Of Trolls and Moon Nazis

.

I was going to post something serious and sensitive and literary today.  I didn't plan on blogging about a movie I haven't yet seen.  And I certainly didn't intend to blog about a movie about Nazis on the Moon.

But then I ran across the above clip of the first four minutes of Iron Sky.   I'd seen the trailer (click here) and was hoping that it would be the kind of guilty pleasure you don't tell your dissertation advisor about.  Now, I'm convinced that it is.

I've just put in an order at Netflix.

What convinced me to blog about the movie, though, was a credit visible at the very end:  Based on Story by Johanna Sinisalo. 

Sinisalo is a Finnish writer who won the Finlandia Prize for literature in 2000 for her first novel, Ennen päivänlaskua ei voi Ennen päivänlaskua ei voi.  This was published in England as Not Before Sunset and in America as Troll: A Love Story, received glowing reviews, and never got the attention it deserved.

The novel begins when a young gay man chances upon a group of hooligans torturing an animal --a dog, he thinks -- and chases them away.  He finds himself the guardian of an injured troll.  One which, as it heals, exudes pheromones that can make pretty much anyone sexually irresistible.  There ensues a graceful (and slim!) novel of eros and alienation. 

As a work of mainstream literature, Troll is pretty much everything you want from a novel.  As a science fiction novel . . . ditto.  Sinisalo creates a convincing parallel evolution for her trolls, documented in excerpts from created texts and (I think) real ones as well.  All of which is, by evidence of a top-notch translation, written in a lovely and lucid prose style.  I'd recommend this book for pretty much anybody.

And, as it turns out, she can write trash as well!  Good trash.  That's a talent every bit as rare as being able to write good serious literature.

 I'll let you know how the movie turns out.  Pretty awesome, I'm betting.

 *

Dragonstairs Press Stirs and . . . Awakens?

.

Today's post is a little late because . . .  Well, to explain, I have to go back a bit.

Those who pay attention to these things know that my wife, Marianne Porter, is the self-styled "nano-publisher" behind Dragonstairs Press, which has done a number of very handsome limited edition chapbooks of my work.


The chapbooks aren't all, however.  One project that's been simmering away for over a year is Sam the Asteroid, a children's book based on a story I told Sean when he was very, very young. 

This is not your usual children's book.  In fact, Marianne is toying with using the blurb I wrote for it:  Black Humor for Small Children!  

Anyway, the art (by Adam Cusack) has been assembled, the publishing program bought, sworn at, and mastered, and the tech team -- that would be Sean -- has been recruited.  So this morning Marianne said to me, "Today we [insert publishing babble here] -- so if you want to make any changes to the text, you'd better do it now."

So that's what I've been doing all day.  Reworking and revising the text for Sam the Asteroid.  I'll keep you posted on when it comes available.  Or, you can watch the Dragonstairs website here.  Pre-publication orders are not currently being accepted.

There's also another Dragonstairs project in the offing -- and it's a strange and wonderful one too.  I'll keep you posted on that one as well.

 *

Revisitng the Re-Barnes

.

Yesterday, I finally visited the Barnes Foundation in its new home on the Parkway, and I am here to report that it's a very strange experience indeed to see rooms you've visited many times before whisked away and recreated in an entirely different building.

The new rooms have exactly the same proportions as the old ones, and the art is hung in them in exactly the same positions as the old ones.  In most ways this is good.  Albert C. Barnes, the man who assembled this astonishing collection at a time when the art establishment of Philadelphia wouldn't touch a Cezanne with a ten-foot pole, had an extremely good eye and strong theories about art.  He created the original foundation as a teaching museum, and the paintings are placed so that various aspects of them can be compared and contrasted. 

In two ways, this is not so good.  First, because the rooms are relatively small, only a limited number of tickets are sold in any given time period, and since they almost always sell out, the rooms are always crowded.  Also, because the rest of the walls were full, a few of the paintings are hung high over the doorways, where they're almost impossible to see.  One Rousseau in particular makes me want to slap a ladder against the doorway and clamber up to see exactly what it's a painting of.

This came about because some years back the Barnes Foundation went bankrupt (this is a long story, involving race, rich people, parking, and above all, lawsuits -- lots and lots of lawsuits) and the only way that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania would agree to fork over tens of millions of dollars to keep it afloat was in exchange for moving the collection to a new museum in Philadelphia.  

Still, it's a wonderful collection, wherever one sees it. The Modigliani Redheaded Girl in an Evening Dress is as refreshing as a cold lemonade on a hot day.  The Van Gogh of cottages under a pink sky is just plain amazing.  The Courbet of a young woman peeling off her stockings preparatory to sex is quite simply pornographic -- and I mean that approvingly.  The Miros are a joy to see.  Seeing them again was like visiting old friends.

The exterior of the building is a little annoying when you're wandering about it on a cold winter day, looking for the entrance with very clues to help you find it.  But the interior is comfortable and pleasantly workable.  Lots of space has been added for people to rest in after all that staring at the art.

