4 stars If you're a fan of Parks & Recreation (and if you're not, do yourself a favour and watch it) then you'll find a lot to love in this jaunt through Pawnee in the company of The Author (and my imaginary BFF) Leslie Knope.
Find out about the dodgy history of the home of Sweetums and feral raccoons, the culinary delights of JJ's Diner (don't forget to try the waffles) and the former names of Mouse Rat. Snigger quite a bit through Ron's cabin and April's college diaries. Just don't leave the book on your bathroom floor once you're done - Leslie worked really hard on this, you guys.
A disillusioned necromancer, saddened at the state of modern
America, raises all of America’s dead presidents with the aim of saving his
country. Unfortunately, it turns out that the deceased leaders think that what
America really needs saving from is Americans, and they set about cleansing the
country with aplomb. SHIELD is struck with scandal from the start, when Captain
America makes the headlines for decapitating Harry Truman, and realises it can’t
afford to pit its popular heroes against dead patriots. Instead of superheroes,
what they really need is a scumbag. And so there’s really only one guy for the
job.
Fabulously drawn, my second adventure with Deadpool was just
as fun as my previous and prompted at least one snort (and often more) from me
per page. I’m looking forward to hanging out with him much more often in the future.
Since reading The Worst Journey in the World a few years ago
I’ve been fascinated by explorers, particularly those venturing into the polar
regions. Where Scott and his men were attempting to reach the South Pole, In
The Kingdom of Ice is concerned with the other side of the world and takes
place in the previous century, at a time when it was believed that once you
broke through the ice around the Bering Strait you’d follow warm currents into
a warm, open sea around a temperate Pole.
Unfortunately for the USS Jeanette and her
men, they were soon to discover that this was very far from the case.
A non-fiction book that reads like a thriller (which was no
doubt helped by the fact that I hadn’t the first clue about this expedition or
its outcome) I read this book in two sittings, huddled under a duvet and
tearing through the pages long into the night as the ship became first trapped
in ice (for over a bleeding year!) and then sank, leaving her men stranded in
the Arctic with no hope of rescue.
The sheer determination it must have taken
for them not to have given up there and then is unimaginable to me – and that’s
even before the attempts to try and cross the ocean, then Siberia, in the hopes
of stumbling across salvation. That anyone made it back at all is astonishing.
That someone then went back in the hopes of finding those still missing is truly
astounding.
I take my hat off to all of the incredible people in our
history who have taken on such incredible feats, and to the people who write
about them and let me experience (albeit from the comfort and safety of my
living room) even a little of their magnificence.
5 stars Narrated by the ghost of a man killed during the building of the Bahia de Darwin cruise ship, Galapagos is an absurd, original and funny look at the evolution of man, from the perspective of a million years into our future. Detailing the tiny accidents, coincidences and circumstances (mostly caused by humanity's troublesome big brains) that led to the few passengers booked on to the 'Nature Cruise of the Century' during a financial crash getting trapped on a Galapagos island and unwittingly becoming the ancestors from which the future human race evolved, once again Vonnegut packed more wit, perception and ideas into a page than most manage in an entire book. Filled with wonderful observations from our ghost and interjections from Mandarax (an invention of one of the Darwin's passengers that's almost a primitive Hitchhikers Guide), Galapagos was yet another of his works that makes me wish I could kiss Vonnegut's magnificent big brain. Instead I settled for highlighting all of the parts that delighted me, and now my copy is basically one big highlight.
I’ve always been a fan of Greek mythology, so when I
saw this range of Penguin’s Little Black Classics (just 80p each – bargain!), Jason and Medea was one of the first that my
eager hands grabbed.
If you’re not already familiar with the story of Jason and
the Argonauts this probably isn’t a very good place to start as it drops us
straight into Jason reaching Colchis on his errand for the Golden Fleece, and
being set an impossible task by Aeëtes – to yoke two flame breathing
bulls and plow a field with serpents teeth which would sprout into an army of
earth-born men who he must then defeat.
