MUSRUM (ERIC THACKER, ANTHONY EARNSHAW)

 From what the Mad Mane Machine has gathered, Musrum is a highly valued cult book. Considerately, that can be an apex for wrapping up book blogging—especially when a sought after style is nowhere to be found, few entries later. It would be doing the book much worse than good. Shit.

  Schizophrenic and experimental writing—these have managed to be checked before. Musrum ticks the weird-and-phenomenal-without-even-trying box. Reinstating all belying preconceptions towards meaninglessness, implied meanderings, and conclusive misconceptions. The existential world of Musrum. It may convince it is the opposite of a mind trip, yet its realization is an inimitable directory of how not to impose anything. As a rule, it just is—minus mere existence.

  For one, Musrum is a stretcher upon its course. There is a set of images eloquently re-arranged to match the written counterpart of its deranged and determined stylistic humour. The amount of logo creations up-fronts the number of word creations. Many of them recall to the Metal genre; where funly, they were related—as follows—to various sub-genres to an almost astounding precision.

Cover (07) — Death Metal. Very Morbid Angel distortions

COLUMBUS ... (09) — Occult Doom Metal/any tribal variation. Woodcraft and symbology

THE ATTIC (15) — Stoner (Doom). Thick text in the vein of Sleep

THE IRON CASTLE (19) — Progressive Metal. Sharp/defined symmetry (far from Thrash's)

THE EXPLORATION OF THE WORLD (32) — Atmospheric Sludge Metal. Coastline/Island indenting . . . since Pirate Metal is not really a genre. . . .

THE WEEDKING'S PLOT (37) — Raw/Atmospheric Black Metal. Fucking Groot

THE PURSUIT BEGINS (41) — Post-Metal. Cresting with wavelines/rendering to softness

IN ODESSA (52) — Avant Garde Metal. A funny 'mess' of objects living and non-living

MUSRUM  A PROLOGUE OF BANNERS — Gothic Metal

MUSRUM'S PLAN TO UTILIZE THE INDUSTRIAL SUBURBS OF THE ESTATE AS AN ARSENAL (69) — Brutal Death Metal heavy on Hardcore/Sludge Metal. Not very stylized, solid font. (Borderline Grindcore)

WHEEL-LORE (72) — Speed Metal. Thrash-like precision meets arrows

THE TREE TELEGRAPH (80) — Depressive Suicidal Black Metal. Trees; Pines in particular

PRINCIPLES OF FLOWERLIGHT (82) — European Power Metal. (Sun)Flower power

THE ELDER TREE (93) — Grindcore. Nasum spikiness with talons. Sweet perfection

PREPARATION AT THE CAMP (97) — Industrial Metal. Wtf  moment as human limbs spell it out

THE ISLE THROUGH THE WOODS (104) — Experimental Dark Metal. Which really is  Industrial Black Metal

THE MUD CASTLE (107) — (Progressive) Groove Metal. Ahem! Toning down/up from (19). The whole logo realized anew as a block

Unnamed (109) — Duckcore. Thank you so much Metal Duck. This would be limbo

THE IMITATION GARDEN (112) — Drone Metal. Beating dunes eaten by time? Fascinating arrangement

FEAR, AFFLICTION - AND STRANGE HOPE (124) — Technical Death Metal. A die; no cast—Hexahedron with impressions/layers

SPOILS OF WAR (129) — Experimental? taken. Avant garde? taken. How do genres start? Not cheating here . . . Boris belongs somewhere?

THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO INTERSOL (133) — (Viking) Folk Metal. Through a rugged mapping and sea-faring arises the the nation (and title)

SECOND MOVEMENT: BELLA: LA DAME GENOVESE (134) — Love Metal (hark!). Arrow-shots to the hearts of sentimentalization

THIRD MOVEMENT: ALLEGRO (136) — That Byzantine Metal should be a thing? All above (134), in mosaic detail. Also deduct arrow. Right, Batushka exists

THE WEEDKING'S PLIGHT (151) — Crust loving Powerviolent Grind. Sells itself as Botanical Metal. Caterpillar's legs espouse the whole disappointing irony

THE WEEDKING'S FATE (155) — This sadly goes to Technical Brutal Death Metal. Fucking tech death heads horse-shitting the genre in alarming retardedness

ANTS VI—THE EMPIRE OF THE ANTS

But what was to prevent the ants evolving also?

These are intelligent ants. Just think what that means!

There can be little doubt that they are far more reasonable and with a far better social organisation than any previously known ant species 

—Herbert G. Wells

HAUNTED WOMEN: THE BEST SUPERNATURAL TALES BY AMERICAN WOMEN WRITERS (EDITED BY ALFRED BENDIXEN)

  Anagrams—all the life's wisdom can be found in anagrams! A lot can be done with a phrase or a sentence, but only the structural competence matters—further within that restriction is upholding meaning related to the words being anagramed. The less to no repetition of words in a phrase, the better a shot at it. Anagrams allow for so much wordplay among the meticulous homophones—here puns become trite and appear like child's play. Taking them this further was a well worth self-challenge beyond previous music reviews—I don't mind my language. . . .

  These are handpicked phrases from each story of the collection—non machine aided re-workings.

 

HAUNTED WOMEN: THE BEST SUPERNATURAL TALES BY AMERICAN WOMEN WRITERS 

WHET RUE YEARN EBBS: TRITE SPATIAL HOUNDS WREST MATERNAL ACUMEN

  1. The Amber Gods (Harriet Prescott Spofford)

ALL THOSE VERY GNOSTIC DEITIES WHO ASSISTED AT CREATION.

SISTER COLOURS TOO AIDED WISHES SETTING THY ACT ELEVATION.

      Story First.        Story  last.

        —Flower the peach     —Astra Castra, Numen Lumen

 

—IT IS COLDER THAN IT WAS.—I THINK I WILL GO TO SLEEP.

PLEA—TIE LAIC TWIN IN. ROOK HAS THIS WILED—GLOTTIS.

  2. The True Story of Guenver (Elizabeth Stuart Phelps)

SONG AND STORY, LIFE AND DEATH ARE SO CRUEL TO A WOMAN.

WAN ALMOST DETHRONED, OAR FELONY AS TANGO AIDS CURE.

  3. The Ghost in the Cap'n Brown House (Harriet Beecher Stowe)

BUT YOUR GRANDMA SHE BELIEVED IN THE GHOST, AND SO DID LADY LOTHROP.

GHOULY MANSION HOUSED GRIT IDLY. STAB ADVENT PROD ETHER DAB

  4. The Yellow Wallpaper (Charlotte Perkins Gilman)

THIS PAPER LOOKS TO ME AS IF IT KNEW WHAT A VICIOUS INFLUENCE IT HAD!

I WAIT FATEFUL ANT EKES I PREPONE VACATED KIN WHICH IS MOOT SOUL HOIST!

  5. The Story of a Day (Grace King)

SUCH A SPLENDID BLACK HEAD THAT HAD JUST YIELDED BREATH!

ENDURED BULK HATH JADED A HASTY DEATH! BILLED CAST CHIPS

  6. The Little Room (Madelene Yale Wynne)

AND ALL THIS NEVER EXISTED EXCEPT IN HER IMAGINATION?

THEN EMANATING SERIAL INCEPTIONS HID EXTRA IDLE VEXES?

  7. Her Letters (Kate Chopin)

HE VANISHED SILENTLY; SEEMINGLY INTO SOME INKY INFATHOMABLE SPACE.

HEAD ON; FAINT NOSEY HALE BELYING HIS MOSTLY SKIVED IMMINENT ESCAPE.

  8. The Foreigner (Sarah Orne Jewett)

I ALWAYS RUN OF AN IDEA THAT THE SEA KNOWS ANGER THESE NIGHTS AND GETS FULL O' FIGHT.

HEED A SHALLOW FUNK HUGE WAGES SAT AT INTENDN'T TO INGRAIN FAITHLESS GHOST FEAR.

  9. Luella Miller (Mary E. Wilkins Freeman)

SHE'S GOT STRENGTH ENOUGH TO HANG ONTO OTHER FOLKS TILL SHE KILLS 'EM.

GHOULS STROKE H'NGES FOR THE NTH TIME TONIGHT TELLS HEAL SONG'S LOOK.

  10. The Lost Ghost (Mary E. Wilkins Freeman)

SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN VERY BEAUTIFUL IF SHE HAD NOT BEEN SO DREADFUL.

BRIDE WOUNDED BY EERIE HALF LOVE FUELS VESSEL AND BEAU HUNT.

