Latest ten days of posting

Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2002-02-11

There are times when one stumbles across something extraordinary good. China Miévilles Perdido Street Station is one of those things, a book that closest can be described as a synergy between Mervyn Peake, Stanley Kubrick and H.G. Welles. This is of course an oversimplification, as in the end it is nothing more than a creation from Miéville himself.

The book is thick and could probably do a lot of damage, but not in the usual sense. It is justified, as it doesn’t feel too long. The tale demands this length to be told properly and unlike most books, there is not too much padding.

It is brutal to the end; a harsh tale where the questions still hang in the air after it is finished.

On the telly they hurl huge testicles on the ice towards an even bigger bullseye and I don’t quite get it. What is the fun in banging the chestnuts together like that? And if the floor is so dirty, at least one of them should have been wealthy and smart enough to buy a vaccum cleaner and bring along. But no. That would be far to logical, wouldn’t it?

So this is the olympics. Colour me bored and unimpressed...