She talks to wolves...

I am delighted to present to you my very first video review, which is rather more of a ramble on the first seven books in The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher:

A few notes:

1. THERE ARE SPOILERS HERE. This rambling review covers Storm Front, Fool Moon, Grave Peril, Summer Knight, Death Masks, Blood Rites, and Dead Beat.

2. The actor’s name I was reaching for is Paul Blackthorne.

3. Both of my lovely cats decide to make guest appearances, so keep an eye out for Tiger Jack and Kaylee. Of course, you really can’t miss them.

4. This video is dedicated to Teresa and Daniel Anzulovic, my dear and tireless friends who insisted I really would enjoy these books if I gave them a chance.

As this is my first stab at this thing, comments are keen. Or little thumbs-up thingies. Especially on YouTube.

Enjoy!

Mirrored from geekdame.com. You can comment here or there.

 The Winter 2011 issue of Goblin Fruit is a spare feast, but one dense and complex: like all the best winter fruits, it lingers on the palate and tickles the tongue with bitter brightness. This latest edition of Goblin Fruit also lacks the artistry of its usual illustrator, Oliver Hunter, but we cannot be bereft: the stunningly haunting illustrations by Australian-based Japanese artist FAM more than slake our thirst for the fantastically strange.

We begin with Neile Graham’s “Nightfall on Orkney: A Glosa,” and what more perfect invocation could there be than a poem that slides between lines of established poetry, teasing forth a new language from the voice of another? Graham’s poetry captures a darkly-limned and yet cheerful picture of peasant life in the Orkneys, deep in winter, spinning the raucous winter storm away from George MacKay Brown’s heart-rending shipwreck and bringing it instead to beat against a protected communion: beauty and intimacy in the heart of the storm, instead of death. Her integration of Brown’s lines from “The Wreck of the Archangel” is seamless, and a gorgeous recycling of poetry.

From the tearing winter winds of the Orkneys, we shrug into a cloak of storms and slip into “Strong as Salt” by Rose Lemberg. Upon my first reading, I felt it wandered a bit – although that wandering was through some wonderfully evocative imagery, some of which sears our sensibilities and croons of abandonment or furious life. Yet, when I listened to the poem read by the author, the piece was transfigured into an intoxicating and wholly captivating poem: every word carefully weighed, and woven into a net to catch the listener.

“Callisto at the Corner Coffee Shop” by Michelle Muenzler seems like an abrupt departure from the inchoate cacophony and more intimate, natural settings of the first two poems: in this piece, there is a modern coffee shop, and Callisto declaring quite simply “I was a bear once.” But the shift in gears is perfect after all, spinning from the stars referenced at the close of “Strong as Salt” into those that once winked in Callisto’s star-strewn ursine form. Muenzler’s poem may not be one for the ages, but it’s absolutely a little gem of a coffee shop Greco-Roman mythology poem, and makes me want to snatch it away into my nest of words like a magpie of poetry. Just to make it easier to read, and read again. There is also a recording of this poem, which I found to be much in the same vein as the poem itself.

We’re waltzed from the light canapé of the coffeeshop poem into the dizzying edifice of a feast that is Mari Ness’ “Snowmelt.” My first reading rocked me back on my heels, rightly impressed: she’s crafted a chain poem, from an opening compliment — and such a haunting single line, “[t]he dark blood glittering on the grey snow” (colors so hot while also so muted) — through couplet, through triolet, through pantoum! It is a marvel, full of equally marvelous imagery and skillfully crafted mirror poems. I appreciate that the chain can be taken as one work together, as a hauntingly lovely interpretation of the Snow White fairy tale, or broken into tasty morsels for desultory sampling. For those who may be unsure about what exactly composes a poetry chain, Mari Ness has written a blog post about this one.

“Snowmelt” closes on echoes of flight and masking barriers: tropes which then reverberate though Rose Lemberg’s second poem of the issue, “Three bone masks.” I found the poem fascinating, but in a distant way at first blush: I appreciated the exploration of Inuit shamanism, the evocation of walrus and lemming totems, the references to material folklore. And then, once more, Lemberg’s reading transformed her poetry into something greater: the lines became more beautiful and evocative for me in a way they weren’t when I first read the words. Further, the reading actually transformed my grasp on the poem, and made subsequent readings into something more profound. My gaze sharpened on the ragged lines, saw how each parallel structure fell so carefully into place, and noted the clinging-to and rejection of the body.

