Month: Aug 2016

of gods and demons ~ in (conflited) defence of the ebook

I absolutely venerate my paper books. How’s that for a hook, eh?
Yes. I love my books, but now I have an e-reader and I’ve never read this much in all my life. I still have my paper books, which I cherish as if they are spoilt little gods, and guard them very jealously indeed. And I still have the ritual of reading, for when the time is right. For everything else, I have my e-readers

Review: The Light of The Fireflies ~ Paul Pen

Blurb: A haunting and hopeful tale of discovering light in even the darkest of places. For his whole life, the boy has lived underground, in a basement with his parents, grandmother, sister, and brother. Before he was born, his family was disfigured by a fire. His sister wears a white mask to cover her burns. He spends his hours with his cactus, reading his book on insects, or touching the one ray of sunlight that filters in through a crack in the ceiling. Ever since his sister had a baby, everyone’s been acting very strangely. The boy begins to wonder why they never say who the father is, about what happened before his own birth, about why they’re shut away. A few days ago, some fireflies arrived in the basement. His grandma said, There’s no creature more amazing than one that can make its own light. That light makes the boy want to escape, to know the outside world. Problem is, all the doors are locked. And he doesn’t know how to get out… Review: …

Passenger ~ Monica Gebell

This non-fiction essay appeared in today’s The Forge   “Wherefore, unsatisfied Soul? and Whither, O mocking Life?” -Whitman, “A Passage to India” “Only connect.” -E.M. Forster, A Passage to India   Do you believe you known me for last ten years? I remember almost everything X I remember everything but names. You bought me a beautiful outfit. What do you call it? This is my car, madam, wherever you wish to go. Backpack, passport, journal, hiking boots, antibiotics, and dollars: to you, I was these, from Delhi to Agra. After the Taj, you took me to a nearby restaurant for tourists like me. Rich girl, Westerner. You sat across from me, watching me order food with your chin on your hands. You refused to order, so I shared my meal, which you didn’t refuse. The manipulation wasn’t subtle, but I admired the technique. I was nearly engaged to an American. You were betrothed to an Indian girl since her family promised her years ago. We passed aromatic dishes in silver bowls between us, hardly talking, …