(2005 continued...)

Three brief reviews of books by Neil Gaiman.

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(2005 continued...)

The review can now be found here.

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(2005 continued...)

The review can now be found here.

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(2005 continued...)

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(2005 continued...)

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The review can now be found here.

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Review can now be found here.

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The review can now be found here.

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(2005 continued...)

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(2005 continued...)

The review can now be found here.

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(Back to posting 2005 book entries!)

The review can now be found here.

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"Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired (by passionate devotion to them) produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can peradventure read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity...we cherish books even if unread, their mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access, reassurance."

(A.E. Newton)

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"He had been given patience, a weapon against which even the Klingons had no defence."

(John M. Ford, The Final Reflection)

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"He thinks he's awake, it's a common delusion."

("Jame" in P.C. Hodgell's fantasy novel Godstalk)

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"I am not exaggerating when I say that to a true collector the acquisition
of an old book is a rebirth."

(Walter Benjamin, 1892-1940, Illuminations: Essays and Reflections)

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Or, at least, one-tenth of the cabin trunks were full of vivid and often painful and uncomfortable memories of her past life; the other nine-tenths were full of penguins, which suprised her. Insofar as she recognized at all that she was dreaming, she realized she must be exploring her own subconscious mind. She had heard it said that humans are supposed to use only about a tenth of their brains, and that no one was very clear what the other nine tenths were for, but she certainly never heard it suggested that they were used for storing penguins.

(Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul)

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In later years it is stifled and gagged—buried deep, a green turf at the head of it, and on its heart a stone; but it lives, it breathes, it lurks, it will up and out when 'tis looked for least. That stockbroker, some brief summers gone, who was missed from his wonted place one settling-day! a goodly portly man, i' faith: and had a villa and a steam launch at Surbiton: and was versed in the esoteric humours of the House. Who could have thought that the Hunter lay hid in him? Yet, after many weeks, they found him in a wild nook of Hampshire. Ragged, sun-burnt, the nocturnal haystack calling aloud from his frayed and weather-stained duds, his trousers tucked, he was tickling trout with godless native urchins; and when they would have won him to himself with honied whispers of American Rails, he answered but with babble of green fields. He is back in his wonted corner now: quite cured, apparently, and tractable. And yet—let the sun shine too wantonly in Throgmorton Street, let an errant zephyr, quick with the warm South, fan but his cheek too wooingly on his way to the station; and will he not once more snap his chain and away? Ay, truly: and next time he will not be caught.

(Kenneth Grahame, "Orion", Pagan Papers)

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