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Fluke: Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings (Today Show Book Club #25) by Christopher Moore

The Gates: A Novel by John Connolly

Motorman by David Ohle

Kon-Tiki - Across the Pacific by Raft by Thor Heyerdahl

Light by M. John Harrison

Cardanica (A Steampunk Nightmare) (World-9) by Dario Tonani

Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore

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Thank you!
One more thing about Stephen Hunt, though-- I caught him using the phrase "twilight's last gleaming" unironically in Court of the Air. I promptly put the book down and did not pick it back up again.

That woman be stoned if she did the haka in the wrong places. Like, say, all of New Zealand. Even if she does have a moko, which in itself would be considered an extreme faux pas. Still, an arresting image.
Sorry, this was too long for a counting-coup thread.

I just gave up on [Court of the Air]. It was a library whim, but I am stubborn about [Kingdom Under the Waves], which is supposedly better. :( I'm sad that CotA makes me miss Mieville, which is saying something considering how I couldn't sleep after finishing that book-- not out of emotional turmoil, but out of sheer horror at the crap that went on in [Perdido Street Station]. I like that book now, but wild gengineered squid-horses couldn't make me read it again.

Have you read [Finch] yet? I couldn't get through it-- the subject is close to the bone for me, and I am just not in the right mindset to be depressed for as long as it takes me to finish it.

The maori picture is something I found on the internet and then later in an art book which I have forgotten the name of-- for me it's an interesting collision of colonial and colonized. Not that I am particularly interested in post-colonial works and whatnot, but the picture itself means a lot of things to me and seems to represent my ideas of the repressed coming back to haunt the represser.

Don't worry if you can't finish harrison all in one go-- I see [Viriconium] as an endlessly re-readable book or place to store one's thoughts in contemplative moods, much like Crowley's [Little, Big], which is another similar book and my 2nd fave book of all time.
"Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog

And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo

And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's

and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"

because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint

And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went

And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem

And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think

he could reach the kitchen.""

— Stephen Chbosky
I just read your review of Breath by Tim Winston and thought it was excellent.
I started Breath yesterday afternoon, woke up at 3:00 am - continued reading, and finished the book as the birds began singing. It's been awhile since a novel was more appealing than sleep.
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