joker

Joker, Brian Azzarello. (Art by Lee Bermejo)

Let's, very quickly, get the basic thing out of the way. There's no loving Brian Azzarello. In fact, if you really get down to the mean, dirty detail (because that's all there is to him), there's only being repulsed. And horrified, let's not forget that. With a swagger and a smile, the Joker returns from the asylum to take back what is his. While they turn Gotham into a toilet, he just sits there. (He just shits there.) The whole comic is building up to one single punch-line, not the Joker's, although those are pretty amazing. The gruesome, the ugly, the twisted, the terrible: All these Azzarello builds, only to bring them down with a single tug. All these, Azzarello crashes - with one single panel, one beautifully chiselled jaw, one Batman - and one single line.

magic

About halfway through Kate Griffin's book now, so obviously a proper comment will be written later. Her style is interesting - I'm not sure what to make of it yet. As I read, I am aware of the fact that it is just way too much detail. Her effort at being slick and cool often comes off as an effort. But as I'm sinking into it, I can feel the flow of the story, and that's always a good thing.

Anyway, the point of this post is to log somethings from the book:
"...the city you saw in daylight, and on the surface, was only a lie, an illusion sustained by all the things going on underneath, and at night - the lorries delivering food to the shops between 1 am and 5 am., and the men cleaning the congealed fat from the sewers, painting lines onto the roads when all the traffic had stopped, changing the bulbs in the street lamps, checking the rails in the underground, fixing the water pipes when no one was awake to want something to drink, and listening to the wires under the streets - The Downers understood that all these things had to happen for the city to survive..."

23.07.2011

There's no better way to waste an afternoon than reading crappy fiction and drinking lots of tea.

(On policy decision, I have decided not to document reading any books published by the great Mills and Boons, but make no mistake: they exist.)

murakami

The thing about Murakami, apart from the melancholy and the emotion, not counting how immediately I take in many of his pop culture references for granted into my own life, given the philosophical undertones, the thing about Murakami is the normalisation of the strange. He does it with such ease, such remarkable flow, such passion and such nonchalance, that sometimes I just have to sit back and read it over and over again.
On some days, in some moments, some things just make sense. Like the gorilla in Dance, Dance, Dance. (Or was it Wild Sheep Chase? The books blur into each other in my head.) The way it walks into the room and put him to sleep. Or what he says about the scenery in his memory in Norwegian Wood. They just come back to you. What's even better, are the things that stay. Things that are left unfinished in your head, things that he says offhandedly, things that stew.
For me, Murakami is someone who comforts me, someone I read when I'm lonely. Someone who makes me enjoy my moments of darkness; inspires it, even. And the reason I want to go to Japan sometime in life, the only reason I want to visit Tokyo is so I can go to his cafe (in my head, it's a quaint little place - like the cafe in which Elvis plays in the Hitchhiker's Guide), where there are musicians in a corner, doing their own thing. A place with pretty lights and a prettier view, a place made solely out of corner tables.
The thing about Murakami, the real thing about him, is that he makes emptiness okay, and loneliness a way of life. And that's why I love reading him.

03.07.2011

100 Bullets.

First Shot, Last Call.

Whoa. Take a broken character, offer her reprieve and an eye for an eye as it may seem. But dig a little deeper, just an inch below the surface, and you're not sure anymore. Vodka outside Russia tastes the same anyway, and nobody knows who's really pulling the strings. It's loud, it's pacy, it's subtle, it's oh-so-noir, it's sexy, it's compelling and it know what it's doing. What's more, the storytelling is incredible. Minimal dialogue, almost no narrative and fucking brilliant art. I can't wait to read the next one.

'Hey I know death's a part of life.'

'You don't know death. You ignore it, same as I do.'

**

Kafka on the Shore

Which I had saved for a rainy day. I guess today's as rainy as any other. :)

01.07.2011

More River of Smoke:
I absolutely love the gay, gossipy, italicky Robin Chinnery. Ghosh seems to have had quite a bit of fun writing him and I'm having fun reading.

'I have to bring you to Fanqui-town's landing Ghat, which is called, and this is true, I swear- Jackass Point (the fabled Man-Town must, in other words be entered through Jack's Unspeakable).'

25.06.2011

Preliminary observation on River of Smoke: The first one was okay, with its English and Bhojpuri mix-ups, but this French-Bhojpuri thing is really, really trying. It tests the very limits of my already much-limited french vocabulary. But storytelling-wise, already love it.

24.06.2011

Small Gods, Terry Pratchett

Yes! I know Pratchett doesn't count as much reading as fondly remembering. So what! Pfft. Bought the new Ghosh book. But I do have to re-read Sea of Poppies first. (Sigh. Having fun has never been so taxing.) Anyway, Small Gods - After Thief of Time, a bit dull, but oh-so-awesome with the Philosopher Theatrics in Ephebe. And the desert. That too.

June

Watchmen, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons

11.06.2011. Yes Ma, my reading is indeed as neglected as this page. Although, I did manage to filler-re-read Watchmen over the past week. So there's this bit where Jon's telling his story - and he starts with the old photograph and builds on it. What an absolutely stunning piece of story-telling! I read that over and over again, just to go over how that story gets built, how the details get folded, one on top of the other, almost like a song, almost like poetry. I find myself thinking, there's a reason why this book is that awesome. Sigh.

May

Thief of Time, Terry Pratchett
Dissolution, CJ Sansom (Book 1, Shardlake series)
Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman (The author's preferred text etc.)
Colour of Magic and the Light Fantastic, graphic novels, Terry Pratchett

01. 05. 2011. This page has (had) been temporarily suspended to remind the owner of this blog of deadlines looming like impending doom. Everything that may distract her will reappear in a span of three days when her term papers have been successfully written and submitted.

Or, in the words of Douglas Adams, 'We apologise for the inconvenience.'

(The owner of this blog is also quite the drama queen and loves referring to herself in third person.)

10.05.2011. Okay, so not so much reading done yet, for the month. Been doing all sorts of exciting things that don't involve sitting in one place. (Or if they do, the sitting has involved catching up on lost sleep.) The art on the graphic novels was very disappointing. The editing and graphic novel-ising was pretty sad too. I kept expecting to read the jokes I liked, and they just weren't there (like "Big Bang" for example.) Also, WHAT did he do to DEATH? Yuck. *Wipes image out of brain.*
Plan to start on Sansom tonight. Let's see how that goes. :D

23. 05.2011. Need. To. Find. Time. For. Self.

28.05.2011. Okay, I have to read at least one book fully by the end of this month. What the fuck!