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Datlow's Inferno -- yes, it's another review
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.
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Thanks!
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"Chuffed are you?"
Nah. You know me: laid back, cool as a cucumber . . .
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"...in an oven, in August?"
So all those fearful stories about Atlanta cuisine are true?
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Exactly. Why you folks in GA can't eat plain, honest, sensible food like deep-fried Mars Bars I've just got no idea.
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Hm. I'd never thought of deep-fried Mars Bars in religious terms before . . .
By the way, did you find those Holmes eps okay?
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I haven't looked at those episodes yet. But I will, now that I have a little time. Today was my last formal duty day for a couple of weeks. My wife has to go to work tomorrow, but I don't. She hates me. I've told her not to wake me when the alarm goes off.
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"I've told her not to wake me when the alarm goes off."
I imagine she'll be dropping in to see a lawyer on her way to work, then?
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