Aided by Aeëtes daughter, Medea,
Jason accomplishes the task – which is where this book ends.
If you’re after the full story then you’re likely to be
dissatisfied (I’m always disappointed when we don’t get to hear the end of
their tale, having long been a fan of the unhappy-ever-after ending), but if
you want a quick dip into one of the more exciting parts of the tale, then this
is the book for the job.
4 stars A long overdue re-read that was just as entertaining as the first time around, I started A Generation of Swine on my birthday as a little treat to myself. The time between then and now has been heavily slanted towards work, but the format of the book - articles written for the San Francisco Examiner between '86 and '88 - made it the perfect reading material to fit into my often very short lunch breaks.
A Generation of Swine is a brilliant time capsule, bringing back many of the things that were on our (but especially American) minds in the late '80s: AIDS, the War on Drugs, Ghaddafi, acid rain and the Iran/Contra affair as well as the Presidential campaign for '88, showing that while we may have pretty short memories the world has always been an insanely corrupt and often frightening place, and that the only thing that's really changed are the names of the players and how its documented. For me, Hunter S. Thompson is a huge loss from amongst the best of those documentarians, someone who's miles better than most even when he's not at his peak.
Never better than when he's at his most vitriolic, the Iran/Contra scandal and the Presidential campaign would give him plenty of material - especially when it came to George Bush Snr:
"...a truly evil man, a truthless monster with the brains of a king rat and the soul of a cockroach, is about to be sworn in as President of the United States for the next four years...And he will bring his whole gang with him, a mean network of lawyers and salesmen and pimps who will loot the national treasury, warp the laws, mock the rules and stay awake twenty-two hours a day looking for at least one reason to declare war, officially, on some hapless tribe in the Sahara or heathen fanatic like the Ayatollah Khomeini."
Based on this little jaunt through the decade of "Huge brains, small necks, weak muscles and fat wallets...", I think it might be high time for a re-read of all his other books too.
Another fabulous instalment in the continued adventures of Captain Jack Aubrey and his BFF Dr Stephen Maturin that I hugely enjoyed, even if it was sadly interrupted by too much work and a new downstairs neighbour who likes to scream things that make no sense at regular intervals.
Having long been at sea, on landing in Nova Scotia Captain Aubrey has found himself having an ill-advised fling with a young flibbertigibbet who, as soon as he finally gets himself home again, is writing copious notes full of declarations of love and pregnancy, along with pleas for cash. He’s also up to the neck in legal business thanks to the sorry decision of becoming involved with a dodgy businessman. Meanwhile, Stephen is giving lectures to the Institut in Paris and finding a place there for the knocked up Diana Villiers – now considered an enemy alien thanks to her dalliance with the American Johnson. It’s just as well then that orders have arrived for Captain Aubrey to sail with Stephen on a most important mission – repatriating some Catalan soldiers who have been hitherto working for the French. Which is made especially difficult by bad weather, a missing chronometer, deadly bays, French ships eager to capture them, French captains eager to torture Stephen, and incarceration in imposing French prisons.
Of course, Jack and my beloved Stephen aren’t the sort to let that sort of thing get them down, and the book is as much of a riot as its predecessors. Once again, their friendship is the glue that holds this all together and I got a good deal of entertainment over Jack’s fretting for Stephen, whether he be on a dangerous spying mission or ill-advisedly clambering among the crosstrees with an equally clumsy lubber (and Jack’s reaction to Stephen and Jagiello’s little jaunt made me snort so hard that my cats scarpered).
I’m now seven books in to this wonderful series and the quality is as high as ever – and it now seems that I’m even becoming comfortable with the naval language that previously flummoxed me (check me out, knowing what a crosstree is! I never thought that would happen). These books are my treat to myself whenever I need picking up a bit – so if my neighbour continues to scream nonsense at me whenever she sees me, prepare to see much more of these popping up on my feed.
