After a year of rambling posts and nonsensical text, I thought maybe I should post something normal... ?

Beh, I will say this: if you come here to actually read something ... then you are pretty fucking weird. I like that.
Keep being pretty fucking weird next year too.

And don't forget about the


 

It is no secret that I hate Mark Lawrence, so after he reviewed Germline on Goodreads, (no, I am not stalking him, Geezus, relax!) I thought to myself, “Oh, look here, another thing for me to hate.”

And so it began. Rather quickly, I might add, since The Bookdepositry offered the whole trilogy for a measly 15 euros. “Hell yes, give it here,” is what I said next, then waited. I waited and, for a while, lo and behold, nothing happened.

Then the postman delivered my drugs and I am quite certain I had that special (retarded) glee on my face; the same one that’s always there when I begin to open a package containing a tome as of yet unknown to me. What glee, what joy, eh?

Anyway, the first book is the one I absolutely devoured. The Gonzo style spoke to me. The excessive drug use and graphic violence caressed my gentle soul, and the prose was masturbate-worthy. Yeah, I said it. Masturbate worthy. It is as if someone had dug up the grave of Hunter S. Thompson and told him, “I know you’re pissed right now, but there’s this thing you have to do.” The reluctant Hunter does this, of course, and what we get is Fear and Loathing done in the fashion of Military Sci-Fi. Differences are there, of course... that is to say, T.C. McCarthy is pretty great on his own without me comparing his style to anyone else.

I read some reviews before I purchased these books, and what irks me a bit is that most of the bad ones either simply didn’t read the whole thing (imo you don't get to review a book like an asshole if you didn't read the whole thing), or felt there wasn’t enough backstory (there were other reasons too, but I chose to ignore those on the grounds that they were stupid). This is not a book like that, this is not a world-building romp of fantasy madness with 5+ POVs. This is a first person narrative, this is in your face. This is packed with thermal bombs and drones flying over your head with you not knowing if they’re yours or your enemy’s. And that’s why this is so good. Fuck a backstory when the story itself feels and reads like you’re there. Fuck a backstory when it is scattered across the pages instead. Better. What more do you really need to know? There’s a war and this is a “soldier” fighting in it – this is his narrative, that’s all you need. If you don’t like it, then we probably wouldn’t get along all that great.

Now having said that, there were instances when I felt things were a bit forced. Admittedly, I have not been in a war, never been in a trench, and never had to feel the fear of not knowing if the next plasma grenade will pop somewhere in the distance and give me ass cancer later, or melt my balls off, but some of the scenes felt slightly unbelievable to me. At first. Then they slowly began to make sense. All of the things the protagonist experiences, all the traumas, all the rampant drug use and the reasons for it, it all makes sense.

It helps that the scenes are written in such a way that no word or sentence ever feels like filter.

Scout runs into some likable characters you’ll never know much about, but will no doubt feel the story is better with them around.

The resolution in book one and all the subsequent books is satisfying, the prose stays the same throughout, I would say it even improves, although I have to admit that the different POV’s for each book made the trilogy slightly less enjoyable for me, not because the characters weren’t as good, it is simply that the other two didn’t do to my psyche what Scout’s story did. Perhaps it is because I know what to expect (somewhat), since T.C. still manages to throw some pretty sick curveballs. Although by the third book, you notice he too likes what I like to call, “The Martin way of doing things.” (although this is military sci-fi, so it’s not really a big deal) You like a character? Pow. Dead. Oh, you like that one too? I don’t know what happened to him, dead probably. Problem?



 
9/10

"In the civilizations I have created time is often unstable.

I had written a somewhat lengty review of this book, yet when I read what I had put down, I realized it's not really a review, but a wall of text with reasons why Alastair Reynolds is boss.

So instead of posting that I will simply state this: should you find yourself in search of a sci-fi book to read, consider reading House of Suns, it is quite The Shit!

9/10

No, your taste in music is irrelevant. 

