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 Posted: Mon Jun 13, 2016 8:38 am
Alois decided it felt distinctly odd to walk into a library after so long a time spent looking to his family’s bookstore for answers. Now without it, Alois found himself out of his element in the search for information. Google and local authorities on the strange proved his primary modes of gathering knowledge about Ashdown, as he would expect even if his parents likewise moved here, but for the books sought with typical pleasure reading in mind, a library felt much too strange now for their hunt.
But hunt he did, among large oaken bookshelves stacked perilously high with tomes matching genres or authors by alphabet. The occasional computer kiosk sat at standby for specific findings, though he personally had no title or author in mind for his next leisure read. As ever, he gravitated toward the literature section where he knew poignant and pithy works of art awaited him there, some well-read, others seldom read, and some brand-new to him still. He hoped, perhaps, to look into Kafka’s Amerika for the man’s temperament toward futility, or Plath’s The Bell Jar and likewise Ward’s The Snake Pit for their spitfire denouncement of their era’s zeitgeist. Yet, at the back of his mind, he pondered if old Howard Phillips knew a secret success and old ties to Other Ashdown for his presentation of Innsmouth and the perils that befell it.
As always, Alois fell into thoughts toward a portmanteau of Ashdown and Innsmouth as he searched the old spines. Innsdown, he decided at last, upon approaching the D shelves of the literature section.
Dostoyevsky, he decided at last, as he spied one of the lower shelves containing an old favorite. The Idiot was thereby slid off the shelf, with its stark parchment tone marked with a bold black x across the cover. As was habit, he thumbed through the pages to release a fan of book smell, a rich and spicy scent often enjoyed in the old back room. As he crouched he hoped for other finds, as his eyes turned upward for further philosophies.
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Posted: Mon Jun 13, 2016 11:02 am
"Pardon my nosiness," Autumn interrupted, voice appropriately quiet for the intimacy of the library, "But I couldn't help but notice you picked up The Bell Jar. If you kind of like that descent into depression and the assessment of quality of life, I have a really good non-fiction recommendation for you."
She stood a little ways away from the stranger, rocking on her heels. It wasn't super often that Autumn talked to people about literature anymore, but she really needed to expand her social circle. As great as it was to have magic world friends, she needed culture. Someone to argue books with. It would be all the fun of college, without the expectation of the grades.
"Have you read The Diving Bell and the Butterfly? It's short, but it kinda touches on the same s**t," she offered, glancing over to the shelves. It was easy, talking about books, to ignore the weirdness of her newfound horns. It was a lot to take in, honestly? But still. This, she could bullshit about all day.
...Too bad The Diving Bell and the Butterfly wouldn't be over here. Non-fiction and all.
"Really makes you think. One of those stories that makes you re-evaluate your life. Man has a stroke, gets locked-in syndrome. The entire thing was written by blinks."
She smiled nervously.
"Pretty ******** up. But it's worth a read."
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Posted: Tue Jul 26, 2016 7:35 am
Alois’ initial reception of the girl’s words precipitated in a scathing upward stare. He expected that, barring a blatant insensitivity to body language, she would recognize his disinclination toward speaking with others and either peter out lamely mid-sentence, or excuse herself once more and move on. For any brush with a stranger, either outcome proved favorable to someone often labeled a misanthrope. Her words carried on, however, and soon she defied expectations of lofty and pretentious literary critic - quite the contrary, she demonstrated knowledge of the book and offered another recommendation.
Without knocking his choices.
Initially he did not respond - he paused, considered his words, considered his instinctual responses, then considered her. She didn’t look like a literary nerd, if literary nerd had a standard look - she seemed put-together, dressed well more or less, against the backdrop of inane and average that surrounded the library. There wasn’t anyone else around, either - no one goading her on to talk to the stereotypical goth combing for depressing fiction, no one to tell her what to recommend, no one she was trying to impress. This was strange, he decided. The whole of this exchange was strange. He wasn’t used to conversations without an element of manipulation involved.
Finally he straightened up, ankles and knees popping while he resumed his full height. „I haven’t read it,“ he started carefully, „but I’ve read The Snake Pit finally, and I know that The Bell Jar was largely criticized as an endeavor to ride Ward’s coattails for its release timing. I was planning to reread it with that in mind.“ Pronouncing English still proved troublesome for him, especially on words like jar - it sounded no different than char.
The book - paperback - found its way into his back pocket. While not the kindest of places, it freed his hands as he often spoke with them. „Anything written by someone trapped in their own body is worth a read. Fiction or nonfiction?“ Even if her literary suggestions were little more than garbage, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly promised words he hadn’t read. That was, he decided, good enough for him.
