If you support social media censorship, you have ZERO right to be outraged when books are banned.
This is very bad.
Hugh Howey does not get to be Nostradamus.
Hugh Howey is the LAST person on Earth who gets to be Nostradamus.
Notice to Hugh Howey: STOP BEING NOSTRADAMUS. 😤 Or I will begin boycotting your books, starting with the ones I already own.
I am now the proud owner of every Michael Connelly book yet published, including double copies of Trunk Music and Angels Flight (my personal fave).
For my next trick, I shall begin acquiring samples of the author’s hair and toenail clippings — y’know, to lend a more personal feel to the life-sized Harry Bosch meat sculpture residing in what was formerly ••••’s closet. (Showings by appointment only.)
2017 is going to be awesome!
Been rereading The Hunger Games trilogy, and I’m now midway through Mockingjay — which took me all of a day and a half to read the first time around and about a week and a half to sort through the myriad of competing emotions that held me in their grip.
This to me is the number one mark of phenomenal storytelling: when a tale continues to haunt you well beyond its finishing, and persists as a object of periodic reflection as if held in actual memory. What George R. R. Martin wrote about stories being old friends that need to be revisited from time to time is so true.
If I could impress but a single moral axiom upon my child, it would be this: stories are to be cherished — worshipped, even — as abstract idols encompassing the very best the human mind has to offer.
From the Tragedies of Sophocles, down through the comedies of Monty Python; where would be be without stories to inspire us, enlighten us, caution us, frighten us, anger us, or make us laugh? Still cowering in caves, no doubt — shackled to the darkness
Mario Puzo’s The Godfather has me under such a spell that I’ve hardly been able to think (much less communicate) about anything else since I picked it up. I’ve already recommended it to more people in the past 24 hours than I generally speak to in a week, and though at one point last night I attempted to switch over to some Greek (if only to avoid bed sores), I found myself thinking about Latin roots of Italian words, which immediately served to draw me back into the world of the Corleone Family. (My having mentally cast Manu Bennett as Sonny hasn’t exactly helped.)
I say this now with all sincerity: this book makes the Coppolla films appear hurried and amateurish. The plot is more heavily seeded than an Amish vegetable garden, and each character carries his own queer sort of integrity, rendering even the most extraordinary characters credibly human and suprisingly compassionable.