Video games have always been the underdog in the pantheon of story telling mediums.
Books. Radio (way back in the day with serials). Movies. Plays. Television. All traditional story telling mediums. People are truly not giving video games their due.
(Before I go any further:
esoteric |ˌesəˈterik|adjective intended for or likely to be understood by only a small number of people with a specialized knowledge or interest: esoteric philosophical debates.DERIVATIVES esoterically |-(ə)lē|adverb,esotericism |-ˈterəˌsizəm|noun,esotericist |-ˈterəsist|nounORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from Greek esōterikos, from esōterō, comparative of esō ‘within,’ from es, eis ‘into.’ Compare with exoteric.)
Why is he talking about video games? What does this have to do with the fact that this is in essence, a fan site about books?
It matters because, above all, I love a really good story. All books are great regardless of the subject. But stories… man. Great stories are really my bread and butter. The great thing about stories? They aren’t always found in books.
The real muthafuckin’ O. G.
Like most children of the 1980′s, I cut my teeth (video game-wise) on Super Mario Bros. As I am sure that all of us remember, this was unavoidable. The game cartridge came with the original Nintendo System.
As the story goes, Mario and his brother Luigi are plumbers and they have to save Princess Toadstool from Bowser, King of the Koopas. How they met the Princess, why is the villain a gigantic turtle… all of the other necessary nuts and bolts to a good story were never (to my knowledge) touched on. SPECIFICALLY: If Princess Toadstool was never in the fucking castle that we were racing two throughout all 7 levels, who in the fuck did we just save?
It didn’t matter: it was the middle of the 1980′s and you now had the capability to play video games in the comfort of your own home instead of having to beg your parents to take you to the mall.
Nearly 30 years later, video games inside of the home are a commonplace thing. There have been some changes along the way: technology has constantly evolved and (in my opinion) the intent of a video game has progressed from one of “mindless” entertainment to “mind full” entertainment.
Recently, I celebrated my 33rd birthday. As a gift, my wife was nice enough to buy me an XBox 360. Two of the games I picked were Batman: Arkham Asylum and the original Assassin’s Creed.
I hadn’t played any video games, seriously, in about 15 years. Game play aside, the stories for those two games alone were two of the most densely packed and engaging stories I have “heard”, ever.You know how when you are really into the current book you are reading and you end up reading the whole thing in one sitting? Yeah. It was like that, only I had the added bonus of “acting out” the story via gameplay.
Is there some great conclusion to this post? Is there some lofty statement about how if society got the stick out their ass with the violent games (and recognized that the violent games are also the ones that do have the best stories) they could use them to teach and improve literacy?
There very well could be.
I don’t have a great conclusion or a lofty statement. I just wanted to point out that video games are the next evolutionary step in the story telling medium.
I don’t think that this is a thing that I can have held against me. There’s a certain expectation when it comes to Moore’s books: You can guarantee that they are almost always going to hilarious in some respect. What galvanizes this fact, is that Moore’s writing has become the perfect marriage of hilarity and maturity.
I know, the two ought to cancel each other out.
What I am getting at is that, Moore is able to be hilarious and down right silly at times even when it comes to serious subjects (such as the nebulousness of the life of Jesus up until he was crucified). I think what he is trying to get at is that with all of the shit and sludge that life can become clogged with, it can be infinitely more enjoyable when you see the bright side of things.
Sacre Bleu is no exception to this. Sacre Bleu is, what Moore referred to in his notes that accompany this book, a book based on the color blue. Why he did it? He doesn’t fucking remember. Yes, he used words to that effect.
So, basing the novel on the color blue, Moore presupposed an idea: what if Vincent Van Gogh (a painter known for his use of that very color) was murdered and hadn’t in fact, committed suicide?From there, Van Gogh contemporaries of the time, Lucien Lessard and Henri Toulouse-Lautrec embark down a dark path to find out what really happened to their friend and to find out the true identities behind this “blue woman” and her Colorman (a twisted little figure, think Eric Stoltz from mask crossed with Quasi Modo and then gifted with a huge dong. Yes. The dong is part of the story.).
Confession? I am a bit of a franco-phile. As ambiguous as that sounds, no James Franco is not involved.
