I’m a junker. This is not a confession, just a statement of self-evident fact. No, our house is not packed to the rafters with antique garbage (or any other kind). We buy very selectively, and “the hunt is always more fun than the kill,” metaphorically speaking. But that hunt is something Carol and I do for fun, and I was more or less hooked the day I found a Hiroshi Yoshida woodblock print for fifteen bucks, when a comparable one sold at auction for $600+. “Antique” stores, flea markets, whatever. If we find one we have to check it out. This interest branches out into other areas—Woodblock prints, Japanese swords and mountings, and other things I have neither the time nor money to pursue properly. But I’m a writer. I research. It’s almost instinctive. So is learning a little bit about a lot of things, which helps you to know where to dig when more depth is required for a project. Plus, anything that interests me, I have to know more about it. Human nature, that is. Continue reading
Author Archives: ogresan
Reflections on “The Tongue-Cut Sparrow”
As with most folklore there are variations on this story, but this is the basic tale–a poor but kindly old couple more or less adopt a sparrow because they like to hear it singing. A bad-tempered neighbor doesn’t like the sparrow at all, because it wakes her up in the morning. So she decides to catch it and split its tongue so it can’t sing anymore. This she does, and the maimed bird flies away. In sorrow, the old couple go looking for the bird, but when they follow in the direction it flew, what they find is a magnificent mansion where they are warmly greeted by a man who identifies himself as the sparrow. This is not so strange in context since, in Japanese folklore, almost all animals were thought to be shapeshifters. Regardless, the old couple are treated to great hospitality. When they are ready to leave, the sparrow offers the couple their choice of two baskets as gifts. One is small and light, the other rather large and heavy. Still in sorrow for what happened to their friend and not wishing to impose on his generosity, they pick the small basket. Once they return home, they discover that the basket is magic, and will produce whatever they wish: rice, cloth, even gold. The poor old couple are no longer poor. The bad-tempered neighbor, seeing their good fortune, asks how they came by the basket and they tell her. At this point the neighbor resolves to visit the sparrow herself. Continue reading
Review: Giant Bones by Peter S. Beagle
Giant Bones by Peter S. Beagle. ROC Books, 1997
Giant Bones is a collection of six stories set in the world of The Innkeeper’s Song , which was apparently quite a surprise to the author, as he explained in his Foreward “I don’t do sequels.” Here is an author who prides himself on doing something different in every book, and yet here he was, writing, if not necessarily sequels, a group of stories set in the same universe, a universe that Beagle thought he was done with. The universe itself clearly had other ideas.
“The Last Song of Sirit Byar” is the story of a legendary bard, as told by his rather unusual assistant, and the power of a bard’s final song. “Lal and Soukyan” is the only thing approaching a sequel and concerns the two title characters, very important players in The Innkeeper’s Song, and how and why they met again for one last adventure many years later. “The Magician of Karakosk” concerns an untutored wizard named Lanak and the true nature of magic. While it has no characters in common with Beagle’s novel, readers of that novel should recognize the sort of wizard that Lanak is, and why there is a vast and profound distinction between a wizard in Beagle’s universe and someone who simply throws spells around, as one scheming queen soon learns. “The Tragical Historie of Jiril’s Players” should resonate with anyone who has ever been involved in theatre. The author doesn’t even consider it a fantasy, but I do. Despite the fact that, in the context of his universe–and most others–it could have happened. “Choushi-Wai’s Story” follows from “Lal and Soukyan” in the character of Choushi-Wai herself, a young girl who appears in that previous story to learn the ways of the inbarati, the storytellers of Lal’s homeland, and then applies them as the framing device for her own story that might, just might, be my favorite piece in the whole book. The book finishes with the title story, “Giant Bones,” a sort of demented bedtime story about an obscure piece of family history, for some chosen values of family that reach beyond blood.
