Keeping to the subject of Lost (see below), Flavorwire offers “a guide to the best [JJ] Abrams-approved, Lost-themed books worth reading.”
With sixty-two years between them, A Merritt’s The Moon Pool and Philip K Dick’s Valis, in particular, offer readers an idea of the wealth of vastly divergent scifi created in the 20th century.
Like a few million others, I’m ecstatic that Lost returns tonight for its final season.
As I was reading über-geek Doc Jensen’s latest over at EW.com, the writer in me was equally ecstatic to read his hopes for the last of Lost:
I hope the writers execute season 6 in such a way that first and foremost pleases THEMSELVES, because that will be the most interesting permutation. Then, secondarily, I hope they write the show to please ME.
I believe that the primary calling of any writer is to please himself. His audience, therefore, must come second. If a writer can’t please or entertain himself, what hope of pleasing or entertaining others?
I am compelled to write; part of what compels me is the desire to uncover the mystery of the story and the world I am creating. I have to be my biggest fan. If I let myself down . . .
FirstShowing’s Ethan Anderton discusses with enthusiasm the new sci-fi thriller The Panopticon (a spec script by Lost story editor Craig Rosenberg), but does warn:
A saving-the-world plotline might seem a bit heavy handed nowadays . . .
Um, Ethan, you mind telling that to the dunderheads in Copenhagen?
Again, on “genre” and disrespect . . . Stuart Evers discussing prejudice and the Harrogate Crime Writing festival:
For all David Simon’s protestations, The Wire is a cop show. A cop show that redefines the genre and refuses to be limited by it, but a cop show nonetheless. Mainstream critics have called it a masterpiece, one of the best television programmes ever made. I can’t imagine this being the case if it was just a novel. No one has given the same rapturous reception to one of [George] Pelecanos’s novels, for example, though he was sanguine about it all afterwards—“So long as people read the books, I’m into it,” he said.
Although I hate comparing two different mediums, Evers is correct. Novels may transcend their genres, but they’re never considered literary masterpieces.
Pity poor Mervyn Peake . . .
With newspapers dying—and the Fourth Estate in general undergoing a crisis of relevance—is it any surprise that illnesses become pandemics overnight . . . that Al Gore’s siren song is preached from news desks with apocalyptic fervour . . . that minor blips become major crises before “crossroads” or “points of no return” are in any danger of ever being reached?
Maintain your sanity by never forgetting the Fourth Estate’s philosophy: “Shriek the loudest to reach the biggest audience!”
Funnily enough, the louder they shriek, the more I shut them out. After all, silence is golden.
Know how the dinosaurs figured out they were extinct? They never did; they just were.
Has any man ever uttered greater words of inspiration? Indeed, these are words not only to live by, but words to die by:
No matter how bad it gets in your life, there is always something that’s gonna make it much worse.
Thank you, Coach.
The LA Times revisits Patrick White’s brilliant Voss:
“Voss” is a historical novel, set in the 19th century, and its eponymous hero is based on a doomed German explorer who vanished into Australia’s dead heart, the brutal and ancient desert that occupies much of the continent, then roamed only by aboriginal tribesmen. Voss’ fatal flaw, and, oddly, his immense appeal as a character, is his pigheaded megalomania. Asked if he has studied the map of where he intends to go, Voss replies: “The map? I will first make it.”
As mentioned in these pages before, Voss is a staggering work of imagination and Patrick White thoroughly deserves a new audience.
Given the world’s financial mess, there’s no better time to spend your money wisely. Thirteen dollars for a novel costs far less than a night out at the movies; and a novel like Voss will actually make you more intelligent, unlike the rancid pablum that issues forth from Hollywood’s decaying bowels.