warn you.

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It's in the Air

While others hail the oncoming season of NFL football, watching preseason games and studying for their Fantasy Football draft, I'm giddy over the NFL farm league: The NCAA.

I'm a huge college football junkie. Since my undergraduate days at BYU watching Steve Sarkisian hurl the pigskin to my graduate school days at University of Wisconsin-Madison, where I saw some kid named Ron Dayne obliterate Stanford's defense, I've been hooked (incidentally, Dayne cuts and imposing figure when you and he are trying to pass through the same doorway, as  found several times while he was leaving his Hausa class and I was entering my Swahili class. Super nice guy, though, even when you meet him in the doorway day after day.). I watch the NFL for one reason: to see how the college kids are doing. I keep track of high school football for one reason: so I can see potential recruits and where they end up in college.

College football is where dreams are realized and hopes are dashed, where the real athletes show that they are real athletes. There's a certain precociousness to the whole thing. These kids have a lot to prove. Millions are riding on their performance. Millions that might lift mom and dad out of poverty. And for the majority who don't make millions, the educational opportunities, if taken advantage of, will change some young man's life. It's so contrary to the NFL - contract negotiations, strikes, and so forth. I half expect NFL players to line up with a lawyer, briefcase in hand, standing next to them.

Yes, the NFL has the elite of the elite, no doubt. And their precision playing, gargantuan size, and strength are wonderful to behold. But there's nothing quite like watching Boise State beat Oklahoma with a pair of trick plays from someone's neighborhood pickup football game, or seeing an under-rated Utah throttle the monster, Alabama, in a game that everyone expected to be a snoozer.

So here's to the undersized walk-on who explodes in his sophomore year and becomes the talk of the town, whose need to win overshadows any hype, and who proves to himself, to his family, to his school, and to the nation that he CAN!

On Wisconsin!
Go Bucky!
Jump Around!

Swans Over the Moon

For those interested in an updated e-book version of my novella Swans Over the Moon (originally published by Wheatland Press), you can find it at:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/179537

You'll find this version ever-so-slightly different from the original print version. Nothing drastic, just some minor touch ups.

Plug over and out.

For Nothing

For Nothing by Nicholas Denmon
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I tried. Really, I tried. This book broke me.

The best thing I can say about "For Nothing" is that the machinations of the Buffalo mafia were interesting. It seems that the author has done his homework. The tone is about right, but there my praise (if you can call it that) abruptly ends.

In short: I've read this book so you won't have to. You have been warned.

The novel was written, obviously. But it was not crafted, also obviously. The characters were wooden and the prose was simply atrocious. Four or five edits later, I could see this being a good book. But the writing really got in the way of enjoying the story. The plot itself moves ahead in spite of the characters, but reading through this is like running up the side of a mountain over a half mile of scree. I know. I've done both. Neither experience was very pleasant.

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The Silmarillion

The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Though I had many near-misses with The Silmarillion throughout the years (having been introduced to Tolkien's universe by discovering The Hobbit in my school's library in 5th grade), I finally slogged my way through it during the summer after my sophomore year of college. The first two years of my undergraduate degree were rather gruelling, and I wanted, more than anything else at that time, to just read a bunch of books I wasn't required to read. After making my way through The Complete Sherlock Holmes, I decided to revisit Tolkien.

I had read The Hobbit twice before and the Lord of the Rings once (and a half). As I've stated, I dipped my toes in The Silmarillion, but never let myself dive in. This time, in the interest of reading something other than required reading, I jumped in with both feet.

It was cold. And deep. And dark. It took a while to feel my limbs. It took even longer to get my arms and legs moving, but I soon found I was OK: Still breathing and able to dog paddle.

As I worked my way into it (and it was work!), I discovered that certain tidbits in the myths and legends of middle earth rang familiar. I knew that much of The Silmarillion had been "back-written" after the fact, which might strike people as some sort of disingenuous act on the part of the Tolkiens. I was thrilled. Here I learned who Elrond was, the significance of the fall of Saruman, and the true nature of and relationship between Gandalf and the Balrog. This was a revelation.

