How the Dead Bury the Dead
by William Greenway

How the Dead Bury the Dead is a book of poetry by William Greenway. He is originally from Atlanta and a English professor at Youngstown State University. He was named Georgia Author of the Year for 1994.

The book itself is nice-looking. The cover is interesting and the type font is flattering. The book is divided into three sections. The first section is titled “Father Dreams.” It is a section preoccupied with his dead father, his mother, and various other childhood memories. This section probably contains the best poems of the book, but it is somewhat inconsistent.

“The Place of Names of Dreams” is the second section, and there is no apparent reason for this title or why certain poems are in this section. The poems in this section deal more with the present than the poems of the first set. These poems are a little less erratic in quality but they are more bland in exchange.

The last section, “How the Dead Bury the Dead,”, not only did Greenway save the worst for last, but he put the longest poems last as well. Most of these poems deal with his bad health and his senile mother.

Greenway has a very distinctive style, using long, rambling sentences reminiscent of Faulkner. When Greenway is at his best, this style is wonderful. It swoops the reader up and carries him on a rush through the poem.

However, it’s also very easy to get lost in his tangle of words. One line could go on for a whole stanza, and then the point of the sentence is lost.

Greenway draws inspiration from many literary sources, A. E. Housman, Faulkner, Whitman, and Shakespeare to name a few. He apparently believes good poetry must refer to other great works because in most of his poems, he has at least one reference.

Sometimes, he takes a viewpoint similar to a character of another work. One poem from the “Father Dreams” series reads like Biff from “Death of a Salesman.” Other times, Greenway rewrites an entire poem, a poetic equivalent of a cover. He does this trick with T. S. Eliot’s “Journey of the Magi” in “Magi.”

With all his borrowing, it would seem Greenway can’t come up with an original idea. Plus, these references lead to a comparison between the original work and Greenway’s work. And Greenway’s poems always fall short.

Most of the poems are written in the confhttps://www.angelfire.lycos.com/cgi-auth/webshellessional mode. This style makes the poems feel very personal, but the subject matter gets tedious. Greenway fills his poems with obscure references to personal experiences, and after a few poems, this technique becomes annoying.

Greenway does have a sense of humor, though it’s often lost in his long sentences and large words. In "The Great Northern Possom," he laughs at the poetic process. When he’s not caught up in being a poet, Greenway can be witty and even good. But this collection proves there’s a thin line between poetry and pretentiousness.

Despite its flaws, the book is worth reading. Greenway has an original personal style, and when he overcomes his shortcomings, his poems are interesting and witty. --Paige Haggard

Generation X
by Douglas Coupland

Douglas Coupland's book,Generation X has the dubious distinction of naming a generation. Since its printing in early 1991 coincided with the release of Linklater's film Slacker and with the upsurge of "grunge" music, commercial moguls quickly united these events and turned them into a profitable market of combat boots, flannel and striped T-shirts.

Ironically, the book's title was inspired by an "X " category of people described in a Paul Fussell book, Class, who are trying to escape the materialism and status games of society.

The book is brilliant. Coupland's style is hip and addictive. Margins are filled with direct and catchy terms for our lifestyles, such as "McJobs," "decade blending" and "divorce assumption." The chapters are short, and the book itself is only 183 pages. It's easy to zoom through this book. However, Generation X is anything but superficial.

The book follows Claire, Andy and Dag who've moved to the fringes of Palm Springs, California to separate from an identity-devouring society. Their main entertainment is telling one another stories. With these stories, they try to create their own personal mythologies and, at the same time, a collective consciousness. The characters are, at times, insightful and, at times, blind. These individuals are neither pathetic nor jaded; they are simply trying to find meaning in a soulless culture.

So, why take an interest in a book that's now technically passe? Because, now that's the hype's died down, it's time actually read the book and understand it. --Paige Haggard

Elephants and Other Gods
Spring 1996

Elephants and Other Gods, denoted as "a literary journal of prose, poetry and art," is printed in Tallahassee by Efficacy Press ... a small magazine, only four staff members but a gem nonetheless.

To begin with, the magazine itself is pleasing. The layout is good, very easy to read, and it's a convenient and comfortable size. Also, I love the name.

The foreward by managing editor, Gigi Rollini, is an impressive work, its utilitarian nature aside. It's well-written, an English major/aspiring critic's dream. It sets the tone of the whole magazine. Rollini discusses in this extremely brief essay the very contemporary nature of the issue's selections, with the focus on fragmented, personal viewpoints as a path to universal truth (or rather Truth).

The two featured artists, J.C. Coyles and Byron Dean, are very striking. Coyle's poetry style is long but very focused; the images, hip and evocative. There is a plethora of pop culture references in Dean's short story. I think there's a bit of the lead character, Bud, in each of us -- the troubled loser we'd like to deny.

The theme of abuse apparent in Dean's story runs through the issue's other short stories. An element of loneliness (a modern/contemporary motif) is a palpable entity in most of the stories.

The poetry is quite lovely, deliciously crystallized and crafted. There's none of that nasty "I'm the poet so everything I say is important" syndrome in these selections.

The artwork of this collection is not quite as impressive as the literature. The art is not offensive or even bad, but compared to the quality of the prose and poetry, it's somewhat secondary. However, the cover painting by Gordon Bowman is stunning. In fact, it and the journal's title are why I spotted this magazine at Rubyfruit books.

Anyway, as I said before, Elephants and Other Gods is great. Check it out...oh, and look for further editions. --Paige Haggard

The Lazarus Heart
by Poppy Brite

Poppy Z. Brite's got a new novel out, and, believe it or not, it has a more gorey murder than even those in her previous novel, Exquisite Corpse, which followed the wacky escapades of two Dahmer-esque serial killers. The novel is called The Lazarus Heartand it's a part of The Crow series, a series inspired by James O'Barr's The Crow.

Since the novel is a related to The Crow, naturally it deals with vengence from beyond the grave. In this particular case, Jared Poe, a gay fetish photographer, returns from the world beyond to find the killer of his lover, Benny. However, this is not a simple boy-loves-boy, boy-loses-boy-to-gruesome-murder, boy-returns-from-the-dead-for-vengence novel. Oh no ... for flair and added kink factor, we also have Benny's extremely close, transsexual twin Lucrece.

The book does not lack for either excitement or for introspection. There are plenty of good action scenes to keep up one's interest and once again Poppy delves into the minds of murder and insanity and manages to pull deep truths from the murky depths. She also paints a beautiful, if not intricate, love story to underlie the plot --­ in fact, Poppy creates some of the best romances on the market, even though her main thrust is horror.

Quite frankly, if the world were ready for Poppy's world on the big screen (and gay leading hero and a transexual leading heroine), I'd say that The Lazarus Heart whould be The Crow III. --Paige Haggard

Elephants and Other Gods
Fall 1996

The latest and, unfortunately, the last issue of Elephants and Other Gods is out. The works of the Fall 1996 edition, like the Spring edition, explore the various personal realities and expand on truth through personal idiocyncrasies and experiences.

The power of these fragments of truth is no better illustrated than in "Listless (To A Lady)," written by Mery Miller, the featured writer. This brief yet utterly complete work could be, at first glance, dismissed as a character sketch of a former lover. However, the two characters are so well-defined without being stereotypical that the reader is allowed with each reading a slightly different glimpse at the characters. There are only two other short stories in the issue; while they aren't as strong as Miller's and not quite as engaging, they are still good reads.

The poetry of the featured poet, Shannon Lakanen, is extremely personal with intense images. There's a definite element of the bittersweet in these three poems. Vicky Adams's poem "Here Is A Fable From My Life: Once There Was A Princess" is incredibly striking; the lines of this poem are absolutely breathtaking. Almost all of the issue's poems are rich with delicious lines and with lush, sometimes startling, imagery.

The artwork is fairly notable featuring several black and white photos by Jennifer Sorrells. The cover by Edwin King is really eye-catching. Also, the layout of the titles of works and author's names is very interactive with the text.

Sam Barboo's screenplay "A Change of Mind" is really the only work with any major problems. The basic concept of the screenplay is trite and the constant scene changes are impractical. However, the idea of expanding submission genres for Elephants is a wonderful idea ... if only it weren't the last issue of the magazine.

Since this is the last issue, it makes this issue all the more poignant. Such a quality outlet for artists will be missed. --Paige Haggard

Magnetic Poetry

It goes without saying that we've all seen at least some variation of those magnetic poetry kits. They're now a part of pop culture. They come in all sorts of versions ­-- French, erotic, genius, scientific ­-- something for all walks of life.

Just the other day I saw yet another mutation on this pop phenomenon ... a collection of magnetic poetry. Yes, this was a collection of magnetic poems from refrigerators all across America. It intrigued me, having the dual allure of tapping into the zeitgeist as well into the minds of a good cross section of American people (even normal people). So, me, ever the English major, I randomly opened the book to see what it revealed. The first poem I stumbled across was this: "perhaps our god felt naked/ this dance is bitter/ laugh fool" by Karin Miller.

Not bad, I thought. Since the book doubled as a portable magnetic poetry board and the damn things are addictive, I bought it.

After reading all the poems in this collection, I am simultaneously uplifted and mildly disturbed. On one hand, the egalitarian in me loves the fact that people across the nation can tap into their personal muse with nothing more than some magnets on a fridge ... a verbal paint-by-numbers. Everyone can feel the thrill of creation and the energy of being an artist. I believe the artist is, to a lesser or greater extent, present in all of us. I've long felt that artists have for too long alienated themselves from the populace and really have become intoxicated with their egos and assumed a false superiority over the common man. Magnetic poetry is a more democratic view of art.

Then again, many of the poems sound a bit too much like e.e. cummings, at least on the surface. Hell, they look like e.e. since there is no use of punctuation or capitalization. As I said before, I'm ever the English major so the implications are innumerable. It reminds me of someone saying Picasso looks like finger-painting. Granted, it looks easy, and it disregards many conventional rules of established art but it doesn't mean anybody can do it. There is method to e.e.'s (and Picasso's) madness while others may create this way soley because these kits come with no punctuation and a limited number of words.

I'm also disturbed because I'm a writer and poet myself, and the last thing my career needs to have everyone and their house cat thinking they can publish a book simply because they enjoy stringing magnets together. Hell, the poetry market is glutted already. A mildly selfish point but valid; no matter how vague the lines between high, low and therapeutic art, there are lines. At least there should be ... otherwise, people like The Spice Girls might end up in the Music Hall of Fame.

Despite my qualms, I think the book was a good purchase. It certainly provided amusement at the doctor's office and most of the poetry is quite good. Students of human nature will have a field day with probing people's minds and it's also a sure cure for writer's block. Not bad for a little book. --Paige Haggard

253
by Geoff Ryman

Okay, people with short attention spans I've got the book for you ... Geoff Ryman's 253. It's not exactly a short book ... 350 some pages. However, it's plot line and set-up is perfect for our sound-bite, attention-challenged society.