I don’t speak French. I am no expert in French history. I just have an abnormal appreciation for a culture (regardless of their “quitter” like tendencies in times of war) that emphasizes an appreciation for life.
Sure they gave us eye-sores like Gerard Depardieu, but that was an accident. It couldn’t be helped.
This is a good book. If you like good books, then you will like this book too. If you like Moore AND you like books, well, then bully for you. Because if you read this, then it will be the jack pot for you!
There’s a thing about literature that’s written by an Englishman, when they are being clever, or funny, the point is generally lost to anyone who’s not an Englishman (or Englishwoman).
Unseen Academicals is no exception to this (somewhat lame) theory of mine.
Through an oversight in the executions of college traditions, the wizards at the Unseen University have been delivered an ultimatum by the universe: they need to form a football team or else they will be taken down a peg or two by the Patrician of their city. As with all things written by Terry Pratchett, the story is not that simple. However that is the main theme running throughout.
To be perfectly honest, I ended up putting it down the first time that I tried to read it. The business with the Megapode within the first handful of pages was a bit of a turn off for me.
This second time around, I soldiered on past the silliness (which was actually a rather coy set-up for a satire that I completely missed on the first go around) and I was completely blown away.
Unseen Academicals is pure Pratchett. Love, the importance of family, social tolerance, sportsmanship… All of these themes written into the rich tapestry that Pratchett has created with the birth of Discworld nearly 30 years ago.
If you are unfamiliar with Discworld, you will be at a loss if you were to start with this book. I would suggest starting with one of the early books like “The Colour or Magic” or any of the first handful of novels, they generally have a good explanation of things (and if memory serves correctly, they should have a basic glossary of characters, as well.).
Unseen Academicals, as well as most stories* written by Terry Pratchett, is well worth your monetary investment.
(*I say “most” because I have not read “ALL” of the stories written by Sir Pratchett.)
Two weeks ago I posted the first short story I had written in roughly 10 years. After posting said story I decide that I’m going to be a cheeky little shit and tweet Mr. Gaiman. I figured at the very worst, nothing would happen.
The next day I awoke to the enclosed screen capture.
Neil Gaiman retweeted my tweet. What this means is that Mr. Gaiman liked it enough to show to all of his followers.
Suffice it to say, I’m still riding pretty high on that.
So, the lesson of this post? More people should read Mr. Gaiman because he’s nice.
I have a confession to make: I’m on the Tumblr. It might seem like a conflict of interest since this is a WordPress site, but that’s a post for another day. One of the people that I follow on the Tumblr is Mr. Gaiman.
No surprise, I am sure.
One day, Mr. Gaiman linked to a video created by Michael McQuilken. The video was for a song called ‘Young & Lovely’ from the album “Composed” by Jherek (I don’t know how to pronounce his fucking name either) Bischoff.
Mr. Gaiman commented that this was the type of art that begged for a story.
Challenge. Accepted.
What follows is the story that I have written for this video. It’s not the greatest story in the world. In fact, it’s the first short story that I have written in over a decade. After the story is the actual video.
Thanks for reading this,
Matt
**********
Springtime: that part of the year when the cold fingers and desolation of winter have been shaken off in favor of the warmth and hope that spring brings with it. That hope is a gift to the youth. It is with hope that people start new chapters of their lives. Hope gives power to the creators whose ideas are nearly realized. Hope is what bonds two lovers together. What the youth doesn’t realize is that this gift won’t last forever. Lives end as easily as they have begun, ideas fall apart, and love doesn’t feel lovely enough.
It was one of the first warm days of spring. The Young Man sat on the steps of the promenade in the park. With his long, dark mane of hair gently flowing in the spring breeze and his haute couture, he was the picture of youth and virility. Nearby, a Willow tree beckoned, offering comfort and shade.
Days like these were made exactly for what he was doing: enjoying nature, listening to the birds and letting his thoughts wander while absorbing the sight before him.
Something moved a few feet behind him. A smile bloomed on the Young Man’s face.
She was attempting to sneak up on him.
She was all blonde hair, blue eyes and her Sunday best clothes. He knew at first glance that this was a girl who’s been fought over more than once.