The last lines of “Three bone masks” prick like ice on the wind, funneling into “Snow Bees” which howls with midwinter silence. I cannot be rational about this poem. It crawled inside me immediately, playing out in my mind’s eye: my spine straightened from that of a daisy-fed little girl into a Queen’s spine of rigid, latticed ice. Jeannine Hall Gailey's interpretation of Han Christian Andersen’s “The Snow Queen” and the way she painted the relationship between Gerdas and Snow Queens as two sides of the same coin were just masterful. She pushed all my buttons. There is also a reading of this poem available, but it does not match the timbre of the poem in my head.

The glitter and sharp glass of the Snow Queen become the glitter of diamonds emerging painfully with every word a young woman speaks: Christopher W. Clark has taken it upon himself to tell once more the tale of how precious stones are cruel and they cut the throat, while toads falling from the lips compose a relatively much easier curse. There is nothing new conceptually in this poem, but it is beautifully told and Clark’s reading of the poem serves to highlight the angles of the diamond stanza versus the rounded verse of the toads. There’s also a nice tip of the hat to the transmogrification of toads in other tales at the end of the poem.

Leah Bobet’s “Little Songs” carries forth the thread of transformation and development; this Petrarchan sonnet is much like an interlocking puzzle box of references to musical composition, poetic forms, and the cadence of courtship and lascivious union. This sonnet is a jewel that tickles the brain and invites multiple readings.

The last words of “Little Songs” are, appropriately enough, “[s]ing me a lullaby,” and pave the way for Loreen Heneghan’s “Drawn Like Silk.” And, oh, what a haunting lullaby it is: simply lovely in form and word, rustling across my skin with a susurrus of silk and leaving behind the most delicate spine-tingling chill. There’s winter life in this piece: spindly limbs moving in the breath of the coldest wind, making it a suiting coda to this winter bones issue.

Mirrored from Deborah J. Brannon.

A new edition of Cabinet des Fées is now live with many marvelous wonders therein! Not only is there a full complement of fascinating poetry and prose awaiting to ensnare you in Scheherezade's Bequest No. 8, but erzebet makes a number of pleasure-inducing announcements.

The first is that Cabinet des Fées will be adding an edition to the schedule, bringing your yearly infusion up to the magical number of three. Yes, a third again the number of excellent creativity and reviews!

Furthermore, the blog at Cabinet des Fées will shortly be more dynamic, featuring guest bloggers and interviews and short essays, oh my. Check out Erzebet's editorial to see who will be featured soon.

And, finally, I reviewed The King of Elfland's Daughter for this month's edition:

Anyone truly interested in the heritage of modern fantasy literature can hardly have missed hearing the name Lord Dunsany: for it is this man, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron of Dunsany, who was one of the pioneers of the genre. Born in London on July 24th, 1878, he went on to be a marvelous jack of all trades — among them pistol-shooting champion, remarkable chess player, loyal and experienced soldier, and prolific writer — who produced over sixty books of plays, poems, essays, and stories during his lifetime. One of these books is The King of Elfland’s Daughter, written in 1924.

The King of Elfland’s Daughter begins with the plan of the Parliament of Erl to get themselves a “magic lord,” for they all desire their beloved valley to become great in the minds and memories of all men. Bowing to their fervent wish and sure of their foolishness, their Lord sends his only son into Elfland to find a bride there. Finding not only a bride but that a surprisingly long time has passed in the “fields we know,” young Alveric returns to rule in his father’s place and begets a son with his fair Lirazel: a son who has both the blood of the fields we know and of Elfland, beyond our ken. What follows is strange and terrible, earthly and fey. Lirazel blows away, unicorns are hunted for sport, all manner of fiendish fairies cavort among the homes of men, Alveric becomes a grey wanderer, and a witch sweeps out the world. [Read the rest of the review at this link.]

Back in February, I was sufficiently entertained by Sarah Rees Brennan's enthusiastic review* of Saundra Mitchell's Shadowed Summer that I decided to take a chance on it. Of course, by this I mean that I entered her give-away of the book and was lucky enough to win one of the copies she and the author were putting up themselves. My copy arrived sometime in late February, sweetly personalized by Saundra Mitchell.

Of course, it then had to do its tour of duty on the to-read shelf, where it lurked for some four months before I picked it up and devoured it over the past couple of days. This book was truly an excellent diversion: it's a small-town mystery, it's a Southern Gothic novel, it's a coming-of-age story. It's about ghosts and hypocrisy and friendship and bigotry and summer. Considering it's all this in less than 200 pages, it either explodes in a mess or packs a wallop. Let me assure you that it's the latter, a tightly-written page-turner that manages to be creepily provocative without being soberingly depressing.

If you need something more concrete about it than that, let me set the scene for you: Iris lives in Ondine, Louisiana, a small town where the phrase "nothing ever happens" is the king descriptor. Iris and her best friend, Collette, are in their early teens, caught midway between their childish games of make-believe (playing with naiads, raising ghosts) and the more adult realm of getting out of Ondine and discovering boys. In the summer of the book, Collette discovers a nice young man named Ben. Iris, on the other hand, discovers a mysterious boy named Elijah. One thing you should know: Elijah is dead.

There were only a couple of drawbacks for me: one is plot-based, while the other two are text-based. I'd rather leave the plot-related question out of this review as I think it can be explained, albeit a bit tortuously, and it doesn't prevent one's enjoyment of the book. However, as a Southerner, the two text-related issues were nagging enough either to annoy me or to throw me out of the story completely.

( Let's talk about these behind a cut... )

Other than that, though, it's just great. If you're a fan of YA literature, give it a try!



* Sarah's review was actually a good bit longer than it appears in its current incarnation: her journal was maliciously commandeered and deleted some weeks ago and her journal recovery hasn't been perfect (but at least has been far better than some other victims of the same scheme). This is where I put in my support for Kyle Cassidy's LJ Advisory Board nomination.

As you know, I recently reviewed Santa Olivia by Jacqueline Carey (on sale 05/29/2009, though I hear some places have been shipping it early). My review began:

"Fans of Jacqueline Carey will be pleasantly surprised, I think, by her latest offering and its inherent divergence from her usual style. There is nothing of the lush language and sensuous worldbuilding of the Kushiel's Legacy series here, nor any of the tragic melancholia and subverted fantasy tropes of The Sundering duology. No, Santa Olivia is the essence of the desert: sparse, bright, gritty, and full of visions that might mean hope or death.

Santa Olivia is set in an analogue of our world. It's almost identical to our current time, except a terrible pandemic has devastated the human population (at least in America and Mexico) and led to a military cordon being established along the border of Texas and Mexico. The cordon is a sort of no-man's-land, with the small town of Santa Olivia and its citizens unwilling to forsake their homes having been converted into Outpost No. 12, a settlement serving the soldiers from the nearby United States' military base established to police the cordon. Life is hard and hopeless for the citizens of Outpost; there are no civilian police, but gangs tolerated by the MP keep things in a grim semblance of order and arrange nightlife for the soldiers. There are barely enough necessities to go around for Outpost's denizens, much less amenities or distractions. There's no escape: no one from Outpost is allowed to leave, and its uncertain whether anyone outside of the military base knows they're still there." [Read the rest of my review here.]

Well, the publisher is permitting me to give away my copy of the Santa Olivia ARC in a random drawing on this journal! 

Here's how to enter:

If Santa Olivia sounds like a book you'd enjoy, comment on this entry with two items:
1. Answer the following question using my review: What is the group of Orphans called that Loup cavorts with?
2. Promise me that you'll review the book yourself, once you've read it! And comment back here so I can see your review at that time. (Your review doesn't need to be long or elaborate-- a couple of sentences of reaction are fine.)

That's it! You'll be able to enter through next Monday (May 25th), 9 PM EST. I'll draw the winner Monday night.

(Also, please feel free to promote this give-away on your journals. I'd like to spread it far and wide.)

Although the tenth anniversary edition is the first Mythic Delirium volume I've ever read, I've long been aware of the publication by reputation: many poems have appeared in Mythic Delirium (or related titles edited also by Mike Allen) that have later been nominated for the SFWA's Rhysling Awards or been honored in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror (2007), such as "The Descent of the Corn-Queen of the Midwest" by Catherynne M. Valente, "Songs for an Ancient City" by Amal El-Mohtar, and "To the River" by Jessica Paige Wick. One poem even recently won a Rhysling: "Eating Light" by F.J. Bergmann in 2008 (short poem category). (By clicking on those links, you can hear the poems read, often by the poet. Amal El-Mohtar's poetry is an especially sensuous delight when read by herself.)