Here's the plot: 253 people on a London subway from Embankment to Elephant & Castle.

That's it.

The book is divided into 253 chapters about the 253 passengers and each chapter contains 253 words. Each chapter gives you the passenger's outward appearance, inside information on the passenger and what that passenger is thinking right then and there. This configuration means, of course, that you can put the book down at any point and pick up again without any loss of momentum.

Ryman includes footnotes, a passenger seating chart and a index of reference in the back. The author even provides advertisements in between sections; this technique partially ties in with the advertisements actually seen on the train and it also placates any boob tube addicts who might miss the commercials of TV.

True, it seems an odd arrangement for a novel but it works beautifully. 253 tells us snigbits of the lives of its passengers, telling us a tantalizing amount without revealing too much. The perfect intellectual tease.

The passengers are vastly varied, from everyday working stiffs to a woman who pretends her imaginary missing husband is an IRA informant. My favorite passenger is Spider Spenser. He's ex-Gother who once "...thought that somehow being fashionable, knowing people, being in the arts would make [him] rich." At this point in his life, he is professionally unemployed.

The footnotes are hysterical. Ryman has one footnote that is four pages in which he not only discusses Sean Connery and the English's love for him, but also The Lion King and the English sexual kink for Americans.

253 is a great read and really is a wonderful choice for people who have a hectic schedule and can't read too much in a sitting. To make this novel even more user friendly, there's even a web-site to help you follow themes and relationships within the book (www.ryman-novel.com). What more could you want in a book? --Paige Haggard

The Explanation and Other Good Advice
by Don Webb

I have read a lot of odd books in my time, but this one is by far the strangest (even exceeding The Triokia with its story about a Mexican woman, a jeep and a brontosaurus). It's entitled, The Explanation and Other Good Advice and it's written by Don Webb, and it's thought-provoking to Nth degree.

The book is a collection of short stories, one of which is "The Explanation," a story that is from a poet's point of view explaining why his neighbor needs to look after his cat. It's a story that compares writing about life to actually living life. Well, that's what I think the story is about. That's how all the stories are ... they're less "stories" and more like obscure fables, that we as the readers can interpret however we need.

In fact, that's what I love about this collection -- it's wide open to personal interpretation. It reminds me of a teacher I had in high school who said that if we could interpret a poem any way we wanted, then we'd only need one poem (nevermind about reader response theory or anything like that); even at the tender age of 16, I thought this view was rather restrictive.

This book is designed to fly in the face of such pedestrian, uptight thinking. In the introduction, Webb states that this book is a book of dreams that the reader can piece together to create his own book of knowledge. Instead of offering "the Truth," Webb offers the reader facets of the truth that can be fashioned into any number of jewels the we deem as truth. With his wide range of stories, from "Dionysus in Milwaukee" to an image of the afterlife as a wintry Paris, Webb delivers a book of Knowledge (yes, with a capital K) without being pedantic. There are no obvious morals to his fables; only those conclusions you draw yourself. --Paige Haggard

The Planet Suite
by Allen Ashley

I have yet another intense yet short book for Break readers. And again, it's got an intriguing plot line. It's Allen Ashley's The Planet Suite.

To begin with, the book is inspired by Gustav Holst's The Planets ... a beautiful piece of classical music with 7 movements for the each of the planets (excluding Earth and the yet-to-be-discovered Pluto). The movements are reminiscent of the mythological personalities of the planets' namesakes, the Roman gods.

The lead character, Simon, explores the solar system within his mind and each planet affects him in a similar manner as Holst's planetary movements. In a way, Simon is exploring the various aspects of his own personality, the sexual and the war-like, the mystical and the philosophical. Still, this is only one theme working within the novel.

There is also the recurring theme of Simon's affair with his childhood love, Jane, to consider as well as the constant threat of the British Normality Patrol and their ban on any kind of sexual activities, even that within the mind.

Ashley doesn't just stick to Simon as the narrator. Some sections are in Jane's mind, some in Jane and Simon's childhood literature teacher's mind. One section is in the voice of Holst. The effect reflects our fragmented views of the universe.

Honestly, I'm not all together sure which parts are in Simon's head and which parts really happen. Even the ending is a bit ambiguous. Yet this equivocacy doesn't detract from the novel in the least. The uncertainty makes you analyze not only the story line more closely but also your perceptions of the book, of your life, of reality in general.

The novel deals with questions of the universe and how we perceive it, with questions of god and his function in the universe. At one point, Simon states, "The only pattern we can impose on the world is our own limited consciousness span" and then later states, "All interpretations of the universe are inherently selfish. All thought is mental masturbation." The novel offers no solutions but rather an endless variety of possibilities.

With the dark shadow of the Normality Patrol looming throughout the book, Ashley brings to the fore the threat of homogeneity, where the "normal" is pushed down our throats. Now, more than ever, with the right wing trying to enforce their "family values" and with the left wing preaching the elimination of differences between classes, ethnic circles, etc., it is important for us to acknowledge and celebrate the plurality of the human race. Just as there is more than one planet in our solar system, there is more than one way to perceive reality. To further that analogy, even though we may not live on any of the other planets, we can at least appreciate the miscellany of life that they offer us just as we can appreciate, though not necessarily live or believe, the infinite multitude of perceiving the world.

All that deep thought in a mere 98 pages. --Paige Haggard

SPAM-ku, Tranquil Reflections on Luncheon Loaf
edited by John Nagamichi Cho

SPAM has inspired much in this world ... a sketch by Monty Python, an ultimate Frisbee team (back in my college days), acres of indigestion, and pounds of gas. Now, SPAM has arrived in the world of art. It has reached its pinnacle of inspiration -- SPAM has a collection of poetry.

The concept of this book was spawned from SPAM poems sent to a SPAM web site. With 10,000 submissions (and counting), John Nagamichi Cho realized that he was not alone in his dream/obsession with SPAM literature.

The poems follow a 5-7-5 syllable scheme, though not all are the familiar haikus. Some are senryu. The editor is quick to point out, lest his creditability be questioned, that "ku" means verse in Japanese and therefore SPAM-ku is still an appropriate title even though not all the poems are haikus.

With the novelty of this book definitely established, what about the quality? Well, believe it or not, the poetry of SPAM-ku is pretty good -- very tongue in cheek, yes, but very imaginative. The poem topics range from Americana to the arts, sex to philosophy; SPAM-ku is broad reaching. The poems are very short and very sharp.

SPAM is described in a number of ways, from a "porky oyster" to being "the color of spanked buttocks." One poem that sums up SPAM's social connotation as well as its physical attributes is by John Mitchell: "Perfection uncanned / Like a beautiful redhead / Fresh from her trailer." That's art, baby!

In addition to quick-witted poems, SPAM-ku also features some rather intriguing artwork. The artwork is ostensibly the kind you would find in haiku books or in Japanese restaurants ... the women in big wigs and painted faces. However, these pictures have a twist. In some shape, form or manner, they all feature a can of SPAM. A number of the works are hysterical.

Perhaps the most beneficial thing about SPAM-ku is the fact that it proves that the common man can write a common verse for a common object. First magnetic poetry books, now SPAM poetry; the mundane is making leaps in the art world. Maybe one day, you, too, might add a verse -- SPAM, SPAM, how do I love thee.... --Paige Haggard

remembered rapture: the writer at work
by bell hooks

When was the last time you got swept away by the book of critical essays? Never? Well, grab a life jacket. I've got one for you: bell hooks' remembered rapture (and yes, the low case is intentional).

Ostensibly, it's a collection of critical essays about writing. How very "meta" -- writing about writing. Within these essays, she discusses the effects of sex, race and socio-economics on the development of a writer, the publication of her subsequent work and how it is assimilated by the reading populace. She deals with the issues of prejudices of academia versus the political power of speaking to the people. The last quarter of the book contains discussions about female writers that have influenced her the most. These are not the things that, at first glance, sound like engrossing reading material.

She hooks you with her writing style. It's not cut and dry; it's not highfalutin. It's personal and consequently, engaging; it's insightful though not all knowing. The essays are written in first person so it feels like you're having a conversation rather than eavesdropping on a lecture. She speaks from personal experience and while your experience may or may not be similar, it doesn't matter; she speaks as a human being to another human being about such universals as finding one's path, making a contribution to the world, and wrestling with the hydras of prestige and stature in one's career.

It's hooks' sheer love for the language that keeps you coming back for more. Shared experiences are all good and well, but she is dealing with some weighty and touchy issues here. Yet, she expresses herself with such grace and such vitality that you're hooked. As she weaves her story interlacing her experiences and potential lessons learned, you follow on and on led by her sincerity and eloquence. At the end of the book, you've a higher state of awareness about art and the politics that surround it. --Paige Haggard

The "Go Ask Alice®" Book of Answers
by Columbia University's Health Education Program

Kids, these are uncertain times. Questions everywhere. How do I get over a hangover? Is this relationship normal? Am I having an orgasm? You know, run of the mill, everyday questions about sex, health, drugs, emotions and relationships in general.

Never fear, The "Go Ask Alice®" Book of Answers is here. Utilizing questions and answers from the Go Ask Alice! web service, the book compiles some of the most frequently asked and most puzzling questions. Go Ask Alice was originally designed in the early nineties for Columbia University students so most of the questions are very appropriate to our 18 to 35 age group of the break.

A goodly portion of the book deals with sex and relationship issues. Whether Alice is telling you about the transmission of STDs or giving advice on ending the cycle of an abusive relationship, Alice is there for you. The book also delves into emotional quandaries, health and fitness issues, and the ever popular information about drugs.

The "Go Ask Alice®" Book of Answers is an impressive book. The answers to questions are researched by the people on Columbia University's Health Education Program so you can feel safe in the validity of the answers. However, the book also provides a long list of references for each issue. From support groups to films, from books to links, Alice lists them all for your educational benefit so you don't just have to take her word for anything.

I'm not much on answers books but this one is damn helpful. It's quite humorous as well, because people ask the darnedest questions. --Paige Haggard

Vittorio, the Vampire
by Anne Rice

Anne Rice, the dark mistress of vampire confessions, has yet another "New Tales of the Vampires" out, oddly enough, a vampire who did not appear in the Chronicles, a vampire who keeps to himself.

The story is set during the Renaissance during the Italian Age of Gold, the height of Florence and Medici power. Not only is the political turmoil and intrigue of the 15th century a backdrop for this novel but so is its amazing art. Rice even sites a "Selected and Annotated Bibliography" for further information about the key historical figures of the book.

