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, 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.