It’s been some time since we last saw Lestat, acting strangely unlike himself in Blood Canticle (as if Lestat would ever say cool or dude. Although she wouldn’t say that either, I’m laying the blame for this solely at the door of the infinitely dislikeable Rowan Mayfair, who also unfortunately starred in that outing). It pleases me to say that not only is Lestat back, but this time it really is the Lestat we know and love, in all his lion-maned, arrogant and lace bedecked glory. And Rowan’s not even mentioned.
Catching up with not just my beloved but a host of other vampires besides, Prince Lestat finds the vampire world in an uproar – a mysterious voice is goading vampires into destroying one another and the Sacred Core, which animates all vampires and currently resides in the brain of the ancient and mute Mekare, is under threat. The vampires need a leader to take control – now who might that leader be, I wonder?
After the last few books in the Vampire Chronicles and the lacklustre second outing in the Wolf Gift Chronicles, I must admit I was a little nervous about this one, which is probably why I put off reading it for so long. Happily, I needn’t have worried. Aside from enjoying Lestat as much as I ever have, I also enjoyed the fleshing out of the pasts of some of the unnamed vampires from previous entries which brought to the fore Anne’s skill at embedding a sense of history in her characters – even if I couldn’t help but snigger every time one of them waxed poetic about how wonderfully complex and profound they found the previous Vampire Chronicles (which exist in this world as they were all ‘written’ by our vampires) and if the central mysteries (who is The Voice, and who started the Talamasca) were easily solved, I still found them satisfying.
The only minus for me was the story of Rose and Viktor, which didn’t really add anything new (she’s such a beautiful, delicate, battered flower and he’s….well, he’s really pretty too) other than giving Anne an option for a new series starring Lestat v2. Not that I wouldn’t read the shit out of that too, but for now they simply felt superfluous.
If you’re new to the world of the Vampire Chronicles, I really wouldn’t recommend starting here (although handy previouslies are provided throughout the text, you’d still be missing out on a lot of the backstories to these characters, as well as the two best books in the series) but if you’re a long-time fan, you’ll eat Lestat’s story up with a spoon.
5 stars Tim Minchin's Storm is the response I wish I could give whenever anyone around me starts banging on about homeopathy, psychics, auras, or worrying about when The Rapture is due to start, instead of the oh-so-mature eye-rolling and proclamations of 'Yeah, well Gandalf says...' that I usually tend to indulge in.
A brilliant beat-style ode to critical thinking that works just as well in graphic novel form as it does when performed, with the wonderful illustrations flowing as well as the words and underscoring Minchin's arguments well, if you've not yet encountered Storm you can do so here:
Wizard is the extremely comprehensive biography of possibly one of the most interesting
men to have ever lived, a man so cool they had to get David Bowie to play him –
Nikola Tesla.
Before we
begin, I should probably make it clear that while I am fascinated by science
and the great thinkers that practice it, my mind does not work in that way at
all (I only passed my Science GCSE after my mum condensed pretty much the
entire syllabus into a series of silly cartoons a few days before my exams) and
so the title of this book is made even more appropriate. My only real
understanding of electricity being that when I flip a switch, my lights come on
(when the bulbs haven't gone), it really may as well be magic as far as I'm
concerned.
So, Nikola Tesla...
Look at him. See? Told you he was cool.
A genius
with a talent for invention as well as for winding up his investors and a
great showman whose incredible lightning spewing demonstrations would capture
the public imagination before his grandiose pronouncements and appetite for
self-publicity saw him later dismissed as something of a crank unable to finish
a project, Tesla would invent many of the things we take for granted in the
modern world whilst also contributing to many more. He would also be eternally screwed
over and in debt, his work credited to and making others rich, his achievements
only properly recognised long after his death.