After that first glance, he unequivocally knew that there was something strange about her. Her presence was like when you’ve misplaced something very important and you have the inkling that what you are looking for is right in front of you. Whatever it was, the Young Man knew it had something to do with her eyes. He knew that there was something there, something that was swimming just below the surface of those cold blue pools.
He was a fly in those Venus flytrap eyelashes.
In those few moments that they had observed each other, a dull haze had started to seep in through the Young Man’s mind. Time seemed to hold its breath, waiting for one of these two people to make their move. Before he realized what his legs were doing, he was following her.
Laughing and talking like they were meant to love each other, and only each other since the day that they were born, they held each other in the waning sunshine. The Young Man had never done that with just anyone before. For some reason, things felt “different” with her.
“You know, my mother never told me not to get into strange cars, with strange women”, he said from behind a blindfold.
She said she wanted to show him something back at her apartment but she wouldn’t tell him what it was and that secrecy was crucial. The Young Man was no fool. If it had been any other woman, he would have sat back down on those stone steps and resumed his enjoyment of nature and all of its offerings. But with her, he all ready knew it was love.
“Well, fortunate for you I’m not that strange”, she said smiling with her mouth, only. Her eyes, her eyes were saying something else. A small kernel of worry began to germinate in the Young Man’s mind.
“Said the young lady who was trying to sneak up on me”, he volleyed back at her in hopes of getting just a little bit more out of her.
He didn’t understand until they had arrived at her apartment why secrecy was an issue at all.
As they had gotten out of the cab, the young lady had taken off the blindfold in favor of covering his eyes with her hands. Dropping them away from his eyes, she stood before him, just as lovely as when she first crept up on him, gesturing like a showroom model at the silent behemoth of a building behind her.
“You… live here?”
She nodded enthusiastically, eyes dripping with cold fire while her mouth did all the smiling.
The Young Man knew something wasn’t right.
That small kernel of fear was starting to take root. He knew that he should have been more pragmatic about the entire situation. The only thing that he could do was to look up at this building and wonder where the top ended.
Tired of his lollygagging, she led him by the hand to the front door. Once he took one look into the frigid depths of her eyes, that fear was ripped out by the root.
Like turning off a switch.
It was the biggest apartment that the Young Man had ever seen.
So much space. For some reason, he found elation in all of this.
It wasn’t long before she started undressing him.
“I know that this may comes as a surprise, but I haven’t been entirely forthcoming”, she said.
For a brief instant, there was a flicker of fear across his face.
“It’s ok, you can tell me”, he said.
“Would you believe that we’ve met before?” she said as she continued to undress him.
“Wait, what’s the rush?” he faltered, trying to put some physical distance between the two of them.
Crestfallen, she finally spoke.
“I’ve said too much. You just seemed so… ready.”
For some reason it made him love her. It. just… didn’t… matter. Clothing proceeded to be shed.
He awoke the next day feeling hollow but fulfilled at the same time. The young lady was nowhere to be found.
After exploring the cavernous and nearly soundless apartment, he stopped to take stock of himself in a mirror.
“I always knew that one day my looks would get me in trouble”, he thought.
Even with the elation of the other day and with the overwhelming sense of unease, he still liked what he saw reflected back at him: rugged features, slim build, full mane of hair, what more could be asked for?
A small noise drained the self-absorption that the Young Man was drowning in. As he followed the sound, the noise grew to a full mutter.
That sense of dread was back.
Standing in the shadows of the hallway, he took in the strangeness of the site that he had found in the warmly lit room.
Sitting on one of the longer couches, the young lady was with four people he had never seen before. She sat in the middle of them. Everyone sat comfortably with their eyes closed and their arms outstretched before them.
On one end of the couch sat a man who appeared to be entirely composed of knees and elbows and seemed entirely too thin to exist. On the far end of the couch sat a woman who seemed to be having trouble immersing herself as the others have. She was doing her best though.
On either side of the young lady sat a man and woman who were like no people he had ever seen before. The man was dressed well in bright colors and had an iridescent quality to his face. It was like the sun was being kept in the container of a human. The woman was a pale beauty, dressed in deep blues and black greens. These people who flanked his love were as opposite as night and day.
What completely unsettled the Young Man was that they were all talking in unison but it was unlike any language that he had ever heard.
A cold sweat began to filter through the Young Man’s flesh.
He walked slowly towards the center of the group, to his love, and knelt down in front of her.
As he put his hands on her knees, those impenetrable mirrors of her eyes opened and his mind went entirely flaccid.
She smiled, ensnaring him in her embrace. The others applauded.
Under the applause, he heard her whisper, “Deep inside of your soul, you know it to be true: we’ve met and loved each other before. Just as sure as the sun and moon sit beside me”.
He knew that he should be afraid but there was something inside of him that was keeping him from it.
“Is it her?” he thought.
Eventually, everyone adjourned to the balcony. Reeling in the haze of the moment the Young Man became acquainted with these strange peoples. Try as he might, the only name that would stick in his mind was that of the thin man. He referred to himself as the Conductor. When the Young Man pressed him about such a strange name, he would only say that it was a nickname that he was blessed with given his “god-like” ability to keep things moving.
Realizing that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his tall friend, the Young Man went to the railing to asses the past couple of hours. There was something missing. He just couldn’t nail down what it was. It was like someone had brushed up against a part of his memories before the paint had had a chance to dry.
It was a cool and cloudy night. The sky looked like a window mottled with steam and streaked with condensation. When he turned around, the strangely dressed man and woman were in the possession of musical instruments and were tuning up, while the Conductor took his place amongst them.
The Young Man wanted to question all of this but his elation at the sight before him was clouding his judgment. All he could think about was how much he wanted to dance with his love.
The Young Man and woman had started to dance. There was no rationality to the chain of events that the Young Man had become a part of. The only thing that he knew for certain was that he was happy.
The others looked on and smiled.
After the air became too cool to be tolerable, the group agreed that sustenance and libations were in order. As the food was served and conversation politely filled the air, the Young Man began to realize that something still wasn’t quite right.
While reaching this conclusion, the Young Man and the young lady had started to eat what appeared to be a grapefruit from their plates. The Young Man began to open the fruit with his hands. He realized that the fruit was certainly more exotic than he had surmised.
As the juice of the fruit bled through his fingers and dripped onto the plate, he couldn’t help thinking to himself that the young lady was right: they had known each other before. Pushing the fruit’s pit up and out into the atmosphere of the dinner party, the Young Man regarded it with a feeling of regret. It sat there in his fingers; slimy and pulsating like a heart.
All of those feelings of dread, the weight of the unease of everything, he finally felt assured as the identity of the young lady had finally dawned on him.
He turned to face the young lady. Regardless of any realizations, the love was still there between the two of them. As he was about to speak her true name, a wave of disgust erupted on her face. Reaching up to his head, she fingered one silver strand, a gray hair.
Savagely plucking it from his head, she turned and stomped away like a scorned child.
Turning to read the faces of the “dinner guests” in hopes to find some clue as to the travesty that he had unknowingly brought into being, a shockwave of fear thundered through his body.
They were all gone.
The night had turned into day.
It was like it had never happened.
Was he going mad?
The click of a woman in high heels echoed through the apartment.
Chasing after it, he had found her at the end of a hallway. It was the woman who didn’t seem like she was to be a part of the group. A brief glimmer of hope pin pricked in the man as she regarded him, her entire being radiating disgust.
Turning on her heel, she walked on, deeper into the room at the other end of the hall.
Storming into the room after the misplaced woman, the Young Man had found her, the young lady, in the embrace of another woman.
“They look so… happy”, he thought.
They both stopped long enough to look at him. Their faces were polite but it was obvious that they were unhappy with this presence.
The young lady gazed at him with those dangerous pools she called eyes.
The Young Man heard her speak. Her mouth wasn’t moving. She was speaking to him, inside of him.
“Just as the moon and sun sat beside me last night, you know that I am The Dawn. I am of the oldest of the old and we have been acquainted numerous times. I bridge the gap between the days and I exist to rob you of your youth. Eventually you will be like me, Young Man. You will be no longer lovely enough for love. You made your peace with that last night when you realized my true name and yet you still had love for me. Go now, young man, you have served your purpose”.
His eyes began to tear. As he blinked them away, he found that he was back where he started, in the park.
