No. Just... no.



You have no idea how much I wanted to like this book...

I often wonder how much of our dreamscape is ever paused over and considered by our waking minds.

It would seem that, should we reflect on but the tiniest of our subconscious workings splayed out for us in our dreams, we may reach some startling conclusions. Not just about ourselves, but of the nature of consciousness.

It is true the majority of our nightly drifting sits well into the category quite mundane and every-day, yet there remains a strata of awareness which defies logic as to the lengths and depths it can plunge, and is only expressed in dreams. That is to say, when our minds become immersed in the exploration of a region of reality wholly unknown to the state of waking reality.

On these occasions, it is not wholly unthinkable to permit the idea that we may catch glimpses of a plane outside reference and explanation, a part of reality that is uniquely separate from that of our waking life, yet so subtly entwined with it, that it may prove more real than we can countenance. Perhaps the intrinsic truth of what our minds can truly do is something so profound, that it is simply best for the mind to dismiss its own knowledge by a trick of memory.

In this case, it would seem forgetfulness serves us well.

But how often, then, do we dream of unremembered vistas and forget that they were just as real as they might have been should our feet had been touching ‘real’ soil?

It seems that locked within the core of us is a truth so rudimentary and obvious that we simply miss it. We look past it when it has so much to teach and show us. We look past it because it is much too simple, yet all-encompassing enough for it to be too vast for the conscious mind to contemplate. But perhaps it is because of the very reason that only in our dreams do we get glimpses of how reality truly works, that we cannot remember it. Because it is too strange. Too alien to our every-day senses, especially when we realize oral language is no longer the medium for the transmission of thought, but that thought is a system of creation. 

I would like to apologize for the many typos and atrocious grammar you find in my posts. That is all. Thank you.

Smile broadly before answering the phone.

Enter a room assuming everyone already likes you.

Take note of people's eyes. Long stare. (huhu)

For answers that you were given which you think are partial, say nothing. Wait.

In nervous sutuations, chew gum.

Notice the direction of people's feet. When their chest is facing you, but their feet are not, you have not won them over.

Don't be intimidated by anyone; almost everyone is playing a role/wearing a mask.

And my personal favourite:

Immediately after the alarm wakes you, sit up, pump your fists in the air and shout, "YEAH!"

A friend of mine recently suggested I should be using Linux, since my Windows XP shell consisted of a minimalistic bbLean (Blackbox) setup. 
sudo apt-get update

Reviewing these types of books remains something I don't necessarily wish to do. How does one review a spiritual text or teaching? Either it resonates with you, or it does not.

Because of this, this will not be a review as such, but a means of propagating awareness of this book's existence and that of Zen.

It is true that one can gain bounds of theoretical knowledge from a number of books, but is that knowledge necessary? Unapplied knowledge will always remain useless knowledge, while this book will give you ways of actual practice that does not involve incisive thinking, but instead teach you how to come from a point of presence.

Most never find this resonating substance or text when it comes to spiritual "data" and so just plough from book to book, hoping the next will provide that which is needed for some spiritual "ascension". But this way of thinking is wrong, because that ascension is already here, it was always here, now. Because one does not realize this, and as a result does not know how to apply this to everyday life, these types of books may become almost a drug. That is to say, a drug user will always look to a drug in order to find something or to be liberated from something, yet a drug is always "out there", so the lie the drug tells you is that you need to find something out there to locate or "fix" something within. Yet the within cannot be "fixed" by applying something from the without. Yet this testament is also true and untrue. You may find this contradictory when I say that this book will show you, since this book is also without, outside you, yet it points within.