Besides Mythic Delirium having such a solid pedigree, I've been intrigued by the poetry journal due to its ideological conceit: while the submission guidelines advertise that the journal publishes "science fiction, fantasy, horror, surreal, and cross-genre poetry," if the featured poems I've read on the website and the contents of Mythic Delirium #20 are anything to go by, all poems published therein exhibit some kind of world- or myth-building. All of these poems are about the way we create the larger world or the nuances of our inner worlds or the intersection of multiple personal worldviews.

I had been meaning to order an issue of Mythic Delirium for some time before #20 came out, but never found the right moment when memory and finances were properly aligned in order to do so (for the quality, it's really not expensive-- a one year subscription is $9). Of course, then Mike Allen excitedly announced that Neil Gaiman had sold Mythic Delirium a poem and would be appearing in the tenth anniversary issue. Being the unrepentant fan of Neil Gaiman's work that I am, this event rather galvanized me into securing a copy.

What I discovered was an unmitigatedly solid poetry collection; I also discovered that Neil's poem is not at all one of the best pieces in there, which led me to discover a vague sense of shame in relying on a Big Favorite Name to prompt me into securing a poetry journal I knew would more than likely be good. Of course, then I decided that if it took a Big Favorite Name with an Average Poem to draw in a vaster audience who would then discover a repository of good "off-beat and speculative poetry"--well, then, no harm done. In fact, plenty of good done! 

I wasn't totally blown away by any of the poems in Mythic Delirium #20, but I was rather delighted and pleasantly surprised by more than half the table of contents: not a bad ratio when you're talking about 25 disparate poems. To hit a few high points: I found Erin Hoffman's "Beauty Sleep" to be a compelling recreation of the "Sleeping Beauty" fairy tale, although a jarring word or two kept me from completely falling into her vision. "Hoyle's Baking Instructions" by F.J. Bergman was an intoxicating mess: either baking instructions, or instructions on how to gamble, or instructions on how to seduce a man... I'm not sure, which is both its winning and its losing card. It's just slightly too schizophrenic to be completely cohesive. Catherine Knutsson's "swansong" captivated me with its wing-beating lines, and "Millenial Mass" by G.O. Clark comes with a truly transfixing image at the end. David T. Manning both pleased and frustrated me with his "The Next Station": there's too much story there to stop with one poem! And while I found the characters intriguing and the accompanying illustration by Paula Friedlander evocative, I wasn't as engrossed by Amal El-Mohtar and Jessica Paige Wick's "Apple Jack Tangles the Maidy Lac with a Red, Red Ribbon" as I hoped to be. I think this is one poem that would be most impressive when read aloud, in character.

The rest of my list of favorites from Mythic Delirium #20 encompasses "Journeying" by Adrienne J. Odasso, "Hellawes" by Georgette Perry, "Klabautermann" by J.C. Runolfson, "From Dr. Owen's Obit" by Rolli, "From Dr. Owen's Journal (Unpublished)" by Rolli, "Last Gift from the Eldest" by Danny Adams, and "Myth" by Kim Malinowski. 

I found the remainder of the collection to be solidly average, with two exceptions: Sonya Taaffe's "Zeitgeber" was disappointing in its inability to achieve any sort of poetic resonance, the densely-rendered lines crouching on the page. And Darrell Schweitzer's "What If I Were Secretly the Phoenix?" fails to transcend the suggested mediocrity of its cinder-characterized main subject.

Another aspect of Mythic Delirium #20 that impressed me was its engagement with interior art: it featured seven illustrations specifically commissioned to accompany the poems. One of these illustrations - a star-inflicted, anatomically-correct heart - was even hand-colored by the artist Tim Mullins. Mullins' other illustration (see link below) and cover art for the issue are equally well done. I've already commented above on the powerful silhouette work of Paula Friedlander, and how one of her illustrations perfectly captured the tone of "Apple Jack Tangles the Maidy Lac with a Red, Red Ribbon."  Daniel Trout nicely depicted a forlorn sorceress of perilous ease in one of his illustrations, while Don Eaves and Terrence Mollendor disturbingly communicated the true insanity of the Astronaut Asylum in theirs (oh, "In the Astronaut Asylum" was a long poem by Kendall Evans and Samantha Henderson I so very much wanted to like more than I did).

