Sam Downing

The last time I reviewed a Neil Gaiman book I noted that his authorial voice is one that people seem to either like (usually a lot) or they don’t. But, I don’t get how you wouldn’t like it! His writing is conveniently tailored to fit my interests: it’s imaginative, clever, eerie and a little bit creepy.

Coraline, I think, I would’ve been into bigtime as a kid: I loved (and still love) stuff that was scary but not gruesome, and Coraline fits into that niche with classics like The Witches. (Sidenote: I must’ve read The Witches a hundred times as a kid. I subsequently developed a terror of women with seashell noses, and I can’t wait for Guillermo del Toro’s adaptation.)

Much like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Coraline is about a young girl who ventures into a strange land, but where Wonderland is eccentric-creepy, Coraline’s otherworld is creepy-creepy. It’s ruled by the Other Mother, a sinister matriarch with buttons for eyes. Gaiman smartly declines to reveal too much about the origins of the Other Mother and her powers, or about the nature of the mirror world Coraline winds up in, and it’s the mystery that makes it spooky.

Also highly recommended: Henry Selick’s film adaptation of Coraline, which is also wonderful.

My copy of Coraline is part of the Bloomsbury Phantastics range, and includes several of Gaiman’s short stories. Some of them I’ve previously read, either online or in Fragile Things, but even the ones I’d come across before are definitely worth re-reading. The highlights are Sunbird, about an epicurean club whose members decide to eat a phoenix; October in the Chair, which ties nicely with The Graveyard Book; and Don’t Ask Jack, a genuinely unsettling tale about a spooky jack-in-the-box and its effect on the lives of the children who own it. (It’s one of the shortest stories in the collection, but also the scariest.)

I realise that at this point it’s cliche to profess one’s adoration of Gaiman, but: he is such a great writer.

I saw Avatar last night, and I’ll write about it in more detail after my professional review is published later in the week, but for the moment I’ll merely say:

Wow.

A year ago I’d never read anything by Michael Chabon, but in 2009 I’ve read his short story collection Werewolves in their Youth (that title alone is full of win), his Pulitzer Prize-winner The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, and now The Yiddish Policemen’s Union.

I think Policemen’s Union is my favourite. And that’s saying something, because I loved Kavalier and Clay a lot. (It’s possible I favour Union because it’s fresh in my mind. Kavalier and Clay is an extraordinary book, so I reserve the right to change my mind.)

Chabon is a stunning writer. Snappy, smart, witty, gloriously inventive. Some of his synonyms are so unexpected they cause gleeful fireworks to pop in my brain. If I could write a tenth as well as Chabon does, I would be the second-best writer in the world, is what I’m saying. (more…)

First up, two unrelated things: coffee is so good; Vegemite on toast is so good.

The Rejectionist held a contest recently to write the most amazing form rejection letter in the history of the universe, and the winner is a truly astounding cavalcade of LOLs. A sampling:

Please don’t be offended. Your query’s horrendous.
We can’t understand why you’d bother to send us
a missive so deeply in need of an edit
we wanted to vomit as soon as we read it.
Its hook was insipid, its grammar revolting,
its font microscopic, its manner insulting,
its lies unconvincing, its structure confusing,
its efforts at comedy less than amusing.
We think that on average the writing is better
in comments on YouTube than inside your letter.

That’s gold, Jerry! The complete opus is here. I reckon most writers would be pretty chuffed with a rejection like this.

If you aren’t already subscribed to Subnormality, the weekly internet comic featuring “a variety of thinly-veiled misanthropic tirades”, go and do so right now. I dare you not to read the entire archive in one go.

Evidence of genius: