rinalia

There are books that make me cry, ones that make me laugh, and others that move me. Then there are books that shake my center, affect me in profound ways. The Lathe of Heaven, by Ursula le Guin is one of those books. It isn't for everyone; it is grim and hopeful and tragically perfect.

It is of dreams made into reality, balance lost and regained, symmetry shifting and returning again. And at its center is one man who accepts this gift, this curse, of being a dream-lathe, without moral compunction. It's a beautifully written tale of human greed as much as it is a story of human compassion and our ability to adapt.

I have always loved Ursula le Guin; my first encounter of her works was years ago, grabbing a copy of Earthsea off a bookstore shelf. I ate it up, her whimisical story, and spent most of my time reading her YA books. It would be a long while before I tackled her adult books, starting with The Left Hand of Darkness. And once I did, I was hooked. She has a gift, this one, a rare talent to capture the essence of people, both human and "other", as well as the issues that humanity continues to grapple with - war, racism, sexism, hatred, tolerance, love. All of it. And she does it with integrity. I love that about her.

You can read a summary of the book at Amazon, here.

So I pop open Marcus Zusak (of The Book Thief fame) and his book I am the Messenger and well, I already love it.

Behold:

The gunman is useless.
I know it.
He knows it.
The whole bank nows it.
Even my best mate, Marvin, knows it, and he's more useless than the gunman.

Oh how I do so love a book that sparks with the first few sentences. :)

On Doorman, the 17-yr-old Rottweiler - German Shepherd cross. I think a lot of us can relate. :)

He has a strong penchant for sitting by the front door. He did it back home, and he does it now at the shack. He likes to sit where it's nice and warm, and he doesn't let anyone in. This is because he finds it hard to move on account of the fact that he's so old.

--

He's happy when the sun throws warmth on him through the flyscreen door. He's happy to sleep there and move on a forward slant when I try to shut the wooden door at night. At times likes that, I love the hell out of that dog. I love the hell out of him anyway. But Christ, he stinks.

I suppose he'll die soon. I'm expecting it, like you do for a dog that's seventeen. There's n o way to know how I'll react. He'll have faced his own placid death and slipped without a sound inside himself. Mostly, I imagine I'll crouch there at the door, fall onto him, and cry hard into the stench of his fur. I'll wait for him to wake up, but he won't. I'll bury him. I'll carry him outside, feeling his warmth turn to cold as the horizon frays and falls down in my backyard. For now, though, he's okay. I can see him breathing. He just smells like he's dead.