What is East Dulwich reading?

[mockney piers]

Exactly Rosie.

Weirdly reading GWADT I was able to skate over the passage you mention muttering something about ERicsson getting off on hiw own prose and having an unhealthy obsession with 14 year old girls (oh no it's fine, she only *looks* 14, and she's this vigilante genius you see...see..it's ok...seee). Actually it was when I was watching the film that I thought 'is all this really necessary?!', and totally agree with your point. It wasn't.

Blood Meridian has a few moments where the graphic violence seems almost wanton (fontanels and puppies spring to mind), if weirdly prosaic, which makes the denoument all the more beautiful. I know what you mean about it lingering, it's still stuck in my head.

I've no idea whether he's a sci-fi fan, though he has said something about all books borrowing from those that came before. It's just that in The Road it struck me that he was using a literary device that Philip K Dick employs in The Man in the High Castle (I wion't spoil it for you), and of Blood Meridian, the blurring between poetry and prose is very Lovecraft. In fact he seemed to switch from incredibly sparse prose to almost overwrought baroque poetry when deliberating about the Judge and i wondred if that was a deliberate nod to Lovecraft. Sort of a motif that something horrific is about; like the sound of flies swarming in horror films seems to do.

Actually I'll post a short story which is typical...hold on.

[mockney piers]

I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a demoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown.

And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences of electricity and psychology and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished, for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky.

I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city the great, the old, the terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; and what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things none but Nyarlathotep dared prophesy, and in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before yet which showed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not.

It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning, struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about imposture and static electricity, Nyarlathotep drove us all out, down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We swore to one another that the city was exactly the same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces we made.

I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary marching formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to show where the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country, and presently I felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half-floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctifled temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep.

[Annette Curtain]

RosieH Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

> Mockney, I'm glad you liked Blood Meridian. I too

> had to re-read the ending a couple of times and it

> stayed with me for a long long time. I felt

> traumatised for a while afterwards.

Blood Meridian never ever leaves you, much like Larry Watsons Montana 1948.

On a lighter note..

Booky Wooky 2 is an up-lifting/ melon twisting fun time read.

N:)

[whitehouse92]

I have discovered two new authors of crime fiction that I can ecommend:

Gordon Ferris - try "The Hanging Shed". Hero is an ex Glasgow Dtective Sergeant - returned from WWII to a depressed Britain and trying to set himself up as a Crime Journalist in London. Gets dragged back to Glasgow to try and clear and old friend who had a bad war and has been convicted of murder. The tone is dark and the story complex - the writing of a higher order than is usual in much crime fiction. His second book - Truth, Dare, Kill, is set in and around South London, mentions include the George Canning, Ruskin Park, Camberwell Green and Peckham.

Craig Russell - his "Lennox" trilogy is good. Coincidentally also based around an ex Glasgow Detective Sergeant in a post WWII city. Not quite as good writing as Gordon Ferris - tho' at one point I wondered if it was one writer with two pseudonyms.

[mockney piers]

61 pages in on my fourth Cormac McCarthy book (The Crossing), and something truly strange happened.

I laughed, there was something funny, not once, but twice in as many paragraphs (not that he uses paragraphs obviously).

I was so surprised I almost soiled myself.

[StraferJack]

now that's funny

[Thomas Micklewright]

Currently reading:

The Flashman Papers, by George Fraser Macdonald, one where he goes to Africa,

History of the German language

Next:

Fear and Loathing in las Vegas

Girl with Dragon Tattoo

[richardbach]

zne an teh art of mocyle maianatanance

[Jah Lush]

Just finishing Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman and have also just started William Boyd's Ordinary Thunderstorms.

[Alan Medic]

I've just finished an amusing book called Spanish Lessons. Ex Fleet Street hack and author moves to rural Spain with wife and child. Gives an insight into the Spanish way of life. Enjoyable.

[mockney piers]

Ooh, just finished "Feckers" (50 people who fecked up Ireland)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Feckers-People-Who-Fecked-Ireland/dp/1849014426

If anyone wants borrowage do say.

SOme intereseting bits, some less so. It could equally have been called "John Waters' Opinions on people he hates or thinks are unfairly maligned" or "Mary Robinson you Bitch" mind.

[HonaloochieB]

Just started the Girl With The Long Greeen Heart by Lawrence Block and almost finished Bad Vibes by Luke Haines.

I've got Post Everything by Haines which I'll probably start on the bus this evening.

LH's book is about his adventures in the Britpop period from starting it with Suede to doing his best to destroy it with Baader Meinhoff. Scathing, sarcy, chippy, sometimes borderline pyschopathic but very very funny.

Taking drugs is all well and good but how many rock stars have smashed up their legs in order to avoid completing a European tour?

Not many I'll wager.

[Alan Medic]

mockney piers Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

> Ooh, just finished "Feckers" (50 people who fecked

> up Ireland)

> http://www.amazon.co.uk/Feckers-People-Who-Fecked-

> Ireland/dp/1849014426

>

> If anyone wants borrowage do say.

> SOme intereseting bits, some less so. It could

> equally have been called "John Waters' Opinions on

> people he hates or thinks are unfairly maligned"

> or "Mary Robinson you Bitch" mind.

Does Cromwell feature? What about Albert Reynolds? I played tennis at his house. In future I could say I played tennis at that feckers house. Never played with Cromwell though.

[david_carnell]

A Book of Silence by Sarah Maitland

An account of a woman and her ever more intensive and profound search for silence and her experiences of prolonged periods of it.

More interesting than it sounds.

[Alan Medic]

I would guess she went mad?

[Peckhamgatecrasher]

Sounds like she needs an hysterectomy.

I'M BOREDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD.

[mockney piers]

Purely 20th century Alan.

It's stretching it a bit to blame Cromwell for the corruption of Ireland's political classes and screwing all its new found wealth in a greed infested property bubble.

Mind you my sister in law tried gawd bless her cotton ones!!

It pretty much kicks off with Paidraig Pearse for dying, De Valera for living, goes via a host of political, artistic and sporting figures and finishes up with Thierry Henry.

Interestingly he's quite tolerant of Paisley who he berates for not realising he's irish, hates G Adams for being a sanctimonious hypocrite and loves Tony Blair, which is where John Waters and I finally fell out with each other.

[StraferJack]

This John Waters?

he sounds like a proper gobshite

[mockney piers]

My Brother in law went into quite the spittle flecked waters hating diatribe on seeing the authorship of the book.

Having read the book he made me laugh quite a bit, I learnt a few things, but I know I don't like him. (THe Gerry Adams one was spot on mind!!)

[Jah Lush]

HonaloochieB Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

Bad Vibes by Luke Haines.

Scathing, sarcy, chippy, sometimes borderline pyschopathic but very very funny.

I concur. Read it last year. Hilarious.

[david_carnell]

Peckhamgatecrasher Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

> Sounds like she needs an hysterectomy.

>

*snorts into cup of tea*

She's quite unlikable as a person but the account of wilderness is what made me read it.

Now, does anyone have a good wood carving book they'd recommend. I made a spoon and want more!

[mockney piers]

If you've ever considered getting into sci-fi /fantasy or horror but don't know where to start (or are afraid to ask you saddo!!) then this handy flow chart might help

http://www.box.net/shared/static/a6omcl2la0ivlxsn3o8m.jpg

http://flowingdata.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/Books-partial-954x624.png

[mockney piers]

Incidentally, in the light of Le Carre being all trendy again, I'm rereading A Perfect Spy, I think his best book.

[Dopamine1979]

'Tickling the English' by Dara O Briain.

A very funny and affectionate view of England through Irish eyes.

[Alan Medic]

200