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dharmadischarge · 3 years

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Top 5 Novels: or it gets dark around here early.

So now I am trying to say something. That is all. No, that will not do at all... Here is a list of my top 5 novels, with one short review and four long ones.

1, Jim Dodge - Stone Junction. Reading Stone Junction by Jim Dodge is like meeting the father you never had

2, Thomas Pynchon - Gravity's Rainbow Subtlety is overrated... and just because you have a boner doesn't mean you're a terrorist. I mean, it doesn't mean you're not causing those rockets to come from the sky. But, still, that is beside the point.

For me, this book is about obliterating the arbitrary distinction between high and low culture. The ironically arbitrary distinction between good and evil and the dangerously subtle distinction between despondency and hope.

Fractured, layered, elusive, you could accuse Pynchon of all these things.

The way characters bleed into one another to make one voice. A hellish symphony of discordant cries of pain reaching out to a belief that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and paranoia is the glue.

Also, it is funny. Like in a dumb way and there are songs. Also, dumb.

Everyone will talk about how polarising this book is but I don't believe it. you can follow the bouncing ball and sing along or live in fear that at any moment the terror will become real and you will collapse into ellipsis...

It is the third and newer testament. An epilogue to western culture as racist cultural energy written by a crazy white guy. T.S. Elliot and his wasteland were a prelude, in hindsight, nothing but a john the baptist-like figure for the cross that Pynchon presents to all readers as their burden to carry with this book.

Hope is crazy painful, consciousness is such a fragile thing and the burden of consciousness is the pain of knowing that (beyond the act of effort itself) it is a futile one.

Jim Dodge once said, "a stone falls till it hits the earth, transcend what?" and that about sums it up.

3, Cormac McCarthy - Blood Meridian.

Blood Meridian is a kind of repetitious, primeval-hillbilly level of primitive interpretation of the morality expressed in the book of revelation fighting its way onto the page as barely literate poetry.

It is not a book of social niceties, justice, or the warm feeling you get when you do something good. also, this book could also easily be seen as porn for serial killers.

I scanned the reviews and saw all the campy (and not the good kind of campy) parodies this kind of book inspires in the age of irony we live in (though it seems like it is on its last legs). And while I like me a good parody, I find that Eli Cash did it better.

There is something to be said about how Cormac McCarthy (ab)uses the English language. The one good line I read from one of the negative reviews of his books was that a middle schooler could list what he doesn't like about the kids who bully him and that this list would have more emotional nuance and better use of punctuation than a Cormac McCarthy novel. This is fair.

The conceptional power of Blood Meridian though is that it frames cruelty and violence for what it is: reality. While also through its sometimes monotonous exaggeration of William Faulkners styled repetitions it creates a sense of unreality. A sense that like David Lynch's best work that we are walking, daily, through something so evil and violent that it borders on slapstick, and at last we laugh in self-defense.

I think the people who parody the book without much thought got trapt in the intellectual self-defense state that is part of coping and couldn't see the forest for the trees.

Civilization is a fragile thing, it is the human race trying to domesticate itself, and the longer it goes on the more it seems like we're just sweeping what we don't like under the rug.

4, John Crowley - Little, Big.

There is a kind of hokey-Americana style kitsch that most of my favorite writers could be accused of, from, Tom Robbins to Jim Dodge. John Crowley may be the peak of it. It could be because on the surface Americans don't have a unified culture we are a melting pot with capitalism only encouraging the lowest common denominator (the pursuit of greed as its own reward).

But in any creative act that does not presume to be the literal expression of anything but pure gratitude, there is politics. The politics of worth, of greatness, inherent value, and the desire to prove that the wisdom offered was truly earned. That a difficult pleasure does not mean that there is none.

