Jim Thompson: THE KILLER INSIDE ME

After reading back-to-back Peter Rabes, I speculated that I was perhaps done with noir, at least for the time being. Nope; wasn't so. Just, what, two days later, I picked up Jim Thompson's The Killer Inside Me, perhaps the most chilling short novel I've read in quite some time. And a roman noir par excellance, oh yes indeed (I don't know if I've ever strung that much French together at once, or even if I've done it correctly this time around. Mon Dieu!). This is particularly American noir, however, and a particular school of even that: Texas noir. Granted, rural Texas isn't the first place that springs to anybody's mind when they think noir, but it's been done, and done well, more times than you might think (I can't recall the name of the James Reasoner novel that introduced me to the subgenre...)--but never, in my experience, better than this. I've read my share of first-person-killer novels, some good and some bad, but this one takes the cake. Jim Thompson writes like he's actually punched someone's stomach so hard he could feel their spine snap on his fist. Beyond that, I don't know what to say. A+, easily (Note: they're apparently releasing a film adaptation in 2010; Jessica Alba's going to be in it. If I recall correctly, it's also been filmed once already, for whatever that's worth).

Ward Moore: LOT and LOT'S DAUGHTER

Full disclosure: I read this book, like, a month ago. Almost a month. A month, minus six days. Call it three weeks. And the thing is, you wouldn't know that, without my telling you, because I'm back-dating this post. Dishonest? I'm not sure, it depends on what you're expecting the dates of these posts to measure. What they do measure (and I suppose that's it's better I tell you now and clear the air) is when I actually finished reading the book in question. That's why there are a number of posts technically dated before this blog existed--not because I've discovered the secret of time travel and decided to put it to an extremely mundane use, but because I cheated on the "post options" section, here. So don't worry about it: you know the truth now, and the truth, it turns out, doesn't really matter. Why tell you at all? Because I don't remember all that much about these Ward Moore novellas, at this point. They were short, they were haunting, and they went by all too fast (Lot's Daughter is much creepier than the already fairly-creepy Lot). Without going into and getting confused about detail, let's just call these two the most unfortunately realistic, pessimistic portrayals of post-apocolyptic America (California, of course) I've read in a long time. A-.

Fletcher Hanks: I SHALL DESTROY ALL THE CIVILIZED PLANETS!

What's most important about I Shall Destroy All the Civilized Planets!, a collection of early comic writer/artist Fletcher Hanks's innocently twisted work, is that it's the book from whence this blog draws its title: "You shall become a frozen spacite!" can be found in a comic featuring Stardust the Super-Wizard (with his "scientific use of rays"), who along with Fantomah of Jungleland (with her "superior abilities") is one of the recurring characters created by Hanks. Hanks, its important to point out, seems to have been kind of crazy (he froze to death on a New York park bench, incidentally), but crazy in such a way as to gift him with the ability to come up with fantastic ideas such as the Floating Frozen Space Prison and countless anti-gravity rays of all shapes and sizes. Hanks, truly though, is pretty much impossible to describe (that's why this post makes so little sense; that, and I'm really fucking tired). You've got to see this stuff to believe it, and see it I recommend you do. For that reason, I've included a true rarity for this blog--a second illustration:

Peter Rabe: A SHROUD FOR JESSO

Time for truth: I didn't actually read two Peter Rabe books in a row, even though I did like Anatomy of a Killer quite a bit. What I actually read was one book containing two Peter Rabe novels that were of such divergent quality that they necessitated two separate reviews. Got it? OK, cool. Now, the first thing I want to make clear is, that doesn't automatically mean that A Shroud for Jesso was a shitty book, because it wasn't: it's just that Anatomy of a Killer was really good noir, and A Shroud for Jesso was your standard fifties-sixties noir. Definitely not bad, but it didn't stand out, either. The plot was a little bit contrived, although not really as such things go (believe me, some noir can be really contrived)--a guy, Jesso, has information other people want. He's very difficult to kill. A dangerous woman falls in love with him. He almost comes out on top, and then there's a depressing denouement. In this particular case, a good part of the action takes place in enclosed spaces: on a boat, in a house. I don't think this claustrophobic aspect is played up quite as well as it could be (in general, what separates Anatomy from Shroud is the far superior atmosphere of the almost-experessionistic Anatomy). Alright: now that I've tossed around a few European art buzzwords, let's just give this a grade and finish things off. I think a B sounds fair.

