What Book is on Your Nightstand?

[catzmeow]

I'm in the process of reading The Merchant's War by Charles Stross. It's the 4th book in a series. I read a lot of sci fi. Very little non-fiction.

To PoliticalChic, if you haven't read The Kite Runner, I highly recommend it. Great story. Starts a bit slow, but you will love it if you stick with it. Just finished Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I hated it.

 

[sky dancer]

Betrayal by John Lescroat. Excellent read. I just finished Freedomland by Richard Price.

 

[PoliticalChic]

Perhaps, it's my lack of imagination, but I can't get into sci fi. Whether they be books or movies.

 

[Shogun]

have you read On The Road?

 

[del]

have you read On The Road?

yep. it's not sci-fi.

it just seems that way.

 

[PoliticalChic]

have you read On The Road?

No, I haven't. But if it is partly based on reality, it may be good for me. I'll add it to my list. Thanks.

 

[Shogun]

do it. and then check out some of the other beatnik stuff. ooohhh.. in fact, lemme give you a fun reason why you might like it..

Check out On The Road and let it sink in.. then read The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe (warning, he's a little wordy.. you'll see what I mean).. Tom, famously, is rather conservative in his writing but his book about day-glo hippies is good stuff. The interesting thing about Jack Kerouac's beat genre and it's eventual transition into Kesey's stinky hippies, and the bridging gap that is Ginsberg, is that Jack was NOT A STINKY HIPPIE. Fuck no. He was a catholic (with a little dharma sprinkled in) alcoholic on BENZEDRINE! The literal genesis of the whole 60s druggy stinky hippy scene was a man who was not having all that shit at ALL. I think you would appreciate jack's semi-autobiographical trek across their America (specifically, their TIME in America), with all the beatnik schtick included AND the contrast that it became in a tripped out decade of dirty hippies smoking a lot of pot and listening to the Grateful Dead.

and I love the Grateful Dead.

werd.

 

[del]

have you read kesey?

 

[Procrustes Stretched]

Absolutely, you have to read Ayn Rand. The above book I mentioned does denigrate America, particularly, Christopher Columbus, Helen Keller, Woodrow Wilson, and the pilgrims for 1/4 of the book.

I might try White Noise. Was it a fast read?

Ayn Rand?

``Who is John Goat?''
Dallas turned from the window and looked at the man in the seat
beside her. He had got on at one of the stops outside New York City,
but she had not noticed him before now. He had a bald head that seemed
to rest, like an opaque percolator bulb, atop a pillow of fat that had
once been a neck. His eyes were pale and lifeless.

``Pardon me?''

``Who is John Goat?''

``I don't know. Besides, those words are meaningless nonsense.''

The man nodded. His nod seemed to reject the possibility of objective
knowledge.

Dallas turned back to the window and gazed out upon the vast, blank
prairies.

A lighted billboard flickered by. Her heart trembled, and she
remembered the first time she had ever heard a radio commercial.
Her brother had told her that bird songs were prettier. But Francisco
had laughed and said,

``When I grow up, I will make birds out of copper and
sell them for money.''

And, the next day, he had presented her with his first copper bird,
made from metal he had mined with his own hands.

``Does it know any songs?'' she had asked.

``Only radio commercials.''

And then they had made love . . .

``Pardon me, miss.''

It was the bald man.

``Yes?''

``My name is Waldo Mudge. What's yours?''

``Stank. Dallas Stank.''

``Stank? The Stank who runs the railroad?''

``The same.''

Dallas proudly threw back her head.

``Hmph!'' Mudge sniffed.

``What do you do for a living, Mr. Mudge?''

``I'm a humanitarian. I live for others. Why do you look at me that
way? I give all my blood to the poor. Organs, too. Right now, I'm nothing
but an empty balloon. Don't look at me like that. Do you want to know
what keeps me alive? My love for mankind---something you would never
understand!''

``You're right, I . . . What's that hissing I hear?''

``Hissing? What? Oh, no!''

Suddenly, Waldo Mudge deflated.

Dallas turned away, overcome with disgust. A voice inside her head seemed
to whisper, ``This is what altruism leads to.''

But---the whole world was deflating---being sucked down an infinite black
hole of misery and despair. Nothing worked anymore. Dallas couldn't even get men to wash her train windows . . .
Wait, she thought: Her window was clean. She leaned closer.
It was perfect: not a single streak or water spot. It shone, and with
an energy that was more than reflected light.
It shone with the energy of intelligence.
Yet the window puzzled her. It was almost too clean.
That was it. It was too clean: it had been washed on the outside,
and quite recently.

National Directive 1089 forbade window-washing on the outside of a moving train.
One of her men had broken the law to do his job.
Dallas knew that she had to find him---for her sake, and her windows'.
She opened her window and climbed outside.
The wind nearly blew her off the train. She only smiled, and lighted
a cigarette.

She remembered the old man, in New York City, who had once owned a
cigarette factory. It had gone bankrupt when all of his customers died of
lung cancer---but that had not broken his spirit . . .
She finished the cigarette and threw it down. She saw the window washer
then.

He was on the next car, at the end of the train. He was clad in what
Dallas recognized to be the robe of a Capuchin monk. She climbed toward him.

She reached the gap between the cars, and hesitated. She had been
good at car-jumping once. That had been years ago. Could she still do it?
She softly whispered her grandfather's motto.

``I think I can, I think I can.''

She sprang. The earth and the train screamed past her as she hurtled
through the rushing air. A fingernail snagged on the aluminum of the next
car, and she pulled herself to safety. In minutes she was at the side of
the window washer.

``I want to give you a raise,'' she said.

``No, Miss Stank.''

And he threw back his hood and laughed.
His face was like one she had never seen, but always known.
It was a proud face, with hard, angular cheeks and cold, clear eyes; and it was crowned with black, angular hair. Intelligence shone from it like light from an expertly-cleaned window.

``Why not?''

``Because my mind is not for sale.''

``I don't understand.''

``Do you see these tools?''

He held up his belt of window-washing tools.
``Who do you think made them? Man did; or, man's mind did.
Squeegee, wash bottle, soap---each is the product of man's mind.
Man makes his tools with his mind. With his mind, man makes his tools.''

He lifted the belt higher. ``But man, who makes his tools---with
his mind!---can also discard them. Like this.''
He hurled the belt into the darkness.

``Who is John Goat? If you really want to know, you'll have to come
with me, Miss Stank.''

He tore the robe from his body, and was naked.

Dallas gave him her hand, and he took it. They leapt from the train
together, and rose into the objective moonlight.








-----By Michael Wilson
Copyright 2000

Ayn Rand, the godmother of Randian Objectivism.

ugh!!!

 

[Modbert]

How To Make War - James F. Dunnigan

Just finished reading:

The Outfit - Gus Russo. Which is an excellent book I recommend for anyone interested in the mob/crime genre.

 

[Shogun]

have you read kesey?

only cookoos nest. sometimes a great notion is on my list.

 

[Walt]

Just started a new one. Confessions Of An Economic Hit Man by John Perkins. So far it is very interesting.

 

[Sky Dancer]

The Second Chair by John Lescroart

 

[Caligirl]

The Wild Girl by Jim Fergus. two thumbs way up.