between the rock and the cold, cold sea

I've given up trying to remember and record all the books I read while I was sick. They were Many, and I've forgotten most of their plots. Except in the case of Dorothy L. Sayers: Have His Carcase and Gaudy Night must be two of the best books anywhere, with Busman's Honeymoon running close in third.

But since my memory started working again, there've been a couple of books worth remembering.

Mary Gentle's Ilario: The Lion's Eye is one of them. Set in the same alternate history universe as her Ash: A Secret History, but earlier.

The main character is Ilario, a hermaphrodite and former King's Freak of the court of Taraconensis. I can't tell you what the story's about: Gentle is too complex a writer for me to do that; but I can tell you it takes place all over the Med, from Carthage under the Penitence, to the crumbling Rome of the Empty Chair, to Venice, to Alexandria-in-Exile - Constantinople, where Pharaoh Ty-ameny rules over the last remnant of Egypt. There are golems, and assassins, and eunuchs, and mercenaries, and artists, and kings.

I love Gentle's work with the very great love. Ilario isn't the book that Ash was: it's very, very different. But equally good.

Elizabeth Bear (matociquala)'s Carnival - well, what can I say? Diplomats, spies, remnant alien cities, a future about as strange as anyone could wish for, much plotty goodness, and, oh. So many twisted and conflicted loyalties.

It kept me up all night reading. Read it.

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Eragon is an enjoyable film, if you aren't expecting too much from it. It suffers from, perhaps, a slight overdose of the clichés - ( spoilery, if you care ) - and an urge to offer homage to the LotR trilogy with every second sweeping camera angle, but the dragon is lovely and Jeremy Irons and John Malkovich are both extraordinary actors - Irons, in particular, is magnificent.

If you don't mind the - at times - outrageously stilted dialogue, it's actually quite a good film.

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Season's greetings. Whatever holiday you're celebrating this time of year, have a good one.

My day to spam LJ.

matociquala’s Blood and Iron.

When I say this book is the most stunning novel I have read in a decade, I am, if anything, understating.

Elaine is the Seeker. An unwilling servant of a Faerie Queen, she longs for her lost humanity, but stronger ties than her Name hold her to the Faerie realm.

Matthew is a Mage, a member of the Prometheus Club. For centuries Faerie and Prometheus have been at odds, and Matthew has more reasons than most to hate Faerie and all its works.

Each of them is trying to woo the latest player in the game, the Merlin. But this latest Merlin is not eager to take sides.

And there are other complications in the ageless war between Faerie and Prometheus, self-appointed guardians of the iron world: the Dragon, a Dragon Prince, and the seven-year tiend to Hell.

I have said this before. I will say it again. This is a book to sip, slowly. To savour, nuances of language wrapped around a plot that races downhill like a sliding boulder, picking up speed and bouncing sparks as it goes. There is sorrow in it, and unbearable sweetness, and the tragedies of triumph and loss.

Faerie is terrible. And beautiful. There are no right sides, only hard choices. And sweet gods and little fishes, is it glorious.

I could say many things about this book. I could rave and warble rapturously. I won’t, though. But I will say that it reminded me entirely too much of the stories I grew up with, of Cuchulainn, of Fionn and the Fianna, of Clann Lir. Powerful legends, and painful ones, and there is always, always, a price.

Favourite book of the decade. Favourite book of my lifetime.

There’s a POV shift about halfway through. It’s momentarily jarring, but so utterly appropriate. My love for this book is great and defies description, but I think, even if you read it and end up hating it, you have to admire the craft and thought that went into its making.

And it’s only Bear’s fourth published novel. What else is to come?

matociquala has a dare going on:

Okay, I double-dog dare you. Go ahead and post the awfullest, grottiest, ancientest piece of juvenilia you still have a word processor that will open.

What a pity I moved computers last year. Such a terrible... pity.

However, here is something dreadful I wrote six months ago:

( Aiee, it burns us, precious! )

It's melodramatic, overblown and has only a quarter of the plot it needs to make sense. And that's just for starters. *g*

Still, I finished it.