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There's another long and very favourable review -- a near-rave, I'd say -- of Ellen Datlow's (
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On most of my train rides I end up staring out the window, hoping to cultivate what my father calls, "a fertile boredom," that will eventually chafe me into a restless act of creation. But some days, I'm in a fever of productivity. And some short stories, I find, rather than making me want to kick something in unfulfilled frustration, can instead create perfect sinkholes in reality, sucking you down into infinitesimal and terrible worlds that last the length of a nightmare.
So with Datlow's INFERNO. [. . .]
LIVES was just... lovely. Cold, sick and lovely.
If you don't have time to read the first two quoted paras above, just read the last one.