This is a brilliant bit of musical re-imagining, taking the stems of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s version of Heard it on the Grapevine and edited them into this. The artist, Reflex, has a Soundcloud page: take a look.
Books read September
Another month and five more books read. I can’t seem to read much more than a book a week recently.
Swords -Dancer — Jennifer Robson
A northern swordswoman comes to the desert south to search for her brother, taken by slavers. Tiger, one of the greatest swordmen of the south, takes pity on her and accompanies her on her quest.
The Silver Ship and the Sea — Brenda Cooper
On a barely settled colony world, six posthuman teenagers have to win the trust of the small human colony, a decade after the war their parents waged against the colony was lost.
A Bridge too Far — Cornelius Ryan
The classic account of Operation Market Garden, the airborne assault on Arnhem to provide a corridor over the Rhine into Germany and how it failed.
Going Under — Justina Robson
Third in the Quantum Gravity series. Lila Black is still in hell, now married to one of the top demons there and has to deal with becoming increasingly less human as her machine parts slowly take over her body.
Agent of Change — Sharon Lee & Steve Miller
Lee and Miller have just released this as a free ebook, a teaser for their Liaden series. This made it perfect for me to finally try this series, a cult favourite amongst online sf fandom. What it turned out to be was a decent romance/adventure science fiction romp, that unfortunately ended on a cliffhanger. Which means I’ll have to get the rest of the series. Bastards.
Sunday night comedy
The Great American Novel: women need not apply
This is such a great takedown of a certain kind of self important American novel(ist) that it had me giggling at work:
“Often the protagonist of an Important Novel of the Latter Half of The 20th Century is male, and is a thinly veiled version of the author. So thin of a veil. A veil so thin is it possible to discern whether the author was circumcised. Also, he often displays a particular stomach-turning combination. He regards women as, one the one hand a mere necessary evil, not things one would be inclined to befriend or discuss life with, and on the other hand, beings of terrible power that make one very angry indeed.”
Who knew Belle Waring could be so sarky? Timely too, what with the writer David Gilmour (no, not that one) attempting to take a break from a well earned obscurity by saying stupid stuff about not wanting to teach about women writers:
I’m not interested in teaching books by women. Virginia Woolf is the only writer that interests me as a woman writer, so I do teach one of her short stories. But once again, when I was given this job I said I would only teach the people that I truly, truly love. Unfortunately, none of those happen to be Chinese, or women. Except for Virginia Woolf. And when I tried to teach Virginia Woolf, she’s too sophisticated, even for a third-year class. Usually at the beginning of the semester a hand shoots up and someone asks why there aren’t any women writers in the course. I say I don’t love women writers enough to teach them, if you want women writers go down the hall. What I teach is guys. Serious heterosexual guys. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Chekhov, Tolstoy. Real guy-guys. Henry Miller. Philip Roth.
Then saying he was misquoted and that “It was a careless choice of words. I’m not a politician, I’m a writer.” Gee.
Sandra wouldn’t have liked this
Big fuckoff spider hanging in front of our front window, bold as you please. There are plenty of spiders in the garden too, spinning webs between the washing lines and the small table or chair outside. I don’t mind them there, but they can’t come in. Sandra of course was a dedicated arachnophobeand hated seeing any spider in the house, though not so much outside.
(Dreamed of her incidently, one of those dreams where you know she’s dead, but there’s a perfectly logical explenation for why she’s now alive again. Maudlin, more than upsetting.)