I Don't Hate Harry Potter

I don't. 

As a bookseller, it's tiresome to have to say it, but I very much admire J. K. Rowling, both as a writer and as someone who has used her celebrity, so far as I can judge, entirely for good.  I've read two of her pseudonymous novels for adults and enjoyed both.  In interviews and news reports she has acquitted herself with invariable grace and good sense; offering her support to everything from literacy efforts, to GLBTQ equality, the Labour Party and organizations addressing dyslexia. She has consistently put her money where her mouth is as well, contributing substantially to medical research on Multiple Sclerosis, among other worthy causes.  The books that made her fortune and secured her place in literary history are easily the most important contribution to English children's literature since at least Raold Dahl, and without precedent as a literary/cultural phenomenon in my lifetime, which, by the way, is roughly Rowling's, as she's just a year or two younger than me.

My personal complaints about Harry Potter are actually few and embarrassingly petty.  Right around the time of the second book, I was still wearing a pair of large, round, black-framed eyeglasses, the design based on those famously worn by the great architect, I. M. Pei.  Loved those glasses.  They were not cheap.  Let's just say, Harry Potter rather spoiled large, round, black-framed eyeglasses, at least for me, for the foreseeable future.  Additionally, I will admit to a certain annoyance at seeing one or another Harry Potter novel, or the series, regularly popping up on lists and online quizzes meant to test the reader's command of the "100 Best Books", etc.  There are worse candidates, and some of them actually written for adults, but whenever I hit Harry Potter I frown to think what may have been dropped to make room for a boy (or book, actually) not yet fifteen years old. Impertinent puppy.  And then there's Albus Dumbledore.

Presumably it's the beard.  Since at least the publication of the second book in the series, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (1998), each new iteration of Potterania has arrived at the bookstores where I've worked with much fanfare and fuss.  Fair enough.  The books have been a boon to bookselling.  Would that the author could be bullied into writing more, say one a year until I retire.  The drawback for me would be in being asked, yet again if I wouldn't mind playing Albus Dumbledore at the book-launch-party.  I had thought that particular question laid to rest with the release of the last book in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in 2007, but no.  This month sees the release of the first and official "fully illustrated edition" of the first book and 'round we go again.  And again I say, no.

I will be honest.  I have not read the Harry Potter novels.  I took the first one home, some time around the publication of the second, when the phenomenon first exploded on the scene.  I read a good part of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone before I put it down.  Nothing wrong with it, but not for me.  Now, had I been nine in 1997 rather than thirty four, I do not doubt I would have read that book to the end and then probably started over again at the beginning.  I would doubtlessly have read all the rest as they came, and with a fair measure of the devotion shown by the generation that grew up with Harry Potter.  Alas, he came too late for me.  (I think it was the moment that Dumbledore was revealed to have a phoenix for a pet?  I may be misremembering that, but as I recall the scene I sighed with the certain knowledge that the old fellow would ((gratuitous "spoiler alert")) A) die and B) well, you know where this was going, surely?  "If you strike me down...", etc., etc.)

Realizing that there are nearly as many adults of my acquaintance as children devoted to these books, I do not dismiss the power of the Potter books to enchant.  I myself am not so much immune to enchantment as disinclined to pursue it in such literally magical settings nowadays. To each his own, but I am I think done with wizards, dragons, boy-saviors, names-not-to-be-spoken, spells, incantations and giant spiders.

All that said, I am by now personally tired to death of Harry Potter and all his works, good deeds and devotees.  There is something not cultish but certainly something "eminently clubbable" about Harry, and as I have no wish to join the "wizarding world," I would rather not be asked to participate in these periodic orgies of Hogwartian carry-on.  (I feel very much the same way about Tolkien -- though there I am more put off by the mystical racial chivalry of it all rather than the magic as such.  And then there's the killingly unfunny Tom Bombadil, to say nothing of Radagast the Brown -- perhaps the only wizard short enough that I might dress up as convincingly, perish the thought!   At least Rowling is genuinely funny now and then, as I understand it.)

I am simply bad casting for Dumbledore, even for a children's party.  Yes, I wear a beard, but nothing near so distinguished as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, or whatever his title is, and, as I may already have suggested, I am entirely too short for the part besides. (Now, a "jolly old elf" I could completely understand being asked to impersonate around December 25th.  That's happened too.  Again, I said no.  I was tickled this past holiday season when the bookstore hired a professional Santa for a special children's story time.  He was superb!  Perhaps the best Santa I'd ever seen up-close.  I even posed for a picture with him after his gig.  Much to my amusement, he told me, "You ever get tired of selling books, I could get you a job."  High praise indeed, but still, no.)