Besides all being set in the universe of The Innkeeper’s Song, some of the stories interconnect through common characters, like Choushi-Wai in both “Choushi-Wai’s Story” and “Lal and Soukyan.” Some connect with common references, but for anyone who has read The Innkeeper’s Song (and if not, why?), there’s never any doubt as so where you are and who these people are, even the ones you’ve never met outside of this particular book. That connection is usually a strength, but one of the few quibbles I have about this book is the same one I had about the novel—Beagle’s tendency to make up creatures, give them a function, but seldom describes them adequately, or sometimes at all. We do finally get to know rock-targs and churfas a good deal better, but most of the rest you have to draw from context and function. It’s almost on a par with the old science-fiction writing advice “never call a rabbit a smerp.” Beagle seems a little guilty of that in this universe, but once you get to know the creatures a little better, it works. It just doesn’t work right away, and can throw you out of the story if you’re not expecting it. If you get your baptism of the new flora and fauna in the novel, it helps a great deal in appreciating Giant Bones, where Beagle has even less room for explanations. Except for the churfas. Those bad-tempered, flatulent, odorous, but ultimately lovable not-horses. And the far less than lovable rock-targs. These two are almost worth the price of admission all by themselves.
All that aside, these are Peter Beagle stories. If you already know what that means, I don’t need to tell you. If you don’t know, well, a few pages of reading beats an encyclopedia of explanation.
Writing Exercise #5
I think writing exercise #5 was meant to be a bit surreal–write a story from the viewpoint of a freshly scrubbed floor, 15 minute time limit. Heh. You’re not going to throw an old animist with that one.
“Planks”
I’ve heard of something called “planking,” but I don’t think that’s what it meant when my tree went to the sawmill. It meant planks. Literally. They turned my graceful, beautiful old alder into planks, and since I was of the tree and in the tree, I went along. It’s not as if I had much choice.
I’m not sure what I was being punished for. I bet it was Zeus. “King of the Gods” and all, sure, but he never handled rejection well. I mean, I could have said yes, it’s not that I would have minded so much, but then there was Hera to contend with. Believe me, being sawn into lumber isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person.
So I thought, fine, I’m a spirit that inhabits a stack of planks now. No more wind rustling my leaves. No more dodging the satyrs in the sacred grove…well, now that I think about it, the situation wasn’t all bad. And most of my planks stayed in the same bundle, which kept my spirit more or less intact and not very much changed. I was hoping to be made into a nice boat, perhaps. I hadn’t seen much of the world, there in the forest, but the nymphs talked about it all the time, and sometimes the nereids visited. I thought I should like to sail on the ocean, if I couldn’t live quietly in my grove, but no. Apparently, Zeus held a grudge.
Now my tree is a floor, and in a sense, so am I. In something called an “apartment.” A man’s apartment. it’s a lively place, I’ll grant you. He has friends, and I like the parties, even though people drop things and he’s not much for cleaning. I could overlook that. After all, he’s kind of cute, for a mortal. It’s taken some adjustment, but I’m learning to work my spirit free again so I can roam as in the old days, but I can’t meet him like this. Not yet, anyway. I’m filthy…
His mother is coming. There’s a sense of urgency, but I’m not complaining. He’s straightening the place up, and wonder of wonders–he’s actually mopping. Not a professional job, but not too bad. I’ve got a bit of a shine. Much better. I can do this.
Maybe he’ll think I’m a ghost. I sort of am, in a way, but I am also his floor. And I am, yes, very much real, and alive, and perhaps I will show him. Once his mother leaves, of course.
Realms of Fantasy-A Personal Eulogy
Magazines are born and die. This is a fact in and out of the field. I found myself making a list of just the print magazines I have known that are no longer here. In no particular order:
Galaxy
If
Omni
Twilight Zone Magazine
Amazing SF
Fantastic Stories
Adventures of Sword & Sorcery
Cosmos
American Fantasy Magazine
SF Age
Tomorrow: SF
Quantum SF
Odyssey
3SF
Pirate Writings
Aboriginal
Pulphouse
Century
Argosy
Fantasy Book
Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine
Alchemy
Troll
Dragon
Unearth
Shayol
Galileo
I’m sure I’m missing a few (dozen), and that’s just the print list. Online/electronic hasn’t been immune either (Sci-Fi.Com, Aeon, Future Orbits, etc). That’s reality. I know it and you guys know it. Some of these paid well, some hardly paid at all. Some had more prestige and influence than their circulations would suggest, but one and all they’re gone now and every one was a loss in its own right. Now we can add Realms of Fantasy (RoF)to that very long list. Continue reading