Peter Rabe: ANATOMY OF A KILLER

We already talked (read: I already wrote) about my love of 1940s-60s (yes, the dates keep changing) crime fiction. I didn't go into much detail about why I love that era so much (answer: the Americanized roman noir), but I still think I covered the topic well enough at that time not to go into it again, and therefore I'm just going to come out and tell you how much I enjoyed Peter Rabe's Anatomy of a Killer. Donald Westlake once wrote of Rabe something like "He has the best books with the worst titles" (I think Westlake used Kill the Boss Goodbye as an example of just that, and a good one it was). So, right off the bat, I'm going to come out and state that no, Anatomy of a Killer is not an appropriate title for this book at all. "Anatomy" simply connotes too much detail, and detail there isn't. Profile of a Killer, that works, I guess. I hate to give anything away, but Requiem for a Killer isn't a bad title, either (nor, really, does it give too much away, since the killer himself wants to kill off the killer in order to become a retired traveling button salesman, but that'll all make sense if you ever read this). But the title only matters so much, and so much isn't ever very much, particularly not in this case. What Peter Rabe has written here is classic noir: turn down the lights a little bit, put on some Miles Davis (preferably the score to Elevator to the Gallows, or whatever that noir score he wrote/recorded was), maybe chain smoke your whole way through it with a bottle of rye for company (there truly is no better way to read such a book as this, although I don't smoke myself [if that's the case, drink more rye to compensate]). This is the kind of book that makes you want to handle a gun and talk like Bogart in his prime, and as far as I'm concerned there's no higher recommendation for a crime story. Solid A grade, this one.

Joel Townsley Rogers: THE RED RIGHT HAND

I should state before commencing this review that there are few things I prefer to a well-written mystery or crime story. That such stories seem to have been published primarily between, say, 1925 and 1975 (if you want me to cut it any tighter, 1930-1960. Or, like 45-55) isn't necessarily an indication that that fifty-year golden age marked the ultimate apex of all crime fiction, with the rest trending inevitably downhill. There are, in fact, still many good crime writers active today, although I wouldn't count James Paterson or too many of those New York Times bestseller-list hacks on my shortlist (Charlie Huston--now there's a good contemporary crime writer. Also a good contemporary vampire writer. And probably the all time best vampire-crime writer, provided you don't consider Dracula a crime novel). I'm just stating, in the interest of full disclosure, that I happen to particularly enjoy, on a purely personal level, crime stories written during the 40s and 50s, of which Joel Townsley Rogers's The Red Right Hand happens to be one of the best I've read. It's an extremely unusual mystery (more reminiscent of Fredric Brown at his weirdest and best than of either Raymond Chandler or Arthur Conan Doyle, or any of their followers), and that may throw off some readers. It's also narrated in a fashion that can seem somewhat affected and distancing, although I don't really think any other narrative voice would've suited the story nearly so well. And it's permeated by meaningless coincidences that, while lending an eerie sense of drama and symbolism to the violent acts that drive the story, turn out to be meaningless coincidences, nothing more or less. It's not, in short, anything a mystery "should" be, which is what makes it such a superior mystery. Granted, without going into the plot in any detail, I'm not giving you all that much to go on, I'm probably not, in fact, even making all that much sense. But this much I promise you: what's there is good, is worth reading, is worth recommending on a blog nobody reads (or, for that matter, a blog people actually do read). This is good stuff. A+ stuff, all the way. You'll finish in a day. A few hours. Promise.