Born in
Smiljan in 1856 to a gifted family (particularly his mum, who was forever
inventing new household appliances for herself) and possessing a photographic
memory, Tesla was already far more accomplished by the time he'd left University
than most of us could hope to be in a lifetime, having taken courses in
arithmetic and analytical geometry, theoretical and experimental physics,
integral calculus, analytical chemistry, mineralogy, machinery construction,
botany, wave theory, optics, philosophy and higher maths, and speaking 8
languages. He’d also survived several near death experiences including plunging
into boiling milk, drowning under a raft, being swept over waterfall,
contracting cholera, and driving himself through overwork into a nervous
collapse – something he would continue to do throughout his lifetime as he
subsisted on bread and milk, sleeping only a few hours a night and pouring all
of his energies into his work.
Moving to the US in 1884 to work
for Thomas Edison’s company, Tesla would set out on his own after almost
immediately receiving the first of many shaftings at Edison’s hands – being
paid just $18 a day to redesign and reassemble much of the company’s equipment
after having been promised $50,000. These shaftings would also continue
throughout his life, and were as many and varied as his astounding array of
inventions (which included an induction motor, electrical power distribution
system, fluorescent and neon lights, wireless telecommunication, remote
control, robotics and apparently even fricking laser beams) and came at the
hands of not just Edison but the likes of Marconi, Westinghouse, Pupin, Steinmetz,
JP Morgan and the US Government.
Facing a
publicity backlash due to Edison’s dickish publicity campaign in which he
electrocuted animals with Tesla’s competing AC system, mired in patent
infringements and court battles, and forever toadying up to potential investors
(mostly unsuccessfully, thanks to his habit of sending long letters bemoaning
his hard luck and full of emotional blackmail, while asking for way more funds
having abandoned agreed plans in favour of altogether grander schemes), Tesla would
become far more paranoid, bitter and reclusive over time, allowing the weirder
aspects of his personality free reign.
Amongst his many peculiarities
were: an aversion to women's earrings and touching people’s hair, being sent
into fits at the sight of pearls and fevers at the sight of a peach, insisting
on living in hotels despite an almost pathological inability to pay his rent,
where his mirrors must be draped and no sunlight must enter his room. And
despite being a favourite of the ladies (especially of his friend’s wife, Mrs
Katherine Johnson), he remained celibate – having eyes only for his work and,
well, I’ll let him tell you:
“I have been feeding pigeons, thousands of them
for years. But there was one, a beautiful bird, pure white with light grey tips
on its wings; that one was different. It was a female. I had only to wish and
call her and she would come flying to me. I loved that pigeon as a man loves a
woman, and she loved me. As long as I had her, my life had purpose."
Tesla
passed away at the age of 86, having outlived his pigeon, sending various
secret agencies into frenzies as they tried to suppress his papers and get
their hands on a rumoured death ray machine, Tesla having supposedly left a
working model in a hotel basement in lieu of rent.
As a reading experience, due to
the staggering amount of information imparted I sometimes struggled with Wizard
- especially as much of it was highly technical information. This, coupled with
the authors insistence on flying off on tangents and flitting around in time,
meant that I often spent entire chunks completely befuddled and bewildered. But
I still learned everything I could possibly want to know about one of the most
interesting people to have ever lived, so I'm not going to hold too much
against it.
And in case you're wondering, I'm firmly on the Tesla side of this rap battle:
When I was 15, I was pretty certain that poetry just wasn't for me. I could
see why others liked it, but nothing I'd read so far really seemed to be
speaking to me. And then, hidden away on a punk mix-tape (I was at least 15
years out to have actually been there), I stumbled across Kung Fu International:
Poetry
was no longer just the province of long-dead men in cravats contemplating the
nature of love, but of men in drain-pipes, contemplating the nature of getting
your head kicked in in a phone box. Something told me that this dude was more
punk than anyone else snarling away on my tape, but little did I know then that Kung Fu International wasn't even his best.
