Tuesday, April 23, 12:17 CDT

I love Roger Zelazny.

"I have a feeling," she said, "that you are heading into some sort of danger."

"I doubt it, Cassandra."

Nor pressure, nor osmosis will restore Adam's lost rib, thank God.

"Goodbye, Cassandra."

"Goodbye, my kallikanzaros."

And I got into the Skimmer and jumped into the sky, breathing a prayer to Aphrodite. Below me, Cassandra waved. Behind me, the sun tightened its net of light. We sped westward, and this is the place for a smooth transition, but there isn't any. From Kos to Port-au-Prince was four hours, gray water, pale stars, and me mad. Watch the colored lights. . . .

This Immortal

And that is why: Little tricks of narrative, words played upon and laid at odd angles, conventions bent all out of shape, a little self-consciousness. All of those things, sure, but opaque arty humorless pretense? Not here. He coulda done that easy enough. Instead he told stories. Really good ones.