  11. The Bell in the Fog (Gertrude Atherton)

HE SPENT A HAUNTED NIGHT, BUT THE NEXT DAY STRANGER HAPPENINGS BEGAN.

EXTEND AUGUR HANDY BEINGS HATH BESET SIGN STRAIGHTEN BATHING PATENT.

  12. The Fullness of Life (Edith Wharton)

PERHAPS NOW I SHALL REALLY KNOW WHAT IT IS TO LIVE.

WHITELIST KNELL AVAILS WORRY WHIPS ON SHAPE A LOT.

  13. Pomegranate Seed (Edith Wharton)

OH, YOU NEEDN'T IMAGINE THAT ANYTHING CAN EVER FRIGHTEN ME AGAIN!

ANY ONE MEAN TACT, OUGHT MENDING THY HIGH FINITE TANG AN' REVERIE!

  Since I don't have mild triskaidekaphobia, I regress from overlooking everything else to pinpoint 13's loom in my life—it's two pithy stories, three outstanding pieces, one obsessive em dash shoaler.

DOPPELGANGERS XXV

  Before Exodus' Tempo of the Damned cover was a Weird Tales pulp mag edition with an accompanying illustration—if the skeletal could harness temporal legions—wreathing under a witch's cloak; perhaps. A leap to what Eddie might develop into under a natural extension towards Thrash—horns and atrophying skin. Into the temple.

—Joseph Krucher

—Jowita Kamińska-Peruzzi

PETER HAINING—TERROR! A HISTORY OF HORROR ILLUSTRATIONS FROM THE PULP MAGAZINES

  The pulp magazines were the launching pad of some of the cornerstone names in the horror, fantasy, and science fiction among other genres today. Their popularity relied heavily on illustrations, and like many publications,—including novels—they are indispensable and as decisive on the importance of publication to readers as they are an influence on their biases/preferences. Much less the same thing that has had certain dictations upon my reading habits/purchases over the years and looking forward to to depictions as a young-in to accompany long gone favourites. 

  This is a compilation of illustrations the author—Peter Haining—deems important to the horror and to an extent, fantasy pulp magazines—where some tended to cater but not limited to both—across the span of the 19th to 20th Century. Showcased are various artists and most are engravings as the printing press gained traction. Other styles of illustrations were later incorporated at length, replacing engravings. Some artists were impressive enough to be featured twice or more. It absolutely is an art lover's cherish. I had a copy from a library that had some pages plucked, and some missing sections that had been cut-out by some dumb fucking moron. Fucking retard wouldn't understand this might not be available in a hundred mile raduis. PoS!

  Here are some of The Mad Mane Machine's choice illustrations from the compilation. It's fantastic to have a new—old—great artist to uphold. That is when it resumes drawing.

 Experiments in the lost art of poisoning

 Steam-powered robot (cover)

Invaders from the infinite

 

 The bride of death

 

   Nor moon by night

Excellent cover by Hanes Boke

  Having book perusers serves as the prelude pictures with details about each illustration. Much more like Space Bestiary from GURPS, with its various artist perception of exo-monsters and a much longer description. TMMM envisions Groot as World Tree! The wonderful chronology is a mesmerizing work to anybody interested in that aspect of literature's history.

VOICES FROM THE SKY BY ARTHUR C. CLARKE

  What is more important than science? The obvious answer leads to expositions that have been explored and expounded  in this array of astronomical, astronautical and other essays.

  Reflecting on the dawn of the Space Age and speculating on what the future has in space, Arthur C. Clarke  takes a straightforward in-person approach across various elaborated phenomena. The approachable tone should nonetheless imply a pop-sci advent, as many are wont to note when explanations and analogies are applied on science shows for the dissemination and disentangling of technical inclinations and concepts. On such premise, I'd point out that even Clarke notes fun is essential and without which the shows would be disengaging interested but non technical persons; but more importantly, less people would be ensnared—which should just about be the reason for its existence. Quite different from watering down. 

  Voices from the Sky outlays concepts whose ideas are now a much divers reality today—take for example electrical brain stimulation—whilst others like remotely operating surgeons are yet to be conceived.

  The author warns that with the rapid scientific advancement as from his time, nothing is final. A fine example would be the statement that that the electron was the smallest thing in the universe since discovery down the book's conceivement period. Today it is otherwise with the discovery of the quantum world inhabited by the once labeled as particle zoo. All lay side to side with his and others' contributions to space-faring and portions of the second industrial revolution.

