Good Reads: "The Passage" by Justin Cronin

When will the Army learn not to mess with strands of DNA from Undocumented Diseases from Far Away Places?

Never, I suppose. Not so long as there are Zombie Apocalypse Epics to write. Here, the US Army is up to no good, using death-row inmates as guinea pigs for some top secret project with requisite top secret mountain bunkers, scientists, agents and goons. It's the Near Future with requisite acts of terror on US soil, a shaken economy and people working to create super-soldiers who heal overnight. All goes just fine, until a 6 year old girl, somehow and inexplicably, is chosen to receive a cocktail that will make her immortal. And then, of course, the world ends.

This is just the first few hundred pages in this door stopper of a novel. The next "act" is set further in the future, as a whole new cast unravels the folly of these mad men while dealing with the horror of unkillable undead and a failing world. And, "The Passage" would be another wholly forgettable end-of-world book, especially with the unnecessary exposition and incessant filler that renders whole chapters tedious and boring, were it not for how the author wove a very interesting bit of magic into the story that really keeps the story afloat. It's right in the opening and is sprinkled sparingly through the pages and it adds a sense of purpose to this bloated novel. The first third of this tome, however, is enthralling and impossible to put down, but still, the book has no business being over 700 pages(!) long.

Especially not when you get to the end and this damn thing doesn't end. Apparently, it's a trilogy now and I couldn't help be upset when I got to there. It stops on a weak cliffhanger that gives no reason to read the forthcoming books - ending with a look into a time well into the future, it renders whatever is yet to be written unnecessary - because right here, in the end is the proof of their eventual success.

A decent read, it is engrossing and really makes one wonder about the fragility of the day-to-day lives we lead. With some heavy editing, this could be a truly spectacular, thrilling book, but it too often reaches for the mediocre.

Good Reads: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly

Here is a fairy tale that is at once nothing like you've heard and yet a derivative of many stories. Dark, oppressive and near-cruel, this is a potent tale that is not some half-baked "gritty" or "modern" folkloric update mish-mash - rather this is a story that transcends the medium and becomes a rumination on the horror of childhood, the wonder of adult-hood and the impossible, unbearable, cost of growing up.

In this tale, a young boy loses his mother and, in some way, his mind. Scared, ignored and angry, he finds comfort in reading books of fairy tales that his mother dearly treasured. But, these tales are as old as Man and there is real power in something so ancient. And as young David's world comes apart, the books offer a reprieve and glimpses of magical places. They whisper to him and he hears his mother's voice - calling, pleading for help. David answers the call but right away learns that nothing as it appears and that he is suddenly cold, hungry and alone in a dangerous world that will do all it can to kill him.

In short - No easy read, the book is nonetheless worthwhile and powerful. Brisk and engrossing, the way ancient tropes and characters from myths and stories are overturned and twisted is unsettling and shocking. However, it's all done with purpose and aside from a handful of grating moments, the book keeps it's grasp on you wholly. Given a chance, the lush, dangerous world will consume you like the magical, living, ivy that comes alive at night and drags  into its forest the bodies of slain half-wolves with awful purpose.

Though small, this book left a deep impression. The main story ends in a satisfying way, but the final chapter was heart-wrenching. The simple words - a summary of a man's life in a few pages - gave the preceding chapters so much weight, so much emotion, it was unbearable. The words really connected with something deep inside myself and in the space of a few sentences, I could not stop myself from sobbing uncontrollably, weeping not only for this man, but also for myself and the endless tiny aches, pains and regrets of my own childhood.

It was an unexpected reaction that ended as I reached the last word. The experience brought up long-forgotten whispered words from my mother, hugs from my grandmother, vague notions of endless sunny days and all the hope and wonder of the world bottled up and hidden inside me, bursting forth all at once. Surprised, embarrassed and relieved, I closed the book feeling much older, with a pride that comes with gaining some bit of universal knowledge that I knew would change me for all time.

It was,somehow, my own Happily Ever After.

On: Magic in The City and the Current Reading List

While specific books and I have certain and often complex relationships that I won't get into now, with Books in general I've noticed a sort of cycle. It starts with a twinge, perhaps after reading a review, or seeing the same book a few times - a sort of slight ping in my mind, a switch being pressed that says: "Why aren't you reading!?" Then, I move on and get busy and weeks will go by, but all the while, I will begin to crave reading. It will be a source of anxiety of sorts, of me being silly and not making time for what I want most.

Finally, I'll make way to The Library and spend a few happy hours browsing, looking, being lost, being frustrated, wondering why I'd waited so long - and come home to at least  half dozen tomes that could be anything and wonder how I'll have the time to read half of my haul. I then read one book, or two at once, get enthralled or get bored, pick up another, or ignore them all and rack up fines and finally return them. Then, a few weeks will go by and the same will start all over.

It's a bit of a silly pattern, but I followed it even while living in Columbus, just an alley away from the Main Library there, which, to this day remains as one of my favorite places on Earth. Whoever runs that ship sure know what they're doing and it's something that's truly lacking in Chicago's 100 times larger system.

But. Something that I didn't have in Columbus was something I find ever-present here in Chicago. It's not a thing or place and it's not even anything I can describe in concrete terms. It is more of a sensation and a consistent, persistent thought, like some great inside joke about to be told that only a portion of the city is directly aware of that nonetheless affects and impacts the city each and every day, if only you let it. It may be silly, but the only word I have for it is magic.

Of course, it's not unicorns or bolts of thunder. It's not even anything terribly interesting, but there are a lot of coincidences that happen here all the time. It's getting on the train with absolute strangers and then, on your commute back, seeing the very same people, several days in a row, all at wildly different times. It's thinking about how to contact someone and then having that person get in touch. It's thinking, "Oh, I wonder if that book that finished the trilogy that I started ever got written?" - and it being the first thing you see when going to the library for the first time in months, which of course happened to me last weekend, with the book you see above that I am now reading and very much enjoying. These things are all minor, and I wouldn't think to comment on any of them, unless they happened all the time, constantly and consistently.

If that's just part of living here, then I am all for it. It's odd, bizarre and sometimes startling, but it's part of the wonderful vibrancy that brought me here is allowing me to now thrive.