Mario Puzo: THE GODFATHER

There has arisen amongst people who consider themselves intelligent a misguided and meaningless truism, that the book is always better than the movie. This, of course, is hardly true. Many bad books have been made into good movies; many good books have been made into better movies. The idea that a book can be better or worse than a movie, in fact, is absurd in itself: the two media are drastically different, tell stories in different ways and have different strengths and limitations. Quick: whose Faust do you prefer, Goethe's or Liszt's? You don't know, you can't know, because we don't equate literature and music in the same way that we equate literature and film. Goethe's Faust and Liszt's Faust are both fantastic works, but they function so differently that comparison is pointless. I love B. Traven's book, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I love John Huston's film, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I'd never presume to compare them. Why must you read all of this? Because, despite using all this space to proclaim my disbelief in lit-to-film comparisons, I'm going to compare a book to a film. The Godfather (film) : The Godfather (book) :: Marlon Brando in The Godfather : Marlon Brando in The Island of Dr. Moreau. One is significantly larger (the latter, in both cases), while the other is clearly much better (the former, obviously, again in both cases, again obviously). Mario Puzo's writing is OK, but it's not Francis Ford Coppola's direction, and he doesn't have Brando, Pacino, Caan, Duvall, et al bringing his characters to life. The result is a story that's flat where the film isn't, that's unnecessarily long because even rather peripheral characters are needlessly developed and their stories all brought equally unnecessary closure, and that operates in a strange kind of episodic fashion, but one in which the episodes overlap without seeming to overlap. Time, it seems, functions oddly in Puzo's book, and not to the author's advantage. There is little, in fact, to recommend Puzo as an author, the film's brilliance thus suggesting either that he really stood out as a screenwriter or that actors and directors really do matter. I'd go with the latter, and I'd also give this book a C+. It was still plenty exciting.

On a related note...

...I'm trying not to do any paragraphs, here. It's working so far, but perhaps at the expense of occasionally sounding like I just don't do paragraphs, period. I do. Everywhere else. Just not here. For now. Don't ask why. It's an aesthetic thing, and as pointless as all wholly aesthetic things seem to be.

Robertson Davies: THE MANTICORE

This is good news and bad news, hello and I-shall-soon-be-going, and altogether not anywhere near so dramatic as I've just made it sound. But let us take the good first, shall we? I've finished, as promised, The Manticore; I've completed, at least two weeks later than I should've, my belated celebration of Canada Day (that's the first of July, and you'll find it mentioned in several earlier posts). However long it took me (and it wouldn't have taken anywhere near this long had I not repeatedly distracted myself by reading comic books, only a small sampling of which are actually reviewed here), I'm glad that I've finally sampled Robertson Davies. The Manticore was a good book, and the writing was so fine, indeed, that while only halfway through I stopped at a used bookstore in order to check whether or not I could pick up the rest of the Deptford Trilogy (of which The Manticore is the middle book [although, as its cover blurb assures us, one need not read the trilogy in any particular order. Apparently, the three books are about, in some way or another, the impact of single event on multiple lives: a child ducks a rock-filled snowball, and it hits an innocent bystander instead], and perhaps the best-known, even if not [according to what little I've read online] the best overall [which may well be Fifth Business, the opener, although I can't say at this point]); I couldn't, but the point is that I was inspired enough to try. In essence, The Manticore is the story of David Staunton's really-rather-humdrum life, only the story is told almost exclusively through the Staunton's conversations with his Jungian analyst, following a breakdown after Staunton's father dies under mysterious circumstances. It's this interesting and, to my experience, unique narrative lens that adds real interest to the story--that, and Davies's obvious talent as a writer (plus, for Canada-philes like myself, the particularly Canadian nature of the story and storyteller both). Davies exemplifies a particular type of writing not often seen--it retains its sense of humor, without being humorous (or, as Davies would write, "it retains its sense of humour without being humourous."), a task more difficult than it might seem. Nabokov comes to mind, and, oddly enough, Orwell, in particular Keep the Aspidistra Flying. To write humorously and with a sense of humour isn't necessarily easier, but it's easier to call--Woody Allen, Kurt Vonnegut, Mark Twain, etc. Of course, one can also be humorous but lack a sense of humor, as the "comedy" of, oh, a Dane Cook more than adequately illustrates (I'm not trying to be arch, I just don't like Dane Cook; that alone doesn't make me unforgivably highbrow). Alright: so I really did like this book. An A grade, if not an A+ (well, no...not an A+. Let's just call it an even A). But I haven't even touched on the bad news, which is this: I'm not going to be showing up here, so frequently. I'll be, gasp, working, albeit only on a temporary basis. But I'll be working a lot on a temporary basis, and thus reading significantly less. As to what I'll be reading, that remains to be seen. Mario Puzo's The Godfather is in the running, since it won't exact the same sort of raised eyebrows from co-workers that, say, In Search of Lost Time (not in the running) might, or even John Kenneth Galbraith's Annals of an Abiding Liberal (that one is in the running). Also up there: Neil Gaiman's American Gods, only the paperback edition I have is in such nice condition I hesitate to subject it to the beating it'll surely get at work. Anyway, we'll see. Perhaps I'll be able to publish something trite here in the mean time, like a well-intentioned list (I've already got one, somewhere, of my favorite vampire stories), or reprints of old columns, although that'd be quite a cop-out, wouldn't it?