The novel quite obviously centers around Vittorio, the first son of a country lord in Tuscany. It discusses not so much his life as a vampire but his life shortly before and after his "making." Of course, Vittorio is beautiful, intelligent and strong and, as is the case with most of the male Ricean vampires, androgynous. He is 16 when he becomes a vampire.

The trials and tribulations that Vittorio encounter in his story are actually somewhat unique for a Ricean vampire -- group of vampire massacre Vittorio's family and throughout most of the novel, Vittorio is seeking vengeance against these vampires, The Court of the Ruby Grail. What is par for the Ricean course is his salvation stems from his beauty. A vampire spares him his life because she loves his beauty.

Vittorio not only encounters vampires but he interacts with angels, yet another divergence from the Ricean vampire plot. It brings to the book an interesting element of theology.

Not surprisingly, the story is concerned for Vittorio's love for Ursula, the vampire who saved his life, and his turmoil over this love.

Vittorio, the Vampire is a good book. It's a charmingly quick read and it's only in the last four pages that Rice nearly ruins the story with her typical preaching. I believe that if a true vampire had written the story (as Rice bills the book), he would have lived long enough to have learned such heavy handed sermons as Rice delivers in these last pages is neither art nor productive.

All in all, I recommend the book. Despite Rice's inherent flaws as a writer (her overwrought descriptions of beauty and her inevitable morailzations), the story and characters live a life of their own, shining nearly outside the limitations of the author. --Paige Haggard

Frenzetta
by Richard Calder

Ah, summer ... the classic time for action adventures to grace the silver screen. However, thanks to Richard Calder's new book, Frenzetta, you don't have leave your house to get your fix of fast-paced action.

Frenzetta's got it all ... death-defying leaps, guns, carriage chases, corsets, rat girls, and zombies. And that's not even scratching the surface.

Frenzetta is set in the future many years after "The Abortion," a cataclysmic collision of our earth and alternate realities, forming a universe from multiverses. This collision forms the tribes of the perverse ... humanoid creatures who are also part animal. There a cat girls (who procreate by infecting human men with their DNA via their salvia), wolf men (who kill cat girls as a form of natural population control), rat girls (who literally die from orgasm), she-spiders (who kill insect men) and so and so forth with all kinds of strange creatures with even stranger sexual perversions.

This future earth is an odd mixture of technology and grimore. There are some technological advances, like the creation of zombies and a particular civilizations' ability to build cities in the clouds even as people tool around in carriages.

The plot centers around Frenzetta who is a rat girl and Duane who is a zombie. They're a perfect couple in that Duane is, technically speaking, dead and therefore impotent and Frenzy, being a rat girl, will die as soon as she orgasms. Of course, this also make them one sexually frustrated couple.

Our couple sets out on a journey in an effort to find a place where they can be together; be it Cathay, Europa, Afric or Atlantis, it doesn't matter just so long as Duane can get his occasional sustaining meal of fresh brains and just so long no one is trying to kill them or sell them into slavery. This goal turns out to be trickier than it sounds since everywhere, someone's either shooting at them, trying to kill Frenzetta by way of orgasm, or simply just trying separate the already thwarted love birds.

I literally could not put this book down. Calder's writing is dazzling and the plot is captivating. The book encompasses sex, violence, passion, and philosophy in one fell swoop. Frenzetta is one of those books that reminds you why books will always be infinitely better than movies, price of admission excluded. --Paige Haggard

The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror
edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling

As a general rule, I tend to be suspicious of anything that is toted the year's best ________ (fill in the blank), even if it is the 12th edition of the St. Martin's Press collection of fantasy and horror. That's not to say I wasn't expecting some treasures in the collection but I certainly wasn't prepared for just about all the stories to be so riveting. Nearly every story held me spellbound, and with 48 entries (mostly short fiction but a few poems) that's pretty impressive stuff.

Every angle is covered in this collection, and then some: ghosts, black magic, murder, torture, fairies, insanity, demons, elves and gargoyles. Naturally, the anthology features a vampire story (just the one though) but from an unexpected time-loop ahttps://www.angelfire.lycos.com/cgi-auth/webshellngle. In fact, there are a couple of stories that relate to time looping back on itself, one of which is a story by Stephen King, "That Feeling, You Can Only Say What It Is in French." The collection also features a bevy of shape-shifters -- a town that turns into dogs, a man who used to be a carp, a cat/woman, and two crows who double as little girls.

Many of the stories offer a new look on familiar things, whether it be a new ironic feminist twist on a classic fairy tale as in "Travels with the Snow Queen" or an humorous twist to Lovecraft which is the basis for "Shoggoth's Old Peculiar" (by Neil Gaiman no less). Even the concept of genetic engineering takes on a demented and terrifying new hue in "Suburban Blight."

I will admit that one story less than thrilled me, "Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff." This is the longest piece of the book and, to me, was dreadful and drawn-out. Yet, out of nearly fifty stories, to have only one unsatisfactory story is pretty damn good. Besides, there are many stories that make up for "Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff." and these stories are as diverse in nature as they are rich in talent: the passionate modern fairy tale about an ice princess and a desert prince entitled "Cold" by A.S. Byatt, the lyrical magic within McKillip's "Oak Hill," where a girl finds magic, and the enchantment of a moonlit night that straddles the edge of childhood and adulthood embodied in the Millhauser's "Clair De Lune." The horroric soul stealing is seen "Blackbirds," in which an entire town's afterlife fate rests in the hands of a young boy, while deep psychological confusion of anger and murder is captured in "Every Angel Is Terrifying." I could go on and on listing the wonderful stories but only in reading this collection will you truly appreciate the scope of this anthology. --Paige Haggard

Anne Rice is back with more tales from the dark side. Her latest installment in the life and times of vampires is Vittorio, the Vampire. It's a part of her newest vampire series, "New Tales of the Vampires."

Vittorio is set in 15th century Italy, round the height of Renaissance art and the Medici, both of which figure prominently in the tale. Rice follows her normal convention of a vampire autobiography/confessional. In fact, she goes so far to have a separate dedication for the true "author," Vittorio. The vampire even suggests reading material in the back to familiarize the reader more fully with the historical characters and settings of the tale.

Vittorio's story is unusual in that it narrates the immediate incidents prior to his making as a vampire and the events immediately thereafter. His following five hundred years as a vampire are basically left up to the imagination.

The tale begins with Vittorio as a boy of 16, the son of an extremely wealthy country lord, when his entire family falls prey to the fiendish, vampiric Court of the Ruby Grail. Only his androgynous good looks and the instant love of the vampire Ursula save Vittorio's life, a dubious distinction considering the destruction of all his kin and kith. The rest of the story follows Vittorio's quest for vengeance against the vampires.

The story line is great. It has everything ... revenge, star-crossed lovers, angels, art, death, a black mass even. The novel is of the love, blood and rhetoric school (rhetoric being compulsory because it is Anne Rice) and if you know your classic literature, love, blood and rhetoric always make for the best stories.

Not to say this story isn't without its failings. There are normal pitfalls of the Ricean novel ... everybody is beautiful to the point of retching, overt moralizing, the obvious ending. But you should expect that when the word "Anne Rice" is on a book cover. Just as you should expect to get sucked into the action until the very last page. --Paige Haggard

Set on the seven and a half minute tube train ride between Embankment and Elephant & Castle, England, Geoff Ryman's 253 is the perfect book for those of us with a harried schedule. Not so much because the book is short -- the actual length is some 350 pages -- but because the plot is simply the thoughts of the 253 passengers of the train.

There are 253 people (including the driver) on train 253. Each person gets 253 words for his or her chapter which provides the reader with the following information: the passenger's name, outward appearance, inside information, and what he or she is thinking.

A strange set-up, yes, but thoroughly fascinating. It's almost like being omnipotent for a day -- almost. Ryman supplies only enough information to intrigue the reader; he never fully satisfies the curiosity. Rather, the whetted appetite must flesh out the character with imagination. Yet, it is amazing as to how much personality can be revealed in 253 words.

The characters run the gamut of personalities and fixations, from a woman who wants to open a "Chums R Us" to the lady who is in love with Saddam Hussein. Ex-gothers, housewives, conmen, professional anorexics ... they're all on 253.

One of the most interesting aspect about 253 is that it's available on the internet at www.ryman-novel.com. This is a convenient medium for the novel considering many of the characters are connected to one another. All the reader has to do once finished with a character is click on a hyperlink and poof! right to the relevant section.

253 is highly entertaining and very thought provoking. With its slice-of-life arrangement, it's also easy to read in spurts. --Paige Haggard

Frenzetta is an action packed novel worthy of the silver screen. It's a testosterone ride of narrow escapes, carriage chases, quick rich plans, and duels to the death. It's story about the search for freedom and the lengths people will go to find it. It's also a love story, following two people who desperately love one another but consummation of their love is impossible.

Frenzetta is set in the future after a few parallel universes collide. The collision causes several new races of people who are humoid animals, known as the tribes of the perverse. Frenzetta is from one of these tribes; she's a rat girl, which means she's pale, has a tail and a comic book girl figure (34EE-22-35), and is also quite the warrior. It also means that orgasm for her is instant death. Lucky she's in love with Duane who is a renevant, a.ka. zombie which is technologically created to be the ultimate soldier. As a zombie, Duane is seven feet tall, eats brains for breakfast and is fatally impotent. The sexual tension is thicker than Atlanta smog.

While the novel is set in the future, it's not an easy future. Much, though not all, technological knowledge has been lost in the multiverse collision. While there is a smattering of traditional sci-fi gadgetry, most of the environment is closer to the late middle ages and the Renaissance.

This novel is an extremely quick and energetic read. It subsumes you with its rich imagery, its violence and its plot twists as it follows Frenzetta and Duane's exploits throughout the globe. It's one of those rare books that really does have a little something for everyone without sacrificing quality or momentum.

There's only one catch ... it's not available in the U.S. just yet. However, you can get a copy via the internet at www.orbitbooks.co.uk. Trust me, it's worth the extra effort. --Paige Haggard

Hard to believe but true ... there is indeed a book out there on the market that is collection of poems about SPAM. Scarier still is that this book is not just one man's vision -- these are poems by many different people. Spawned from submissions sent to a web site (over 10,000 I might add), this little book is dedicated to the world's most questionable meat spans many topics ... americana, sex and romance, the arts and even philosophy and deep thought.

Surprisingly enough, I found the poetry of SPAM-ku to be of a very decent quality. Granted, I don't think people will be quoting, "'I'm pink; therefore I'm SPAM.'" But conversely, that doesn't mean these poems aren't well-written with a healthy dose of tongue in cheek. The poets stick to the 5-7-5 syllable scheme of either haikus or senryu and since the poems are short, the wit is quick and sharp.