Because you have to order the tickets beforehand, the museum-goers are the most reverent batch you've ever seen in your life.  I've been in cathedrals that drew less solemn crowds.

Above:  I honestly couldn't tell you if this is the room from the old Barnes or the new one.  They're virtually identical.

*

Okay, I Admit It, I Have Nothing to Say Today....

.

Okay, I admit it.  I have nothing to say today.

So here's a photo of Miss Helen Hope Mrrrlees rejecting your speciesist objectification of feline beauty.

I'm sorry to have to be the one to convey her opinion of you to you.

Incidentally, this is as closed as I've ever seen Miss Hope's eyes.  She sleeps with them open.

*

The Truth About Science Fiction Writers

.

Years ago, at a convention, I was spinning out one of my favorite fantasies about how pleasant it would be if there were such a thing as a mainstream literary conventions:  Big-name guests of honor, panels on the New Realistic, and so on.  Gordon Van Gelder listened patiently, and then said, "Nobody could afford it."

"Eh?" I said.

"Mainstream writers charge for public appearances.  It's a major part of how they make a living."

There then ensued a multi-person conversation on the economics of mainstream author appearances which I'll spare you because I remember none of the specifics, but which would have made a good panel, had it been premeditated.

Science fiction conventions are an accident of history.  Hugo Gernsback put letters columns in his magazines to boost circulation, and included the addresses in them.  Scientifiction enthusiasts started writing letters to each other, and thus fandom was born.  Fans wanted to get together, and so they created conventions.  Many of these fans were also writers and so editors like John W. Campbell were available for the conventions.  Science fiction writers got no respect from the literary world, so they were pleased to show up and be lionized.  Add time, shake, and you have what we have today.

Similarly, due to this accident of history, science fiction writers have a long history of helping other writers learn how to write and how to sell.  This is not how it works in the larger literary world, alas.  As a group, genre writers are nicer to each other than mainstream writers are.

This all comes to mind because at the Pen & Pencil club the other day, Gardner Dozois said, "Do you know how much money George R. R. Martin made last year?  I wouldn't mention it, except that I saw it in a newspaper, so it's a matter of public record."  Then he mentioned a number that was, let's say, remarkably large.

We were sitting at a table of writers and journalists and one nano-publisher, and after we'd discussed this matter for a bit, Tom Purdom remarked, "Do you see how remarkable this is?  We have a group of writers discussing the financial good fortune of a friend -- and nobody's said a bad word about him!"

Which made us all feel pretty good about the cohort we belong to.  Somebody raised a glass and proposed a toast:  "To George R. R. Martin!"

"To George R. R. Martin!" everybody cried, and drank to his health and continued prosperity.

It was a good moment, and I for one was grateful to George for it.

*

Bright Lights, City Mountains

.

I am currently working on a chapter of Hunting the Phoenix, my new Darger & Surplus novel, set in Guilin. 

Guilin is one of the most beautiful places I've never been to.  I'd arranged to go there (among other places) earlier this year, but a badly-timed cold (the airport in Beijing has thermometer gates to catch anyone running a fever so they can be placed in quarantine) put the kibosh to that plan.

Nevertheless, Marianne went and afterward told me about it.  I've been dreaming about it ever since.

Guilin is a city of roughly one million people, punctuated by karst mountains.  Wooded mountains, right in the middle of the city!  Even better, these are those beautiful mountains that Chinese artists have been painting since forever -- the ones that look too good to be true.  It turns out that in the morning when the mists gather about their feet, they're even lovelier than you refused to believe they could be.

All of the mountains, and there are many of them, are riddled with caves, both natural and man-made.  They're all hollow!

On the waterfront, at night, all the buildings are lit up with colored LEDs.

Oh, man.  I have got to return to China.

*

"Ahem"

.

My Monday post about my nonfiction elicited an email from my friend and occasional publisher, Henry Wessels, with the heading of "Ahem."  He wished it pointed out that What Can Be Saved From The Wreckage?, my survey of James Branch Cabell's life and works, can still be bought from the publisher at its original (and quite reasonable) price.

Point well taken.  For ordering info, click here.

Cabell's was a maddeningly hard to judge individual.  He married an older woman for her money and said so in his autobiographical writings.  Yet he not only refused to have his Down's Syndrome son institutionalized at a time when that was the expected thing, he included the boy in his social life.  He had a wicked sense of humor, which he frequently chose not to share with his readers.  He was a curmudgeon who could charm the pants off an interviewer, even in his curdled old age.  Every time you think you've got a handle on him, he does something to confound you.

Which is, I believe, as he intended.

As for my book . . . It's primary virtue, I believe, is for those who want to go voyaging in his fiction but do not know where in his approximately fifty books to begin.  I may well be wrong in my judgment of some of his books ( Neil Gaiman, for one, wishes I had been more bullish on a couple), but I am not wrong in my ranking.  Start with those I praise highest, leave those I liked least for least, and when you've decided your appetite has been sated, you can leave off with a clean conscience.

.