Ten Years In an Open Necked Shirt is a brilliant collection of John Cooper
Clarke, which includes my favourite:
...as well as more of
his other best and most-known works, plus a few others.
Full of acerbic wit, this is full of lines I'd like to memorise so that I
can pull them out the next time I'm called upon for a witty comeback (or so I
can spew A Love Story In Reverse at them, if they've really annoyed me. Oh, you haven't heard that one? Here, let me oblige)
The only
reason this is getting a 4 rather than a 5 is solely down to not hearing them
spoken in Clarke's nasal, Salford twang (although my imagination did its best to
supply it).
Running off to sea again with Lucky Jack Aubrey and his BFFF (and my
imaginary boyfriend) Dr Stephen Maturin has been long overdue, and so it was with an eager hand
that I opened The Mauritius Command. I wasn't disappointed as it turned out to
be as rollicking good fun as its predecessors, even if I still don't know my
mizen from my masthead.
Having married his sweetheart, Sophie, and settled in a long-dreamed for
cottage, The Mauritius Command finds Jack Aubrey on land and on half pay. His
dreams didn't quite match reality, however, and the cottage is not only pokey
but also contains his domineering mother-in-law and two hairless twins who, to
make matters worse, aren't even boys. His cabbages are being munched by
caterpillars, and even the bees that were Dr Maturin's gift have died (not the bees!). Thank heavens then, for the timely reappearance of Stephen and a set of
secret orders to sail the frigate Boadicea to the Cape and onto Mauritius,
where Jack is to harry the French while flying a Commodore's pendant.
A step-up in command brings its own problems, however, and Jack is soon
striving for success while managing the difficult personalities of the Captains
under him - the showy and insecure Clonfert, the capable but cruel Corbett who
takes better care of his brass than his men, and Pym, the numpty whose
incompetence nearly spells disaster - while Stephen spreads subversive
literature and schools the crews in an early bit of Hearts and Minds - no
thieving and raping, please, gentlemen!
Everything that I've come to love about this series is still present and
correct - the fantastic characterisation, the astounding amounts of food that
Jack puts away, the wonderful insights into life at sea and the throwaway
asides that make me snort ("...the surviving swine struck down into the hold
together with the goat, which, in the general silence, could be heard bleating
angrily for its long overdue tobacco") and most of all, the relationship between
Jack and Stephen ("Jack
loved him, and had not the least objection to granting him all the erudition in
the world, while remaining inwardly convinced that in all practical matters
other than physic and surgery Stephen should never be allowed out
alone.")
Ahhhh, Stephen. Skilled surgeon, dedicated naturalist, super-spy, the man I'd most want on my side in an argument and an all round colossus of a
character, Stephen has wormed his way into being my favourite character of all
time, and made it look as easy as kiss my hand. Wibble.
I was going to give this a four as its not even the best that I've read in
this series so far, but sod it. I loved every minute of it so much, it's getting
a five.
Well, yesterday it was Bristol - Colston Hall to be exact. And after a short road trip and a mooch around, so were me and Rerab.
After a viewing of Jay & Silent Bob's Super Groovy Cartoon Movie (a movie which has already apparently bought Jay a house...nice!) it was time for a Get Old Q&A Podcast, including the now obligatory sex story from Jay, the giving of hugs, a celebration of Jay's 4 years clean and his attempt (and failure - you had one job, man!) at doing this:
The Collected Stories of Philip K Dick, Vol 1 - 5 stars Considering how prolific Dick was, it's not entirely unreasonable to assume that a collection of short stories, mostly written over nine months during his early twenties, would house a few duds.
Beyond Lies The Wub never dips below excellent, but simply varies the different flavours of awesome it delivers with each.