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Posted: Thu Jul 28, 2016 9:22 pm
"Interesting," Autumn replied, pursing her lips. "But I mean, you can go into a lot of literature with that expectation. I know people knock the Young Adult genre, but it's really fascinating to read the wave of books that followed Harry Potter, and the ones that preceded its release. You can really tell a huge difference," and it was a topic she really enjoyed. Autumn hadn't gotten to hash out literature with anyone for a hugely long time. As much as she didn't want to teach, she always loved a good book. Even if the last thing she'd read had been an in-depth review of drug store mascara.
...She really needed to pick up a new book again.
"Entirely nonfiction," Autumn explained, a slight grimace on her features. "Apparently he like, blinked. The entire thing. And the nurse helping him with daily function translated the blinks into words." It was a slow-going book, even as short as it was. For as ******** up as her thoughts could be, Autumn was not into the soul-searingly depressing. Breaks were a necessary part of s**t like that.
"I don't think he lived much longer, after he finished the book. It really makes you think."
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Posted: Thu Aug 25, 2016 6:46 pm
“A lot of people look to the Young Adult books for their plotlines and trashy romances, or their fantasy coupled with a more simplistic and comprehensible writing style. But it’s interesting to look at books such as Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings which I would argue was a precursor for Harry Potter, and compare them against the historical struggles of their time. Granted, I’m still reticent to admit that I’ve even touched Twilight, but it’s fairly easy to draw comparisons between Bella’s predicament to the dissilusioned youth of today, who now face both the problems of previous generations and new ones bred by technology. That doesn’t make it any less of a shitty book, however.“
But all of that spiel was tangential. And, one might argue, nonsense. „So what you’re telling me is that man spent however long writing out a book in morse code. But, he finished his goal of squeezing his story out before keeling over.“ He straightened, and rolled shoulders to unearth some old pops and cracks. „Please tell me that when you say ‚it makes you think‘ you’re not referring to perspective. Because I really don’t need another book that judgingly reminds me there are quadriplegics trapped in their own bodies, and children starving in Africa, and barren women who spend their entire lives pining for a child. Philosophy I’ll take in a breath. Pity olympics, though? Go ******** yourself.“
He paused, then studied the thin mahogony shelving in thought. He watched the deep grooves carve their way up the otherwise perfectly straight board, calling dust to their crevices in an instant. Finally he looked to her. „I need to get some caffeine. Do you want to come?“
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Posted: Thu Aug 25, 2016 7:15 pm
"I don't know that I'd call it a pity Olympics, even if it may come off that way," Autumn shrugged, mulling over his points. They were all fair, and clearly the dude was well-read. Knew his books. It was a welcome refresher from the guys she met who played a few chords on college campuses and pretended to know guitar of books. Oh yeah, I read Shakespeare! And then getting all limp-d**k over wanting to actually discuss Lady Macbeth as the coolest b***h ever. Or Shakespeare totally ******** up the best opportunity in No Man Born of Woman.
Ugh. It still made her mad. But that was a discussion for another time.
"For me, it was more the contemplation of if I would have enough to say in that situation. If I'd care enough." She smiled weakly, the gesture not reaching her eyes. "I wonder if, even in sorrow, I'd want to convey that... or if I'd just give up."
She was pretty ******** sure she'd just give up, honestly. That was a lot of dedication for a very short book.
"Okay, here's the real dealbreaker. You say caffeine- do you mean sweet, glorious tea? Or nasty-a** bean water?" She teased, trying to regain some of the humor from the brevity of the previous conversation.
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Posted: Fri Aug 26, 2016 1:48 pm
“It’s hard to say what would happen in that situation. If I were him, I’d be ‚******** the world‘ enough to write some endlessly complicated novel that would stump everyone for years. Sort of like Only Revolutions or most of the other Danielewski books. And if I got quite lucky at it, or good, maybe I’d write another The Sound and the Fury. But then I’d probably be dead after, and never see a penny of what I made. Which is total s**t, but, I could always write in my will to donate that money to some fake charity. Down a hole it goes.“ He shrugged as he started walking.
„Giving up is fair, though. It’s not a comprehensible position for us, I don’t think. I just bullshitted all that. Bullshat? English is weird.“ He brushed it off. An idle hand reached out to trace along the lip of the shelf he passed.
All the bookshelves reached toward the ceiling these days. It’s like they wanted to make navigation harder than it already was. He thought he knew the way to the cafe, at least, and started to follow a path through Blue Rooms or Orange Rooms or Pink Rooms to find the elusive Brown Room (which sounded more like a bathroom, in his opinion).
„When I say caffeine,“ he started as he looked for the signs, „I mean nasty-a** bean water with Cognac in it. It’s the only way to drink nasty-a** bean water.“
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