I generally prefer novels to short story collections, but I would read a shopping list if Gaiman penned it.

I received Neil Gaiman’s collection of short stories Fragile Things for Christmas, and I’ve been devouring it rapidly. My favorite so far has been a gem called “Other People.”

The story details a man’s punishment in Hell, where he is physically tortured by a demon. He’s then forced to recount his life aloud again and again, admitting to every bad thing he’s ever done, and then he’s forced to learn the repercussions of his selfishness on other people.

In the end, the torture has left him looking like the demon, a soulless husk, and a new wayward human enters the chamber. The cycle begins anew.

In the forward, Gaiman recounts the doubt he felt upon completion of the story. It felt too circular, too neat to be original. It nagged at the back of his mind. He was sure it must have been a story he’d heard years before and then forgotten. After reading “Other People” to a number of friends, however, no one could name a derivative work.

I think this is a problem all writers face. Whenever I get an idea for a story, if I don’t get it written within a day or two, I usually talk myself out of it. I tell myself it’s too much like this other story or it’s taking too much from this movie.

Art doesn’t exist in a vacuum – everybody draws from their role models and inspirations. What separates us from them, though? How do we differentiate our work, and how do we mark that difference between being inspired by an artist and stealing from them?

In the post, Seth suggests that you shouldn’t look to the rats as warning of your boat sinking — you should look to the rich people. When all the major companies switched to faxes, letter delivery services had to go. It didn’t matter if Grandma would still use them to deliver a letter every six months — that’s not how the services made their money.

The Kindle is arguably the hottest gift this holiday season. It makes buying and owning books convenient for ravenous book buyers. It’s not a big deal for the average American though – all the reasons a Kindle is convenient don’t matter to someone who only buys one book a year. But, as with the fax machine example, these light readers aren’t how bookstores make their money. Seth predicts bookstores are the next to go, and it’s hard to disagree with him.

With the impending e-Book revolution, we’re one step closer to Star Trek technology, which I always assumed would excite me (first the Kindle, next the Holo-deck!). So why do I have a preemptive case of nostalgia instead?

An artist's representation of a Kindle actually incinerating a bookstore (image from telos.tv/blog).

Reading is already an isolating hobby. It’s comfy to curl up in bed with a good book, but sometimes I like to trick myself into thinking I’m social, and I’ll go into public to read at the Barnes and Noble up the street. It’s quiet, it has a nice atmosphere, and you may even look up from your book and actually meet another human being that reads (which is a trait that becomes rarer by the year). If I can buy and read all the books I could ever want right at home on my Kindle, my carefully constructed illusion of getting out of the house is shattered!

I wonder what place this leaves for libraries in our society. They’re already the victims of constant budget cuts. When reading words on paper becomes a laughable antiquity, how long will we set aside funds for libraries? And if libraries simply become a place to go to read digital files, why have a physical location at all? Just put it all online. I’ve never been one for the library — I generally like to keep books I’ve read. A full bookshelf is a comforting thing to me — evidence of my literary adventures. The Kindle, however, both defeats the purpose of the library and takes away the need for my shamefully large bookshelf. I hate the infernal device, but the technophile in me still wants one!

What do you guys think? Any of you get a Kindle this holiday season? Would you read more if you had the convenience of one? And do you think this e-Book thing is just a fad? Or is it the future?

Here is a movie poster of The Big Sleep, because movies are inherently more interesting than books.

For the Cyberpunk class I’m taking this semester (if you don’t know what Cyberpunk is, get educated) , the first book we checked out was Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.  That probably rings a bell because of its film incarnation starring Humphrey Bogart as the protagonist, Philip Marlowe.

The story of The Big Sleep isn’t especially important for what I want to talk about today, and on top of that, it has one of the most convoluted plots I’ve ever had the displeasure of deciphering. While trying to adapt it for the screen, the team of writers simply could not tack down who murdered one of the characters.  They got Chandler on the phone, and his response was, “I haven’t a clue.”