Unaware of what happened, the Young Man still felt at ease with himself as he moved from the steps to the nearby Willow tree. Watching his son toddle around in front of him, he knew despite the feeling of unease, that things were as they should be.
I have long been of the opinion that children’s authors and basically everyone involved in the production of a successful children’s book do not, and will not ever, get enough credit.
Case in point: we can all name at least one successful children’s author, can’t we?
Fun fact? He has written “adult” material. Seriously. Go ahead and google that shit, it’ll ruin your childhood.
That’s right, Dr. Seuss.
For those of us who had parents who read to us regularly and as a result are rather “healthy” readers we could probably name at least one more, right?
Key ingredient to success in the children’s literature world? Jazz Hands.
That’s right, it’s Maurice Sendak (aka the guy who penned Where The Wild Things Are).
And that’s about as far down the rabbit-hole that anybody can go. Sure you can cite celebrities who have dabbled in this medium but they don’t count! Why? Because I said so and that’s as good enough reason for anybody.
So why should they get more credit, or credit at all? On the surface I’m sure that it looks like a cake job. All you have to do is write (not a whole hell of a lot) buddy up with an illustrator with whom you can get along with (or you can just draw the damn thing yourself, right?) and the rest is in the hands of the publisher, right?
Not so fast: there’s one main thing missing from that. All of the creators involved have to create something that the parent will want to read to their child.Sure it’s pretty shallow but it’s the truth.
When I was a young father, The Cat in the Hat was the go-to story. It was a fun read. I enjoyed bumbling through it my first couple of times and feeling like an idiot. It wasn’t before long ad naseum was breached and I could recite the damn thing by rote. A couple of times I tried to make a go of it without the book and I got yelled at by whatever kid I was reading to at the time.
So why the sudden interest in children’s literature? The past week I have been helping my son in his Language Arts Class with a book by the title of Owl at Home. It was penned by Arnold Lobel and it is probably one of the greater books that I have read to any of my children.
CAVEAT EMPTOR!
What will follow is not a diss to anyone associated with this book, especially Mr. Lobel. What follows is my opinion on this particular work of his and how I have viewed it and how I think parents should view kids books should they find themselves in the unenviable position of having to read something that makes their skin crawl.
Owl at Home is aboutan Owl, named Owl. He lives in a house by himself and appears (SPOILERS) mentally unsound. While this may be a harsh assessment, I would like to point out that the owl (named Owl) tries to behave like a human (living in a house and not a nest, dressing like a human and engaging in rather mundane human activities) regardless of the fact that (SPOILERS) he:
has no concept of how blankets work (e.g. When you are under a blanket, your body does not simply disappear, it merely resides under the blanket).
makes tea out of his own tears. For what reason? I have absolutely no clue. And I keep re-reading this chapter in an effort to see the point that I might have missed.
is apparently schizophrenic. In one chapter, Owl tries to be in two places at once by running back and forth as fast as he can and then, when reaching said destination, he tries to ask himself a question only to be disappointed when he doesn’t hear himself answer.
Based on this alone, I hope that you can see why I FRIGGIN’ LOVE THIS BOOK! Additionally, it is my hope that you can see why children’s authors don’t get nearly enough credit: creating something that is enjoyable for everyone, adult and child alike, is a rare feat.
There’s this thing that all people go through, creative types especially, that I refer to as “why-in-the-fuck-am-I-doing-this?” syndrome.
Do something that you like, or something that you don’t like, long enough and you will eventually have that day where one of two things happen:
You finally have that epiphany. The lightbulb goes off over your head and you soberly realize that what you’ve been doing isn’t working and something needs to change.
Or, that thing that you have been doing (is something that you need to do whether you like it or not) and then you read too much about that thing (or things relating to that thing), or you’re just too burned out about it and you completely shut down.
Unfortunately I was crushed by the latter.
Shit happens. I got over it, obviously.
I do feel rather bad about it though. I’m running a blog that’s “book” themed and I totally missed the boat on the birthday’s of LeVar Burton and Dr. Seuss. As if I couldn’t look more like a putz.
Fun Facts?
Seuss didn’t like kids. There’s always been the rumor that he “hated” them. I always thought that “hate” was too ambiguous of a word for a man of obvious intelligence.
