Jack O’Connell, whose Word Made Flesh is one of my favorite books from the last decade, is sitting in over at Jeff Vandermeer’s site this week. His opening salvo is about his “baptism” into the Fever of The Word. It is something infectious, mind you, and it makes me want to either (a) invent a time machine so that I can go back to that same time of my youth and re-experience some of those initiatory moments into the glory of language, or (b) drag my son to the bookstore and make him pick out a book. “That one, damnit! You’ll read that one. Tonight, and you will learn to love it!” Which is a terribly draconian way to try to re-invent a moment of time that has passed, and probably not a very effective method.
I think I’ll default to (c) and go home and find The Resurrectionist from wherever it has disappeared in my office. Less quantum math in that choice.
[For those unfamiliar with Jack, Ellen Datlow put together a rundown on his novels that is a good primer. And, ah, yeah, I never read The Skin Palace. Huh, well I guess I’d better sort that out.]