The books is filled with very inventive images. One poet, John Mitchell, compares SPAM to "a beautiful redhead / Fresh from her trailer" while another, Mary Holt, compares it to "a porky oyster." The best by far is the John Mitchell's color description as "the color of spanked buttocks." Ah, the inspiration that is SPAM! --Paige Haggard

Allen Ashley's The Planet Suite, despite its short length of 98 pages, is a complex, intensely intimate and extremely introspective novel. It operates on several levels with a multitude of themes, from contemplations of the universe to the dual paths of desire and love, from the threat of imposed uniformity of thought and personas to the quest for meaning in life.

At first glance, The Planet Suite is love story. The novel deals with the issues of regret and of resurgence for a lost love. Simon, ostensibly the protagonist, returns to his hometown and begins an affair with his childhood love, Jane. The poignancy of this story raises questions about fate and chances missed. Simon's language as he ponders his feelings for Jane are tenderly erotic and sexually intellectual. His yearning for Jane becomes universal and cosmic as Simon compares the entropic nature of the universe to the chaos of their affair.

While Simon and Jane's relationship is traced (with childhood memories interspersed with adulthood liaisons), simultaneously Simon explores the universe in his head. These space odysseys mingle indiscriminately with memory and life-in-action. Simon travels to all the planets of the solar system just by using his imagination. In this way, he explores the variegations of his personality, analyzing archetypes with each planet, be it the warrior archetype or the lover, the thinker or the philosopher. These story lines mix so well that, at times, it's difficult to decide what really happens and what Simon imagines.

Yet, the complexities of the story don't end there for Simon's is not the only voice that the author utilizes. There are sections from Jane's viewpoint and sections from Jane and Simon's literature teacher's viewpoint. Holst, the composer of The Planets, narrates an entire chapter. There are a few more narrators, and, while they have names, Dennis, Alfred Peckham, they still remain anonymous. Ashley even uses the omniscient angle a time or two. This fragmentation of narration brings into focus one of the key themes of the book ... the plurality of universe and how it's perceived.

Another theme that underlines the multiplicity theme is the looming shadow of the British Normality Patrol. This patrol is a group of conservatives who aim to eliminate all dissenters of the "normal." This urge toward a homogeneous state ends up manifesting itself with a ban on all sexual activity. The threat of the Normality Patrol brings into focus the precious nature of the wide variety within the human species and the universe in general.

Ashley expertly plays with all of these themes and with all of these potential angles of life throughout the entire book, linking all of them to the concept of the ever-expanding universe. Too, he constantly throws us pearls of wisdom. He brings home the necessity of mystics with lines like, "Yesterday's soothsayers and/or prophets would be today's schizophrenics." He reminds us how reality is merely a perception -- "The only pattern we can impose on the world is our own limited consciousness span." He picks at our uncertainties and our futile attempts to stabilize them: "All the certainties of childhood -- family, friends, notions of stability and status --gradually decay and die. Attempting to offset these amputations, one acquires a string of material possessions of doubtful value. We reach out and grab a few lifeless planets while the stars flicker and fade out." In spite the poetic beauty of these lines and so many more like these, Ashley offers us no definites. He won't tell us the meaning of the universe; he simply places a few speculations before us.

Ashley embraces ambiguity wholeheartedly. The intricate lacing of the various plot lines and themes makes it difficult to decipher what is reality and what is imagination. Even the ending is equivocal. I can only postulate what happens to Simon and Jane.

To me, this balance of uncertainties is the center of Ashley's true talent. He is the master of negative capability, that vague reference in a few Keats' letters, that art of juggling opposites that Keats used so beautifully in his works, that ephemeral quality that has eluded definition by artists and critics alike in the years after Keats. Ashley has no difficulty juggling the contrary states of the universe within the novel. How can Simon be enmeshed in one state of affairs on Earth and still tour the universe with Jane? For Ashley, these states do not contradict each other; they coexist splendidly within the novel. After all, as Ashley cleverly phrases it, "The universe is a giant reflection and extension of everything we've ever done, thought or dreamed" which leaves wide girth that Ashley fills with many possibilities and views in The Planet Suite. --Paige Haggard

253 ... a novel that takes place in 7 minutes? Well, sort of. The time span of Geoff Ryman's 253 from St. Martin's Press takes place in seven minutes and a half minutes, the time it takes for a London subway to go from Embankment to Elephant & Castle.

The novel is comprised of 253 chapters, the same as the number of passengers on the train (including the driver), and each chapter is about one of these passengers and has 253 words. Each chapter tells the reader three things about the person: outward appearance, inside information and what he or she is thinking. A fairly quirky setup to begin with, but there's more. Technically speaking, in conventional terms, the plot simply is the train ride, which on paper doesn't sound too intriguing but in action is very innovative.

Because of the novel's unique setup, Ryman's novel manages to give the reader an honest look at the variety of life and the people who live it. 253 gives us entrance into 253 minds, thereby letting us see their hopes, their fears, their triumphs, their failures, and the truths behind even their lies to themselves. The real genius of this novel is that it provides us with only glimpses of these people, as if we really were sitting on train one day and just happened to omniscient for that brief seven and a half minutes. Ryman doesn't spoil the spell of the novel by trying to tell us too much. We find out just enough to whet our appetites but not enough to satiate.

The passengers of 253 come from a wide and varied cross-section of people. The novel samples a bit from all walks a life. Just to name a few, there's an ex-Gother, a woman who believes that men are by definition mildly autistic, a full-time anorexic with a part-time food vendetta against her co-workers, and a woman who's in love with her long lost brother. One passenger, Harold Pottluk (rather appropriate name) captures the essence of this kaleidoscope novel in his thoughts: "He sees their [the passengers'] faces like insulation wrapped around boilers. Their stories wheedle out of them like escaping steam. Mostly unheard."

A beautiful touchstone thought on the significance of the novel, a chance for these train passengers' lives to actually be heard outside of their own heads.

The novel's interaction with the reader is another ingenious aspect of 253. Ryman provides footnotes and side commentary throughout the whole novel. One footnote is devoted entirely to one of William Blake's visions and another to Sean Connery and English people's fascination with both the Scots and Americans -- very educational. To further aid the reader's progress in the novel, Ryman gives passenger maps with a seating chart and a two-to-three word sum-up for each character. Ryman even provides the reader with advertisements to break up the book, all very tongue-in-cheek and very on the money. This book is probably one of the most user-friendly works I've ever read. To boot, Ryman created a web page for the book (http://www.ryman-novel.com) complete with links between passengers and facts about the passengers.

One more alluring aspect of this novel is its "slice of life" nature. The passengers and their wide range of lifestyles, personalities and obsessions give 253 an air of randomness. Yet, there are definite threads of synchronicity within the novel just like in life. An instance of this sort of connection is the meeting of two women who love cats (one who owns a cattery and another who wants to own a cattery ); the characters appear on the same car together and also around one character who is mentally bashing Andrew Lloyd Weber, who, of course, wrote the Broadway musical CATS. Shortly thereafter, there appears a Japanese Elvis impersonator planning an album which includes a song from CATS, "Memory." Though not every passenger is fascinating because not every one is meant to be fascinating but each definitely provides an insight into that character and into human behavior in general.

Ryman's humor was the main draw for me to this book. 253 is saturated with his wit and his wry insights. His placement of characters throughout the book displays much of his humor and well as much of his understanding of human nature.

Overall, Ryman's montage of people in 253 illustrates quite succinctly the interconnected fragmentation of our modern day world. Like the passengers of 253, we all lead our lives isolated in thought but fast approaching a common destination, wherever and whenever that may be. --Paige Haggard

To say Don Webb's collection of short stories, The Explanation and Other Good Advice, is unusual would be an understatement. Even to say that it is unique wouldn't be doing the book justice. Saying the book is exquisite comes somewhat nearer to the truth.

Webb espouses a wide range of styles for these 26 short pieces. Indeed, these stories are more along the lines of fables -- there are no implicit morals, only meanings which the reader infers. One story is in interview form, another looks like a product of an exquisite cadaver session. Some read like stories, others read like journals.

The fables deal with subjects like the afterlife, past lives, alternate realities, and the question of coincidence. Two of the stories revolve around one my pet themes -- vegetation gods -- and one story is about, oddly enough,Popeye.

The plot lines and characters are as equally varied as writing format. The title story, "Explanation," is about the delicate artistic balance between reflecting and living life. Another fable, "The Art of Attention," is concerned with a man and his obsession with graffiti, especially that of an magically esoteric nature.

The book itself is incredibly magical, addressing various aspects of the quest for knowledge and with many myths. Prometheus and Dionysus each make an appearance. There are shades of druidism within a couple of stories. "Tourist Trade" is extremely reminiscent of Eco's Foucault Pendulum, very heavy with conspiracy and High Magic.

In the introduction, Webb tells us that these stories are dreams (very short ones at that) and are designed for two types of people -- those that are busy weaving real things in our world and those who are beginning the task of creating their own dreams. This latter group is piecing together their book of knowledge, looking for truth in books here and there, sometimes only finding truth in a word or a paragraph scattered throughout their journeys. Webb states that the writer of this book of Truth is in the mirror and "that book is this book, or any book long after you have parted from it and begin to dream of what May Be." This concept has echoes of Milorad Pavic's Dictionary of the Khazars, where "faith in seeing, listening and reading is more important than faith in painting, singing and writing," which to me is quite appealing.

I suppose I'm of the latter bunch, of the seekers of dreams, because I enjoyed the fact that Webb's stories were so open to interpretation. There is no trace of preaching from the author's point of view. The stories are left pristine so that reader may glean his own lesson from them, make his own connection to his life and other works of art. The fact that story "Kaj" reminded me of Poppy Brite story that I read long ago is evidence of my patterning ability, and not, as some literture teachers would deign, a sign that I didn't "understand the story."

In "Hocus," one character quips, "After all, an epiphany is only one god's opinion." Herein lies the key to this book ... reality and truth are only perceptions which are ours to create. --Paige Haggard

Richard Calder's new book, Frenzetta continues with the themes of sex-death, exile and desperate love that populated his Dead trilogy, Dead Girls, Dead Boys, and Dead Things. However, instead of a highly technological sex-obsessed wasteland, a pseudo-medieval, post-apocalyptic earth of the future is Frenzetta's setting.

"The Abortion" created the earth that Calder depicts in the novel. The Abortion is the result of parallel universes melting into one another to create a universe out of multiverses. This fusion of dimensions created "the perverse," races of people who are the union the feral souls of the other universes with human bodies, thus creating creatures that are humanoid animals. This coagulation of souls and bodies gives birth to races like rat-girls, rat-men, snake-girls, she-spiders, shark-men, insect-men, wolf-men and cat-girls (a name that will sound familiar to readers of the Dead trilogy). All of these races are "the confabulated." They celebrate animality; they celebrate sex-death. Just like in the Dead trilogy, the females of these races are short-lived, the males lasting a millennia or two. Each race has their own sexual perversity, each with their own death obsession.