I have recently made the mistake of opening up my facebook profile, where upon I was immediately assaulted by a particular brand of ignorance, one I can scarcely countenance.

It was the kind of venting that goes on quite regularly on facebook, and always seems to come from the type of friends we all have on the site. They're the ones you are at a loss to explain as to what they're still doing in your friends list, save perhaps to try and  hide the fact that you actually have more like 5 people (if that) in your life that you may call a friend, and not 200+.

So forget for a moment, if you will, that this post shall consist of me venting about someone else venting, and get yourself some fucking tea, coffee or cocaine and read on if you must.

I confess I am at once shocked and not at all surprised to see something like this come from a person in their mid twenties. I always assumed some things become clear to you by that point. Apparently, I was, and still am – as per usual – quite mistaken.

Alas, it would seem I too possess a great measure of ignorance, since at times I actually start to believe most people can think somewhat straight. Funny. Only it's not.

The argument I was met with is a tired one, and it goes precisely like this: Music is not what it used to be. This generation will never know what real music is and what it used to mean. I know this because my taste in music is perfect.

The last sentence is implied, but it could just as easily be written in bold, because what it suggests is absurd in itself.

Are people truly, truly?? this ignorant to subjective experience and that what they are professing is, in fact, the ridiculous notion of their opinion having any basis AT ALL.

The argument that, the way music made you feel will never be the same for others because music has changed, is ridiculous, and if you think this argument is valid, then you are in some way inept and perhaps mentally retarded.

It feels like I shouldn't even have to EVER explain this to anyone, and that I shouldn't bother, but goddammit some of us have to do it, so this shit stops (Although it never will, will it? It's like asking people not to be stupid). However, I suppose it's me being naive, when I hope that, should the person who said this direct but half an IOTA of thought towards their own ignorance, he or she might correct it. Because clearly they devoted some thought to this if they managed, in their infinite knowledge and understanding, figure out that MUSIC WILL NEVER BE THE SAME FOR THESE NEW PEOPLE, DERP.

The real reason why I am so annoyed by this is because the truth is so simple. It is this: The feelings you get from music, are you. There may be residual imprints that others have projected upon you ABOUT that music, and this may in fact make you consider or think about the music differently, perhaps even make you feel differently about it, but no matter what, it will always remain a thing of SELF. And that will happen no matter what the music becomes, who plays it and how. Music has no value save that which you give it. And why this is so difficult a concept to comprehend for some is a thing I refuse to think about, as I fear it may expose fresh layers of inept thinking and bullshitery.

When women discover how to make music with their butts I will call that a victory, but I digress.

This argument of MUSIC NOT BEING WHAT IT USED TO BE (as if the one who said this has lived for 150 years, as opposed to being a complete waste of resources and sustenance for roughly a sixth of that time) AND THAT THE NEW GENERATION WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO APPRICIATE THE OLDIES, is the same as devaluating a bushman pounding on drums and nullifying his inner experience as something lesser, because he does not have the sense to appreciate your indie fucking rock.

It is like me saying a word, and you thinking what that word means, then me not being happy about what you consider that word to imply. Bullshit.

Let’s use the word Love as an example. The images the word creates and the feelings of love or lack of love it produces is fully contingent upon the observer. We may draw two different feelings from the word, and we will inevitably draw similarities due to our INNER imagery being similar in relation to the word's concept, but that does not devaluate either of our experiences or impressions about that word. The same goes with music.

When we realize that what we see, especially in other people, will always be a caricature drawn from our feelings about that person (and in fact our projection of self upon that person), we may begin to realize that ALL experience is subjective, unfolding differently for each mind. We may look for others in ourselves and seek ourselves in others, but to deflate the experience of another mind because we do not understand a thing they profess they understand and feel, is heinosity of thought. And perhaps an even greater act of heinosity is me giving such cretinous thoughts any room in my head… But I did, and now I shall cease.

I fucking hate Fulgrim.

So while reading Angel Exterminatus, this hatered was sometimes a deep red fury, and I wanted Fulgrim to die already, preferably in a fire or by being choked to death.
I do in fact realize the two options aren’t particularly creative, but they would suffice. The sad part, however, is that I knew that wont happen.

In between periods of wanting him dead and choked to death, I wished to see what he'll do next. Needless to say, this went on for the entierty of this damdable book and I kept hating him, and still do.

Now I suspect someone might wonder why I ‘dislike’ him. I will tell you, because I feel I must explain myself.

It all began with the novel titled after him, Fulgrim. It is because of this novel that I began to hate him, as Graham McNeill had made him so likable and then raped him.
Like... really raped his personality. Raped. Raped and continued to do so in his other, shorter stories. But be that as it may, I wonder why in every audiobook he is voiced as being a total pussy. Hmm?

I expirianced this book in its audio version, and I can't say I liked it as much as works such as A Thousand Sons, Prospero Burns, The First Heretic or Betrayer. The saving grace of this novel, for me, is Perturabo himself.
 He is silgularly awesome. Everything he says is great, everything he does is unexpected, and everything he thinks is so untipical compared to what the other Primarchs (save perhaps Angron) ever do, that his scenes are always the best. I love how, if he wants someone dead, he will tell the reader that he had just decided he will kill that person. That's it.


And that's what he eventually does, one way or another. Sometimes it reminded me what we all can do, really. If any of us decided we will kill someone, that someone is at our mercy, the differeance between us and Perturabo is that he doesn't give two shits and simply does it. And such a character is fascinating, interesting to read about, and because of excelent writing, has motivations that make sense because of who he is, not becuase of what the writer or the unverse commands him to be. That distinction is important and extremely well written.

I just wish there was more of him.

Instead what we all too often get is other characters, which are not terribly likable or particularly interesting.

There's way too many discriptive scenes in this book, most are necessary, but do I really need to read about the full life cycle of an alien bug, just to have it squashed beneath the boot of a Space Marine?

Phe...

After all the techno-sorcery and warp-madness is done, this book is quite interesting and ripe with excellent writing, but unfortunately puncuated by scenes with characters that aren't interesting enough.

6/10

In my review of the first book I said nothing happens. I am here to say the trend continues in the second book, while at the same time, I am wondering why, despite the fact that I knew this would be the case, I kept reading the book. 

I will mention only the good things about it because there's a link at the end that pretty much sums up the bad.

The tale managed to hit some solid emotional notes. I got teary-eyed about twice, enjoyed most parts of it because I like to indulge myself, laughed a bit, but also got very frustrated. Simply put, there is no real story. This book is as much as story as yours or my life is a story. We do things and stuff happens. And I think this is kindof the reason why this book is popular. The character does things and is driven by other things, and then life happens. Although why we read books like The Kingkiller Chronicles boils down this, I think: they mirror most of our lives. We are waiting for significant stuff to happen just like we flip these pages because we are hoping something significant might happen on the next one. And it doesnt.

Patrick manages to write some great lines, but you would expect that from a 1000 paged book, would you not?

The Flurian part was way too long and while the apparances of Denna were okayish, they have gotten redicilously unbelievable to the point of being absurd.

I'm half expecting the ending to be something like, "Haha, you asked for a story and I told you one, I actually can't do any of those things. Magic isn't real and what they teach at the university is something completely different. I'm just a bit demented now becuause Denna never loved me."
 
Here's the link to what I would think if I tried to take the book seriously: http://ferretbrain.com/articles/article-751


7/10

The above paragraph sums up nicely why I enjoy Aaron Dembski-Bowden's portrayal of Space Marines the most out of all the authors in the Black Library's repertoire. He makes them so inhuman yet so human at the same time it's nothing short of intriguing to read about them.