Beyond any issues of appearance, should I agreed to play Dumbledore, I would not do the old boy justice.  I know little enough about him, even after watching two of the greatest English actors play him in the movies.  Rowling has even said her senior wizard was gay.  (Thanks a lot, J.K.)  Doesn't help.  My heart would simply not be in it.  I would also worry about acting such a beloved character about whom every nine year old would be likely to be better informed than me.  What if one of the little dears asked me for a spell?  What could I offer?

"Fidem meam obligo vuxillo civitatem federalem Americae et Res Publicae quo stat; uni Nationi, sub Deo, non dividendae, cum libertate et iusquiasque, omnibus."

(I had Latin, first period in High School.)

If this all sounds entirely too self-serious, I'm sure it is.  I was asked.  I said no, again.  It may not be for the last time, alas.  Don't mean to be sniffy, darlings, but it's just not my bag.

Maybe I'm still mad about those glasses.  Those glasses were cool, damn it.

Recycling Harry

This Year's Gleaning

It is that time again, or rather, it's past time, but here we are.  I'm always meaning to do things.  This is a thing I actually enjoy, so one might think I'd do it in a more timely fashion than not, but no. Well, just today it's done.   I've dropped off the pictures at Ave. Copy to have my annual calendar made, and I've approved the prototype, so now there's naught to do but wait for the printing, and the bill.

In the same spirit of belated industry, I finally went downstairs in the bookstore where I work and bought myself a proper "archival box" in which to store my caricatures.  Something I've meant to do for ages.  Heretofore all my pictures and doodles and assorted whatnot have all ended up in great messy piles, in and out of manila-envelopes and folders, all over my desk at home.  I've never made the least effort to organize the stuff; keeping them in no order at all, never separating the wheat from the chaff, as it were, losing some, no doubt, and letting others mingle indiscriminately with unpaid bills and forgotten notes about movies we should rent and phone-numbers I should put in my address-book.

So, the other night, I sat on the floor of my office at home, a great heap of unsorted paper in my lap, and began sifting pictures into my new, black box.  There were some very old pictures indeed, near the bottom of the haymow, but most were indeed drawings I've done for this blog.  I sorted by size -- putting the doodles on scrap-paper to one side, and putting the caricatures into the box.  (And handful of these were indeed so unsuccessful, and so painful to see again that I made a third pile for the shredder.  Most liberating.)  Still quite a tidy collection, by the time I'd finished.


I even found a caricature of the great Temple Grandin that I'd particularly liked, a picture I had intended to include in my calendar last year or the year before, but had been unable to locate.  Most satisfy to able to put it in this year's edition.

(As it turns out, I will need to buy a second box, just for the doodles, which tend to be on much smaller squares that would unbalance a larger, more uniform stack of typing paper-- my preferred medium for the fine work.  Ahem.  Seems I've used up a lot of scratch paper, indeed so a new box for the doodles too.)

In the process of sorting I arrived at perhaps two dozen pictures to consider for my calendar this year, not counting the Temple Grandin.  Of these, I decided to exclude anyone so obscure as to require more explanation than would be possible in a wall-calendar (Holbrook Jackson, Sadakichi Hartmann,) and anyone appearing under a pseudonym ("Robert Galbraith," "Oolon Culluphid.")  A couple of last minute substitutions for more balance between the sexes, and I'd found the mix I liked.

This year's cover will feature the traditional self-portrait, though this one seems a bit darker than usual, but then it was taken from a photograph illustrating the ill-effects of a long head-cold.  (Shown to a coworker, she remarked that I looked "more dignified than usual," which was both flattering in  one way and cutting in another, no?)

Anyway, it's done.

I've decided to reduce both the print-run and the number I intend to mail out to friends and family this year.  I can always have more made, should the demand demand.  There will be fewer for sale at the bookstore so as to avoid last year's embarrassment of seeing myself marked down in bulk come January and a few last remnants of glory left to circulate hopelessly in a discount bin marked "90% Off!  Last Chance!" until I bought them myself, just to see them gone.  Humbling indeed.  As for my own copies, I'm afraid I went a bit mad last year and papered the far corners of the Earth with unasked-for calendars, spending more on shipping ultimately than I had in making the damned things.  (I love everyone, honest, but enough already.)  Let's just see how the sales go in December, shall we?

Meanwhile, my archive if you will, begins to look a serious and most sober business with everything stowed in waxed-cardboard and ready for the scholarship of future generations (or the same incinerator into which my heirs are instructed already to pitch my earthly remains.)  I can't imagine anyone making much of a fuss over my pictures when I'm gone, but meanwhile it will be nice to finally have everything in some kind of order rather than heaped under the day-bed.

Perhaps I will someday invite some comely undergraduate back to my den to show him my "etchings."  "Have some madeira, my dear, I have a small cask of it here..."