  Acknowledgements of interesting authors of the genre are neither the least as they are weaved along the author's interplay of speculations, narratives, analogies, recollections, experiences and stances. This is the other Clarke hidden to some of his readers. Astro-literature reads something like this—since the fiction ones will not capture as much ideologies at heart.

ANTS VI—WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF?

Cultures and races will vanish.
The ants will take over the world.

—Edward Albee

THE CROQUET PLAYER BY H. G. WELLS

  It only takes the first five pages to discern a piece written by Herbert G. Wells. Besides a catalogue that would by  any means appear intimidating given how highly original, perceptive and engaging his work is. They are tales that are ebbed and whiled out  as a first person narrative from the perspective of a third person, with a constant of choice peculiar words.

  Given the brevity of The Croquet Player, it occurs a man's tale into contagious madness. Presented here is an ordinary or everyday man; a key aspect in relegating the intended impact of the story's urgency—amid the ramification of perceived but highly contagious thoughts of two intellectuals. One is a young, sensitive, reasonable, if oblivious of the reality around him. The other man is an inflated promise of redemption—with borderline ruminations to the truth about the current world situations. It is not a big revelation that man is really a beast, and in neither way different from his cave-man ancestor—appointed to psychotherapeutic duties upon the young doctor. 

  The Doctor starts losing his mind to a fear of the unknown at a remote area, once inhabited by Neanderthals. If this place sets everybody setting foot there mad, their reaction on countering the overcast mental entities can work for or against them. Dr. Finchatton narrates his troubles  in a quest for perspective and opinion from an ordinary man: and one who wouldn't care even if his world is falling apart provided the usual needs are met. They must be. Metaphorically delving in the frustrations of two aspects of civilization and their reactions to their not so reassuring world. Ignoring and failing to rise up to the challenges. Placing an engagement to the reader.

Did he repeat my phrase—endemic panic?

   The author aligns and acclaims to Edgar E. Poe, and evokes a similar atmosphere, with certain touches of Howard P. Lovecraft, succeeding to create a formidable power of the unknown. It is the reader that is being confronted, once the croquet player decides to flee, even though his mind has been seeded with the malady of thought. How to be an incorporating presentist, such a way!

POINT DECEPTION BY MARCIA MULLER

  Some stories go on forever. . . . The grips have done part the task and now adrenaline jets the flowing. Others are a waste of readers' time. Ah, the time for different excursions. For the most part, satisfaction and well laid foundation are a Siamese pair. Get the plot inconceivably yet seemingly condensable links and backstories and the unforgiving razor pares this relationship. Severing may be terminal on either or both.

  As far as Point Deception impresses with the writing, it falls somehow badly on its own propulsions. For a mystery story, it dwells heavily on character development at the expense of detection and mystery-solving. An eminent mystery seeker may be put off by the meandering of the story-line across personal issues and pasts  of people that are the knit of the murders that occurred at Point Deception in a new wake of numinous murders. The backlogs render  too much into particular persons to read as biographies, which jeopardizes both length and enjoyability of the book to acclimated mystery seekers.

 

 

You may think you're a hotshot detective, lady, but you're nothing on me.

  The main appeal is largely at the closure. The original murders have been used as a cultivation point and minstrel to one unlikely melody at the brief closure. Bait. Further enmeshed in many unnatural conversations. The upbeat use of slang may try to appeal to a YA audience at a very sickening precedence. Some colloquials are so conventional they do the author some discredit, but the ending was perfect. The book outlines some achievements at the back but my considerations towards the author remain limited. If only all that detail went into polishing the crimes.

THE CONSULTANT: A NOVEL OF COMPUTER CRIME BY JOHN McNEIL

  To hell with being a moralist. To such a seemingly crude society it's befitting at best to be opportunistic and damn be repercussions. What a coarser and broader view t apply to the titilations of everyday. Conclusive, but not wrong. An actuality articulated by many correctly putting.

  A disconcerting life is not to relegate countenance to . . . loophole appropriation. After setting up a software consultancy firm, which encrusts him with the frightening hindsight that it is much worse to own a small portion of a company you work for than to just work for it; the day has come for Webb to neck his way into a tender among six rivals that include a giant firm—which he ordinarily has no chance against. The aging programmer recruits one of his employees to sniff out patches in a new in the market system for a major bank—BANKNET.