LeVar Burton has never read a book. Well. That’s not entirely true. I’m sure that he has. If memory serves correctly, I recall seeing a tweet of his that said words to the effect that he has never finished reading a book. It was a couple of years ago.
Recently the little beasties inside the WordPress machine saw fit to alert me this week to the passing of my third blogging anniversary. They also made a point of telling me that I should be “happy” about it.
(I know, it doesn’t look like I have been at this for three years. But I have. Just see here.)
This was irregardless of the fact (that I either missed the first two anniversaries or…) that they didn’t say shit about the other ones.
But still. This one I didn’t miss.
Do I have some sort of pithy point about being at the bottom of the blogging pool?
Have I learned anything at all about life or the way the world works?
Is there a reason for this somewhat rhetorical line of questioning?
Not really. The negligibility for these questions is rather high (except for the last one: the answer is “to fill up space”). However, as someone who considers themselves a writer, I am duty-bound to play that game. In my three years of blogging I have learned that:
We never stray far from the children that we used to be.
Fuck what everyone else says, do what you think you should do (regardless of what the “do-ing” is). Don’t worry about happiness. Happiness is a choice. It’s up to you to choose correctly.
Always read the directions. One time I didn’t and I ended up getting my dick caught in the ceiling fan.
As always, thanks for reading this.
Matt
(ps Next week I promise I will finish the spotlight on graphic novels and resume regular literary randomness.)
Recently, I just completed reading Casanova – Luxuria by Fraction and Ba.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.
I discovered Casanova (and the work of Fraction and Ba) with the help of Twitter and Tumblr. Sit on those two social media sites long enough and you will eventually having something pass through your timeline or pop up on your dashboard that mentions either Casanova, Ba, Fraction or some permutation of the three.
After seeing this happen for close to a year, I managed to secure a copy of it through my local library and, well, like I said, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.
I, like most people, do in fact judge a book by it’s cover. It’s not something I’m proud of. In fact, it has gotten me into some trouble. At the very least, I am up front about it.
On the cover of Luxuria, there is a man of Latin origin, slightly gnarly looking, nicely dressed and the word (or name as you learn when you start reading…) Casanova is above his head. Naturally my first impression was that this gnarly looking dude was a character who was a sex machine.
Well, that’s part of it.
Casanova is a graphic novel from another time. The main character, the gnarly looking dude, Casanova Quinn is a secret agent. He does indeed bang a lot of chicks. But there is also robots, international espionage, time travel, government agencies that no one “knows” about… there’s just so much more than what the cover suggestions. What Quinn wants most, in my own estimation, is to be cut free from the life that he was born into.
It’s with great grief that I can’t go more in depth without making my own brain hurt.
As soon as I put it down it came to me: Casanova is a title created by men who’s love for comics has become synonymous with their own names.
Salem Brownstone found its way into my dirty little hands because it was the prettiest book in the graphic novel section.
Well over the standard 8.5×11-ish size that most graphic novels are produced in and covered in faux purple velvet, it was just fun to look at even without reading the story. I couldn’t not bring it home. Additionally, it complimented the Prince phase that I have been going through lately.
Upon further inspection I noted that this collection was blurbed by none other than Alan Moore himself. For those of you who don’t know, Alan Moore is to the comic book/graphic novel industry what Frank Lloyd Wright was to architecture.
If Moore’s name is on a graphic novel that he hasn’t penned, then you know it should be worth taking a look at.
In All Along the Watchtowers, Salem Brownstone is a young man who receives a telegram informing him that his estranged father has passed away and that Salem needs to collect his inheritance ASAP. After doing so, Brownstone begins to see that the universe that he has existed in is quite larger than he has ever grasped and that there was more to his father than everyone, including people who have claimed to know the elder Brownstone, ever realized.
Full of circus freaks, occlut-ish themes and wonderfully unconventional artistic presentation (read: it was fucking pretty to look at even though it was only in black and white) I felt that the actual written story presented here fell drastically short. I understand that to present a story in the graphic novel medium requires everyone to work within certain artistic constraints. However there were just too many goddamn loose threads that risked dragging the story down. What kept everything afloat, was the artwork.
Is this still worth your time? Shit yes. It has bogeymen and circus freaks. Those two groups alone are always worth your time.