Bernard Porter: THE LION'S SHARE- A SHORT HISTORY OF BRITISH IMPERIALISM, 1850-2004

What separates good nonfiction writing from bad isn't something as ethereal and fleeting as a timely or groundbreaking nature--it's much simpler, really. The best nonfiction is written by people who are both experts in their fields, and terrific writers. Makes sense, doesn't it? If we can accept that definition, then (and I think we can), Bernard Porter's The Lion's Share: A Short History of British Imperialism most certainly qualifies as some of the best. For a book that's relatively easy to read (not to say that it isn't academically written; it is, it just also happens to be engaging), The Lion's Share is astonishingly informative. Moreover, if you buy into that ethereal stuff, it's quite timely right now (in 2004, Porter added a new chapter discussing US/UK involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan, considered in light of imperial history), and was apparently fairly groundbreaking when first written (although I believe I've only got Porter's preface to back me up on that, which isn't necessarily the most unbiased of sources). There's no real need to describe the book's content; the subtitle does that well enough (A Short History of British Imperialism, 1850-2004). It's a history, however, that's related with just the right touch of wit and good humor. Porter takes his subject seriously, but isn't above including the occasional and usually very illustrative but less-than-serious anecdote (my favorite is the colonial governor of Aden who stated, in 1965, that when the old empire had sunken "beneath the waves of history," it would leave just "two monuments" behind it: "the game of Association Football, and the expression 'Fuck Off'." Porter amusingly points out that Association Football actually didn't really catch on in the former empire, at least not to nearly the same extent as cricket). Granted, this isn't exactly a riveting read on par with, say, hard-boiled detective fiction; it's a history book, even if it is a good (say, A grade overall) history book. But if that's what you're into, I'd strongly recommend giving this one a try.

Jack Kirby: CAPTAIN AMERICA AND THE FALCON- MADBOMB

Yes, I know what I said. It wasn't a lie, it was just wrong: an important distinction, although largely a semantic one. When I wrote that the next book I'd review would be The Manticore, I really did think that would be the case (thus, I wasn't lying). When I decided to start reading Jack Kirby's Captain American and the Falcon: Madbomb at dinner, however, plans changed. I was drawn in as I began to pick up on the particularly Kirbyish details of his artwork (I just finished reading some of his original New Gods work [which I think would've benefited {the act of reading it, I mean} from my actually having opened The Hero With 10,000 Faces one of the, well, 10,000 times I've considered doing so], and recognized his penchant for rod-shaped weapons and a particular type of technological design that appears to consist largely of round shapes connected by thin lines...difficult to describe, but read/look at a little Kirby, and you'll get what I mean), and stayed when I realized how unusual this story was going to turn out to be. The "madbomb," you see, is just that: a bomb, that makes people insane (very comic book). And it's set to go off, in Philadelphia, on July 4, 1976 (coincidentally, the same date the final issue in this series was published, celebrating the U.S. bicentennial). Who's behind this plot? Well, to be honest, it seems a lot like it might be the 2009 House Republicans--only in the book, they call themselves the Royalist Army of America (or something like that), and are plotting to overthrow democracy and replace it with a system whereby a chosen elite tell everybody what to do and social order is maintained through the exploitation of human greed. You know, exactly the sort of thing free marketeers are always trumpeting as the solution to all our problems. Well, Captain American isn't having any of it--and neither is his pal, The Falcon, a bitter African-American hero who finds the whole idea of a bicentennial a little trite, given that his family was, well, still enslaved when we white folk "introduced" this whole "freedom" deal to the world (the best part about Madbomb, I think, is that Kirby tries not to gloss over this: the comic's still very much all-American, but it's the kind of all-American that says, yeah, we've really made some pretty big mistakes, and are still working on ironing out their repurcussions, but aren't perfect yet by any means. Because otherwise, this would've just been a sickening exercise in nationalism). Even a marginally-realistic depiction of racial tensions, however, can't quite save this comic from seeming, well, a little bit dated. But is it still a fun read? Oh, yes, it's definitely a fun read. So give it a solid B-, and have done with it.

Canada Day follow-up...