The writing in The Emperor's Gift is similar to what he has done in his Space Marine Battles novel, Helsreach, which to this day remains my favourite of the Battles novels (although supposedly Rynn's World is pretty great too, one which I have not read). A large part of the greatness seeps from the fact that the novel is written in first person, making lines such as that above more personal and interesting. But largely because Hyperion is a great character, too.

Space Marines struggle with few things, so it's funny to read about one struggling to comprehend humans.

I can say little about the story itself other than the fact that it is not your usual Bolter Porn. This is not a Space Marines Battles novel, and thank whatever pantheon of gods for that shit, because some of those that I have read were pretty terrible, while this piece of textual artistry is decent, to say the very least. It doesn't feel like a Warhammer 40k novel, and that's the best thing about it, or at least one of the best things about it. Perhaps because I actually know quite a bit of the lore, that I found what the Grey Knights were doing so interesting, but the other part is how the book is written. It is simply well done, the pacing could not be better. There are some points when you think, nonono, not a battle, give me something more interesting, and that's what happens. Don't get me wrong, battles can be pretty great, but after one has read the whole Horus Heresy, a myriad of space marines novels and another bunch of other novels, you tend to start looking for things that are fresh, and not descriptions of how things are blown apart. Although I still have a weak spot for horizontal storms of lead.

The length of the book is perfect, even if it is rather short. Any more and it would be unnecessarily drawn out, any less and it would be too short. I'm pretty sure this is meant to be a standalone novel, which is rather rare for black library, but it works. There is excellent closure and things never go quite as expected. For those who liked Helsreach you get to revisit it for a while, but not for too long, since Aaron is a heathen who knows that would be pretty redundant.

I got exactly what I expected from this book, an entertaining read filled with great writing and something completely different for a change.

And the Inquisition are some real fucking bastards.



9/10

CHAPTER 17

Morning paints the world in gold as we reach the end of our trek. Our wanderings have taken us before the very feet of the fortress. The shadow of its bulk surrounds us and a wind blows down its construction, so immense it seems to breed its own microclimate. Cooler air near it smells of old, stagnant stone, as though passing from an unseen cave system. I cannot see the tip of it as I gaze up, it seems to merge in dark unity with the sky. The gate barring our entry is titanic. Almost as wide as it is tall, standing inlaid with mosaic depictions and gothic symbols of an age forgotten.
There are places in this world where you can feel the pulse of history within the very space surrounding you. Places where you can taste the ancient wind borne to hidden knowledge left behind in a bygone time. This is one of those places, but also not. Here history waits laid out for you, etched into the very front gate and depicting secrets of forgotten eons. Each carving and epic figure upon the metal is inlaid with text. A language I had never heard a word of and can’t hope to understand. It feels that even when the language had been used, it wasn’t spoken. Its very syntax seems to suggest a language of secrets, of knowledge kept and guarded.
In the center of the gate, alloyed with it, there are two words; Illuminatus Arx. The ‘I’ alone is bigger than any gate I have seen, taller than ten men standing on top of one another.
“How do we get in?” I ask. “Where have you taken my friend’s father?”
“Illusions are a part of this world,” says Awir behind me. “Some would say our very world is an illusion.”
His words feel familiar and they pain me in a way I cannot explain in words. “Where is the man you have stolen?”
“Stolen?” asks Bain. “We have stolen nothing. He has come to us freely.”
“Where is he?”
No answer.
I have come to understand Awir likes to talk in riddles. But there is something in his voice. It sounds aged sure enough, old, yet bares a youthful vigor as though everything he says is something to be met with enthusiasm.
None of the others had so far spoken to me, save Awir and Bain. During their conversations, I’ve since been able to name them. Ezar, Unas, Ia, Huron and others whose names I have forgotten. They all sound alike, booming voices and clipped speech with little room for missed interpretation.
“You and your word-spirals, Awir,” says the one I have come to know as Ia. “You’ll tire the boy before he even gets to see the thing.”
For all intents and purposes, I am their prisoner. I do not feel immediately threatened, but something tells me they would not hesitate to end me.
“Loregar, do you dream?” asks Bain. His question surprises me. It comes as sudden as his turn to face me. The gate’s depictions match those of his armor. He is like a statue, unmoving and cast in the spire’s shadow. The gatekeeper.
“I dream,” I nod.
“What do you dream about?” This question… I have been asked before. It feels less of a coincidence that not only the question’s wording is the same, but the pronunciation of it as well.
Recollection sometimes hits you at the most inappropriate of times. A sudden clarity, an instant realization of truth and the subsequent feeling that you have known in tall along. You want to keep such a truth, grasp it, store it in your mind. But you forget… only to be reminded it later, probably at an equally inappropriate time. The time for my truth, however, is very much appropriate, it seems. It hits me and doesn’t let go, as though the mere words of Bain had somehow summoned it from where it had hidden itself, forgotten and out of reach. A recollection tingles its way over my skull. I remember a dream and it suddenly seems as though I had never dreamed of anything else.

