Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

I borrowed a copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith, from Claire, and read it in the two days before she heads back to Canada. Here are a couple of quick thoughts:

It's about as true to the original Pride and Prejudice as the Bollywood production Bride and Prejudice, and should be taken in approximately the same spirit. That is, you don't read it because it's a classic. Really, it's just rather pulpy summer fiction, dressed in regency garments and fighting ninjas.

I almost didn't finish it because of a couple instances of very graphic violence. I'm actually better able to accept violence in a movie than in a book, because a movie doesn't involve me as personally or actively in creating the image. A movie does all the work for me of picturing the carnage; but a book requires me to create the image myself. As Emerson Cod once said, "When you say 'monkey in a bellhop suit driving a delivery truck, I have to SEE a monkey in a bellhop suit driving a delivery truck."

It's most entertaining to see how Seth Grahame-Smith is able to insert small tweaks that change the meaning of the whole dialogue: the best example is during Elizabeth's visit to Lady Catherine, when she is talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy. In the original, she is playign the piano, and says something like "my fingers await your command." In the Zombies edition, she is practicing handstands on her fingertips, but the original dialogue remains exactly the same.


Overall, an entertaining read, but I probably won't bother buying it. See if your local library has a copy.

I see my coat after walking home in the rain

{written on spring break}

My jacket is crunchy. It sat up all night, sprawled on a kitchen chair, sobering up after an overindulgence in sky-water. It walked me home from the movie, saw me safely inside the door, and collapsed.

I'm a little surprised; it's such a fastidious little spring coat, all buttons and belts and collar. Nothing sexy about it, and nothing really wild -- unless you count a little gold embroidery on the cuffs as wild (in which case, dear, we need to have a talk about what wild is). But there it is, slumped next to the table, blinking in the sunlight and asking me to walk a little more quietly.

Magic

{I wrote this a while back, and just got around to posting it here}

Seed of grass, tears of sky, marrow of earth. Feed the elves, don't forget to feed the elves--they're in the coffee mug, over there in the corner. Double, bubble, toil, but oh what goodness when we cook the elves . . . just not yet, not yet. They still have work to do. Patience. Combine water, salt, and flour until you have a loose batter, then add the elves. More flour. Now it's time to knead.

Roll and press, roll and press. Standing at a counter like all the wheat-magicians before me, waving my hands in the same incantation. Stretch and fold, press. Rocking a little on my heels, I sway, entranced by the bread. Press. Dust. Roll, scrape, stretch, fold, press. Repeat. And repeat again.

Finally, it is time for the yeast-elves to work. I sit down, and wait for my minions to do their best. Ever so slowly, they push at the mixture, building it from the inside, until I decide that it has risen high enough. This isn't Dubai, you know. It's more like Babel. I push the towering structure down, dividing and remaking the masses into two -- this loaf is sheep, that one is goats. The top is stretched tight, and it'll only get worse if I don't make a cut now. So I do. A giant cross on the top of each loaf, to ward off evil.

Yes, to ward off evil. What do you think I am, a witch?