"A book is not company. We engage with it, argue with it, carry it around in our pockets and minds, are haunted by memories of it for years. But it doesn’t argue back, doesn’t engage, never inquires how our day has been, gives only what it wishes. Books are selfish. Everything, every word, is on their terms.
…and it’s in Finse, Norway, where George Lucas and company decamped to film the scenes from The Empire Strikes Back
It’s also the setting for 1222, Anne Holt’s locked-room mystery featuring a quirky cast of characters trapped in a hotel with a killer during a raging blizzard. Unfortunately, no tauntauns make an appearance.
(Any chance we get to link our books with Star Wars, we will take.)
"No one is better at prying open the ordinary reality of evil, the way our nightmares emerge from our daily experience, from our fears and our frustrations, our envy and our rage….King, at his best, affects us: by revealing the deepest — and yes, the darkest — aspects of ourselves."
“An article on Monday about Jack Robison and Kirsten Lindsmith, two college students with Asperger syndrome who are navigating the perils of an intimate relationship, misidentified the character from the animated children’s TV show “My Little Pony” that Ms. Lindsmith said she visualized to cheer herself up. It is Twilight Sparkle, the nerdy intellectual, not Fluttershy, the kind animal lover.”—
From the department of New York Times corrections, December 30th, 2011. Even better, a self described “adolescent with Asperger’s” pointed the mistake out, initially, in the comments. (via elisabethdonnelly)
We applaud the attention to detail here, folks. (As would our author, David Finch.)
See that false burrito. See it swaddled in tinfoil on the desk in the bowels of that great tower, a bundle of meat and sauce in a place long ago ceded to silicone and copper. The stooped man eating that peasant food as if in consuming it he can escape to a farmfield in a verdant valley and look down and see blood running from his blisters and say, yes this is work. This is work. Instead his hands are clawlike and ruined by the keyboard and the mouse for he is a thing of bone and sinew in a sprawling contraption electric and of man’s creation but not of man at all. And were he to saw his breast open with that plastic knife and soak the carpet black with his hot blood and were he to look ceilingward like some stigmatic enraptured and with the bellows of his lungs let forth a soaring wail in that subbasement his screams would be swallowed by the acoustic panels and repulsed by the good steel door as if he had made no sound and spilled no blood at all.
"So you see what we have here. There’s no reason to make the doctor be a dwarf or to send snuff dribbling down Geir’s chin. It’s just for the fun of it. Scandinavian thrillers are all the rage now, starting, I guess, with Smilla’s Sense of Snow. It must be spooky in Scandinavia, but Holt, Norway’s best-selling female crime writer and a former minister of justice, has a goofy streak that changes the tone of this beguiling book….I loved this snowbound book.”