Atlanteans, the main nationality of humans, are the enemies and oppressors of the tribesmen of the perverse. An ironic name, Atlantis, represents not so much a utopia as a sexual repressive and superficial society that uses the people of the perverse as both slaves and as fulfillment of their own kinky inclinations. A combination of the slave-holding South of the 1800s, the decadence of seventeenth century Europe, and the perversion Victorian prudish subterfuge, Atlantis society threatens to swallow the whole of the perverse.

The interplay of the perverse's open followers and its secret, hypocrite addicts is merely the backdrop of the Frezetta, simply the circumstances fueling the action, the desire and the desperation of the two lead characters, Princess Frenzetta von Thurn und Taxis-Hohenlohe and Lt. Duane Duarte.

Frenzy is a displaced European princess. Her mother was raped by a rat-man, thus making her a half-breed perverse. An outcast, Frenzetta leaves her family's wealth and her ancestral home to find refuge in Cathay, the only place where the perverse is celebrated. Duane, her partner in exile, is a renevant, a zombie created for military purposes as the penultimate soldier and weapon, originally indoctrinated with complete allegiance to Cathay. It is through their mutual military careers the two meet and they remain together after Duane rejects his indoctrination and deserts his military assignment.

He and Frenzy are lovers of a sort. As a one of the living dead, Duane is eternally impotent, and as a rat-girl, orgasm for Frenzy leads to immediate death. Yet, they love each other desperately despite the physical impracticality and impossibility of a physical union.

They live covertly in Cathay, both AWOL from their service to Cathay, planning and saving for their escape from the decaying empire. This is where the novel begins. Frenzetta follows the couple through their adventures throughout the continents (now changed to Cathay, Afric, Europa and Atlantis), in search of a haven, both for their respective perversity and for their love.

Calder utilizes his Dead trilogy technique of detailed description of the clothing; this time, the description functions as sort of visual foreplay and copulation for the sexually frustrated couple. Frenzy, like Primavera and the other Lilith in the Dead trilogy, represents the ultra-feminine impulse, her dimensions so womanly as bordering on the comic book ridiculousness (34EE-22-35). Again, Calder represents the mega-masculine with his lead male Duane, the ultimate warrior in his seven-foot zombie body. These two characters are extensions Calder's exaggerated dichotomy of male and female, his extreme form of yen and yang. Nor is it coincidental that these ultra-gendered characters are incapable of fulfilling sexual interchange.

Calder keeps the Dead trilogy's gargantuan vocabulary but instead of the trilogy's high-tech jargon, he supplants a style that is as sumptuous as the quasi-Renaissance and late Medieval timeframe the futuristic culture mimics. There's something beautifully Gothic about this novel; it's as Teutonic as the princess's heritage and as high Romantic anything ever created by Keats or Shelley.

Frenzetta is a very high-paced novel with plenty of carriage chases and near death experiences to satisfy even the most action-packed summer blockbuster lover. Paired with action sequences are the couple's comical quick-rich plans and wryly ironic twists of fate. This triad makes Frenzetta an incredibly quick read.

Despite all the outward adventure, the main impetus of the novel is the love between these two lost souls of the perverse. With every failure, they are spurred onward in search of their love's elusive nirvana. They are willing to risk everything just to be together in one form or another.

The novel is named for Princess Frenzetta but its narrator is Duane. This device illustrates the zombie's love for his rat-girl. She is his Muse, his reason for continuing in his living death. The inspiration theme is further reflected in Frenzy's heritage, Thurn und Taxis-Hohenlohe. Poet Rainer Maria Rilke dedicated Duino Elegies to Maria von Thurn und Taxis-Hoehenlohne, just as Duane dedicates his life to Frenzetta. Calder goes one step more to highlight this association to Rilke by calling Frenzy's physical home, Castle Duino.

The reference of Rilke is more than a simple indicator of Frenzy's status as Duane's rat Beatrice; it defines their relationship, their emotions for one another. This specific Rilke series of poetry, concerned with the angels of desire and desperation, perfectly reflects the intensity and poignant impotency of Frenzy and Duane's passion for each other. Just as the Rilke poems ache for fulfillment, for consummation, so does this narrative of the future's star-crossed lovers.

Calder creates a lush if somewhat barbaric world. His writing style is dense and lavish, bordering at times on lasciviousness. His characters are lively and super-real, luring the reader into the adventures and misadventures of the couple and into the world of the perverse. Ultimately though, it is their love that shines the brightest in the novel, the dedication of the couple's desire for one another that makes this novel such a gem, its luster enhanced by delicate Rilke whisperings behind each line. --Paige Haggard

The Divinity Student is an extremely dark and disturbing book. It deals with the true nature for the quest for "truth" and "knowledge" and the means people use in these pursuits.

From the onset, this book explores the more unsettling side of existence, beginning with the death of the Divinity Student. Struck down by lightning, he is then revived by mysterious powers-that-be by stuffing his lifeless body with pages and pages and pages of words. The Divinity Student leaves for the city to become, ostensibly, a lowly wordfinder. However, he is not searching for just any words but for Unknown Words, words that make the dialogue for the shepherds of men, a divine vocabulary if you will. The words of this dialogue, the Ecologue, are defined by stories -- the meaning of these words are myths. The unknown words were originally collected into a catalog, but this catalog was destroyed and everyone associated with the catalog is dead. The Divinity Student must, therefore, harvest the memories of dead men to collect this divine words.

This idea of the divine language is a fascinating aspect of the novel. To begin with, a divine language makes us reflect back upon our own language and the line between denotation and connotation. After all, how much of a word is truly defined by our experiences, our own personal stories and myths connected with those syllables, those seemingly straight forward pieces of language? Also, the concept recalls to Plato's Realm of Ideas. The belief in a divine language insinuates that, though our own languages are fallible and simplistic, there is a more perfect vocabulary in the universe. The sheer existence of the Ecologue and its divine language gives our world of shadows more meaning and more depth.

In order to gather the words of the divine language from the minds of the dead men, the Divinity Student must reclaim the bodies of the original writers of the catalog. Grave robbing, brain extraction, body mutilation, and corpse disposal, as grisly as these things may be, are part and parcel for the diligent word-finder. The Divinity Student's gleaning process for the information is a ghastly trauma to the psyche and body. The dark nature of his quest brings to the fore the question of what is just in the name of Truth, Science, or whatever other pseudonyms ambition uses. Questions about the boundaries for the pursuit of knowledge abound and one wonders whether that a noble end justifies any means. The fact that Divinity Student is at once a pure idealist and a victim of manipulative higher powers also highlights the question of motives especially within the power structure of the quests for truth; perhaps the questers themselves are pure of heart but what about the instigators of the quest?

In The Divinity Student, Michael Cisco creates a very brooding landscape in which to investigate matters of the mind and the pursuits of truth. This trip through the dark recesses of knowledge isn't easy. There are no clear cut protagonists or antagonists any more than there are clear cut answers. Literally, there is no instance during this book that sits comfortably in your brain or in your soul. Yet, that is the mastery behind this book ... that Cisco can create such an uncomfortable universe in which we choose to remain. Like the Divinity Student who subjects himself to a vast amount trauma in order to find the answers to insistent questions, you will, despite the upheaval in your brain, follow through with the reading, exploring all its subsequent questions. --Paige Haggard

The last edition of Palace Corbie Eight is out. Loosely based on the theme of personal terror, the anthology is an intriguing mix. Each story tries to delve in those dark little corners of our souls that collects both cobwebs and fear. The collection ranges through the odd and the mundane alike in an effort to push out those thoughts, those emotions, those actions we like to deny. The result is enlightening if somewhat uncomfortable.

The collection features the writings of 28 authors, including Caitlin R. Kiernan and our own Jeff VanderMeer. Each writer offers his/her own slant to personal terror, providing Palace Corbie Eight with a variegated landscape.

Much of the fiction revolves around common fears within our society as a whole. Some of the stories read like something ripped from today's brutal news stories, as in Doug Clegg's "The Little Mermaid," while others deal with modern issues of terror in a more surreal fashion, like "Think of the Dead Monkey in the Sky" by Mark Rich. This story deals, in its bizarre fashion, with the secret fear of the working classes that the American dream is a scam. John O'Connor's story "Antibodies" plays upon the deep-set and rampant societal fear of a world grown inhospitable to the human race and therefore also deals with the subsequent end of the human race.

There are other pieces that enact fears of abuse within intimate and sexual relationships. From questions about victimization that K.K. Ormond toys with in "Violation's Control" to the mind games of domination and submission as seen in Tom Piccirilli's "The Dog Syndrome." John Pelan takes a very perverse look at abuse coupled with thwarted love and anger in "Reunited." The more delicate issues of neglect and its repercussions are explored in "The Secret Garden" by Sue Storm.

Several of these stories are odd, some just out and out weird. Admittedly, Mark McLaughlin and Anne Blonstein's works were surreally lovely, lyrical in their obscure fashion, but they were also rather obtuse, making it easy to miss major aspects of the stories.

The terror explored within the pages of Palace Corbie Eight can be very physical and very mentally scarring ordeal endured by Martin Lake in VanderMeer's story or it can be solely emotional piecemeal death of a relationship as seen in Rick Schweikert's contribution "Maybe It's Just Me."

One of the more terrifying stories was written by Gerard Daniel Houarner entitled "Let Me Tell You a Story." One of the longest stories in the collection it spans, with wide gaps in between, the life of the protagonist from childhood to adulthood. While there is graphic violence in the storyline, the true terror is psychological as this selection shows the incredible and sometimes destructive powers of suggestion and devotion. In different yet equally disturbing slant, Yvonne Navarro illustrates in her story the personal hell that can stem from prejudice.

Luckily, not all the stories are disheartening. Andrea J. Horlick "Beauty, Sleeping" explores the terror of isolation but eventually there is a glimmer of hope. Sean Doolittle's "Spotlight Falls on a Woman" reminds us how precious life is in the looming shadow of death. Caitlin R. Keirnan's "Salammbo" is especially enlightening. The story delves into the fears of childhood and eventual maturation. Yet in the end the unknown is what could free both lead characters.

Palace Corbie Eight also features a few pieces of poetry as well as fiction. Two of my favorites, "Under the Rose" by Lyn Lifshin and "Where the Trembling Comes in" by Holly Day both deal with the silent terror of unfulfilled and lonely lives.

Overall, Palace Corbie Eight well explores the rich terrain of fear. The anthology shows that terror comes in many guises, in several different whispers and screams. Palace Corbie Eight also provides something the horror genre sometimes overlooks; with its varied voices of fear, it offers not only quickened breath and a tightening of the heart, but it offers catharsis as well. --Paige Haggard

Shadow Bones is a small collection of short stories by David Memmott. This collection cannot be defined simply by the terms of a science fiction or fantasy. These stories involve elements of both these genres but have further elements of humanity and myth to make the stories more encompassing.

