I’m currently out of town visiting family and the weather has suddenly become exactly the sort of weather which encourages snuggling and my snuggle-ee is a couple of hundred miles away.
Bother.
It turns out that it’s possible to enjoy visiting and to seriously miss someone at the same time. It’s just that, right now, the “missing” part is winning the tug-of-war.
Anyway, after an unseasonably warm Thanksgiving, Winter seems to have happened all at once. In this neck of the woods, that means hours of rain just above the freezing point. My mother always said that this was lovely weather for ducks, but I give ducks more credit than that.
I finally finished The King In Yellow. It took me quite a while longer than I expected because Victorian fiction is kind of verbose and obtuse. Maybe not all of it, but this example certainly is. The first four stories in the collection are proto-Lovecraftian tales of glimpsed horrors and madness that lies just beyond our ability to comprehend it. They range from riveting to just interesting, but they’re well worth reading. The remaining six stories are more conventional romantic tales.
I have to question the decision to print the stories in descending order of strangeness. Most of the appeal comes from the The King In Yellow stories. I can’t really recommend spending too much time on the rest of it. It’s not bad, but it’s relatively ordinary and not what I imagine most people are looking for when they pick up the book.
I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving. I have more to be thankful for than I have energy to write right now. I want to write more about that, but I think I want to sleep even more. G’night, all.