A recent forum thread got me thinking about books.
I can't live without books.
I don't read as much as I want to and I tend to collect books like a black suit collects white cat fur.
If I had less self-respect and no wife, I'd probably be one of those odd characters who inhabit a warren of books, a house full of paths made through columns of books. To be sure, every stack and shelf and pile would be organized by subject and author. Every book would be a priceless treasure of some sort: a valuable reference, a precious memory, or a promise of hours of pleasure.
I guess I'm thinking of the post-apocalyptic Burgess Meredith with glasses intact.
But now I'm sharing my life with my wife and kids. This means less time to read and less space to store books. Of course, my wife is a voracious reader. She acquired her reading habit as a child and developed it to the point that her fifth-grade report card noted that she read too much. She amazes and intimidates me with her reading stamina.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my wife doesn't share my acquisitiveness when it comes to books so until we add a second story to the house and/or win the lottery, we've got an attic full of heavy boxes crammed with all the books I couldn't bear to trade or donate. (Throw away a book? Are you insane?)
I've got a lot of Alan Dean Foster up there. I know that Harlock has a rather jaundiced opinion of Foster. It's well deserved. The man has churned out a lot of juvenile, hackish, write-by-numbers crap. One big indication of his workmanlike manner is the number of movie novelizations he's churned out. Still, there's no doubt he's a talented and successful writer. Foster reminds me of Michael Caine. They are both consummate professionals. The point of their craft is not critical acclaim. They are working men and they'll put in their time on a paying project no matter if it's Krull or Jaws: The Revenge.
Also, my fondness for Foster results from early exposure. I read Alien when I was seven. It scared the bejeesus out of me and set my hair on fire. I then burned through everything I could find of his before I'd developed much critical sense. His Spellsinger saga inspires fond memories, though I'm sure that glow would fade if I were to read it again.
Speaking of fading glows, Heinlein is barely an ember to me now. Starship Troopers was the first book I ever bought with my own money. I ploughed through his stuff indiscriminately, which is a shame, because you really need to exercise some discrimination when dealing with Heinlein. Citizen of the Galaxy? Awesome! Tunnel in the Sky? Kick butt! The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress? Alright! "All You Zombies-"? Whoa. Farnham's Freehold? Uh. Stranger in a Strange Land? Wuh? Time Enough for Love? Are you kidding me? Friday? Well, the New Zealand references were cool, but otherwise: Give me a break, you randy old hack! Grand Master of Science Fiction? What… ever! Just because he wrote prolifically in that post-war Golden Age doesn't mean I have to worship him.
Take Asimov. Great guy. Silly lamb chops, but I shouldn't let his facial hair put me off. What puts me off about Asimov is his cerebral, technical approach to the story. I get the feeling that he expects his cool ideas to carry me through the tale, but his prose is just not compelling. I have too much untouched Asimov in my attic.
When it comes to Robert Silverberg, I'm not a rabid fan. I've enjoyed a few of his books, especially the Majipoor Cycle. I could read more of his stuff, or not.
I freely admit to not reading as much Arthur C. Clarke as I should.
Tolkien? Eh. Like Asimov, he's a brainy academic who grandly establishes his plot as An Epic and then waits for applause, all the while neglecting little details like character, pacing, and not introducing stupid damned carryovers from the previous age just to pull your silly hobbits out of the god-damned barrow. God damned Tom Bombadil.
I bought the entire Lord of the Rings in an inexpensive, paperback boxed set when I was about 12. It took me 20+ years to finally read through the entire thing. I had friends who worshipped Tolkien and moved on to inhale Terry Brooks. These are the same friends who just could not get enough Xanth. Feh.
I think my personal issues with Tolkien stem from his presentation to me as a Great Work. When, after rereading the first 80 pages of The Fellowship of the Ring for the fifth time, I found it merely OK, my disappointment matched the anticipation in inverse.
Two writers cannot disappoint me. They produce prose that is like cocaine on my brain: C.J. Cherryh and Harlan Ellison. Some of Cherryh's series are a little too ornately political and Ellison is, well, he's Ellison, but there's something about they way these two wield language that keeps me turning the pages no matter what they're writing.
Meanwhile, my wife is encouraging me to read through some of the piles of books I've been hauling around since childhood. Hopefully I might be able to trade some of them. There's only so much room in the attic and I really don't want to test the ceiling's load-bearing capacity.
I'm happy to report that I'm rediscovering Moorcock's Elric. After receiving the Book Club edition in the mail in 1984, I'm finally able to appreciate the antiquarian bombast and the pulpy hyperbole.
So many books. So little time.
Pakeha