This is an American fairytale. A once upon a time that seems eerily to remind of another Crowley, that codesigned the deck of Thoth tarot cards (A really good one for those curious) more than the writers of magical realism. And probably because I didn't read this in translation I preferred it to a hundred years of solitude. This may seem random to people of the fantasy crowd who know that genre is only a limitation to artistic merit if you want it to be (usually for cultural-political reasons). but people often compare this book to Gabriel Garcia Marquez's writing. And while they are both family chronicles with supernatural elements. this is kind of a shallow comparison.

Crowley's work is more in the tradition of an occult mystic, and Gabo is more a romantic using personal folklore as the vocabulary of that romantic expression (of which I think love in the time of cholera, is his masterpiece).

I am trying to not give away any spoilers, or even talk about specifics at all. but the ending is worth it. Like most things in life, it's your journey to go on so I won't ruin it for you, but they are out there waiting for you, where the lights never go out.

5, Neil Gaiman - The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

"words save our live's sometimes"

I was a frustrated borderline feral child, who could not deal with reality. My parents taught me how to read and not much else. I was homeschooled and weighed three hundred pounds by the time I was thirteen. I remember one night unable to deal with any more abuse that I laid down and decided my dreams would have to be enough, I close my eyes and went away for a long time. Lettie Hempstock's ocean is real to me I almost drowned in it.

When I was a teenager the cult-like fundamentalist atmosphere of my home life became less extreme, but the damage was done. I was still in the ocean. it says something about my state of mind that the closest I came to getting traction on reality was starting a habit of reading insistently, my favorite book was Stardust by Neil Gaiman.

Once on Twitter, I told him "thank you" for writing it. I later after reading this book I wrote a short review of this book and sent it to him. He said "thank you" to me in a @ mention. It was nice. I later @ mentioned him in a playfully sarcastic way and he deleted his original comment.

I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when I was twenty-four or twenty-five. I have been told I had childhood-onset schizophrenia. I have been told I milk it. I have been told that I self isolate.

I have been writing reviews tonight, going through my favorite books, and just live streaming my mind. Thinking about how they made me feel and what they make me think. Neil Gaiman's work always makes my brain retreat on itself. Possibly because of stardust. But more than that it is the wisdom he has. He knows that stories are true in a way that transcends a mere list of facts. communicating for those with an ear to listen that there is more than what we know, there is more than our understanding, there is more than us. More than you, more than me. There is an ocean that is healing for some while necessarily absent for others.

We forget, and we remember. Each other and ourselves. Cruelty and innocence. But there is an ocean and it is Lettie Hempstock's.

#literature #gothic literature #top 5 anything #top 5 list #top five novels #top 5 novels #fiction #literary criticism #literary critique #fantasy #scififantasy #western #postmodern #thomas pynchon #john crowley #neil gaiman #jim dodge #cormac mccarthy

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hookaroo · 6 years

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A Captain’s Heart (20 of 34?)

Chapter 1 Chapter 19

Rated T for language and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Also on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12937105/1/A-Captain-s-Heart

Tagging @therooksshiningknight & @killian-whump by request :)

The garbled voices were not matching up at all with the rhythm pounding through Killian’s brain. It should not have been so disturbing to him. But for whatever reason, it was. Enough that it drew him out of the blackness to which he clung so desperately. He just wanted to sleep, damn it; was that so much to ask for?

As sensations trickled back - everywhere below the shoulders because he was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge anything higher - Killian noticed a hand wrapped around his own. Another, rubbing his back. He was lying on his side, somewhere hard, somewhere cold. Uncomfortable. Except for the part of him that didn’t exist at present. That was being cradled gently, resting on a lap. Emma’s?

Confirming that would mean opening his eyes. Which would certainly make everything hurt worse.

More words slurred through the air, voices unrecognizable and uncountable. Made-up phrases. Speaking backwards. Or something. Killian stopped trying. Deciphering was way beyond his current capacity.

Touch was dangerous. Sight impossible. Hearing out of the question. So… smell? Therein may lie a clue. He cautiously deepened his breaths, paying specific attention. As much as he was capable, at any rate.

Ocean. Obvious. And unhelpful. And the deep breaths were only contributing to his whale-sized headache.