Some familiar science fiction scenarios are featured in Memmott's stories. "Eyes of the Watchdog" deals with the genetic engineering of alligators to create bigger, faster, "better" alligators. The issue of cloning is at the center of both "The Bohr Breakthrough" and "Where the Buffalo Roam." In "The Bohr Breakthrough," clones of famous geniuses are used by big industries as mental workhorses. The clones of "Where the Buffalo Roam" fulfill a prophecy to begin a new world.

What Memmott adds to these near clichés of the sci-fi genre are the elements of humanity and myth. Memmott explores the individual personality of the Niels Bohr clone and how the exploitation of his genetic heritage ruins his individual fate. The deadly consequences of random genetic "improvement" are obvious lessons in "Eyes of the Watchdog," but with the introduction of the prophetic voice of Montezuma and his vision of the destruction of the old world for the new world order, Memmott adds the question of whether we are inhibiting our spiritual growth as a species by our constant focus on the physical realm. The plot of "Where the Buffalo Roam" has several borrowed elements from the legends and religion of the Plains Indian which lend it an ancient feel even though the actual story takes place in the future.

These previous two stories are not the only selections in Shadow Bones to utilize elements of ancient societies or myth. "Instrument of the Dominant Gene" features an aborigine crouched in a tree in the middle of suburbia. Memmott amplifies Odin and Ragnorok in "The Last All-Night, All-Electric Rockhouse Jam" with the help of T-Bone Rockhouse, his trusty guitar, Silver Hammer and rock and roll. One story even features Chief Joseph coming forth from the past to testify to save the environment.

Related to Memmott's penchance for myth borrowing is the running theme of knowledge accrued over time or its disseminated through generations. "Moonhunting" is one story that has this theme at its core. It is the tale of a grandfather teaching his grandson how to fish for the moon; though not an elaborate yarn, it's a very heartwarming with the wise innocence of both youth and age.

Several of the stories are quite simply myths in and of themselves. "Untethered" in its collective first person voice speaks of freedom from the grips of a spiritually debilitating society. Acceptance of one's natural abilities is the keystone message of "Recombinant Armadillo" which features a lucky armadillo who gets the chance to become other animals. "The Man Who Sang Pearls" is a simple story about giving back to the society through art and beauty. The nature of reality and how it is a constant falling into awareness are the focus "Warrior, Falling Awake" as the protagonist plummets through the air into another realm of consciousness.

Another theme all the stories share is the nature of being cognizant. Whether the story deal with a clone or an aborigine in the 'burbs, even if it's an armadillo wishing to be a different animal or the free collective from a faceless future, the question of cognition resounds with each word from every tale. The last story, "Closing Ceremonies" brings this question of awareness sharply into focus. It is the story of a replicant, Luke, who is about to be shut down. Luke is unaware that he is a replicant. He believes he is human, with a human past and human emotions. By all definitions of the word except the physical, Luke acts and is human. The end of the story leaves the floating question of whether or not humanity really has a handle on the concept of the soul.

The stories of Shadow Bones are very special. Memmott creates a variety of worlds and a diverse lot of characters. Within these realms, he creates a space that enables the reader to explore himself and his own reality. Though the landscape of these tales may vastly differ from our day-to-day world and though the characters' experiencea are like none of the our own, all these stories manage to bring us back to ourselves. It is as if these tales were magic mirrors by which we can see ourselves more clearly. --Paige Haggard

St. Martin's Press's 12th Annual Collection of The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror is, in a word, tremendous. It is page after page after page of delightful reading. It is spellbinding enough to be difficult to put down and captivating enough, that when forced to break from it, one is inexorably drawn back.

The anthology consists of 45 sections and then a list of Honorable Mentions in the back. One of the best stories of the collection, "Travels with the Snow Queen," actually fell in between the cracks of 1997 and 1998 publishing. I'm quite grateful that the editors Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling choose to include this tale in the book. The story by Kelly Link is based on the Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale "The Snow Queen," only it's told from the point of view of Greta (in second person voice). The story is quite inventive; it's a mildly feminist and very funny approach to fairy tales, with the ubiquitous happy ending involving self-awareness with or without a prince.

"Mrs. Maab" by Susan Clarke is another story along the same sort of fairy tale lines and again, this time involving the trials and tribulations women endure in their pursuit of happiness and the MRS degree. In this story, the protagonist, Venetia, lost her suitor to the wiles of Mrs. Maab (who is quite obviously meant to be Queen Mab, the fairy's midwife) and is trying to win him back. As is often the case when dealing with faeries, there is some question (both in the mind of the reader and of the characters) as which actions genuinely occurred.

Jane Yolen continues with this feminist twist on fairy tales in "Become a Warrior." A tale of a young princess avenging her father's death after going "native," Yolan's fiction is short and very noble.

A.S. Byatt's contribution "Cold" is a modern day fairy story and one of the more passionate pieces of the collection. Chronicling the maturation of an ice princess and her love for a desert prince, the story is the last in the book and a delicious way to end the journey through the year's best horror and fantasy.

"Oak Hill" is another of my particularly favorite pieces. Written by Patricia A. McKillip, the story has a lyrical quality that is hard to find in modern day tales about magic. Even though set in the 1990s big city, "Oak Hill" captures the allure of a magical quest in which Maris, the lead character finds elves, power, and beauty within.

Steve Millhauser's "Claire de Lune" isn't a fairy tale per se but the magic quality of the moon and the night in this piece give it a fairy tale flair. Ostensibly about a summer night game of baseball, this short piece of fiction deals with that point in childhood when we become aware of others and of ourselves, that nebulous point when events begin to have meaning. This piece reminds me of the lilt and ease of Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill" as much as it reminds me of Debussy's piece.

Crossing the line between fairy tale and myth is Lawrence Osgood's story "Great Sedna" which revolves around the Eskimo goddess Sedna. This story captures, in an intensely personal way, the pathos and beauty of the ill-fated maiden who is transformed into a goddess.

There are many more transformations in this collection. Steve Duffy's "Running Dogs" features a town of lycanthropes who can turn from human to dog form. "Taking Loup" by Bruce Glassco portrays a world in which women take a steroid that makes them stronger than men as well as become next to kin to werewolves. Lamsley's Suburban Blight" depicts a technologically terrifying world in which insects and plants are transmogrified into a deadly means of destruction of suburban bliss. Other stories feature a cat woman in Yumiko's "The House of the Black Cat" and a carp man in DiChario's "Carp Man."

Naturally, this collection showcases several ghost stories. Arthur, lead character of "Due West" by Rick Kennett must face not only the ghosts of his house but also ghosts of his own past. Ilan Stavans's "Blimunda" is a lovely story utilizing, with compassion and delicacy, the convention of a restless soul. Rosenblum's "The Rainmaker" is more than a ghost story; it's a coming of age story where a boy learns to accept both his psychic abilities and his parents' and uncle's failings. Both "Jackdaw Jack" by Christopher Harman and "The Specialist's Hat" by Kelly Link have paranormal overtones though they delve more into psychological terror. Even Michael Blumlein's tender story about a man torn apart by sorrow over his baby daughter's death owes its momentum to the appearance of a ghost.

Interestingly enough, this edition only features one vampire story, "A Place to Stay" written by Michael Marshall Smith. Smith breathes new life into the New Orleans vampire convention by adding a weird time warp to the story.

Stephen King's story, "That Feeling You Can Only Say in French," also deals with a time warp, his characters caught in a purgatorial time loop.

Two pieces more along humorous lines are "Bird Chick" and "Shoggoth's Old Peculiar." In "Bird Chick," Sylvia Brownrigg recounts the time Hamlet was produced in the park by a troupe of birds. Neil Gaiman (creator of Sandman) spins out a witty tale that spoofs H.P Lovecraft.

While many of the stories have moments of chilly pause, there are two that are bone-numbing. Sara Douglass paints an eerie picture of medieval life where gargoyles are living beings, spawn of a priest and a demoness; in "The Evil Within," the minions of hell attack of village and feed off the sins of the inhabitants. "Jenny Come to Play" is probably the most disturbing of all the edition's selections. It's both a psychology thriller and chiller with a plot revolving around the repressed tension and resentment between separated Siamese twins.

There are several poems with the collection. Each poem takes threads of fable or myth and transforms these threads into the fabric of personal experience.

Honestly, just about every piece in the collection is wonderful, with only one exception. Unfortunately this is the longest piece as well, "Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff" by Peter Straub. This story is actually a novella, much to its disadvantage. Editor Ellen Datlow describes it as a "sinister and comic tour de force." A black comedy certainly inundates every pore of the novella as it exposes the bleak and base side of mankind, but the humor becomes lost in a morass of words as the story drags on and on and on. Much of the writing is too stilted to carry the reader away with Straub's dark wit. Straub also goes into such excruciating detail about everything that reading becomes painful. The ordeal ends after a slow torture of 59 pages.

Again, this is the exception. Every other contribution in this collection is wonderful. Truly, these pieces are the best in of fantasy and horror of any year. --Paige Haggard

I will say one thing for Jeffrey Thomas and his collection of short stories,Terror Incognita -- he certainly has a wealth of story lines and odd ones at that. The first story revolves around a prostitution ring that uses reanimated corpses for its call girls. Another story follows life in hell. Packed between the covers of this book are parallel universes, a man housing the souls of 47 mandrills, and a cricket who is witness to a murder. Nevertheless, plot is not the only facet of a good story. There is also the issue of the actual writing style.

I found much of Thomas's writing amateurish. Many passages remind me of excerpts from Harlequin romance novels, especially in his descriptions of women. Thomas goes to great lengths to include at least one physical feature of a female character; these sketches generally revolve around the words “slender,” “beautiful” or synonyms thereof. A prime example of this trait is his reference to a character in “John Sadness”: “The black attire, snug around her slim waist but the skirts voluminous, complemented the severe beauty of her dark hair and eyes and her contrasting colorless skin.” This sentence rouses two questions: first, who uses phrases like “slim waist” and second, why was this necessary? All his depictions of women are just as overt. They do not further the plot nor do they reveal anything of import about the character; more importantly, Thomas does not lavish nearly so much attention to the features of his male characters.

The petite beauties that populate these stories are not the only aspects of this collection that smack of the pretentious prose from romance novels. Thomas often insists on writing in a highly Romantic vein, which, because of a certain lack of rhythm, fails miserably. Take for example another passage out of “John Sadness” : “He was grateful that she would still bare that skin to him in its entirety, after the fruit of their love seeded.” From the context of the line, it should translate as passionate, but the cadences are all wrong; instead, the line is embarrassingly mawkish. All of his most exalted speeches and passages end up as ungainly kitsch.

