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Loving the Books

The Internet tells me that today and every Ninth of August marks Book Lovers Day. Of course, the Internet tells me that yesterday evening was traditional Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor’s Porch Day, so there’s that. My Best Reader did not plant zucchini this year or any squash at all, in an attempt to combat the evil SVB menace, so we could not have participated. On the other hand, our zucchini-less garden means it would not have been such a disaster has we been targeted with some zucchini. We were not.

There will be some book-loving today, though. Well, at least enjoyment of book-reading. In codex form. Pages, sewn or glued at one edge. You know.

Not that this is a day to badmouth the scroll, obviously. We’re all in this together, us who like to read. No pogroms.

I finished a couple of books yesterday, as it happens. I have only two books unfinished, at the moment: Terry Johnson’s play Hysteria, a farce featuring Sigmund Freud and Salvadore Dali. So far, there has been no Subsidized Theater Moment, but I’m not done yet, and the thing was commissioned by the English Stage Company of the Royal Court Theatre at the Duke of York’s, so, I wouldn’t be surprised if all the watches go all droopy before the end. The other book is The Drowned Cities, by Paolo Bacigalupi, which I have been kinda nibbling at for a few weeks, now. For a book that starts off with an underwater battle between an augment and a giant alligator, I am reading it awfully slowly.

By the way, is augment the universally accepted English term now? They don’t call them augments in the Drowned Cities, of course, but the genre convention of genetically-manipulated super-soldiers with animal DNA and whatnot—that’s an augment, right?

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.

Comments

If anybody has any recommendations, either for plays or novels to read, this would be an excellent spot to shout 'em out.

Thanks,
-V.


Oh, you have *got* to read Constellation Games, by Leonard Richardson. It's sort of Douglas Adams by way of Douglas Copeland by way of Charles Stross, unless you dislike any of those writers, in which case I will sell you on it IN A TOTALLY DIFFERENT MANNER.


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