Author: Ricardo

I read books. Sometimes I even write about them. It's a thing.

JUNE 2024

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Hi hi. Here’s what I read during the month of June. Unlike May, which was a A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Month, I actually managed to sneak in a few things this time around. It was a decent one.

The Wildman of Shaggy Creek by R.H. Grimly. After last month — which, as I’ve already said, was Terrible — I fell into a particularly bad slump.  I’ve always maintained that the best way to get out of one is to pick up a middle grade book — particularly if it’s a spooky one. Picked this up with the intention of starting my summer horror reading. That didn’t really pan out, but it did get my reading in general back on track. A nice, fun, and quick read. It’s a Goosebumps throwback, down to the format and even the spectacular cover art, which was done by Tim Jacobus, natch. It does a fine job evoking the nostalgia-laden series, stumbling only towards the end, where it wraps up everything entirely too neatly, whereas Stine would have rather died before wasting an opportunity to go with a perfectly terrible and tawdry twist.

The Suitcase Clone by Robin Sloan. Read this in anticipation of Moonbound. Sloan is at his most playful here — both in terms of the language (the fun he has with words is palpable) and plot (veritably pulpy). Like in his novel Sourdough, of which this is sort of a prequel, food and drink play integral roles here, and the descriptions are nothing short of delectable. Like, I’m in no way a wine guy, but this made me want to be a wine guy, you know? Great stuff. Sloan is a perennial fave.

Moonbound by Robin Sloan. As with most things I end up truly loving, I have no idea how to talk about this book. It grabbed me in a way no book really has since Psalm for the Wild-Built. Which is apt, I think, because in a lot of ways they are very similar: stories about a future in which, rather than succumbing to despair and desperation, people find a way to go on. My own cynical streak aside, these stories of radical optimism always resonate with me in a deep and pointed manner — second only to stories that are about stories themselves. So is it any wonder that I loved this so much, when it’s a hopeful story about an optimistic future and that it’s also, at its core, about stories and storytelling? Another kind of storytelling I’m deeply drawn to are those that deal with the metatextual and the self-referential. It’s something that Sloan has always done particularly well, and here he cranks it up in a considerable manner. And the result is an extravagantly whimsical and imaginative fable about friendship and bravery and the stories we tell ourselves to get us through the dark. I couldn’t help but adore this book. It tugged at my heartstrings from the first chapter on. I didn’t want it to end. I want to read it again.  Favorite book of the year thus far, needless to say. 

I also managed to read two short stories this time around. To be perfectly candid I had forgotten all about them after a couple of weeks, which I guess is a reflection of how I enjoyed them as a whole.

“Uncharted Waters” by Sally Hepworth. Was in the mood for a summer mystery when I picked this up. It turned out to be less of a thriller than it was a domestic drama, but the vibes were undoubtedly summery. I thought it was okay. The story and the setting were fine, but like a lot of these Kindle-exclusive short stories, the beginning was way too drawn out while the climax felt entirely rushed and anticlimactic. Which is why it ended up being so forgettable, unfortunately. 

“Tiger Chair” by Max Brooks. I am a fairly big fan of Brooks, I would say. World War Z was a formative reading experience for me, and Devolution was one of my favorite Hallowe’en reads a couple of years ago. Brooks’ books are all about world-building, something he is obscenely good at. His settings are always particular and precise. But the thing that makes his stories stand out for me is the visceral level through which we experience these meticulous environments. Brooks’ impeccable skill at setting a scene shines here,  but ultimately I found that it lacked that certain vulnerable viewpoint. It is a terrifyingly realistic tale, though, and, I’m sure, painstakingly researched. But it left me feeling cold. 

Things have been kind of hectic on my side for a couple of weeks and, even though reading hasn’t been exactly a priority lately because of that, I’m thankful to all these stories, regardless of enjoyment, for providing some much needed escapism. Onwards and upwards.

MAY 2024

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Last time I complained about April being a rough month, and then May rolled around and was like ha ha ha and proceeded to kick my ass. So not much reading was done, needless to say. It was, sadly, pretty much the last thing I wanted to do.*

Butyeahanyway, I still managed to read a couple of things during the month of May, miraculously enough.