With his preponderance of long-winded sentences, Thomas clearly subscribes to the Faulkner school of writing. Unfortunately, Thomas lacks Faulkner’s verbal finesse. Instead of Faulkner’s fluid and lush sentences packed with nuance, the reader is subjected to Thomas’s clunky and often confusing variety of glorified run-on sentences.

There are selections within Terror Incognita in which Thomas makes an obvious statement about society’s objectification of women. In fact, it could be argued that to highlight this particular social foible is Thomas’s intent behind all of his elaborate and hackneyed descriptions of women. If this is the case, he fails. Partially, his critique fails because Thomas breaks no molds, physically speaking. One character, Marie he describes in "Empathy" as “large-breasted, small and slender.” This characterization applies to any number of silicon wonders of Hollywood. How can Thomas as a writer expect society to break free from its stereotypes of women if he himself cannot even break free of the visual mold in which our culture forces women?

Aside from his lack of creativity with women’s appearance, Thomas’s commentary on the status of women in our civilization fails because his female characters are spineless victims, none of them redeemable. He simply doesn’t present any women who contradict the stereotype he condemns. Thomas may be objectivifying women to make a point but without a figure with which to compare and contrast the other insipid female characters, his attempt at admonishing society’s vices dwindles to a mere observation of its flaws. Thomas simply doesn’t transcend the stereotype to present an actual archetype of a woman.

There is an undeniable sermon aspect to Thomas’s stories. While there is nothing wrong with an author gently nudging his reader with a moral, bludgeoning the audience with a message is another matter entirely. It’s the difference between art and propaganda. Thomas’s gawky style, coupled with the sophomoric convention of author’s notes introducing each chapter, propel Thomas’s works more to the side of propaganda. Thomas forces the stories to be pulpits of personal concerns and soapboxes of pet peeves instead of stages manifesting the truths of art.

However, this collection doesn’t just showcase Thomas’s shortcomings as a writer; it does, in fact, allude to some of Thomas’s strengths. In truth, his plots are very unique. While many of them hoover around some traditional horror and science fiction conventions, he invariably reveals an unexpected perspective. In “Elizabeth Rising,” what begins with a cliché (a cemetery that’s haunted) becomes, or nearly becomes, a beautiful paean to the goddess that is life. Indeed, without his lesson on society’s superficiality, Thomas has something with the stuff of revelation in it. His characterization of the slimy character of Hays in “T-shirts of the Damned” is very humorous as well as insightful. With Hays alone, Thomas could explore the underbelly of man, portraying the sick and the sinister as well as the tacky. Instead, Thomas limits the range of his creation and launches into a lecture on what should and should not be on T-shirts. The story, “Mandrill,” is especially intriguing. Through ancient shamanistic rituals, the lead character houses within his body the souls of 47 mandrills. The possibilities of this quirky take on supernatural possession are limitless ... until Thomas turns it into a forum on relationship gone wrong.

Both Thomas’s morals and his affected style of writing hamper the potential of his narrativess. It’s apparent that Thomas models his writing in the manner of the Romantics. His rambling sentences, his lofty vocabulary, and his expansive need for description all show this fact. The stories also reveal that his format is affected ... and painfully so. Thomas is at his best when he is straightforward. In those moments when he’s forgotten to speak in grand terms, when his diatribes are left on the back burner, these are the moments when Thomas highlights what is human and what has meaning. These are the moments that Thomas shines. --Paige Haggard

Written over a hundred years ago, Paul Feval’s Vampire City is a jewel among parodies, a satire that not only lampoons Ann Radcliffe’s Gothic stories and their long run of knock-offs (from bluebooks to penny dreadfuls) but also caricatures the culture that spawned these extravagantly preternatural fictions.

Feval faithfully follows the Radcliffe novel formula: a righteous and respectable heroine aligning herself against evil; servant-class attendants aiding the aforementioned heroine; at least one perverse male villain with immoral designs; and supernatural events which, by story’s end, are explained through more rational means. Indeed, the basic plot of Feval’s novel is as convoluted as any that Ann Radcliffe concocted, the marriage of two young lovers thwarted by sinister and licentious forces and a virtuous heroine attempting to, in turn, thwart the nefarious schemes and bring the villains to justice. Like any Gothic novel worth its salt, the action of Vampire City ranges all over the countryside, from one side of the English channel to other, through France, Italy and Germany, even into the very heart of the vampire city, Selene, with the action finally ending in the obligatory, and now cliché, forbidding castle complete with ghosts and trapdoors to dungeons.

Even the characters are fundamental personas of the Gothic novel environment. Feval provides the reader with no less than three villains -- a lascivious governess in liege with a lecherous count, both aided and abetted by a vampire. Stock servant characters dispense comic relief and adding levity to the suspense-filled supernatural situations. To add further to the farce, Feval casts as the mandatory heroine of this adventure the resolute yet pristine Anne Radcliffe (the authoress’s name purposefully misspelled).

This ingenious characterization not only mocks Radcliffe’s own literary dogma (and her exaggerated place in contemporary literature at the time) but also the mores of English society. Firstly, the actual frame of the novel is a tale that the cousin of Miss Radcliffe recounts to the author of the novel. Throughout the novel, this cousin, Miss 97, expresses an exorbitant awe of and deference for Anne, often referring to Anne as “She” and “our Anna” as if she were a saint. Truly, Miss Radcliffe is a paragon of upstanding English middle class sensibilities. Anne is ever the model of virtue and pragmatism even when faced with Promethean tasks and untold supernatural horrors and when risking her very virtue. She, like all Radcliffe female protagonists, endures the crass nature of her lower class companions, and she strengthens the resolves of those poor souls who lack her courage. In fact, it is her staunch English backbone that makes her fascination with the vampire’s gory death an act of courage rather than a simple matter of voyeurism. The deus ex machina ending of the novel attests to the ineffectuality of the tenets of “polite” English society ... it is not Anne Radcliffe, the epitome of English virtue, that saves the young couple but instead the presence of the epitome French virtue (by way of a young Napoleon) that prevents evil from completing its abhorrent agenda.

In truth, with this last mechanism, Feval highlights another major convention of both the Gothic novel and English society ... that ultimately, women are incapable of complete and decisive action. In all Radcliffe novels, the heroines must manipulate a male character in order to successfully subdue the antagonists. Over and over again, Feval accentuates Anne’s ineffectual and consequently subservient role. She must rely on Grey Jack to escort her through the countryside and across the Channel, she must depend on Merry Bones to fight off the minions of the vampires; she can’t even translate Greek inscriptions without the aid of a man. Feval’s French sense of humor provides the tour de force of his mockery of this particular English Gothic novel convention -- it’s not just a man that saves the day but a French man.

Feval finely honed wit leaves no English double standard unneedled. He derides the English’s dependency on Irish labor even though they despise the Irish as a race. The character Merry Bones is an Irish manservant who bears the brunt of all the productive action though he is never given credit for his courage. He not only saves Anne from the vampires but is also the one who dispatches with the vampire; everyone else in the party is far too squeamish to tear out the heart of the villainous vampire. Feval punctuates Anne’s (and consequently the English’s) hypocrisy when the party forsakes Merry Bones in the vampire city and leaves him at the mercy of an entire city of vengeful vampires. Again, it’s Feval’s French deux machina that saves Merry Bones, the real hero of the story, from certain death without breaking any Gothic novel protocol involving the servant class.

Vampire City is an excellent satire. Feval uses every one of the Gothic novel conventions and every bit of English decorum against itself. Yet, the true beauty of Feval’s novel is its timeliness today. With the upsurgence of a post-apocalyptic gothic aesthetic instigated by our modern mistress of penny dreadfuls, Anne Rice, our culture can appreciate Feval’s barbs. Does not our society’s puritanical disposition foster the sensationally decadent stories of Anne Rice just as stringent English decorum cultivated the Radcliffe cult? Does not Rice still uphold the dominant class’s propriety even as she tantalizes it with the risqu&eacut; elements of her novels just as Radcliffe acted as provocateur to good English housewives without affecting any change within the establishment? Even as Feval derides foibles of a late eighteenth and a nineteenth century England, he manages to ridicule our own society’s frailties; though the stock characters of the oppressed have changed some, be it race, creed or sexual preferences, nevertheless, the double standards and prejudices still exist and are as irrational as they were in Feval’s time.

Just as Feval follows the formula of the Gothic novel, Brian Stableford’s translation of Vampire City does a wonderful job of capturing the language of the genre without losing the sharp edge of the satire. With the introduction, afterwards and notes, Stableford details the historical background of the novel and gives the novel a place in history. Just as Feval created a jewel among parodies so did Stableford create a jewel among translations. --Paige Haggard

The difference between China Mieville’s two novels, King Rat and Perdido Street Station is the difference between folk tales and epics ... literally. Mieville utilizes several folk tale figures as the basis of characters in King Rat, thereby creating a sort of democratic modern folk tale set against the London jungle subculture while Mieville adopts god forms and mythic creatures of various earth cultures in Perdido Street Station to spin a quasi-futuristic saga dour enough to be worthy of Germanic myths.

Mieville’s first novel, King Rat, is one part folk tale, second part murder mystery, and a third part London urban culture. This intriguing blend generates a story that is a seedy reflection of our world, a place that at first seems familiar but that is quickly transmogrified with sick fairy tale logic. By using the Pied Piper of Hamlin as a base, Mieville creates a most malevolent antagonist with the most docile of names, Peter. He’s sadistic and mercenary; by the end of the novel, he is directly responsible for five horrific deaths and indirectly responsible for uncounted others. With his flute, Peter also has the power to control any creature with functioning ears. It’s this last characteristic that makes Peter’s introduction into the world of drum and bass so malevolent. With the multi-layers intrinsic to jungle music, the Pied Piper is no longer limited to controlling one species at a time.

Three of Peter’s adversaries are also based on figures from folk tales, the monarchs of the animal kingdom (who manifest in human form though have greater than human capabilities) King Rat, Bird Superior, and Anansi, the spider trickster king. Also roped into this contest is Saul, a twenty-somthing man who, at the beginning of the book, comes home from a out-of-town excursion to find his father dead and himself under suspicion of the murder. That surprise doesn't compare to the fact that later he finds out he is half-rat.

Though the story is set in London, much of the action takes place, like any good fairy tale, in the hidden parts of the city, the sewers, the alleys, the rooftops. Naturally, all the folk tale figures slip in and out of everyday life easily and readily, a clandestine element that lends the novel much of its menacing ambiance.

King Rat produces a world where childhood fears return, where you fear fairy tale villains with supernatural powers. It’s an altered world where many of us modern-day rationalists lose our bearings, easy prey to the unlikely powers of the likes of the Pied Piper. Was it not the hubris of the parents that lost them the children of Hamlin?