And at least this year's collection has come to something already, if just another calendar, you know, like I gave you last year.

A Caricature

More Rowling Revelations!

J. K. Rowling Revealed!

A Neglected Literary Gent Remembered

A Bookstore Doodle

The Greatest Prodigality

A friend finally convinced me to join Goodreads. I'd heard about it. I'd seen updates and reviews from the site, posted on various social media. Librarians and other booksellers, and even a few customers at the bookstore had mentioned the thing to me. Like a lot of the bookish bits on the Internet, I couldn't quite see, just looking at the thing, what the point might be. The friend who convinced me to sign on basically told me to look for him there. I don't see enough of him -- can't see enough of him ever, as he's handsome as hell -- so this was just another way to stay in touch, I guess.

Once I'd made an account then, of course, there were twenty other people I knew. Again, there were librarians and booksellers, but also a few authors and devoted lay readers, so to say, as well. Yet another virtual community I'm in, though by now, it's pretty much just the same game different fields.

In case you don't know, and might care, the site is yet another virtual hang-out for the bookish. Email updates will tell you what new titles friends are reading, or want to, or what books they may have reviewed -- there's a 5 star system as well as formats for writing notes and or full-length reviews, if so inclined-- and the more friends on the site, the more updates one may see. The site also functions as a kind of reader's diary, or even library catalogue system with which one may make inventories, lists, and all manner of other wonderfully time-wasting things. There are book clubs to be joined, places to promote activities... lord knows what all I haven't even looked at yet.

Most dangerously, there are all manner of quizzes and such like trivia to be play about with, including a perpetual quiz made up of literary questions devised by members of the free site. Within minutes of creating a profile, I was pissing away hours answering questions quaint and clever, obvious and obscure, and skipping the endless Harry Potter rubbish ("In book four, was Hermione's first pubic hair red or russet?" Blah, blah, bloody blah.) Important to remember that many Goodreads members are young readers, but let's just say, about the quizzes, in general, you may trust me when I tell you, the answer to every other question is either Boo Radley, when Little Women's Jo cut her hair, Mr. Darcy's first name, or quidditch.

Read a few more books, people.

The perpetual quiz has also taught me that while I am strangely confident answering most Shakespeare questions, I am wrong roughly as often as I am right. Shocking. Really? Sebastian? And that's from Twelfth Night, not... the other one? Lord.

What Goodreads really is then, is yet another marvelous excuse to do something online only slightly more productive generally than playing solitaire.

Have I mentioned yet that my friend quite sweetly pointed out to me, just days after he'd finally induced me to join, that I'd already committed a social embarrassment by just plowing through hundreds of titles and marking them as "read"? Seems this is seen as a kind of empty brag, and rather like "shouting" in CAPS, or "trolling" in stranger's comments fields. As I tried to explain, I did it to support any books I might actually review on-site, to show I wasn't just a flibbertigibbet who hadn't read but that one book, and so that I might contribute to lists, etc. Oh well. Besides, I like looking through the title recommendations made, I suppose, automatically by some algorithm or another, suggesting that if I liked the poems of Horace, I might also enjoy The Fundamentals of Ballroom Dancing. Actually, however it's done, the recommendations are a fascinating, and constantly renewing pool, a bottomless aquifer of like to like, in biography, and historical fiction, and poetry and on and on. If anything, reviewing the recommended titles is an even more entertaining waste of time than the quizzes or voting on the lists.

I already applied and was accepted by the powers that be, by the bye, as a"librarian" for the site. I decided to sign up for this so as to be able to update and or otherwise modify or improve the entries for individual titles or editions and or authors. I've already scanned in a dozen covers for books I own that didn't show a cover on the site. I've corrected the listed page count of an edition of Walter Scott that happened to be the one in my hand at that time, an edition that ran to 511 pages rather than the bare 259 originally listed for it. Correcting such small errors, and posting those cover illustrations and the like has felt well neigh useful, far more so anyway than anything else I've been doing at Goodreads.

I certainly didn't need another thing to look at besides porn, of an evening, but here we are.

I do think this latest exploration in social media offers me yet another chance to peep into a wider readership than what I might see otherwise, and I've seen some encouraging chatter -- some quite vigorous defences of print, for example, from quite young readers. Most encouraging, that. What has troubled me a bit, as I've already suggested, has been the astonishingly juvenile character of much of what's being devotedly read and reread by grown people, and an enormous reluctance among the young to read complicated prose, let alone poetry, but to be fair, I've seen nearly as much Austen about as anything, and I've already joined a reader's club for the Victorians, and two groups reading Dickens. (Started one too, to encourage people to read the great Boz aloud for his bicentennial this coming February.)

Nothing pointless about that, really.