I plugged my way through and finished. No, I didn't remember everything and I probably never will. That summer was a unique opportunity for me, to read almost interrupted for such a long stretch. I followed up by reading The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings in succession, immediately after finishing The Silmarillion. Then, and only then, did I appreciate the full magnitude of Tolkien's brilliance. It was a whole new world. I had already visited it, but now the scales fell from my eyes and I saw it in a whole new light. The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings were transformed, for me, from great books to epic.

Rather than being caught up in complaining about how difficult The Silmarillion was, I felt richly rewarded. I had worked for the glittering prize and it was even more beautiful than the time when I first laid eyes on it in that musty school library in Nebraska. Can nostalgia be forward-looking? It was for me that summer. I was caught in some sort of blissful time-loop that only released me when the urgency of school set upon me again that fall. But something joyful was sparked in me that hasn't ever fully left, thanks to The Silmarillion.

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Ill Met in Lankhmar

Ill Met in Lankhmar by Fritz Leiber
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Whatever sword and sorcery book you happen to be reading at the moment - throw it across the room, sneer at the author's petty attempts at greatness, and go pick up one of Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar books. It doesn't necessarily have to be the edition I'm reviewing here. But if you have one ounce of love for sword and sorcery in your veins, you must read Leiber's work. And before you shout out "I don't need your stupid wizards and bare-chested barbarians!" read on!

I have just finished the White Wolf edition of Ill Met in Lankhmar, which collects Leiber's original Lankhmar volumes 1 and 2, Swords and Deviltry and Swords Against Death.

Rather than giving a blow-by-blow or even focusing on the story arc of these connected short stories and novellas, I'd like to point out the two most compelling reasons for snatching up a copy of this book: character and language.

Fafhrd and Gray Mouser are some of the most compelling characters in all of sword and sorcery literature. They have complex motivations and reactions to varied circumstances. They are, at turns, brilliant and stupid, competent and bungling, all tempered by a good bit of luck. Among their many talents, they are rogue thieves, amateur wizard (Gray Mouser) and bard (Fafhrd), and, most importantly, accomplished swordsmen. Circumstances dictate their initial meeting, but mutual respect, a sort of chivalry, a shared sense of dark humor, mutual loss, and a desire for revenge cause them to become inseparable. Even after their past literally stops haunting them, they remain compatriots and fellow-adventurers. It's difficult to relate the subtleties of their interaction, their wit, and their banter. You simply must read it for yourself.

The prose is, at turns, playful and a touch archaic, though never as whimsical as Wodehouse nor as purple as DeCamp’s “translations” of Conan. The tone strikes just the right balance between funny and serious, not straying too far toward silliness or darkness, though both elements can be found threaded throughout these tales. On a side note, Leiber sticks with earlier notions of sorcery, established by Howard and others, that magic is not something you really want to dabble in unless you absolutely have to. Messing about with the natural order of things carries heavy consequences. Though magic can help your cause, there is a price to be paid for forcefully upsetting the balance of the universe.

The setting of the city of Lankhmar seems overdone only because so many more recent works of sword and sorcery are derivative. It's hard to seem original when everyone who's followed has copied your styles, customs, and tropes. So put your D&D books away for a little while, read this, then come back and see what all Arneson and Gygax incorporated from Lankhmar. The early AD&D works are saturated with the stuff.

I could go on about Leiber's influence on roleplaying, but one need know nothing about roleplaying games to enjoy the wonderful characters that are Fafhrd and Gray Mouser. One need not even *like* the sword and sorcery genre to appreciate Leiber's beautiful, but not overwrought prose. One need not be a grammar snob to enjoy the yarns Leiber has spun in these stories. In essence, Ill Met in Lankhmar is a book's book, approachable on many levels by readers of widely varying interests and backgrounds.

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