Yet King Rat is by no means a straight-up moral tale, warning its readers of the powers of the unseen, any more than the final scene of Saul affirming the principles of democracy to a sea of rats meant to be construed as a political statement. Like any good folk tale, the meaning is left within the story and within the audience, and this fast-paced novel is sure to stay long in the mind of the reader.

As a counterpoint, compare this short folk simplicity with sprawling epic that is Perdido Street Station. The language is even epic, with Mieville utilizing regularly words like “nacreous,” and“oneiric”.

The novel takes place on an alien planet in the city of New Crobuzon in a world where science and magic cohabitate to one another’s benefit. This city is populated by a plethora of species that read like a list of gods and ancient mythic creatures. There is the khepri, a race who have a human body and a bug for a head, the most obvious parallel coming from Egyptian culture. Also, there are the garuda, humaniod-hawk creatures, taken from Hindu mythology. Of course, there are other races who’s heritage cannot be so readily traced, such as the vodyanoi (a water people), the cactus people (walking, talking creatures who bloom and have spikes just like cactus) and the Weavers (a race of large extradimensional spiders who pop in and out of dimensions creating more aesthetically pleasing patterns for the worldweb). The beauty of Mieville’s world is that, unlike those of many science fiction/fantasy writers, it doesn’t feel like fiction or fantasy. It feels mythical naturally, a feat he achieves not through pages of glossaries but through his development of his individual characters.

The plot of Perdido Street Station is far more convoluted than King Rat’s; indeed, it strikes me as being comparable to that of Ivanhoe. Essentially, the plot revolves around Isaac, a renegade scientist, and his efforts to curb the hunting spree of a clutch of mind-draining slake-moths, your basic hero and his band of compatriots fighting the monster storyline. However, as is fundamental with most epics, the novel covers far more ground: intrigue, government cover-ups, underground drug overlords, spontaneous artificial intelligence, art, lovers lost, betrayal, and the nature of flight.

Overall, the story of Perdido Street Station is not as tight as that of King Rat, though it is riveting nonetheless. Mieville’s loquacious eloquence makes it very easy to get swept up into Perdido Street Station and also makes it easy to forgive that the story sometimes gets a bit too scattered. His descriptions are lushly graphic often bordering on transcendental when meditative, bordering on gruesome when violent. It’s not just Mieville’s style that is so bewitching; it is also his characters and oddly enough, some of the characters less central to the action. Keep in mind, this a double edged sword since some of the dispersion of the plot’s impetus partially lies within Mieville’s nearly Cubist vision. There is at least one section from just about every slightly major character’s viewpoint and it is these sections from the more peripheral characters that often cloud the action of the novel. Regardless, most of the characters are incredibly intriguing with mysterious pasts. In fact, it is though the invention of the characters and their respective backgrounds that Mieville exerts his true genius. While he muses and waxes about these individuals, delving into their personal histories, their particular circumstances, and the effect of their culture upon their persona, Mieville not only leads the reader through a multi-faceted voyage of exposition but simultaneously explores metaphysics, philosophy, religion, politics, psychology, and alternative science vicariously through these characters. Ultimately, it is not the story of Perdido Street Station that is so amazing but the journey within the context of his telling of that story. This element underscores the epic quality of the book, since it’s not necessarily the events that happen to Odeseus that makes the Odyssey so memorable but how those events affect the hero.

It would be difficult to decide which Mieville book is the “better” since the two do not have the same desired end. In King Rat, Mieville creates a cohesive story with some strong characters and a plot that pushes the reader quickly through each page to the final resolution. The result is a quick and fascinating read. In Perdido Street Station, Mieville creates a world with rich potential to expound upon matters of far greater importance than either the plot or even the characters that compose the world and instigate the plot -- it’s a book that spawns discourse on these matters even if only within the reader’s mind. What is so remarkable is that Mieville does this 180 degree turn in perspective in just two novels. It will be interesting to see what he does with his third. --Paige Haggard

House of Leaves is a book set within a movie set within a collection of critical works set within a nervous breakdown, a frame within a frame within a frame within a frame; there are two main action driven plots, one intellectually driven plot and several side psychological plots. House of Leaves is allegedly based on a movie, The Navidson Report, that a photographer creates while he and his family moved into a house in the country. This house is one that has more room on the inside that it does on the outside, amounting into hallways and large rooms and stairways that potentionally lead on forever, an endless labyrinth in the facade of a country home. The movie ends up chronicling not only the family’s moving in process, but their demise as the house’s mysterious spaces begin opening within and beneath the house. It also captures the investigation of a group of trained adventurers and this group’s eventual and finally violent end. The name House of Leaves derives its name from a book that Navidson, the photographer, is reading in the final exploration of the house.

The book, for the most part, is a critical novel about the movie, which through the course of exploring the critical aspects of the movie, works as an exposition as to what the movie is about and reveals the dialogue and attitude of the characters. In the end, the book divulges the entire plot of the movie. It is as if one is watching the movie through the eyes and head of a well-informed expert critic of the movie. The frame for this plot line is that this cohesive critic work was found by Johnnie Truant in the apartment of a blind man, Zampano, who had died with no family or anyone to claim his belongings. As Truant finds out The Navidson Report never existed. Zampano invented it for the context of the novel. What’s more, Truant learns that Zampano was not so much a well-educated man, as it would seem within the words of book, but rather a resourceful dilettante who had people reading him critical works about important reference materials.

Through reading this book, Truant slowly meets the people who aided Zampano in his research on a movie that never existed and peels away at least some of the life that Zampano led. Truant also slowly unravels his own house of leaves, his mental stability, in the process. The further he digs into Zampano’s past and book, the more he reveals about his own past and, more importantly, about his own demons. He has nightmares and waking terrors, all of which he chronicles in his own footnotes.

True, the form of the novel, in which the past and motives of one frame is revealed in a more distant, more omnipotent frame, the “editors” of House of Leaves disclose pieces of Truant’s past and clues to his insanity within the appendices with letters from his institutionalized mother.

The intricate infrastructure of this novel is intriguing, a beautiful parallel for the maze at the center of the novel, the maze within the walls of the house on Ash Tree Lane, the house at the heart of the nightmare captured on the film that never existed, The Navidson Report. But the inevitable question stands, why?

To begin with, it’s important to look at the central frame of the novel, the fact that it’s a critical writing about an nonexistent movie conceived, researched, and written by a blind man. One with sight can only imagine apprehensions born out of the simple fact that someone cannot visible see what is literally before them. A simple walk across a cluttered room is fraught with bumps, bruises, and potential stumbles. Only within the depth of the house that expands internally for eternity can Navidson understand the sort of inherent terror that blindness can conjure. Alone in the dark, with no sense of direction, no markers of what has gone before and no idea of what may come, hunted by a growl that has no discernible source yet menaces nonetheless, Navidson can begin to understand what it might be like for a blind person left in unfamiliar territory. But that’s only part of the brilliance of this framing device.

There is also the fact that Zampano’s critical retelling of the movie enables the reader to relive the blind’s vicarious visual life. The reader of The House of Leaves never sees, nor can ever see, the house of Ash Tree Lane. The reader will never know the genius of Navidson’s editing or his still shots, not just because it’s a book but because the movie never existed. The readers is then dependent on Zampano’s word’s to flesh out the forms of these images. Zampano becomes a indirect director, a producer by proxy. Still, to limit the framing to device to merely a convoluted “walk a mile in my moccasins” homily is to sell this novel short.

Zampano creates a mental maze with his words. Labyrinths have long been held sacred spaces, housing both fear and enlightenment. Therefore, it is no coincidence that both Navidson and Truant go through life altering passages by way of Zampano any more that it is by chance that Zampano is blind like so many of the famous seers before him. The Navidson Report and Zampano’s critique of it is the creation of a myth in which demons are purged and heroes made. Just as Theseus enters the Minotaur’s maze and steps out to claim his true heritage as the King of Athens, so Navidson enters the world of the blind maze of the house to be transformed and so Truant enters the word maze of Zampano which forces him to shed long years of denial. House of Leaves brings home the fact, despite New Age rosy slant, not everyone survives labyrinth lessons. While Karen overcame many of her old fears and Navidson created a masterpiece, Truant (as well as another character Holloway) goes crazy.

Of course, the beauty of House of Leaves is this central labyrthine motif and frame works within the final frame, the frame of you the reader. Danielewski touches upon this theme when Truant runs into some musicians who have been reading what Truant originally sent into “The Editors.” These musicians carry a dog-eared, well-marked copy of House of Leaves, footnoting their lives in the side pages much the way that Truant did with his footnoted additions to Zampano’s work. With these fellows and their homage to Truant, Danielewski sets a precedent for his own readers -- to take from his fable their own lessons. With the multi-layered plot, it is easy to map out internal terror and to find kernels of enrichment in the pages.

Which in fact, I did. House of Leaves, a story of unfurling terrors, unmasked demons, repressed fears and denied hopes met me in a spring of similar revelations, my own world mirroring in small intellectual and emotional ways both Navidson’s journey to the heart of darkness and Truant’s moulting denials and increasing fear of truth and life. And at the center of the book, I found this line to be both my bane and my boon: “Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.” To me, this sums up both the dark and light sides of the labyrinth as well as hints at a possible explanation for the house with an inner space that far exceeds its appearances. The house is not merely a metaphor for the path, nor merely a metaphor for the vision quest of inner knowledge. The house itself represents a universe that is not as it seems. We know for a fact that what we perceive as solid matter is not solid. We know for a fact that energy and matter are in essence two forms of the same thing. We live in a world of contradictions yet this very fact we keep to the side, just in a periphery.

We choose to live in a universe of light and small spaces just as Navidson and his family tried to relegate the house (a force of nature) to that universe. But the house, like the universe, refused to be denied either its darkness or its expansion -- “All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of you eye, and when something nudges it into outline it like a being ambushed by a grotesque” (Rosencratnz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard). It is this shock of the new that spurs each characters’ fears and then their consequent maneuvering of this fear and operating in the new universe where peril lurks along side with pleasantries. “The truth is transparent and goes unnoticed, whereas lies are opaque and lit in neither light nor gaze. There is a third, version where the two mix, and this is the most customary. With one eye we see through the truth and that gaze is lost forever in infinity; with the other eye we do not see even an inch through the lies and that gaze can penetrate no further, but remains on earth; and so we push sideways through life” (The Dictionary of the Khazars, Milorad Pavic). Again,we cannot with our minds fully comprehend the universe in its actuality, but writers like Danielewski can help illuminate pieces of the truth with works like House of Leaves and then we, the readers, can share amongst ourselves our insights gleaned from these works. Then by connecting all the works that show pieces of the truth and by connecting all the interpretations of these visions of the truth, we can at least construct a more full and honest perception of the impossible. --Paige Haggard