In the end, I find myself most certainly sold on Mythic Delirium. Time to count up my pennies and purchase a proper subscription!

Relevant links:
Mythic Delirium website.
How a Mythic Delirium is assembled.
Listen to "Genesis" by Holly Dworken Cooley from Mythic Delirium #20 and see accompanying art by Daniel Trout.
Tim Mullins' illustration for Neil Gaiman's "Conjunctions."
selfavowedgeek's Rambling Not-Review of Mythic Delirium #20.
Cabinet des Fées' review of Mythic Delirium #20.
Charles Tan's review of Mythic Delirium #20 at Bibliophile Stalker.

Note to Neil Gaiman fans:
I know you want to know what Neil's poem is about. Here's an excerpt from Mike Allen's editorial that explains a bit:
"[Neil Gaiman's] poem 'Conjunctions' is, intriguingly, a companion piece to alternapunk singer Amanda Palmer's musical composition 'Trout Heart Replica,' both items apparently inspired by an extremely memorable visit to a trout farm."

Also, trivia about the title, from Neil's journal: "I was going to call my poem 'Trout Heart Replica' but when I told her that she said, 'You can't. That's what I called my song, and I got there first.' And she had."



Illustration by Paula Friedlander of "Apple Jack Tangles the Maidy Lac with a Red, Red Ribbon" above used with permission by the artist.

I am archiving my review of Ravens in the Library: Magic in the Bard's Name, edited by SatyrPhil Brucato and Sandra Buskirk at my website. That way, should anyone want to read it in one massive document, they may do so there.

I am also rounding up the links of my three-part review here so that they're compactly notated and to provide a place for visitors from my website to comment should they wish to do so.

RAVENS IN THE LIBRARY: Magic in the Bard's Name - A Review in Three Parts:

Part One, in which I cover the first half of the TOC.
Part Two, in which I finish the TOC and comment on the included lyrics.
Part Three, in which I comment upon the artwork, graphical design, and Brucato's introduction.

You guys remember Ravens in the Library, right? If you're not sure what I'm talking about, allow me to sum up: S.J. Tucker, traveling musician and fire-spinner extraordinaire, became terribly ill this past winter and had to undergo several very expensive medical procedures. Unfortunately, she did not have health insurance (which is the lamentable lot of many, many people in this country); what she did have, however, were amazing friends (writers, editors, and artists among them) and fans who created and bought a benefit anthology to assist her in paying off her medical debt.

Ravens in the Library is that anthology. It is a limited edition collection edited by SatyrPhil Brucato and Sandra Buskirk, available only until Tucker's medical expenses have been covered. This is my review: specifically, the second part. If you missed the first part of the review (which covers the first half of the TOC), click here.

Before we get started with the rest of the TOC and the lyrics included in Ravens in the Library, I should tell you that this review has ended up even longer than I expected it to become! Therefore, you don't get my thoughts on the art, the book's design, or the Introduction today. I'll post those later this weekend, in Part III.

On to the stories! 

"Fortune," by Shira Lipkin.

This story hits on several of my favorite storytelling devices: Tarot cards and a mythological retelling (here, the Descent of Inanna). However, for some reason, the magical realism aspects didn't entirely mesh well with the terrifying, yes, but sadly all too typical narrative of the degradation and dissolution of a woman alone. However, in spite of that one complaint, this is a powerful recasting of the Inanna myth and Lipkin couldn't have picked a better back-drop than Vegas. Knowing that pieces of this story were autobiographical makes it linger all the more. This is the sixth tale original to this anthology.

( Read the rest of the reviews behind the cut... )



Return later this weekend for the remainder of the review! You'll find talk of Stephanie Pui-Mun Law, Theodore Black, Amy Brown, James A. Owen and more! 



Other reviews of Ravens in the Library:
talkstowolves: Part I of my review.
k_crow's review blurbs.
thewronghands' thoughts.
maverick_weirdo 's write-up.
jennifer_brozek's preliminary thoughts.
(Anyone know of any other reviews? Let me know and I'll add them here!)

Just shy of two weeks after the novel's release, my review of Palimpsest by Catherynne M. Valente has appeared at Green Man Review.