Alias Emma by Ava Glass. Really fun thriller with a stellar premise. Emma is a good character, if a little bland. The secondary characters are wonderful, though, and I wish some of their distinctiveness bled onto the protagonist. What really makes this book is its central conceit, which while contrived at times, is still believable and exciting enough to carry you on to the end. The climax proper was a bit off, though, feeling somehow both too sudden and too neat. Anyway, this is the start of a series, and the second book seems to take place abroad, and international spy stories are always fun.

This was, indeed, very much read because I was still on a spy high after finishing the original Bond series. The book suffered slightly from this because I found myself at times just wanting to read another Bond adventure. But that is, of course, entirely on me.

And that’s it from the book side of things. The only other thing I read was a short story, in keeping with my goal to read at least one every month.

“We Now Pause for Station Identification” by Gary A. Braunbeck. A considerably less whimsical version of Welcome to Night Vale. Neat little story with an effective execution but entirely too much going on. A lot of interesting ideas, but I wish the author would have stuck with one and developed it, instead of going with the throw-mud-against-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks approach that we got. Some solid, haunting imagery here, though, and I was captivated throughout.

I’m now in a bit of a slump after all that time not spent reading, but things on the personal front seem to be looking up, so fingers crossed that my reading will follow soon.

* Main Things I Wanted To Do:
       1) Rot in my bed
       2) Rot on my couch

APRIL 2024

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Oh hello, here’s what I read during April. Which was A Terrible Month in Any and All Aspects. But I digress. I didn’t have the headspace for much else so it was all, once again, pretty much all Bond. But I’m finally done with the Fleming books so maybe we’ll let that character take a break for a bit.

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service by Ian Fleming. Great story, but not my favorite. Which is surprising because this seems to be one of the more acclaimed entries. But I found Fleming’s writing, usually so vivid and robust, sloppy and middling for most of the thing. It made it clear to me that I had reached the point in the series where every subsequent book would dole out diminishing returns, and I was sadly right for the most part. It’s fascinating reading these, knowing something of Fleming’s life story. How his failing health colored so much of his writing during this period, how, expecting the inevitable, he seemed to be taking his outlandish self-insert of a protagonist to a gradual end as well. There’s a real, deep sense of melancholy with Bond in these last few novels. Accidie was the term Fleming liked to use—spiritual listlessness. It’s appropriate, I suppose—Bond began the series reeking of it, already willing to hang up his spurs halfway through Casino Royale, but this characteristic was progressively pushed to the back seat as the series went on getting bigger and more ambitious, mirroring Fleming’s own growing fortune and increasing playboy tendencies. But as his health continued to decline, so returned the acedia to the world of Bond. The ending of this novel is full of it, and it is a blunt and brutal and entirely tragic affair. And it’s to Fleming’s credit that these concluding chapters feature the novel’s most exciting and striking prose. All the time in the world, indeed.

I also watched and thoroughly enjoyed the film version of this. I was surprised by how faithful it was to its source material, too, and it made me wish Eon kept going down this route. Anyway, George Lazenby was a rad Bond and I will not hear otherwise.

The Jugger by Richard Stark. An attempt to break away from Bond. By going to another stoic scoundrel of a character lol. But this series is great and I want to continue with it. Apparently one of the weaker Parker novels, going by reviews, mostly because it shakes up the established formula – but I ended up liking it a lot precisely because it shook up the status quo. Parker is not dealing with the usual heist here, but a hang-up — although he goes about in the same exacting way he would a traditional caper. The central dilemma is small, almost domestic, but I still found it intriguing, particularly the chapters dealing with Captain Younger and how he learns about Sheer. Younger is the type of secondary character you would think would be a bore to read about, but Stark injects him with enough guile and shrewdness to make his point of view chapters fascinating. And, of course, it makes it all the more fun to read how Parker will inevitably get the better of him. Although not, as it turns out, without any repercussions. A very fun, surprisingly dark entry. 

The aforementioned unfavorable reviews I came across made me wonder if I was just something of a contrarian when it came to these older series, but I feel it’s probably that I’ll always be more partial to underdogs (see: Lazenby). 