That being said, it is still a great book, both as a detective story and as an exploration of 1930’s culture.  Since his appearance in The Big Sleep, Philip Marlowe has become an archetype in American storytelling.  He’s a hard-boiled detective in Los Angeles during the 1930’s mobster era.

A recurring symbol throughout the story is the white knight.  As the first image in the book, Marlowe stands in front of a tapestry hanging in his the front hall of his wealthy client.  Upon it, a knight tries frantically to free a naked maiden from the tree to which she is tied.  He is having trouble doing so, and Marlowe feels like he should give him a hand.  Later in the book, in Marlowe’s apartment, he examines his chess board.  He’s been belaboring his next move, fingering the white knight piece and then putting it down again over and over, unsure where to move it.  ”This isn’t a game for knights,” he comments.

I see in Marlowe a very American ideal of the white knight.  As an honorable detective, he ends up in a position above the law because the law itself is corrupt.  In the story, he faces bribed policemen, wealthy gangsters, and even wealthier (and even more corrupt) blue-bloods who hire him to do their dirty work.  Throughout the story, he is put in a position to take bribes, have sex with troubled women, or walk away from the case without uncovering the whole truth, but he carries on for seemingly no reason other than his dedication to a convoluted, twentieth century knight’s code.

Marlowe is not all flowers and sunshine, however.  He chugs alcohol throughout the story, and he is not afraid to point a gun to get the information he seeks.  In the end, however, its his superior logic, morality, and intuition that prove him right, and everything works out for the best.  Sort of.

There is a long trail of characters since Philip Marlowe that channel this knight’s code.  From John Wayne to Clint Eastwood to John McClane to Jack Bauer, America has had an absolute obsession with this noble figure who will get the job done when the law falls short.  We want to put our trust in someone incorruptible.  We have to believe that, somewhere in the world, there exists a man who knows what is right and will fight to the death for it.

Imagine what having an action figure made of you must do to your ego -- what if it's more attractive than you are?

Where does this fantasy take us?  In 24, Jack Bauer proves repeatedly that he knows best, can get the job done, and will sacrifice everything for his country.  We love him and idolize him for this selflessness. He’ll do illegal, immoral, and dangerous things because he believes they are necessary to guarantee our safety, and he’ll stick to his guns no matter who tries to stop him.  The pleasantness of fiction is that we can write the ending to show that Jack was right all along. That seemingly innocent man he tortured actually DID turn out to be a terrorist, and the information he gave Jack saved thousands of people.  The white knight prevails.

What about real life, though?  In a sense, George W. Bush was a Jack Bauer figure — he believed he knew what was right for the country and did it to keep us safe, regardless of protest, and yet he is arguably the most hated president in American history.  Unafraid to bring out the guns, using torture as a method of interrogation, and belief that what he was doing is right — all these things could describe either Jack or George, yet one is lauded as an American television icon, the other dismissed as an out of control executive.

The mythos of the American Badass stretches deep into our history and has been reborn in various incarnations.  What does it say about us?  Our rough and tough image of the frontier plays a big part — it’s no coincidence that we love cowboy stories as well.  On top of that, I would wager the above-the-law aspect of the white knight (one of the reasons The Dark Knight hit such a strong chord with us) has something to do with our severe distrust of the government, stemming back to our colonial days.

Deep inside all of us, there is a repressed figure who believes he is right and wants to take measures to prove it, even if it means imposing that inner vision of how things should be by force. When we see someone in a book or on the big screen act out this fantasy, it sticks with us.  Philip Marlowe and Jack Bauer both agree that the world can be a nasty, filthy, cold place, and they do their best to clean it up, although they know it’s beyond their ability –  especially because they know it’s beyond their ability. That’s the beauty of the white knight, though: in the face of the impossibible, he never gives up.

What do you guys think?  Would it be a good idea to put a select few morally superior agents above the law? Could we give them unquestioning resources to get the job done, trusting that they’ll do what is right? If that sounds like as bad an idea to you as it does to me, why do we absolutely adore the action heroes that do exactly this in so many famous movies?