Killian failed to interpret the sound coming from beside him for what it was: a warning. He vaguely connected it with a cry of protest, but by then it was too late, and he was being hauled roughly up by the elbow as he moaned and tried to hold onto the contents of his stomach. He made no attempt to straighten on his own. His head lolled forward, eyes shut tightly against the pain in his skull. By force, he was set upright on wobbly legs that would have collapsed beneath him had he not been propped between two other beings. They smelled like orange and mint. Blossoms and vinegar. Sulfurous, burning hair. Killian’s gut lurched again.

“...r feet, Captain Jones. There’s work to be done.”

Killian reached for his face, intent on massaging the ache from his eyes, but the person beneath his arm was blocking the path.

So. He could distinguish words again.

“Gotohell,” he mumbled, tasting for the first time the metallic salt of blood in his mouth. He was talking toward the deck at his feet, not the woman before him, but he didn’t care in the slightest.

“I could,” she answered casually. “But you’ve wrecked the place.”

There was nothing for it. He had to see what he was dealing with. Who it could possibly be. And who else was here with him: Marvel or Emma. He had to open his eyes.

One eye. That would do. Killian winced and peeled an eyelid back, just a bit, just enough to squint painfully at the boards beneath him. Making out, through watering gaze, three sets of feet, plus a fourth facing them. And bloodstained knees in the background. Killian waited for the dizziness to settle, the fuzziness to sharpen, even as a stake drove through his temple deep into his brain, vibrating shocks accompanying each heartbeat.

It took massive effort, but Killian managed to raise his head. He forced his pained groan into a tense chuckle, plastering on a disdainful sneer as he blearily studied the lady before him.

For several heartbeats, he blamed concussion for the fuzziness of her outlines, but the rest of the scene appeared normal enough. It was like she wasn’t quite solid, like her very flesh wobbled on wind eddies so that one could never say for sure whether she were tall or short, rounded or slender. Hair, skin, and robes would not settle on a single hue or style; they morphed seamlessly from one to another, sometimes complementary, more often clashing. Killian found his nausea intensifying the longer he watched and soon had to look away.

“Don't believe I’ve had the pleasure,” grunted Killian, squeezing both eyes for a moment at a sudden spike in pain.

“You, dearest mortal, are standing in the presence of Eris, Goddess of Discord and Chaos. You may call me Goddess or Your Holiness; either one will do.”

“Bloody hell,” complained the pirate. “Thought I was done with you lot.”

Eris stepped closer, a haughty air about her. “Is that the appropriate reaction when meeting your deity? I thought you would be more excited, considering how long you’ve been promoting my cause.”

Killian squinted at her blankly. The bump to the head must have slowed his mental acuity, for he hadn’t the slightest clue to what she referred. She sighed.

“Anarchy? Mayhem? Random slaughter? All very much my passion and your life’s work.”

Killian couldn’t bring himself to protest, even if he wasn’t that man anymore. He was too damn woozy. “Fine. Granted. Can we skip to the demands, please? And then the part where you magically restore my cranium in thanks for the chaos thing?”

The goddess put a finger to her lower lip, tapping as she scrutinized him. Then, with an impish grin, she shook her head. “This is quite a good look for you, Captain. Painted red, all askew, only one eye open. I hate symmetry, you know.” Her gaze fell upon his hook where it rested on her henchman’s shoulder. “And that is why you’re my favorite mortal. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that everyone should have one. Because that would be too much conformity. But what a lovely example of deviation.”

If Killian’s head hadn’t hurt so much, he would have rolled his eyes. As it was, he merely sighed. “You’re too kind.”

A quiet shuffle from behind him brought Killian’s attention back to his most pressing concern. Bracing himself for the inevitable pain and vertigo that would surely result, he twisted as much as he could to look rearward. A quick glimpse of auburn was enough, and he turned back, grimacing.

“Marvel? You all right, love?”

“I’m not hurt, Captain.” Her voice was small, uncertain.