You Only Live Twice by Ian Fleming. I enjoyed this one, if mostly for the travelogue aspect, which, when not being horribly patronizing and racist, was actually fairly fascinating. The grounded realism of the earlier novels is long gone, though, replaced with Fleming’s liberal interpretations of the Saint George and the Dragon legend, which he seemed to be particularly fond of. It makes for some entertaining, albeit flimsy flights of fantasy. And while I enjoyed the sheer wildness of this story, for the most part I found the whole “Blofeld trilogy” disappointing. In particular with its central villain. Gone is the shadowy, menacing figure so brilliantly introduced in Thunderball, replaced by a boring, bombastic buffoon deserving of all the cartoon parodies that were to come. The book’s climax is also Fleming at his most unhinged, beginning with a truly bizarre fourth wall break, and ending with an incredibly unnecessary scene featuring the female lead going into a sex shop to try and get Bond’s mojo back. Staggeringly silly stuff, particularly when compared to the previous novel’s devastating denouement. 

The Man with the Golden Gun by Ian Fleming. The famously unfinished novel. I actually liked it quite a bit, first-draft feeling and all. The middle bits are contrived as hell, but the opening and ending feature some of that familiar Fleming finesse that long felt absent. There’s a lot more I wish could have been done with the book, but it’s all moot, since the long-suffering, eternally exhausted author died before ever doing a polishing pass on it. And so the last proper James Bond adventure can’t help but feel anticlimactic. Still, though, in spite of a weak latter half, these books are one hell of a run. And what a legacy to leave behind.

Octopussy and The Living Daylights by Ian Fleming. Bit of a down note on which to end this most thrilling of journeys. Still, not entirely disappointing. The two title stories are among the best of the Bond short stories. I was impressed by “Octopussy” in particular, mainly because of the intimacy of the material. It felt like Fleming at his most personal, and indeed, knowing his biography, it sometimes seemed like he was just writing about himself. A melancholy tale, full of regret and pulp and aplomb. In a lot of ways it is the quintessential Bond tale, despite the fact that the titular character doesn’t figure much into the plot. I also enjoyed “007 in New York,” for a lot of personal reasons. It’s very much an inconsequential tale where the most outrageous thing that happens is Bond sharing his decadent recipe for scrambled eggs. It’s much more of a lifestyle piece, and I always enjoyed reading about the life of this most particular of characters. I also found the abrupt ending absolutely hilarious. As if Fleming just went “Sod it, I can’t be bothered,” which is just highly relatable as a writer. One of my main takeaways from this series is that I found Fleming as a writer so endlessly fascinating. Playful and irreverent, one of those authors who you can really see is working the story out on the page. And it’s such a gift.

“Belle Mer” by Luanne Rice was this month’s short story. A provocative but kind of nothing story that never really goes anywhere. Surprisingly overwrought, despite the brief length.

MARCH 2024

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Hihi here’s what I read in March (spoiler alert it’s mostly Bond stuff):

Dune by Frank Herbert. Already wrote about my experience with this, but yeah, this was great. Big worm! Big fan. And I’m terrible at watching movies in a timely manner so, no, I still haven’t seen part two, thanks. 

This month’s short story was “Jim Martini” by Michael Bible. A thoroughly modern corporate tale that at times reminded me of one of Mad Men’s surreal interludes. (Absolute favorite show, so not a bad thing.) Irreverent and playful. I dug it a lot.  ⠀

And that’s it for the regular reads. Literally everything else was Bond, because I am a ridiculous, obsessive person. 

Trigger Mortis by Anthony Horowitz. I just wish Horowitz wrote more of these.

For Your Eyes Only by Ian Fleming. Very interesting collection of short stories that find Fleming further experimenting with his Bond formula—to varying success. I didn’t think much of the first two stories, but really enjoyed the last three. In particular “The Hildebrand Rarity,” which, with its stunning underwater scenes, is a showcase of Fleming’s mastery at establishing mood and atmosphere. Also I do love a capsular setting, of which the luxurious yacht at the center of the story is certainly one of Fleming’s most opulent.  

Thunderball by Ian Fleming. Enjoyment of this was a bit marred by rewatching the movie and not being too thrilled by it. Still, a solid Bond entry. The Bahamas location was just great. Loved that Leiter got an extended role here, too. Also we got to go both inside a fancy yacht and a high-tech submarine, and that’s just super neat. 

The Spy Who Loved Me by Ian Fleming. Fleming’s infamous failed experiment. Admire him for going so out of his own comfort zone, but this is truly a royal mess. His female narrative voice is deeply unconvincing, for one. For another, the structure simply doesn’t come together. The first part reads like the maudlin diary entries of a juvenile caricature, while the second is a mid-century gangster farce, with Fleming at his most intolerable in terms of dialogue. Only the final part manages to feel like a Bond book, but it comes a bit too little, too late.   