A ripple and a sound, faces drawn into the sky. The sun-sphere shakes, sheds its crystal form into all themes of composition. Formations of infinite complexity spin out of simplicity, grind into all the corners of reality. A blue sound bursts out of nothing and vanishes back into nothing. Something plucks the cosmic string and the dance begins. Liars become truth-tellers and form music consisting of revelation and enlightenment. Shattered perceptions delete all reason as forms of pure vibration feed upon themselves, upon their own desires. The great serpent bites its tail, smelting the universe into a loop of fire and life, sin and desire, life and more fire. The Sun is born into a fierce union, coloring the sky with madness.  

The significance of the dream eludes me and its truth seems distant again.
“The past. Today you will dream of the future,” says Bain.
“Your mind is a conduit,” adds Awir.
They say no more and begin to walk ahead. It is Bain who disappears first. The gate is there, and he simply walks through it. There’s momentary disruption of image around the Templars as they move through, one at a time. They leave me behind, standing, staring, dumbfounded and baffled.
I move only when I feel Bain again, scraping around in my head. “Move.”
Light blinds me for a moment and I feel as though I have passed through a veil and into the very pages of history.
The hall is immense, lit by light streaming towards us from up ahead, silhouetting the thick shapes ahead of me. High pillars like in the times of the Greekians support a vaulted ceiling bearing depictions and writings much like those upon the gate, colored in fine detail. 
I remember the books father kept. Actually, it was just one book, worn out, with its pictures barely visible. But I remember the distinct pillars of stone, they had an air of history about them and had stuck in my mind.
“Our gates are ever open,” says Awir. “All it takes is the courage to enter them.”
“What happens to those who do?”
I didn’t really need to ask, for the answer lay at my feet. A path had been made between shriveled corpses and dried remains. I am met with empty eye sockets and gaping maws, teeth still white. They all have long fingernails and beards, some of those fingernails still on triggers and some of those beards graying. There are no wounds or signs of what had killed them.
“Courage to pass through the gate, and what then?” I ask. “Courage to die?”
“The right answer.” Bain’s words have a kind of malevolence to them. A finality; ‘Get this right, or join the corpses at your feet.’
“Where do the water and the waterfall meet?” he asks.
Again, the sense of fate. Inexorable. It is like a finger pointing away to some sight in the distance. You concentrate on the finger and lose view of the glory surrounding it. Fate is like that. Inexorable. You think about it and try to examine it and its destination, and you lose sight that such things are not truly the point. There are, however, definite moments in time where you feel the finger had been pointing towards. Where you find yourself there, in the very nexus of it, you can feel it. And a sense of wonder intermixes with a strange, mystic sensation of unreality.
I feel like I’ve known the question before I knew the answer, and knew the answer before I knew the question.
“They don’t meet, because they’ve never been apart. The two are one.”
Bain lunges towards me. His first punch throws me back and I crash into Huron who catches me in his hands. He pushes me away and back on my feet.
“Fight, Loregar. You are stronger,” I hear him, his voice is younger.
Bain’s thrusts and faints are expert. Each hit I attempt he seems to easily dodge only to land his own attack straight into my face. By the time he hits me for the fifth time, I can no longer hear the droning in my head. By the time he hits me for the seventh time, I can no longer feel the punches, rather, it feels like I am being punched without pause. The meaning of this is lost to me. All I can think of is his intent to kill me – with his fists no less. I see an opening and I take it.
