That Which Shiri is Reading 1-25-15
After the sheer cliff face climb that was making my way through Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets (which I loved and would file on the “psychologically difficulty but worthy” list) my brain and soul needed a bit of a holiday.
Older’s first novel, Half-Resurrection Blues, was released this month and featured on a blog I eyeball from time to time for book recommendations (I can’t remember if it was Scalzi’s Whatever or Wendig’s TerribleMinds). The library didn’t have a copy yet, but they did have Salsa Nocturna, Daniel Jose Older’s slim volume of short stories, published in July of 2012.
Kids, I feel cheated. I feel cheated because this book has been around for two and a half years and I didn’t know anything about it.
Salsa Nocturna one of those rare books one wants to devour because it’s phenomenal yet, at the same time, I dread the last page because I don’t want it to end.
Urban fantasy with a Brooklyn flair; elements of Cuban, Puerto Rican, and Mexican culture; dancing dead, ghost mammoths, and creepy dolls (hated them before and now, I loathe them with the passion I previously reserved only for covered bridges and pinwheels acquired during my time with Joe Hill’s NOS4A2); dark and gorgeous and funny and terrifying and oddly comforting.
I am enjoying the hell out of this collection and there’s a pretty good chance I’ll buy it down the line because I am going to read it over and over and over again.
And, much to my satisfaction, the library has since acquired a copy of Half-Resurrection Blues. You better believe that sucker is on my request list.
It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine. And it is definitely going to the top of the pile.
Luke was surprised I wasn’t already on this one and, to be honest, I am too. Regional Dark/Gothic Americana seems to at the top of my various reading lists these days. I blame Neil Gaiman and American Gods (the good sort of blame in . Very different than the blame I aim at Ocean at the End of the Lane).
The midwest is, in many ways, a foreign country to me. I’ve lived on both coasts and though I reside more inland now than I have on any previous occasion, Pittsburgh is vivisected by three rivers, a prophylactic against the inherent claustrophobia of Wisconsin and South Dakota (lovely places, cursed by lack of ocean access). The idea of being trapped with zombies without even the Ohio or the Mon as escape routes? We’re talkin’ Joe Hill covered bridges again here, my friends. No where to go, no way to run far enough or fast enough. No escape.
We’ll talk more Revival on the pod upcoming, so I won’t shoot my terror wad here, but I will recommend highly. With a shotgun. And a nearby body of water that, at the very least, flows toward the sea.
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