And then I just read a bunch of Bond comics. I read too many of them, because, again, I am a ridiculous person.

James Bond: Vargr / James Bond: Eidolon by Warren Ellis, James Masters. Both re-reads. I had forgotten, but these were actually the first Bond things I ever read, having picked it up back when they came out because I was a big Ellis fan. I enjoyed them both a lot back then and, naturally, after having read entirely too much about this ridiculous character, I appreciate them a lot more now. 

James Bond: Hammerhead by Andy Diggle, Luca Casalanguida. Reading this after the Ellis and Masters run was like going from Casino Royale to Die Another Day. Fun, but lacked the wit and finesse of the previous comics.

James Bond: Service by Kieron Gillen, Antonio Fuso. Love Gillen but this was just bland as hell.

James Bond: Black Box by Benjamin Percy, Rapha Lobosco. Liked this one a bit more than the other non-Ellis runs. I feel like it did the globetrotting thing exceptionally well. And I enjoyed how simple and modern the storyline was. The Dynamite comics do a better job at bringing Bond to contemporary times better than the films, I feel like. They’re great at making our current, contentious times almost feel like another sort of war — neither hot or cold but perpetually hazy and chaotic. 

James Bond: Kill Chain by Andy Diggle, Luca Casalanguida. Liked this one a hell of a lot more than their previous effort. It felt much more in line with the Fleming novels. Bringing SMERSH into the modern day was an ingenious move, and having that not only feel believable but inevitable was just skillful storytelling.

James Bond: The Body by Aleš Kot, Various. One of the most fascinating Bond stories I’ve come across. One thing that I love about the Fleming novels is how surprisingly often they go into Bond’s psyche, something the films hardly ever do — at least until Craig’s tenure. The Body, though, is a thorough character study about what it means to be a blunt instrument wielded by a fallible, amoral government. The only place it falters is that at some point it feels like you’re reading about someone entirely different from the peculiar, singular character Fleming created. Still, some absolutely brilliant storytelling here.

James Bond: Himeros by Rodney Barnes, Antonio Fuso, Giorgio Pontrelli. This is what I mean by the Bond comics really going all out to make him a contemporary figure. This is an Epstein storyline, and not even a thinly-veiled one — the only things changed are the names. I guess it’s problematic in the sense that in this fantasy world Bond prevails and drags this evil ordeal out of the shadows and back into the light, but what is fantasy for if not for wishful thinking sometimes?

And now the only remaining question is: Will I read something not Bond-related any time soon? Ha ha ha who knows I don’t goodbye

 

DUNE by Frank Herbert

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dune by frank herbertReading Frank Herbert’s Dune turned out to be a downright mesmerizing experience. Which was surprising to me because while I have obviously known about the book for ages I always assumed it would be a dry, dense, and difficult read. It turned out to be anything but. I found myself really taken in by Herbert’s prose, which is really stark and straightforward even when the story takes the most psychedelic of turns towards the climax. “Organic,” was the word that kept coming to mind. This story feels like a living, breathing thing in a way precious few others do. It’s no wonder it’s endlessly compared with The Lord of the Rings. It lives in that same mythic mind field.

I genuinely have no idea how so many people consider this a fully stand-alone novel, though, since the ending is so abrupt and honestly quite anticlimactic. Supposedly Herbert decided to write Messiah partly as a response to the public’s reaction to Dune’s themes, but I find it hard to believe that he didn’t have a sequel already in mind. As dense as the novel is, it does feel very much like the first half of a story. (Which is why I got the second book as soon as I finished this one. I look forward to reading it.)

But also, despite all the complex, intricate lore and cachet surrounding this classic of science fiction, at the end of the day, the story’s just a hell of a lot of fun, too. I had a blast reading this. Big worm! Big fan.