Containing a wealth of ideas, imagination and humour and covering a variety of familiar themes, some of the stories I enjoyed most were some of those I least expected: Roog, starring a dog tormented in attempting to defend his family's rubbish from the garbagemen, Expendable, in which a man realises his insignificance in an insect war, Prize Ship's take on Gulliver's Travels and Out In The Garden's Leda and the Swan. Colony, Meddler, The Defenders, The Great C and Nanny were also treats, but if I named all those worth your time I'm going to pretty much sit and type out the table of contents.
Honestly, the only thing better than finishing a volume of Philip K Dick stories is knowing you've already got another volume sat waiting for you on your shelves.
3.5 stars For as long as I can remember I've been one of Stephen King's Constant Readers. A habit started early - my mum was once called to my primary school (pre-11's, for the non-Brits among us) during Reading Week to be asked if she knew I was reading Pet Semetary (she did) - it's a habit that's stuck with me into adulthood. I was bought this book a couple of years ago (thanks, Is!) and, as is my wont, I've been dangling it in front of myself like a carrot, having wanted to read everything of his that I could before getting stuck in (and therefore avoiding spoilers). Goodreads now tells me that, having read 33 of his books (really? Bloody hell) Stephen King is my most-read author. However, at the pace I've been getting through them it would still be a number of years before I get to read this if I stick to my own rules and so I've decided to stuff them, and dive in now.
A rather academic and scholarly look at the huge body of King's work (particularly, but not limited to The Stand, The Shining, Salem's Lot, It and The Dark Tower series), his influences, style, themes and characters, and particularly focusing on the blend of genres that mark his work, this one's probably not for the layman but the serious fan, with the emphasis on serious. Interesting and at times insightful, even when I didn't agree with it, the most interesting bits for me were usually when quoting King himself, and the biggest things I've taken away from this are that I probably shouldn't read any criticism by some fellow named Bloom (who provides the most scathing critiques on King and then goes on to call Anne Rice sadistic and tedious - them's fighting words!) and that I now really, really want to read Danse Macabre.
I love Greek mythology and think the fall of Troy is easily one of the most powerful myths around. Prior to reading this I would never have believed that anyone could tell it in such a way as to make it utterly boring, but sadly Margaret George has proved me wrong.
Telling the story of Helen of Troy, the face that started it all, it's clear that Ms George put in rather a lot of research. It's just a shame that, while remembering to add in details like what sort of cups people might have drunk from, she didn't bring any real storytelling talent to the table. A tale that should have been pulsing with passion, instead I felt nothing. Even during the parts that would normally have me weeping like a bereaved child (the death of Hector, and Priam's pleas for his son's body to be returned) or cursing furiously (anything to do with that shit Achilles) I found it all strangely lacking.
As for Helen, considering this is all told through her eyes, it seems that even though she's the main character she's not much more than an insipid, passive nincompoop, hardly the sort of person that thousands of men would give up their lives and bring ruin to kingdoms over, and the 600 odd-pages in her company were a slow torture.
If you're after something that really brings the story of Troy to life you could do much better - I'd recommend David Gemmell'sTroy series instead.
This week sees the end of an era, as Midge prepares to leave us for the greener grass of elsewhere. What an era it's been.
Eight years ago Midge came for an interview in the office where I worked as a secretary. With part of my job being trying to be nice to people while they waited for their interviews (which could be incredibly painful, at times), I was delighted to find out that they'd picked the girl I remembered as being really talkative, and rather sarcastic. Soon put together to work we've since undergone many, massive departmental changes, received promotions, moved buildings (and back again), seen tons of different colleagues come and go, and spent years at a time working alone in isolated offices together. So it was fortunate, really, that as we'd be spending upwards of 40 hours a week together, she soon became one of my besties. One of my favourite things about her is that she's not only funny when she wants to be, but especially when she doesn't mean to be. Whether it's when she's swearily sleep-talking on my sofa, accidentally calling people abusive names to their faces, or just getting all her words wrong (my favourites being the week she spent telling people she'd done something "on a quim" or describing the time she spent staying in a hostel where "the walls were made of MDMA") I spend a rather large proportion of my time in her company cackling like a loon.