Zen is like this. Zen is contradictory, because the very nature of Duality is something that exists only in mind. Zen will never give you anything that you do not already have. It will simply show you how there really is nothing to fix. There is a sort of catch, however. There must be an everyday practice to attain this. Some may attain this presence spontaneously, but for most there is posture, breath, right-thinking and practice in presence and mindfulness. In Zen this is always done with direct pointing. It will never give you any philosophical thoughts, because that is the domain of the mind, You don't need such thoughts. The focus of Zen is always in the Now. Because the Now is all there is. Time is illusory. Even if you think of the future or the past, you are always doing it now. Even if you plan something for the future, you will execute that plan within that future Now. This is fact.

Yet the reason why Zen might not appeal to those more used to elaborate thinking, is because Zen attempts to make you look, to stand behind the one who is thinking and observe the thinker and realize that the thinker is a rather ridiculous, erratic creature... Funny, but ultimately ridiculous.

The more you think when reading this book, the worse off you'll be. The more you simply let go and realize things will come, leaving them as they are, the better this book will become. In this regard, it is an excellent exercise in letting go, as well as being a damn sexy read. Reading this book somehow feels very Zen.

It's a read that will either stamp you with "oh shit, let's see what happens next", or "meh, too much stuff". If you belong in the second category, then I don't know why the hell you are reading science fiction in the first place, but okay...

The best part about this book is how everything is in your face from the get go. The author is like, I won't bother explaining this to you, because why should I, just read the damn thing and figure it out yourself. Although everything is eventually explained, it is explained just enough. 

I wont bother with the plot because it is too awesome to explain even a bit and needs to be experienced instead. 

The prose is delicious.

The only problem I had were the dialogues, especially the main character's lines. They at times felt so cliché to me it became painful once or twice, I think I actually cringed once. He is like some overly witty dude that knows exactly what to say, as if he is in some movie and not an actual character. Luckily this didn't happen a lot, and most of the other dialogues were pretty great. Yet that feeling that the author wanted the main character to be this paragon on nonchalance always crept in, like he wanted desperately for the main char to be cool that it shows.

The social ramification of the technology in this book should not elude even the most inept reader.

9/10  

In light of recent events I find it necessary to point out that I have been without internet for quite some time. I think it's been like six months now...? 

Sure enough, I had access on my phone, but's that not quite the same as being able to browse with a mouse and keyboard. 

And OH DEAR LORD how I didn't miss it at all. 

I find it funny it has taken me this long to realize how strong of detriment it has been to my PRODUCTIVITY. And then at last I realized I am my own detriment to productivity. Ish...

I limit myself now, which is for the best, I think, there is nothing useful up here that can outweigh meditation. Sitting in meditation or reading, as opposed to spending an hour on the internet has become a no-brainier, 
I only wish more people would realize how over-saturated one can get with useless information up here in this data-web. 

"Then find information that will not be useless," I hear you say... and you are right, but senseless use and - oh dear god the facebook-hoppers - nooooooooo, it is the damnable abyss!

It feels slightly odd writing this and posting it on the internet though, hahaha. 

It is perhaps a wondrous thing that we cannot always understand why we like something. It's this 'not knowing', I think, that gives a certain added sense of wonder to most things.

It is like this with The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I really can't say why I liked it so much, nor why I could not stop reading it. The nearest I can come in describing how I felt while reading is that I became lost in it. Much like one can get lost in a woman's eyes, or in a sound or smell. The sensation this book cocoons you in is magical, which is apt, since the book itself and its happenings are nothing else but magical.

There are certain existential fears the tome pries upon, but more than that, it somehow grabs your inner child by the throat with meaty hands and kinda rapes him. But in a good way. 

The introspective and childlike nature of it is addicting. It kept on reminding me of the fact that one never really gets old, you're still all the ages you were since you were born, it is merely the layers that kept piling on and masking the fact that we are still that child. We are given the sense of maturity and "deeper understanding", while forgetting the value of innocence. Yet our primal fears remain the same. Neil knows this, we all know this, feel this, and that's why this book has an impact.

Death and what lurks in the infinite recesses between worlds seems a theme that runs rampart through the spaces where words are missing, but also the will to live and hope and the power of friendship.

10/10  

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