FEBRUARY 2024

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Hello again here’s what I read in February:

Misery by Stephen King. I spent a lot of January reading about writers and figured I’d continue with that trend. This was as intense as I expected it to be, but also surprisingly psychedelic, which I really dug. A classic for a reason. ⠀

Lunar New Year Love Story by Gene Luen Yang, LeUyen Pham. Yang is one of my favorite authors, so I bought this without even reading the synopsis. I figured the title was fairly clear-cut, so I went in expecting nothing more than a simple, straightforward love story. A rare case of me underestimating one of the most thoughtful and nuanced writers currently working today. This is still very much a love story, to be sure, but it’s also a poignant, melancholy and at times strikingly dark exploration about the relationships we build and the ones we destroy, both romantic and familial. I wasn’t initially impressed with Pham’s artwork, but it ended up growing on me. Her detail work is wonderful and she portrays movement beautifully (traditional lion dancing features heavily in the story and some of the spreads depicting it are jaw-droppingly gorgeous). Wonderful read. ⠀

Artificial Condition by Martha Wells. This is the first book I’ve read so far this year that I didn’t completely love, which says a lot about the kind of reading I’ve been doing lately because this was still a hell of a lot of fun. I just really like Murderbot as a character and enjoy reading about its anxious shenanigans. ⠀

The Princess Bride by William Goldman. Despite the fact that I’ve long said this is my favorite story in the world, this was actually only my second time reading this novel. It’s a perfect book, really, one that hits all my spots: metafictional, whimsical, fantastic, earnest without ever losing its droll, playful edge. ⠀

I also read some short stories. I’m trying to make an effort to read more short stories.

“The Last Serving” by Lincoln Michel. Really enjoyed this Twilight Zone-style tale about what meat consumption could look like in the future. Short and sweet and perfectly morbid. ⠀

“The Krakatoan” by Maria Dahvana Headley. I had only read one other thing by this author (The End of the Sentence, co-written with Kat Howard). While I loved that excellent horror tale, this one just really didn’t do it for me. ⠀

I fell into a slump halfway through the month (which I hauled myself out of by reading Dune of all things), but still a very solid month, I think.

JANUARY 2024

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Oh hi hello here’s what I read during the month of January.

Christmas Days by Jeanette Winterson. I observed the Twelve Days of Christmas by reading one story from this for the past, well, twelve days. It’s my first Winterson book, but it certainly won’t be the last, as I just fell absolutely head-over-heels in love with her writing. In this immaculate, gorgeous collection, Winterson runs through the gamut of the Christmas spectrum: from traditional ghost stories to whimsical fables to mawkish, sickly-sweet declarations of love — she writes it all with a poetic aplomb that I found irresistible. This extends even to her cooking instructions. In fact, a lot of the passages that affected me the most came not from the proper fictional stories themselves, but from the lengthy personal anecdotes that preceded the recipes included here (a notion that’s become something of a cultural meme, but in Winterson’s deft hands, it simply becomes another space in which to write another magical thing). Just a stunning, beautiful piece of work that I can easily see myself revisiting each year as part of my own personal Twelvetide tradition.

Bookshops & Bonedust by Travis Baldree. The coziest way to start the new year. Wrote about this here.

Amphigorey / Ascending Peculiarity by Edward Gorey. Gorey was a wonderful weirdo and I love him. Also wrote about this one.

Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey. I love reading about creative peoples’ creative habits and this was a delightful collection.

Terry Pratchett: A Life With Footnotes by Rob Wilkins. Already wrote about my experiences with this one. I miss Terry.

The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett. Wrote about this too. I really, really miss Terry.

My Father, the Pornographer by Chris Offutt. Heart-wrenching story about fathers and writing and obsession. One of the most fascinating memoirs I’ve ever read.

I also read some short stories:

“The Beautiful People” by Robert Bloch I enjoyed mostly because at times it read like a particularly weird episode of Mad Men. An entertaining little shocker of a story, though. Nothing mind-blowing, but Bloch’s writing is effortless, making for the smoothest of reads.

“Selfies” by Lavie Tidhar had a great and creepy concept but was also entirely too short.

And that’s it. This was the best reading month I’ve had since last October. Which is surprising because January is usually a very uneven, slow period for me, characterized by reading slumps and just general exhaustion after the holiday season. But not only did I manage to read quite a bit this time around, I also ended up loving pretty much everything I picked up. It’s a nice change of pace. And a hell of a start to my reading year.