“You are one with Bain,” Awir tells me on a private channel indicated by a visual cue on my retinal display. “Do not attempt to beat him, simply be him. Become him.”
Shut up! I grind my teeth.
I understand only when I realize an opening wasn’t an opening, but a trick. This time, the return punch throws me from my feet, an uppercut that echoes in the great hall as though a bell had been struck. It might have just been in my head.
I’m on the floor, a fist about to hammer down on me as Bain hangs in the air for the briefest moment. I kick him in the groin just before he lands on me. A low blow, but rules are not something one abides in an unprovoked attack. And whoever thinks a weak point shouldn’t be exploited in a fight has never been in a real one. Bain lands his blow as my own attack seems ignored, and I shield myself using my forearm. He staggers back. I see my chance and grab his arms, then put my helm to his with all my strength. A bad idea. Probably the worst I’ve had in a while. For a moment the world is black.
They say the world is full of wisdom and that fools yet die from the want of it. I had hoped something would stay with me, a lesson when my sight should return. But all I get with the return of my sight is a glimpse of Bain’s fist as he punches me in the face.
One step back, two, then another punch. I don’t remember getting on my feet. A third step back, a fourth, a punch intercepted. A fifth step back, a sixth forward, a punch delivered and blocked, another received in the gut and a third in the face. It seemed for every blow I half-land, I am awarded with two. Yet there are no lessons more well learned that those we learn in pain. Well, most of us at least, although such a notion would prove false should you look upon the state of the world. In any case, in the span of one breath – and my breathing is rapid indeed – I decide to give up for a time. I focus on defense. I meet every punch with a block, I move aside to every kick, I parry every backhanded swing of his massive arms. I do this until he no longer seems able to sustain his tempo, then land my own punch. His movements become slower after that, slower with each kick and slower still with each sweeping strike I manage to land. When a first, direct hit connects, hitting him full on, he falls on his ass and doesn’t get up for a while.
He grunts and slowly stands up, offers me a hand.
“Well fought.” He takes my right hand, plants his left into my forehead and I forget I exist.

 
A fusion of energies and a golden spiral. Its tendrils climb the sky and merge with the infinite ocean. Light breaks through from the creative source, illuminates the hidden passages of time and blends reality into a coherent whole. Vibrations of sound form colors and light up the universe. All things begin their spin, from mountains of liquid fire to the depths of granite oceans. Planets twirl into alloys of brutal, seemingly unbreakable force. Yet they break still, shatter to form new planes and moons forever in motion. Explosions mark the beginning of conscious existence, send out sleepless thoughts from their energetic centers. Beings emerge to entice reality with senses uncontrolled. Color hits their eyes and flesh feels the touch of cosmic dust. Winds speak and implant thoughts - new wonders within burning cognition. Cerebral flames paint the skies with projected images and ideas. Life takes on a different meaning for each mind. Matter becomes an illusion as beings grow and embrace a hive, a collective buzzing of opportunity and hidden spheres yet to be explored. The scepter spins in the grip of time, the pendulum shifts and slingshots from place to place into all places at once. Minds become omnipresent, neither here nor there, neither alive nor dead, but All, forever seeking refuge in all the pleasures of existence.


