Tyler

It be my happy dooty to sing the stave and report the report from Treasure Island: Maybe I was shook! 'Twas a sea-chest of veritable plunder, by thunder! For I’m afeared I ain't a-going fer the ol' widdery pirate swab tales when this blunty booty were the blueprint, red crosses an all. I'll not deny neither I was on'y cruising for want of fairway fancy, and ne'er a finer fancy did I feign find. A fo'c'sle party o' me hearties on the lee-shore needn't bore the oilskins, for this holds water (in a manner o' speak); aye, there'd be no bailing afore we get sailing. What say, eh?

All that Tyler said was a riddle to you, but he would have never guessed it from your tone.

Ginsberg's correspondence to Burroughs, dated 1952: "Yeah, you got that junky-junk // That junky-junk, that junky-junky"

It’s not a long list but, certainly the best graphic novel adaptation I’ve encountered. And not due to the preservation of the original text—like Ogion the Silent and Le Guin before him, Fred Fordham knows the truth of, “Only in silence, the word.” These stunning images render an Earthsea suffused with shadow and light, such that the reader turns within themself to form the edges and chart their course

Not simply a book for readers and writers of fantasy/sci-fi but anyone who feels sincerely for art at all. Le Guin toppled barriers of industry with her groundbreaking fiction, but here she turns our attention to the artistic walls of our own making. Through the language of the night itself, she illuminates our responsibility and privilege to engage with our collective unconscious and embrace truth in writing. For when we refuse to accept anything lesser, this still-evolving literature of unreal creatures, technologies, possibilities presents a truth of our time more "real" than anything else

No doubt Le Guin wrote this in a room of her own. Perhaps facing west. Mine is the weakness that her strength seeks

Through the looking glass, into the place where it all began—from flowing waters there surfaced all systems of sex and gendered power. All loveless death, purpose-driven life, and the precarious paths between. When we fasten to one another in that place of thought, not with chains but charitable understanding…if we make our own path, may we never look back.

Someone tell me Le Guin isn’t the best to ever do it, I dare you. Also fairly wild to read of Hugh’s Labor Day struggles as I too weigh a crossroads involving librarianship

I think this will hit nearly as hard in 2129

One night, not so long ago, the poet Ursula K. Le Guin came before Virgil in a waking dream…

In which Lovecraft cracks open his worn thesaurus and attempts a self-conscious defense of his disinclination to detailing his horrors. Extremely slight, yet a grade above many of his stories with its little room for prejudice

#TeamJohanna

damn I didn’t know Virgil rolled like that

An enervated wreck at 18, I was casting about for an answer to sorry convictions and an assurance of boyish entitlements when I should have been reading this. I’m not ashamed, and neither should you be. I’m often asking myself where Le Guin has been all my life

Blood Meridian and the Iliad both sport 24 chapters…how curious. Grateful that I powered through this, though far from unscathed. Will necessitate another reading to properly judge the earth and learn the steps of its dance

Being another 20 years removed from the last sanctioned visit to Hav, my standard grief at putting down a masterpiece is here accompanied by despair over the seeming loss of the city-state altogether. Hav’s allegories have before our eyes bent further into maze-like opacity, evangelism, and zealous capital pursuit. I’m crying into my sea urchin soup rn, and I plan to cope by combing actual travelogues until I find one as illuminative (eagerly beginning with Jan Morris, herself)

The Mathemagician from The Phantom Tollbooth has been real quiet since this dropped

I've never been so quickly hooked. Since the intro bade me consider the preconceptions and even physicality involved with embarking on a read, my consciousness re: the act of reading has exploded. Now I can’t help but adjourn from the commotion of the bus and give everything of myself to the tomes toted in my lap. Or perhaps the substance of the stuff is made in those moments where my gaze wanders?…sometimes both or neither

Anyway, this is mildly philosophical but so playful. How could I call its narratives a gimmick when Calvino is often anticipating and eluding my exact attitudes?

Nearly perfect but for hard and unfocused male gaze (unless you’re among those readers privately seeking this, too). I expect anyone who reads any fiction for any reason would find some resonance here

Ale-stuporous, autoerotique Efflorescence.

Gothickally depressive and Westeringly manic, maniatropick Detectors a-jangle.

Blinking in Exhaustion by now chronick, bursting into tears inconsolable.

Encyclopedistick, perhaps even Masonick.

Never mind when,— shall it end?

The film adaptation would be much improved if Harrison Ford wore a lead codpiece

So astonishingly great that I can't believe I hadn't heard of it. Bless whichever airport was the straw that broke Le Guin's back and compelled her to dream up this relatively short & simple ethnographic wonder of concepts and cultures. It strikes me like an anti-capitalist, post-humanist, post-structuralist Phantom Tollbooth. Not to mention pretty pictures!!

Defeated E.T. voice: “Ethan Frome home.”

Highly interpretable xenophobia aside, gotta laugh at how well-written this is compared to any of Lovecraft's works

I anticipated that Moore's takes on Lovecraft would examine the seriously messed up fiction, but I'm intrigued by how Moore explores the fucked up writer himself. This discourse is the comic's winning element, and I hope for more from Moore's Providence.There's much to contemplate re: the role of extreme sexual violence—as a reaction to Lovecraft's repression, it's perhaps a little over-corrective? To me, the character response in the final issue is at once a liberating conclusion and a troublesome head-scratcher

The ultimate “Wells for Boys” novel

Wasn't sure why this needed a comic adaptation until....gorgeous. Brief yet somehow superior to the texts by which it's inspired

The Terrifying True Story of how my middle school English teacher incited my first panic attack