Everything Is Nice

Beating the nice nice nice thing to death (with fluffy pillows)

Archive for September 16th, 2008

“A story should be an axe to break the frozen sea within us.”

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I don’t really want to prescribe the remit of this blog as I am sure it will evolve in ways I can’t predict. One things is certain though, it will contain some writing about books.

I thought I would start things off by looking at the stories in Feeling Very Strange, an anthology edited by John Kessel and James Patrick Kelly. I was sent a review copy of this for Strange Horizons but in the end their reviews editor, Niall Harrison, decided to review it himself. The book has since languished on my shelf.

Feeling Very Strange is an anthology of slipstream stories and I am aiming to look at them as both works of fiction and works of slipstream. Hopefully I will manage to post about one story a week.

Written by Martin

16 September 2008 at 13:54

Peace

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And you glance out the window for a moment, distracted by the sound of small kids playing a made-up game in a neighbour’s yard, some kind of kickball maybe, and they speak your voice, or piggy-back races on the weedy lawn, and it’s your voice you hear, essentially, under the glimmerglass sky, and you look at the things in the room, offscreen, unwebbed, the tissued grain of the desk alive in the light, the thick lived tenor of things, the argument of things to be seen and eaten, the apple core going sepia in the lunch tray, and the dense measures of experience in a random glance, the monk’s candle reflected in the slope of the phone, hours marked in Roman numerals, and the glaze of the wax, and the curl of the braided wick, and the chipped rim of the mug that holds your yellow pencils,skewed all crazy, and the plied lives of the simplest surface, the slabbed butter melting on the crumbled bun, and the yellow of the yellow of the pencils, and you try to imagine the word on the screen becoming a thing in the world, taking all its meaning, its sense of serenities and contentments out into the streets somehow, its whisper of reconcilliation, a word extending itself forever outwards, a tone of agreement or treaty, the tone of repose, the sense of molifying silence, the tone of hail and farewell, a tone that carries the sunlit ardour of an object deep in drenching noon, the arguement of binding touch, but its only a sequence of pulses on a dullish screen and all it can do is make you pensive – a word that spreads a longing through the raw sprawl of the city and out across the dreaming bourns and orchards to the solitary hills.

Peace.

Don DeLillo, Underworld, 1997

Written by Martin

16 September 2008 at 09:26

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