Not long ago, I used this blog as a platform from which to wish the world a very happy Canada Day (if you're looking for a date, try July 1). At that time, I encouraged everybody to pick up a book written by a Canadian, any Canadian. Well, I'd like to announce that just this once, I'm taking my own advice: unless I absolutely can't stand it, or perhaps read a few more comic books before finishing it off, the next book you'll see reviewed here is The Manticore, from the pen of Thamesville, Ontario-born Robertson Davies. Wait for it.

Happy birthday, Marcel Proust!

Were Marcel Proust alive today, he'd either be celebrating his 139th birthday, or off by himself somewhere, contemplating how creepy his relationship with his mother was. I've never actually read Swann's Way, or any of the other volumes that make up Proust's multi-volume epic In Search of Lost Time (Remembrance of Things Past); but for some time now, I've wanted to. Bizarrely, however, the book's appeal doesn't have the least to do with a burning desire to read Proust--it's that opening sentence I just can't get out of my head. "For a long time, I went to bed early." Out of context, it seems meaningless, yet its meaning is about as clear as they come. It's nothing, in fact, if not very direct and very straightforward--but, absent context, all its directness and straightforwardness come to naught. Still, it sounds intriguing. For a long time, he went to bed early: we don't know how long, who he is, or just how early, and most of all we don't know why, or why it matters, or why it matters enough to start an astoundingly-long novel with. One day, perhaps, I'll be able to let you know. But until then: happy birthday, Marcel, you of the enigmatic opening line.

Charles Beaumont: THE HOWLING MAN (ed. Roger Anker)

In the minds of those whose credentials say they know best (as well as that of your humble and wholly uncredentialed reviewer) Charles Beaumont ranks with Ray Bradbury, Rod Serling and Richard Matheson in the exclusive pantheon of 1950s-60s American science fiction geniuses. With the exception of Bradbury (who was busy revolutionizing written sci-fi a decade or so earlier), it was this small cadre of elites who both steered The Twilight Zone to success and penned its greatest episodes--as well as the stories those episodes were initially drawn from. The Howling Man is a collection of such stories, a career-spanning look at Charles Beaumont's written work. The Howling Man doesn't necessarily contain all of Beaumont's best (if that's what you're looking for, best to consult the very unironically titled Best of Beaumont collection); what it does instead is represent how balanced and broad Beaumont's talent really was, giving readers a taste of Beaumont's work in a wide variety of genres, including those he didn't handle quite as ably. At his best and at his worst, though, Beaumont is a truly original writer. He manages to convey a childlike sense of wonder at and joy in life, while at the same time communicating a more adult appreciation for its most gruesome horrors (the title story does this particularly well). In this sense, Beaumont is a contradiction waiting to happen, but the stories in this collection maintain that fine and careful balance throughout (for which some credit is surely due to editor Roger Anker). If you don't like Beaumont, the nearly 600 pages of The Howling Man obviously won't be worth it. But if you like originality and damn-good writing, then you will like Beaumont, and all those pages will just fly by. Give it an A-, and The Best of Beaumont an A+.

June unemployment figures released; forecast is extra-gloomy

Well, we topped 9.5% unemployment last month (we're somewhere between 15-20% unofficially; I think the adjusted figure is around 16.5%?). In honor of this occasion, I'm reprinting one of my Temple News columns, to which I've hopefully retained some semblance of reproduction rights, here:

Books you can’t afford not to read

March 3, 2009 by Peter Chomko

Under normal circumstances, at least half the point of book reviews is that they’re timely. Once a book’s been out for a couple years, you can usually assume that it will already have flourished or failed on its own merits.

However, under particularly abnormal circumstances – and you’d be hard-pressed to argue that we’re living through anything but particularly abnormal circumstances right now – it seems that a departure from conventional wisdom can be easily justified.

For one thing, new books are expensive, and you can hardly be expected to go out and drop $28 for a hot-off-the-presses hardcover in the current economic climate. On top of that, recession jokes are the humor du jour, and I could hardly pass up my crack at them.

More important than that is given the state of our national economy, there are certain books that you simply can’t afford not to read. That three of those books happen to be a collective 150-plus years old is no argument, in my mind, against their importance. If anything, their longevity is a testament to that importance.

The fact of the matter is, after all, that recessions are nothing new. Our country has been through this territory before and so have plenty of others. We’ve strayed so far into this territory that such great numbers may be cause for alarm – but not necessarily for surprise.