Shaking off remnants of the dream, I awake to a world where I am incased in a suit of armor pressing down upon me. It feels like dead weight and before its systems activate, I am panicking. The state of dread leaves me almost as soon as it had come. In my confusion, I had called upon Calyx, I had pictured her helping me, tearing the suit off with her bare hands. The brain can be weird like that. All the image did was remind me she is gone and that I’ll probably never see her again. But at least I have learned a lesson. That’s always good, right? The lesson was simple. You never stop until your opponent is down. Preferably dead. I am not dead, which is good at least.
“The day is not yet over,” says a familiar voice beside me. I turn to see Bain, his helm off, sitting on a chair. His hands rest on the arms of his seat. His face is lined with age and crested with a full set of grey hair. A beard runs down his armor to the point where I wonder how the hell he managed to put it all in that helm of his. Like the walls around him, Bain’s face is covered in writing, the ink upon his face is black.
“Are you alright?” another asks me, standing on the other side of my bed. His face is much younger, bright-eyed and full of cheek. But his face too is tattooed and darkened by ink.
“Ia will tend to you, teach you how to remove your armor. Then you will come meet me. Our time is running short. They are coming.”
“Who is coming?”
“Eat.”
This time, his words have no effect, as though his punches had knocked some sense into me, or out me. I don’t see any food. Bain gets up from his chair, picks up his helm and walks out of the room.
I take a moment to familiarize myself with the surroundings and realize there’s not much to familiarize with. A bed and two chairs surrounded by stonework walls and a gap where a door could have once been. The room is lit by a window on my right, its light cresting the bulk of Ia.
“Brute force, is it?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to the fight between me and Bain.
“It’s what the wasteland thought me,” I answer.
“I’m not sure brute force is what’ll help us in the coming fight. But it just might, you never know.” “What is the coming fight? What am I suppose to know that I don’t?”
“I think it best if you see it for yourself,” he says.
I eat better than I have eaten all my life. Ia brings me food I didn’t even know existed, with a claim that they ‘breed’ it in their vaults. Whatever the hell that means.
He leads me through areas of the fortress that look pristine. I have never seen such smooth surfaces. I’m sure not even blood would stick to it. We wade between passages no wider than a man, parsimonious light bathing us from each.
“You seem distracted,” says Ia. “Perhaps this place will help. In all likelihood it might just make it worse.” He flashes a smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You already have. But yes, you may” he smiles wider.
“They told me my friend’s father has come here by his own free will. Why? Why is he here? Where is he?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” I have no idea why, but I believe him. It must be his eyes.
“Will you help me find him?” I ask.
“I’ll do what I can.”
We arrive at the corridor’s end, having met none of the Templars.
“How many of you are here?” I ask.
“Three-hundred.”
We walk into a wide and tall area filled with shelves filled with more books than I have seen.
“You were right. I thinking this may prove a bigger distraction even,” I murmur.
Books have always fascinated me. There aren’t many left and those that are, remain jealously guarded by their keepers. I have once come across a tome that spoke of dragons and knights slaying them. A laughable idea. Within a safe, I once found one which read “Quantum Theory.” I understood none of its contents and managed to sell it for enough credit cards to last me a whole year. When leaving town the next day, I found the person who bought it dead, his grave a dumpster, his hand clutching a bloody page of the book. The page talked about probabilities and I suppose he never considered the probability of someone wanting the book more than he did.
The lighting within the library is poor and the titles of each book stand eaten by age. We are surrounded by bookshelves two times our height and a sense of age permeates our existence, the smell of old paper tickles my nostrils. The ceiling is lost in shadow. Ia leads me between what seems like two random bookshelves.
“I like this one,” he says and pulls out a small, brown-faced and yellow-paged book from a shelf about his height. The book rests on his outstretched palm as if it were some precious gem, one of a kind. “This book is the last one left,” he says. “It gives insight into our minds. Careful,” he pleads as I take it from him.
In golden, winding letters, it reads, ‘The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud’.
I flip the pages, I look, but am drawn to something else. Something catches my eye at the end of the corridor, behind Ia.
I walk to it. “What’s this?”
Ia’s footsteps follow mine.
“Mind bank,” he says. “The Ancients possessed many ways of placing books into your head. They could stream images on any surface, on what they called ‘screens’ and even directly into your mind.” 
“Show me.”



