HSU IT Department

I do still exist!

I've been almost entirely absent from LJ/DW for the past year for a variety of reasons, most connected with family matters, which has meant I have had to carefully ration my mental and emotional capital so as to be able to deal with all the things that needed dealing with. Some of the things had an ending but left us working through the aftermath; others have subsided for the time being or even faded away; one will, I fear, extend the unwanted stress-testing into January. But it has, without question, been a tough year at the Psmith household.

That said, I'm definitely feeling better/a little more myself as the year draws to a close, and am hopeful that 2023 will be the Year of Living Normally again. As part of that I aim to be back here more regularly, because I've missed y'all. I spent today getting caught up with mywitch's always-delightful annual 25 Days of Christmas artfest, and am looking forward to hoggywartyxmas (surely the rumor it will be the last is, in fact, only a rumor??) and snapecase.

I hope all of you have a relaxing holiday filled with pleasant people, comfortable surroundings, good fellowship, and delicious noshes and sips :)

OK, I'm VASTLY behind on book reviews so will have to sum up ("Let me explain...No, there is no time -- let me sum up"). So: four tonight and (if all goes well and the goddess of motivation smiles on me) four tomorrow.

Nightlights, a Twilight parody. Meh. Hilarious bit at the beginning spoofing Bella's klutziness -- which was a major gripe of mine in the first book, it was made such a major deal I assumed that at a minimum she would turn out to have some degenerative neurological condition -- and a very funny bit where she thinks she's meeting Edvart's parents but he turns out have some kind of address dyslexia and went to the wrong house. Other than that, not very clever.

No Blade of Grass (U.S. title), a revisit but just as good on the fourth or fifth re-read as the first. A British (therefore stiff-upper-lippy) post-apocalypse novel, in which the Chung-Li virus destroys all grasses on the planet and a small band of friends and family must fight their way from London to an idyllic (defensible) valley in Wales. Not quite so I'm-the-man-and-I-will-save-you as Alas Babylon, but more intense in that the effects are immediate rather than remote. Alas, Babylon has a very unrealistic view of survivable nuclear war; Grass gives us a world that's truly dead, no arguments, no way to stop it, and very impersonally since it's a virus. I can't believe they haven't made this into a movie yet, it has all the elements of a fantastic high-concept SF flick. They'd have to do something to update the female roles but other than that all the pieces are in place.

Bible Stories for Adults by James Morrow. Not bad but didn't wow me. The first story (unless I've missed something) seems to suggest that the Chinese are descended from a diseased whore who escaped the Biblical Deluge. I can only hope I've misread that one. The rest are quite fun -- quirky, irreverent, pointed critiques of religion which I always love (being a pagan or possibly an atheist, depending on the news). Asimov would like them, I think, as several of them employ robots to prove the essential inhumanity of mankind. I especially liked 'Spelling God with the Wrong Blocks," in which a bunch of Creationist robots burn Darwinian heretics at the stake and await the Great Genital Coming (no pun intended, I'm sure). Morrow also wrote Towing Jehovah, in which God dies and his body gets towed south by a barge, and Only Begotten Daughter, in which Jesus has a sister, both of which I highly recommend.

Mystery of Grace by Charles de Lint. Sadly, this disappointed me. Not entirely -- not in the writing or characters (Grace the grease monkey, love her!) which are both elegant as always, and the resolution (involving Mexican bruja traditions and faith in the saints) was appropriate and well done, as I've come to expect from Monsieur de Lint. I liked the idea that Grace and John (not to mention the evil witch in the penthouse) have to learn to let go of some things, but the fact that Grace had no interest in moving on until ( spoilers ) It feels like a cheat, almost. So it's OK, but not his best.

Wow. I'm tired now.

oops, bad coding...better now...

This is the sequel to their Inferno from years back and overall a worthy successor. Aimee Semple Macpherson is here, roaming Hell on her motorcycle looking for souls to save. J. Edgar Hoover is a demon (humorously known as Pink Talon). There's a Carl who I think is Carl Sagan. Anna Nicole Smith is in the Fourth Circle (hoarders and wasters), and there are strong hints that quite a few folks from the Bush administration are in the Eighth Circle in the Pit of Evil Counselors. Once again, at first glance some of the characters seem wildly inappropriately placed here in hell; then as Allen (and the reader) think it through, it begins to make sense. I'm not sure I'm all in favor of the ending as it seems a bit grandiose, but it works with the setup. Some characters from the last book are here, though in different places; Billy the Kid's fate is sad, but I was amused and quite heartened by Reverend Canon Don Camillus and his ice cream truck.

What I love about this book and its predecessor -- aside from the cracking good story and the entertainment of trying to identify the various people -- is that it actually manages to dig up some logic and sense in the concept of Hell. It also aligns with my personal philosophy that we make our own fates by our actions, not by some arbitrary randomness, and that we're always capable of learning. That even something as apparently horrible as hell could have a purpose beyond infinite sadism, and that no one is beyond redemption. For some people of course it's a longer and harder journey than for others, but that's as it should be. They have more to learn.

Now I'm going to go back and read the original. Sadly, I'm not fluent in Renaissance Italian (go figure) but in the conclusion the authors recommend Dorothy Sayers' translation. I didn't even know she'd done one. So I trip off to my shelf to see whose I have, thinking it would be John Ciardi's, and lo and behold -- it's hers! I think that's a sign.