THE WEE FREE MEN by Terry Pratchett

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the wee free men by terry pratchettI had to check. The Wee Free Men is the first Terry Pratchett book I’ve picked up in nearly eight years. I honestly couldn’t tell you why it’s been so long, because I adore Pratchett’s writing. Maybe somewhere deep down I feel I should deprive myself of wonderful things. I don’t know. In any case, Rob Wilkins’s wonderful biography shook me out of this foolish reverie, and I can only be grateful, because of course I ended up loving Tiffany Aching’s first outing, in the fiercest of ways.

“Fierce” is the appropriate word. Because while ostensibly a children’s book, Wee Free Men is also a sterling showcase of how Pratchett channeled his famous anger. An anger that stemmed not from malice or pettiness, but from a place of deep empathy. He took note of the myriad of ridiculous ways people could be awful to one another, how easily we can slip into selfish, sinister roles. He witnessed, in short, the injustice of the world, and he raged righteously and furiously against it. Thus: Tiffany Aching, an angry character if there ever was one — and one of the finest protagonists I’ve ever come across.

Like Terry, Tiffany chooses to be pragmatic with her rage. She may come from a small, sometimes infuriatingly closed-minded community, but it is her home. Her parents may not exactly pay much attention to her, but she knows she is cherished and cared for all the same. She has a little brother, who is often as sticky as he is annoying. She’s not entirely sure she loves him, not really, but she figures that doesn’t matter — he is her duty and her responsibility. So when outside forces threaten the safety of these things Tiffany considers her own, well, she just won’t stand for it. She will, indeed, fight back (with the help of some particularly aggressive and devoted blue-skinned pictsies). And it is a glorious and beautiful thing to behold.

The Wee Free Men is a story about family and duty; freedom and rebellion; the magic of the mundane. About how vital and important it is to take care of one another, not just because of sentimental reasons, but simply because that is how the flock carries on, forever and ever, wold without end. It is one of the finest things Pratchett ever wrote.

TERRY PRATCHETT: A LIFE WITH FOOTNOTES by Rob Wilkins

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terry pratchett by rob wilkinsI laughed. I cried. I cried while laughing and I laughed while crying. Reading Terry Pratchett: A Life With Footnotes, Rob Wilkins’s biography of his deceased employer slash mentor slash partner was a beautiful emotional journey.

Usually I prefer my biographies to be a bit more impartial towards their subjects. A healthy distance, I find, makes for a clearer, more cohesive profile. Wilkins was literally unable to do that, so instead he delivered a profoundly intimate portrayal of a beloved friend – and the book is all the better for it, which goes to show how much I know.

It is also an exceptionally candid account, which surprised me to no end. These sorts of biographies tend to be written with rose-colored glasses on the author’s face, with the most unpleasant aspects of a person’s life either glossed over or simply not dwelled upon. Wilkins doesn’t shy away from the uncouth, churlish aspects of his relationship with the writer, who could be flighty and temperamental in the best of times, and a cantankerous, capricious bastard at the worst. It’s a refreshingly raw and honest approach, and it makes the more heartfelt, touching moments which abound in this book all the more pointed and impactful.

And it’s a remarkably funny book – as it damn well should be. Terry would be ineffably proud of his personal assistant.

But in the end the best possible thing I could say about this biographical tome is that it made me pick up a Pratchett book immediately after finishing it. Terry’s novels are, after all, small miracles, as Neil Gaiman sagely observed. Rob Wilkins tells us exactly why.

AMPHIGOREY by Edward Gorey

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I got the first Amphigorey volume last year after finishing Mark Dery’s biography of Edward Gorey, Born to Be Posthumous. I finally picked it back up almost a full year later, and have been cheerfully reading a book from it every other day.

Until this lovely, lugubrious collection, The Gashlycrumb Tinies was the only proper Gorey book I had ever read. Which is wild even to me, considering how much love I have for the man’s art and style. This veritable beast of a volume boasts books like The Unstrung Harp, The Doubtful Guest, The Object-Lesson, The Willowdale Handcar, and The Westing Wing, however — stories that are regarded among Gorey’s best, so I very much feel as if I dove right into the deep end of bibliography.

The aforementioned books are all brilliant, but it’s The Unstrung Harp that in particular called out to, with its magnificently farcical and melodramatic portrayal of an author’s life. One surprising thing I learned from Dery’s book is that Gorey actually thought of himself foremost as a writer, and then as an artist — a notion that is clearly evident in this story.

It still stands that the man’s art often spoke louder than words, though, so I figured it pertinent to include some of my preferred pieces in this post.