Palimpsest runs the risk that all hotly desired lovers do -- it fetches you in with a dream, teases you into a taut state of wanting, and leaves you desolate in the face of reality. Or -- here, have another analogy, for this work seems to throw itself at them -- like its namesake, you may fall in love with the gorgeous purity of its surface text, but flinch in horror from what lurks beneath, barely scraped away.

The plot of Palimpsest is rather straightforward. Four strangers find themselves the newest hosts of a sexually transmitted city. Each of them have slept with an individual bearing an intensely black mark that looks like nothing so much as a small part of a strange city map. Afterward, they experience a bizarre dream in which the four characters, still unknown to each other, find themselves ritually tied together in a frog-headed fortuneteller's shop before being released to wander separately and divided in a truly bizarre otherworldly city. In this city, the vermin are manufactured clockwork creatures of dizzying perplexity and stunning beauty; canals are filled with clothes above rivers of cream; lion-headed priests silently cry aching sermons in breathtaking cathedrals; trains are wild beasts and contain rice paddies, forests, the dead, and the rabbit of the moon. The city offers amazing wonders and staggering horrors. The city is still seeping pus from infected wounds left by war. An alien and glittering tyrant wants to open doors, the city wants to be known, and the four -- Sei, November, Oleg, and Ludovico -- don't want to leave this place they seem only able to enter in dreams. [Read the rest of the review at this link.]

Thank you to the editors at Green Man Review for giving this review of mine an Excellence in Writing Award.




Please feel free to comment here with any points you would like to discuss from my review. Below, you'll find some rambling elaboration on the book's flaws, some nitpicky observations, questions I was left with, and a listing of some things I liked. And some pretty pictures.

Beware that there are spoilers beneath the cut and also, no doubt, in the comments.

( More about Palimpsest below the cut... )

PALIMPSEST ELSEWHERE ON THE WEB

The original short story.
Theophania, the Glass-Blower (a haunting, excised piece of the novel).
Quartered, a companion album by S.J. Tucker.
Catherynne's release day Livejournal post, including icons.
Palimpsest merchandise.*
An interview with Catherynne revealing inspiration for the narrative.
Promotional videos: [Palimpsest the Trailer.] [The Trains of Palimpsest.] [The Dead of Palimpsest.]
ARG websites: [Tabula Rasa.] [Sato Kenji.] [H.F. Weckweet.]



* I really want one of those pendants from RockLove, but because my name means "bee" and I have developed a fascination with compass roses rather than because of Palimpsest.

I have a poem in the 50th issue of The Pedestal Magazine:

"Ireland, A Sapphic Poem." A poem about lovers, about the love between poet and place, about the evocation of place in succinct lines.

Please drop by and read it, and the other amazing poems featured in this issue. I found "Suitors," which follows my piece, to be particularly engaging. Also, as guest editor Susan Terris notes in her introduction, she strung these poems together as beads on a string, so that each bead complements both the bead that came before and the one that tumbles after.

I'd love to hear your thoughts, both on my work and the rest of the magazine.



Also, at long last, my review of Clockwork Phoenix edited by Mike Allen has appeared at Green Man Review.

The subtitle featured on the cover of Clockwork Phoenix is "tales of beauty and strangeness" and, with Mike Allen's introduction, he immediately attempts to deliver on this promise. Readers are treated to an extended metaphor -- a brief sketch of a literal clockwork phoenix and its searing flight through a strange and moving train -- meant to prepare us for the contents and the journey this collection represents. This introduction comes across with mixed results: I prefer my introductions to be less abstract and with more relevant introspection. However, if you prefer to look at the anthology as a structure, I'm not sure what more appropriate foyer the architect could have afforded visitors.

The mixed results of the introduction are, in a way, perfectly representative of a collection of stories that is mixed in quality. Some of the worst stories seemed promised front-runners -- witness Catherynne M. Valente's "The City of Blind Delight" and John Grant's "All the Little Gods We Are" -- while some of the best stories turned out to be by relative unknowns, such as Erin Hoffman's "Root and Vein" and Michael J. DeLuca's "The Tarrying Messenger." Instead of trying to group these into sections according to their perceived quality, however, the best way to examine this anthology is surely to follow it through in its arranged order. [Read the rest of the review at this link.]