Chapter 1 Sample


Read the book here.

I'm somewhat annoying. Or rather, my mind is. Allow me to explain...

I love writing. I enjoy doing it and enjoy reading my own work when I feel like I've edited it down to something resembling proper (yeah right) form. However... there's something about the beast that is the first paragraph that always irks me. No matter how many times I read it, write it, reread it and rewrite it, it's never perfect. It always feels like there's something missing and I find myself perpetual hunting for a certain mythological creature called the perfect opening. I realize there's damn well no such thing, but I can't be the only one who has ever closed a book never to read it again, just because I didn't like the first few sentences??

Maybe it's because every time I see the word document again, those first lines are always there, staring me in the face. Challenge accepted! So I think about how to change them. Then consider rewriting them. Then doing it or staring at myself doing it yelling for me to stop. Then I'm probably taking a frustrated break and considering placing my hands in a fire so I could no longer change anything even if I wanted to...

The thing is, I always know there are better ways to start a book than what I'd written down, but by the time that feeling sets in, I already like what I've done enough not to want and change it (as it feels almost like I'm about to rearrange the face of my own kid with a sledgehammer), or I hate it enough to want to change it simply out of spite, out of sheer malice and contempt.

I'm currently writing something I've been wanting to write for a year but was bogged down by other projects, and while I've written roughly half by now, I always return to those first few sentences and can just feel my hairs slowly going greyer each time I do it.

As it is, I would love to hear someone else's (anyone's) opinion about this and how one might go beating the crap out of those first few sentences.

It’s funny how people have to die for a story to get interesting. At least that’s how it was for me and this particular tome; one I’ve wanted to read for a while but never seemed to get around to actually doing it. I regret that decision almost as much as I regret not buying the second part of the series along with the first.

Let me explain my opening statement a bit more in detail. While I thought the book was entertaining, it wasn’t really what I’d expected. The beginning was rather boring, and none of the characters really fascinated me in the least. But I kept reading and the previously mentioned trend of slight boredom persisted. The characters were ‘meh’, and the tale was somewhat mehy.

Then something else happened. I was hooked and I didn’t even know why. The truth is, nothing really happens in this book. Ok, that’s not entirely true, a lot of things happen, but nothing really that would make you go “wow, that just happened!” The Name of the Wind is simply this: A guy tells a scribe his story because he’s supposedly some kind of a legend. After some persuasion from the said scribe, or ‘Chronicler’ (who was coincidently the one person I found interesting at the beginning of the book) the guy tells his story. And it goes something like: His family was killed and he was poor and he wanted to go to the university. He later goes there and does stuff and discovers girls. That’s it. Basically. No really, that’s it. Does it sound interesting to you? If it does than you are not like me. If someone would have told me that before, I probably wouldn’t have bought it, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t enjoy reading it none the less!

One thing this book really shows is how people are inherently nice if you take just a little time to talk to them. I liked that a lot and soon enough I was rooting for Kvothe for reasons I can’t really begin to guess. Is it because his family and his troupe had been murdered? Is it because you too wish to know what the Chandrian are up to? Is it because you like the main character? I don’t know. It may as well be a combination of all of these things. It’s like Harry Potter, only different, and I realize I may have just spoken some heresy there, but really, that’s what it’s like. It’s pretty much the same formula, and who cares if it is when it works, eh?

I think it’s the writing that’s the chief culprit here. It’s good. It flows. It shows. And it strikes your heart strings enough times to make you care just a little bit, just enough. And Patrick is a bastard for doing such cruel things to me. But hey, I brought it on myself for plunging into the pages of this beast.

Hmmm... I just realized another reason why I kept reading... because I had expected something REAL and truly remarkable to happen and so kept at it. But nothing did and that was a tad disappointing, to tell you the truth. Hopefully next time.


8/10