Thomas Harris has written five books in the last thirty-two years. The first two are great. The third, Silence of the Lambs, is amazing. Then, ten years later, he gave us Hannibal, is pretty lousy. I thought Hannibal and Clarice ending up together was dumb. (I don't care who I ruin it for.) And the latest, Hannibal Rising, which is just god-awful. It tells us where Hannibal Lecter came from, why he's so evil. Let me go ahead and ruin it for you: Hannibal was forced to eat his little sister when he was a kid. There. That's the big mystery. Lame, isn't it? I don't think we really needed to know. It could have been because he didn't get a pony when he was eight, it doesn't matter. We love Hannibal because he seems so bad for no reason. I don't know what I was hoping for from Hannibal Rising, but being disappointed again was not it. And Harris may as well have just published the script for the film, the book was clearly written only for that purpose. Not worth a handful of fava beans...

Neal Stephenson can predict the future. At least, he could, back when he wrote Snow Crash in 1992. Set in the not-too-distant future in what used to be the United States, he details a dystopia over run by computers and chaos. Hiro Protagonist, the story's, um...protagonist, delivers pizza for a living. But in the Metaverse, a cyberworld he visits (hello-Second Life), he's a super sword-wielding hero. He spends the whole book trying to thwart a villain who is trying to wreak havoc by releasing a virus into the Metaverse. (Sound familiar?) Stephenson even describes a 20th century version of Google Maps. It's eerie. Or they ripped his idea off.

On top of that, this book is very funny. And it didn't make me feel stupid, something I was concerned about, seeing as how it is all about computers and technology and Sumerian myth.(Naturally, isn't everything?) I'm looking forward to reading more of Stephenson's work, in the pile is Cryptonomicon, his most famous work, and Quicksilver, the first in a trilogy. Also in the pile are pretty much every other book on the planet. Except Tuesdays with Morrie. I'd rather rub crushed glass in my eyes.

*see "Mom's a Cheetah"

*see "Mom's a Cheetah"

*see "Mom's a Cheetah"

In keeping with the "mylifesucksnothinggoesrightohgodsomebodypleasekillme" theme, my vacation has started out awful. I woke up yesterday in severe pain with a Bruce Campbell-size jaw. Turns out, I have an infection and it is not much fun. Please forgive this entry, I'm stoned on painkillers, so I'll make it brief. Just long enough to mention that I read my twenty-second book, Watson's Apology, by Beryl Bainbridge. Written in 1985, 284 pages long, it is a fictionalization of a murder that took place in 1872, when Rev. John Watson did bludgeon to death his wife of almost thirty years. Bainbridge gives a recounting of their life together and, later, the trial of John Watson. It was really quite interesting, considering you already know the outcome. And the fact that someone could murder their spouse of thirty years doesn't seem the least bit surprising. The only surprising thing was how he killed her. He struck her repeatedly on the head...with a gun. I guess bullets hadn't been invented yet. Anyway, I really am planning to read War and Peace next, but at this moment, I am cranky and in pain, so I am reading a book that is not on my list, Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I needed something light and fun to cheer me up. Think of it as literary novicane.

P.S. I told Bella she could do a guest entry, so plan to hear from her soon. Not right at this moment, she's too busy chewing on her toes. Important stuff.

Real quick, just to bring you up to speed, the other day I read Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, or Balzac et La Petite Tailleuse Chinoise, if you're from Balzac's homeland. It was written by Dai Sijie in 2004 and is 184 pages long. I luuuuuuved it. It's a fictionalized account of Saijie's experiences as a young man in Communist China. In the sixties, Mao closed all the colleges and schools and forced the educated boys to go live in poor villages in the mountains for what he called a "re-education." This tells the story of two boys, one of whom falls in love with the tailor's daughter, and a suitcase of banned books they find and read. (Mao has forbidden all written materials that aren't Communist propaganda.) They soak up Flaubert, Balzac, Dumas, Melville and more while in their cabin at night, foregoing sleep to read. The book has such lovely imagery, and the idea of having to read in secret is both outrageous and delightfully wonderful to me at the same time. I even loved the end, which is rare. Read this, it's like a lovely little brook running over your feet on a warm day.

I am not big on people. Aside from you all, of course. I find it hard to get enthusiastic for the human race when I'm nearly mowed down every day walking to work...in retail. But animals? (Insert high-pitched squeal here.) I love all animals. I have a particular affinity for cats, sharks, bats, squirrels...and rats. I am in the minority when it comes to rats. I have seen grown women stand on a table and scream at the sight of them. How can you be afraid of rats? They're so little! What are they going to do, tie your laces together? I have had a pet rat or two almost always for the past ten years. They are so soft and sweet and very, very clean. Rats wash themselves from head to toe six times a day. Okay, it's with their tongue, but still...So it is with great joy and anticipation that I picked up Rats by Robert Sullivan. It was written in 2004 and is 242 pages long. It has the best cover yet, by far. Basically, Sullivan sat in an abandoned alley in New York City all night, every night for a year and studied man's most hated creature. His observations are amazing, there is so much here I didn't know, and even a few things that make me get shivers. It also makes me want another one, my last having passed on six months ago. Of course, the difference between pet rats and New York City rats is about eight inches and almost a pound. My last rats were a pair of sisters. I think they were New York rats at heart. They would each sit on a shoulder and hold onto my earrings, like they were practicing for the subway. I highly recommend this book to anyone who isn't squeamish about the little buggers, and even to those who are. I'm all for conquering your fears...as long as I don't have to do it from up high...or on a plane.

The reason I hate Nickel and Dimed above the other books I haven't liked so far is because its supposedly true. The premise: Barbara Ehrenreich left her cushy life to see what it would be like to work jobs with low-paying wages. She moved from one job to another and kept an account of her experiences. A conceited, condescending, racist account, I might add. This book is just rubbish. I had started keeping track of ridiculous bits to quote here, but the number just became too big. She talks about how fabulous she is a lot and how she can't believe she isn't exposed as being educated and overqualified for the jobs she takes. She makes racist comments, stereotyping and labeling every person she comes across. She's like a kid playing make-believe, its hard to take her serious when we know she doesn't really have to live this way, she's doing it for fun. And money. I could go on and on, but I won't. I'll simply end by telling you what, in my eyes, is the worst of all her offenses: she says 'I could care less.' As far as I'm concerned, punishable by death... I'm moving on to the book about rats. They're smarter and more pleasant.

I must really want to read The Geographer's Library, by Jon Fasman, because I have recently discovered that I bought two copies. I'm getting old, this is the third time in the last few months I've found this out. It's because back when I could afford to, I had such buying orgies, I couldn't even keep track of them all. Certainly not read them all. My collection of unread books is much, much more manageable these days, seeing as how I sold most of them so I would have money to eat. It always comes down to that. Or cook Bella, and I imagine her to be rather gristly. And then I would have to sell books so I could afford to buy another cat. It would be a vicious cycle...Anyways, I'm on page nine, my socks are still on, but there 363 more to go ahead and knock 'em off. I'll let you know.