   Along teaching his companion the ropes, Webb faces the moralist dilemma that finally ticks to right side of the clock—depending on how one views it. By this streak, he also measures the accentuating action of his younger associates, as he also plays detective, spy, auditor, schemer, and all that jazz in a quest to what everything boils down to—information. Win the tender? Outsmart a shit-hot coder? Deliver required fodder?—information.

Knowledge is the best key, Mr. Webb. Knowledge of weakness.

  The Consultant is first a great story, then literature. It is way too formidable to dwell pretensions—a leaning it constantly disapproves of bearing the frolicking and fun word-tossing. The colour of the whole scheme lies in the cordiality of characters pitted against dishevels and malice. A solitary crime thriller that strikes a frozen pause to the time of digital significance.

THE MAN YOU SLEEP WITH BY DAVID E. FISHER

  David Fisher is a name synonymous with a given personas. On the one hand is a Goodreads bio relating a writing actor. With the premises surrounding The Man You Sleep With and the book's obscurity, it is easy to pin it down 95% to this David Fisher, a Holly affiliate and part of the National Treasure cast. On the other hand surfaces a science writer dabbling in fiction, but only hints of science are concurrent to convey certain aspects of the story. Of the two, the last mentioned penned this introspective back-flash murder-mystery session and its where-abouts.

  Not long ago, the Mad Mane Machine came across Murder Machree, which appears to be at par with The Man You Sleep With on quite a number of aspects: Film references and placed and opportunistic name dropping around the 30's cinema period—check title; A clash with poetry on a light manner; and murders most foul—straining relations.

  Deceit has long existed as a human extension and loopholes well exploited provide a standing mystery for schemers to run loose, if not free. Here are two young men who befriend a lady—and as is bound,she has to decide which of the two. Bob loses Sarah to Turner for failing to express himself at the crucial moment. He does mind if Sarah marries Turner but doesn't say so when given the chance, yet the three know otherwise is how it should be.

  Falling out of affection breeds Turner's decision to rid of Sarah. Divorce will lead to losing the real estate company he built for her father. Fueled by this paranoia, the plans are set in his mind, although action is a tad tighter than brain sequencing of events. The shortcomings of all plans lay in overlooking the role chance might play on the chains of events—indeed a significant one. Back-flashes tear the story into percepts of events and their relations to the tale. Raising questions which old-timey Bitch Slap had a clutch on.

  Part of it attains a dark urban edge once Turner takes the reader to the gritty parts of his frequent city. The remaining part is an unapologetic film bait which brashly and audaciously  gives the punchline-like title The Courtesy not to Bleed.

ANTS V—LEININGEN VERSUS THE ANTS

This was destined to be the scene of the outbreak of war between Leiningen's brain and twenty square miles of life-destroying ants.

He did not need to be told that ants are intelligent, that certain species even use others as milch cows, watchdogs and slaves.

—Carl Stephenson

CITY OF THE CHASCH

  Argh! Who put magic in my science fiction? Or rather speculative fiction. Why should sci fi be the place to pit mage work and supertech? No matter how neanderthaly a system or community has relegated or disintegrated in a very likely pessimistic dystopia of an author's portrayal. It is the same inconvenience that puts Brazil at fault despite thr e vigilantly conversant speculation—a slowly forming future, activities being null without headstart from the controlled main organ.

  As a whole, speculative fiction offers a preccint for a given array of magic and sci fi. Only when magic is used as a means to an end rather than a suitable accomplishment—not a mere underdeveloped accompany—does it leave the setting wanting. Besides predisposition to premature magicking, the first fourth of City of the Chasch weighs down on the book's accomplishments. It provides curt espousals that forsake the fun of suspense. Mixed with brutal developments, which align to create a weak passage for the better part of the story. As a first book for the author, I'm tempted to place it more on a developing writing style—given the same section is littered with limitless but escapable thesaurian occupations.

  City of the Chasch is the first of a four serial Planet of Adventure; Tschai—home to warring advanced alien species. The Chasch, Dirdir, Wankh, Phung, and Pnume. Tschai is an Earth-like planet whose natives were Pnume and Phung. The invading alien races were Wankh; the Chasch arrived first, followed by Dirdir with men they had acquired from proto-Mongoloid and proto-Caucasoid tribes. These men metamorphosed by mutation, specialization, re-mutation, re-specialization to adapt to various Tschai environs—while others were enslaved as surbordinates to the alien races by physio-psychological means.