Dismantling the remnants of our office this week and sharing out our glorious wall decorations has made me feel all misty eyed and nostalgic, and I'd like to take a moment to celebrate Midge and say thank you for a few things. So, sprinkled liberally with a few favourite clips and in jokes, here goes...
For the books. And the lists of books. For the sharing of the love of Anne Rice, and the sharing of the anger at Anita Blake. For the library visits and the book store binges and, most of all, for being totally cool with sitting and ignoring one another in favour of our books.
For all the lifts. And for bringing Alton Towers to everyday life in the form of her driving.
For making me try sushi.
For the unashamed love of rubbish (in my opinion) pop songs, and the complete inability to remember absolutely anything about any of them. And for the entire hour she once spent banging on about some bloke called Tim Morrison, before I realised she meant Jim.
For the impromptu dance routines, especially the ones that are in the car or include tap dance and jazz hands. And for turning Zumba class into an audition to be Ike & Tina's backing dancers.
For being the sort of person who not only encourages you to perform Superfreak at 6pm in a pub while people have their tea behind you, but gets up and does it with you.
For the being the best at meeting new people ("It's like I had an out of body experience. I watched myself behave like a maniac, and couldn't do anything to stop it.")
For all the telly watching, and for having to hide behind the cushion when True Blood gets sexy.
For being as slovenly as me and happily allowing belching in the office, and for the shared love of talking about bowel movements.
For adopting me a monkey.
For putting up with my frequent whining, and all of the unconditional support. Especially during the Age of the Vomits.
For her method of asking for food ("You cook for Midge, yes?" or, more frequently, "I ate your biscuits while you were off")
For being incredibly generous, and never being able to do enough for everyone.
For the spreading of wild rumours ("Who's that French bloke you fancy? Jacques Chirac?" I would like to go on the record as never having fancied Jacques Chirac.)
For all of the rants, and being able to swear as impressively and often as me.
For still not being able to say the name of where she's moving correctly. For many, many other things that I couldn't put up here for fear of getting both of us into tons of trouble.
And finally, for making sure that she Skypes me constantly, and remembers not to watch the Veronica Mars movie with anyone but me, and for making sure she comes home frequently and lets me come and stay whenever I want.
"...in this setting, left unfinished and abandoned by God in wrath, the birds do not sing; they shriek in pain, and confused trees tangle with one another like battling Titans, from horizon to horizon, in a steaming creation still being formed. Fog-panting and exhausted they stand in this unreal world, in unreal misery -and I, like a stanza in a poem written in an unknown foreign tongue, am shaken to the core."
Me too dude, me too.
Perhaps it's because I'm a city girl, but Herzog's vision of nature - obscene, cruel, wrathful, chaotic, and filled with a beauty that is terrible - rings far more true to me than any amount of nature-boy ramblings on harmony and being at one with the earth. If you're a fan of Herzog (as I am) then you'll find as much to enjoy here as in any of his films. This is not just a film diary - it's nothing near as banal as that - but a collection of images, feelings, waking dreams and visions (both delirious and otherwise) borne from the chaos of attempting the Herculean feat of hauling a steamboat over a mountain in the rainforest (and simultaneously wrangling the colossal ego of the maniacal Klaus Kinski), while making an astounding film.
Hypnotic, compelling, poetic and hilarious, this book is filled with so much material that I could easily re-read it a thousand times without once getting bored, and in fact already look forward to doing so. Whether I was being seduced by passages such as the one at the top of this review, cackling over his responses to the latest outburst from Kinski (I really, really enjoy their relationship, and never more so than when they're really NOT enjoying it) or wondering at the descriptions of his latest vision, I was never anything less than fully engaged and awed.
A wonderful book that I highly recommend, as a companion piece you could do worse than to search out My Best Fiend, a brilliant documentary on the relationship between Herzog and his most fascinating leading man....