Nor should it be cause for disregarding advice from the past – specifically, advice from economist John Maynard Keynes, universally-acclaimed as the smartest man in the universe (except by those who happen to declaim him as the most dangerously idiotic man in the universe). Regardless of which side of the Keynesian debate you fall on, there’s a lot to be said for familiarizing yourself with his theories.

In The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Keynes interpreted economic variations as being products of “aggregate demand” (sound familiar?) and argued for activist government intervention, particularly in times of crisis (again, sound familiar?), in order to promote demand.

Although Keynes’ book was initially published in 1936, his influence continues to be felt in contemporary economics and politics. In fact, a contemporary Keynesian took home last year’s Nobel Prize in economics – Paul Krugman, a regular New York Times contributor and the author of 1999’s The Return of Depression Economics.

A decade ago, Krugman theorized that a world economic structure largely dominated by supply-side economics lacked long-term viability and would soon lead to prolonged, painful economic collapses. His conservative critics laughed, cited Alan Greenspan and continued to tout the greatness of mortgage-backed securities. Guess what? Krugman was right, and with last year’s release of The Return of Depression Economics and the Crisis of 2008, he’s likely to be one of the few people to benefit from this recession.

Of course, no matter if you read Keynes or Krugman, John Boehner probably won’t read either – and as a result, we may be in this for the long haul. That’s why I’ve got a third recommendation for your reading list: Claude Goodchild and Alan Thompson’s classic Keeping Poultry and Rabbits on Scraps.

First published during the Nazi bombardment of England during World War II, the book advised the British of the little things they could do to make everything go a bit further. In response to popular demand, Penguin Group has chosen to reissue the book in (you guessed it) a budget edition, suggesting that you can keep a steady supply of eggs and meat on hand, even in the worst of times.

Of course, the best part is that all this reading comes out to less than 800 pages. Tell that to your conservative friends as they try to slog their way through The Wealth of Nations, clocking in at a hefty 1,200 or so. The upshot, of course, is that you’ll have more time to futilely mail out all those résumés – and plenty to read while waiting in the unemployment line.

Peter Chomko can be reached at pchomko@temple.edu.

Eric Garcia: MATCHSTICK MEN

I did not read this book because of the Nicholas Cage movie--or, if in fact that was the reason (I picked it up, by chance, at the Independence branch of the Philadelphia Free Library; I was purchasing two books there [one was Saul Bellow's Herzog; I don't recall what the other one was], and don't like to frequent libraries just to buy books. So, I had to pick out a few to check out on loan, and I recognized the title of this one. Or the title just stood out to me. I'm not sure. If the former was the case, you've most likely got Nicholas Cage, unfortunately, to thank. If the latter, then author Eric Garcia gets full credit), let's say I checked it out in spite of the film. I'm not a big Nicholas Cage fan. I think, in fact, that he's about even with Keanu Reeves so far as acting ability is concerned. So I don't want to make this about Nicholas Cage. I've never seen the movie at any rate, and thus it couldn't really prejudice my opinion of the book. That opinion runs thus: Matchstick Men (the book was Matchstick Men, by the way; I believe I forgot to mention that) is cute. It's rooted in a cute idea, and exploits that cuteness to the very end (others find the ending to be cynical, apparently; perhaps it is a testament to my own, abiding cynicism that I find it, again, to be cutesy). Books about con men aren't supposed to be cute, though. They're supposed to be fun, and lighthearted, and a lot of other words that mean approximately the same thing as those, but not cute. Because if the book ends on a happy note, then the cuteness is just overwhelming--and if it ends on a sad note, the sadness seems trite and affected (such is the case with Matchstick Men). Garcia tried something different, admittedly, and I read the book quickly. But it was still just cutesy, and nothing more. Read David Dodge instead, if you're looking for cons. Or adventure. Or excitement. Hell, just read David Dodge. Read Matchstick Men if you really want, but I'd give it a C-. And that's only because I'm feeling generous. D+, were today a lousy day.

Happy Canada Day!

Yes, it's that time again: to celebrate the 1867 Act of Dominion that paved the way for Canada's status as a sovereign nation. Or something like that. Sovereignty always gets confusing with those Commonwealth countries. Anyway, why not celebrate by reading a famous Canadian author? And yes, there are more than just Margaret Atwood. See the full list here, at "Well Known People Who Happen to be Canadian (Authors)":
http://particle.physics.ucdavis.edu/Canadians/authors.html.
Enjoy!