The quagmire was the habitat to many fascionating creatures—

  Following through with the strife of a dystopian wake is the grounds for the first Planet of Adventure tales. Kruthe is a fictitious language that has been developed by one of the myriad species of men—the Kruthe, who capture Reith, the surviving earth-man after a fateful mission to planet Tschai. It is syntactically regular with words generally being the same, although nuances administer it difficult by scores of tenses, moods and aspects. Hath a writing style be beyond personal enjoyment, with characters like Anacho undermining comprehension capacities of mere men, it is more likely the case. A despise that sci fi authors don't fail to elaboratively outline. Like James Blish and Brian Aldiss.

ANTS IV—THE FIRST IN THE MOON

By contrast with the mooncalves he seemed a trivial being, a mere ant, scarcely five feet high.

They are much more like ants on their hind legs than human beings, and who ever got any sort of understanding with ants?

Cavor, as we learnt, was not only alive but free, in the midst of an almost inconceivable community of these ant-like beings, these ant-men in the blue darkness of lunar caves.

Of course, they are not only colossally greater in size than ants, but also, in Cavor's opinion at least, in intelligence, morality, and social wisdom are they colossally greater than men.

 —Herbert G. Wells

HANNIBAL BY THOMAS HARRIS

  From fictitious to existing and non fiction texts, books sum the lateral provision on which writers scour for luster. Iron sharpens iron—so must incandescence. Poe's French personas get baffled and impressed by how well read his characters are—expressed as before the tale. Fictitious incorporations have included such as Pilgrim without Progress. For Thomas Harris relegation is to voluminous research by characters—at least the serious ones. An actuality putting into consideration the bibliophile effort rendered for the creation of one cultured Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

  The procession of Hannibal proved hefty. Its satisfaction lay in the variegated inclinations. Whichever answers one would want assuaged in a crime thriller steeped in good old horror, then detection is an obligation than a necessity. At the hands of the Italian police and the F.B.I., mystery enshrouds Il Mostro's and Hannibal's who and whereabouts. It is not easy a task, shadowing a spectre and battering it at its own game. Dr. Lecter is the type of clean slate dust-up mastermind who understands forensic science is the modern criminal's first enemy and solid witness; yet failed by whimsical tendencies. It takes a person attuned to such nippy nuances to even notice them, before offsetting on their pursuit. Goddamn birds of a feather.

  Clarice Starling had managed to eke out of Dr. Lecter information on Buffalo Bill, earning his regards and concerns—once he notices she is charmed with taste, the element which successfully aids her on locating Dr. Lecter. Rionaldo Pazzi, head of Italian inspection, realizes this too late; and coupled with ambitious avarice, dies at Hannibal's hands, set to an image of the deposition—as the book pacefully illustrates pacts of viewing every painting of the once obscure Jan Vermeer.

  On her way to find Dr. Lecter, Starling was on her downfall from the F.B.I.. Contained by her gender, ambition, smart mouth, and beauty. She still gets her absolute worth. Hannibal had been bountied to Pazzi and a certain ignoramus F.B.I. agent. Typical of exertion to  ruinous motives and drive without any oversight. Relayed by the setter of the bounty prize, Mason Verger—Hannibal's only surviving victim and one with the willpower and financial flex to hunt him internationally.

I just want to see every Vermeer in the world

  After the final chapter, various considerations crossed the Mad Mane Machine, unsure of how to finally regard regard a book that starts growing in. The layering being full of character conclusions, heavy on the psychological side. Coming to Sardinia, art, and the bogus count after BloodFever was starting. Forth couldn't be brought a better present tensed omniscient narrator. The question trickled to—So, French or Italian?

BLOODFEVER BY CHARLIE HIGSON

 A story can load as much Chekhov's guns.These, to the extent of the thrill they help piece together, a la an amateur archaeologist on their first, yet indiscernible excavation. The challenge is not to overwhelm the reader with sub-plots that are to the story-line, while maintaining considerable length to avoid losing its punch.