A Joy Forever... The Eye Candy Edition

I suspect that the general impression I have given here is of a rather dear, if not precious, conservative leading a pottering, quiet sort of life, lived largely amidst books, usually old books, and that, by preference I remain "ignorant of the existence of anything that is not perfectly proper, placid and pleasant." That's not true. Actually, in my daily life, I'm a rather silly, vulgar sort of person. And I am not immune to the influence of contemporary culture, at least at its most overwhelming. I do get out now and then. It's quite true that I don't listen to pop music, but then I never did. Likewise, with the obvious exception of a few reality shows, I don't much follow the standard television hits. Hit fiction is generally left to age on the shelf before I'm inclined to read it, if then. There are exceptions to everything though. Lady Gaga's idiotic "Poker Face" lodged in my head a while back and would not shake loose. I love the "Jackass" boys so much that I watched Steve-O: Demise and Rise and happily cried a little when he finally went into recovery. Bless 'im. And when a book ceases to be just a popular book and becomes something like the salvation of the trade, why then I feel a professional obligation to at least give it a go over the weekend, so as to have at least some point of reference other than the reviews. I read a good bit of the first Harry Potter and of the first Twilight. Reading the former left me understandably wistful that such a thing hadn't happened when I was eight. J. K. Rowling's adult audience I still find mystifying, but I think I understand better the appeal of her work to the children for whom it was written having read a bit of it for myself. And I've watched the movies as they've come out, though admittedly only when they've made it to the discount movie house. Reading the first of Stephanie Meyer's books, on the other hand, I found just depressing. Her heroine is a dreadful, spineless little thing who might have dropped into the book from some morally instructive, late 19th Century girl's story. I could not understand what Meyer was up to, or explain the appeal of the thing to contemporary female readers of any age. Within a hundred pages of Twilight, I was deeply suspicious of some reactionary romantic agenda. Those suspicions have since been confirmed and explained by the appalling developments in the concluding book in the series and Meyer's own outing as an antifeminist Mormon. Oh dear. How truly awful. (As a bookseller though, I do very much want to thank the Angel Moroni, or whatever supernatural personage might be responsible for Meyer's continued sales. There seems to be no more rational explanation of the phenomenon, so again I say, well done Moroni! Besides, I just love that name, Moroni, don't you?)

Now as to movies, I admit to being not in the least immune to hype. I enjoy blockbusters and event movies, super heroes and action stars, heists and fisticuffs and car chases and aliens and the lot. I think Shia LaBeouf (see above, shirtless,) just adorable and find Daniel Craig irresistibly (right) hot. (Which puts me, rather awkwardly, between the demographic that reads Seventeen Magazine and their moms, in other words, I'm a big ol' faerie.) So, when it comes to the movies -- as opposed to film, don't you know -- I'm all for summer, but in a very gay way. What was surprising this weekend was that dear A. was just as eager as I was myself to see the new "Star Trek" movie. A. does not much care for the science fiction. A very straight friend of his, with whom he speaks on average at least once a week, was likewise very much taken aback when A. told him that we were both eager to see the "reboot" of the franchise this weekend. A.'s friend is something of a "Trekker" and knows A. not to be. Then A. explained himself by telling his friend, "I think that new Spock is adorable!" "Trekker" friend not amused. I, on the other hand, know just what A. means. I too think the new Spock boy is adorable, as is the new Kirk boy, the dear wee fellow playing Chekov, the new Sulu from the pot comedy...

We went and saw the thing in Imax. The hot dogs we had weren't specially good -- the theater was out of mustard -- but the movie was great fun. Not enough torn jerseys, but still. Everyone in the thing was awfully attractive, even the bad guys with the tattooed faces. The action was exciting, the effects were quite alright, the story was embarrassing as always in these things, but dear Simon Pegg was quite funny, even when teamed with a cabbage as a side-kick.

And did I mention everyone being extremely attractive?

I suppose I ought to mention something other than the uniform cuteness of the boys in the cast. Okay. I've always found Bruce Greenwood a damned handsome fellow. He's in this thing too.

The only thing that really bothered me about the movie, other than the suggestion that Tyler Perry will one day hold a position of responsibility in world government, was what always bothers me in these space adventures: the uniform silliness of all civilians on screen. Forget that the alien baddies might just as easily have aimed their giant, and surprising vulnerable to gunfire, crane of destruction at the North Pole rather than The Golden Gate Bridge. What bothers me is that the only response when this sort of thing happens in this sort of movie, and it always does, doesn't it? is a rather embarrassing panic. No one on the ground seems ever to do anything but run rather lazily around, from left to right and then from right to left. No one so much as fires a shotgun, dials 911, or launches a missile.

I'm just sayin'.

Enjoy the pictures.