“And her,” gushed Eris. She shivered in exaggerated ecstasy. “Such a beautiful anomaly.”

Killian didn’t care for this goddess’ tone. “Be that as it may… I would dearly love to know what the hell is going on here. And where’s Emma? Is she okay?”

Eris shrugged dismissively. “Your magic-wielding wife is quite safe back on the mortal realm’s beach. Out of my way, no threat to my plans.”

Feeling marginally more stable, Killian wrenched his arms off the shoulders of the two men flanking him. They allowed the action, but each put a restraining hand around the closest bicep. Wearily, the pirate ran his hand along his eyes. “And what plans would those be, then?”

“You’re going to help me with a bit of mischief I have in mind. Or rather, give me the means to successfully achieve the mischief.”

“Am I?” growled Killian. “I don’t recall volunteering my time and service to you. Just what is it I’m meant to be doing?”

“All in good time,” the goddess promised. “But first… this is for your part in the organization of the Underworld.”

She lifted a finger and a sudden blast of magic slammed into Killian’s cheek, a strike that combined the sting of a slap and the bruising force of a punch without causing any pain to Eris. Killian’s head snapped back, and if it weren’t for the brutes gripping his arms tightly, he likely would have toppled to the deck. Growling, the pirate waited for his battered brain to stop rattling in his skull before facing the goddess once more. He slitted one eye open and snarled,

“I merely helped to restore that cursed place to its rightful state of being. Zeus-”

“Stuffy old Zeus. Yes, I know his designs. How it was meant to be. But it was so much better under Hades’ rule. So much more suffering. People trapped for centuries, or better yet, lost forever in the River of Souls. All this ‘moving on’ business is much too procedural for my taste.”

Killian gently pressed the back of his hand against the throb; a trickle of fresh blood mingled with the dried caked on his cheek. “I thought Zeus rules you all.”

Eris scoffed. “He thinks he does. He’s got far less control than his deluded followers believe. Next.”

She cooly appraised her captive, and Killian stood unflinching, refusing to cower even under the threat of that one word.

“Neverland. A wondrous place with its feral children and savage king. My second favorite in all the realms, until you helped tame it.”

“That was hardly my-”

An invisible fist closed around his airway and he could protest no further. Automatically, he reached for his throat, but it was no more effective than any of the previous dozen times he’d been choked by magic. Following an invisible prompt by their boss, the two guards released him and stepped aside.

“I quite miss the wilds of that island. This is for Neverland.”

This time, the blast drove into his middle and he was instantly on his knees, doubled over. Still unable to breathe, but for an altogether different reason now. He heard Marvel whimper a protest and felt her hands on his back. Eris did not try to stop her, an omission for which Killian was grateful. He had enough to worry about without the goddess pouring out her wrath on Marvel as well.

Struggling past the inevitable panic of having had the wind knocked out of him, Killian was finally able to suck in a painful breath. As he clutched his brace against an aching abdomen, he panted with his eyes shut, all the while frantically seeking a way to escape. Eris and her men waited quietly. She seemed in no hurry to further the conversation.

“Anything else?” wheezed Killian. He squinted up at her but was forced to lower his gaze when the stabbing pain in his head became too great. “Black Fairy? Evil Queen? The bloody Dark One? Any other obsessions I’ve disrupted?”

“Small fish,” she answered, bored. “Although… now that you mention it… I am rather disappointed in your decision to align yourself with Good and Law. You made such an excellent villain. So for that…”

No magic this time. Her roundhouse kick caught him in the jaw, just below where it hinged with his skull. The force of impact drove him sideways and back, out of Marvel’s reach. He sprawled on his right elbow and hip, sliding along the boards, and for a long moment, everything was consumed by pain and darkness.

#ouat fanfiction #killian jones #the jolly roger #whump #hooray!#head injury #held captive #magical beatings #defiance #discord #supposedly discord and strife #but they seem similar enough #and I liked one description that said chaos #so that's her title in this universe okay?

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