 Similarly, the main theme/title is the stuff of sub-plot; although in accordance to the book's purpose, it is to raise temps—tampering with temperament. The world of the younger Bond. James Bond. Has taken a fastidious leap after SilverFin. More dangerous antagonists. Disposition to the world of art. Occasionally the placed bully that measures his mettle. And meeting the deadliest animal in the world before he realizes (argh) not everyone is to be trusted. Enamouring a shift from the most dangerous game, which he is perpetually hunting and on the run from. The proverbial if you were born to be hanged, you'll never be drowned. In the sea and in the dam where he pulls his feats. Settings of the latter coming from The Johnson Flood tale minus the deluge.

There comes a terrible fever, shivering, pain in your joints; your head aches like it will explode.

 Little thrills only give way to unexpected mystery solving and detection. It is the psyche which knows no sycophant. Pumping in the veins of Mr. Bond. The best advice a cousin could ever give him was learning how to drink—for to know how not to get drunk. Adventures are to the adventurous.

VICTORIAN DETECTIVE STORIES—EDITED BY MICHAEL COX

  I found there was life beyond horror and sci-fi. Although still within the main confines—film and literature. As livid and lurid, sensation fiction could not escape my interest for long, and once the tenterhooks increased, it was only a matter of choice. Mystery is still the unifying factor, whichever the strain—supernatural, detective or psychic, though permeation is a case, if not often.

  As of today, the Victorian era still beams of relevance. It is continually studied/taught as a significant fashion period, behold its over-ornamentations—nobody has done it better. On another aspect, it was the time when Edgar Allan Poe picked a pen, and literature was never the same. As chronicled by Michael Cox, Victorian Detective Stories traces the detective story from the bud to the broadly branched trunk it has become. From Auguste Dupin to Simon Carne, through Sherlock Holmes.

  Where the detective looms in a given tale, some authors prevail by ingeniously distracting the reader into seemingly founded preconceptions, by only beguiled and engineered insinuation. Some cases neither involved crime, others no detection, yet unfolded a strongly concocted mystery. With a keen and sharp eye for detail, I thought nothing could be better than a detective writer describing atmosphere—mostly brooding the narration's surroundings. Sinister a link for the detective and the ghost/gothic story. It is the mania related stories that turned up the most thrilling, the weakest being the first supernatural tale—a slight plot-hole. When binge-reading does not hurt, eyes pleading, consider "your curiosity has been raised to fever heat"—if in the company of puns from two headings.

Alternative version

 

  As the detective progressed to to capacitate mad-scienists, these one-and-thirty are what is essential for book pleasure in the drawing-room. After supper, a glass of grog, and a smoke. Better than meerschaum in the smoking-room with accompanies. And nothing is as schooling as a studious introduction.

NIGHT PRAYERS BY P. D. CACEK

  The room temperature drops by a dozen degrees. The occupants are either Breathers and Vampires. At times a Watcher is around. Sometimes. A side of the scare tactic – a Breather finally encountering what they couldn't prove – the other moment they experience the chills is a flesh encounter with the undead. Whichever. Equally three bites, and turning innocents. Into Fledgies. Becoming a Maker. Doing Unto Others: The First Rule of Vampirism.

  Other narrations may plant the teething plot around poetry stanzas. Night Prayer's boasts of movies' and comics'. I Broad bases. At the time where every OTT Dracula tendency was at its height. Vampire jokes that were at the stake of being sucked dry once they saw the light of day. Wryly amusing puns at their prime before being passé.

It really didn't matter - O, A, OR B ... it tasted the same

  Expressly and explicitly as Dracula spawns with everything in-your-face. Every chapter is in your face. On the right hand side. Prologue. Epilogue – literally covered, only someone forgot checking spelling and tense somewhere. Since vampires are always up against doctrine, it is still the case, to a point. Luci goes first and John sees it to the end. The very onslaught of vanity till her flesh crawls commanders the Count's disdain for mirrors. The Fledgy offers herself to finality. Ah, can't Alice facet? B.Y.O.C(laret). . . to the gory.

STATIONARY ORBIT BY PETER MACEY

  Inaccessible books are quite sizzling, and nothing comes close to one from a niche category. Checking out of a library a century-crossing hardcover for the first and maybe one of the few times IS it. It appeared anything by Peter Macey isn't easy to come across, and not just Stationary Orbit.

  The mysteries of pulsating alien frequencies awaiting solutions recall back to keen investigation. The best method to overseeing this involves creation of a branch of study–and which better way to do this than through research from a college. As this opportunity presents itself to an undergraduate at the eve of his studies, doubts are eminent on thecy of the subject – Alien signal search and demystification in the hunt for extraterrestrial life. Reason enough for it to be given minor concern by - everybody else.

  Chance does have it that success comes calling. The first of contact turns out to be with a highly advanced entity. As the everybody else catches up with the big discovery, international politics aggrandize, overhauling, greed and situational appropriation. She becomes a national representative wherever possible. When the world's superpowers align their best against her, the country of the rising sun succeeds to be the long lasting cortical. Needless to mention: Japandroids is one great name.

  Everything unfolds as a light-hearted view of power efforts a state with extraterrestrial upper hand will undertake, interwoven to world war paranoia;and daily life with a background of disintegrating romance. A brink of war overrules mankind's tenure for rational stability. The extraterrestrials thus far contacted must withdraw, albeit as virtually as they came. It may have not mattered about their locus, exo-Sol or otherwise. As much as the speculation of beyond-Earth ant colonies, but animals, dolphins, make appropriate invitations.

SCIENCE AS THE STIGMA OF BRAVE NEW WORLD

  During the post-formative years of his career, Philip K. Dick was ensnared by what some philosophically inclined old men renounce to once they retire—religion, spending their time reading, and thinking. The antithesis of an intellectual-monitoring, senile phobic society. The Brave New World. It is hard to ignore this book had an impact on Philip K. Dick, whichever its sizableness.  Here, however, the links of the two masterpieces—Brave New World and The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch—will heed another topic.

  Long gone are the viviparous days where reproduction is by piddling twos and threes. Even some animals, mammals, can do that. Bokanovskification—from Bokanovsky's Process—allows serial arrested development, genetic modification to obtain 8 to 96 similar individuals. This is one of the processes keeping the CENTRAL LONDON HATCHERY AND CONDITIONING busy. As busy as the Eichenwald Clinic during therapeutic seasons. The German E Therapy clinics—owned by Dr. Denkmal—almost linger on pseudo-science. His trial-and-error approaches to evolution have both yin and yang. A patient is subject to either, at their own risk—considering E Therapy opens doors for one to be personae gratae. Or devolving back to Sinanthropus.

  Future societies seem to have gotten Denkmal's work right as he becomes legendary; with evolution moving forward 100 000 years at a crack. The present society's beneficiaries  undergo evolution both physically and spiritually. E Therapy brings about growth in the cortex area—one manifests a huge frontal lobe; they practically are precogs through advancing—leading to many new and exciting concepts occurring to one, especially those of religious nature. Advantages of the therapy are foreseen,  including chitinous-type skin, rind an altered metabolism, and improved ventilation. Traits that account for the non experienced before individual thought patterns, but notably, base human tendencies seem too intrinsic for evolution.

  Had Moustapha Mond allowed the publication of A New Theory of Biology, the unsettled mind, and these ought to exist where mental cavorting has been banished, may be deconditioned  by believing purpose is some intensificaton and refining of consciousness—enlargement of knowledge. The conception of purpose challenges what happiness really is, conditioning notwithstanding.

Chemical handlers are trained in chemical tolerance.

Rocket-plane engineers are kept in constant rotation to improve their balance.

Unto the kind of conditioning an Alpha-Plus intellectual undergoes is left to the reader's guess, with subtle hints. And thus the happiest knack for slogans and hypnopaedic rhymes extends to include: All related men are equal, but some related men are more physico-chemically equal than others.

  Starting with a predestination that cleverly morphs into events leading to the protagonist's life, his new world peers are 2 years apart from the generation ahead or behind them, thanks to Podsnap's Technique—an egg ripening process. The defining factor of the genetic modification from mere imitation of nature was the Freemartins, a result of the view that fertility was a nuisance. These females lacked fertile embryos and were given sterile male-sex hormone—giving them a tendency to sprout beards.

DRAW EVEN BROWL/EVEN BOWL DRAW

Mechanical Elements—Fernand H. Léger

  Man appears unable to save himself from his erring hand by creating defects, some that affect his course greatly, even at the disposal of science, or attuning his tools, especially the sentient ones, to the machine's undertakings. Sensations are savage enough to affect subservience to the machine. Had Aldous Huxley been a music critic, the l-p's would melt in sight. The Philip K. Dick replacement iron oxide tapes could handle his . . . BRAVE NEW WORLD / LEVER DRAWN BOW / LOW REVERB WAND. Even the cubists loved strings.