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You Should Read This: The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle

The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle, reviewed by speculative fiction writer Cat Rambo.Not the movie. No, that was an okay movie, but this book? It’s pure gold. It’s beautiful. It’s enchanting. You should read it.

What: The Last Unicorn is, as you would expect, the story of the last unicorn. She must find out what has happened to the other unicorns, aided by a fraudulent magician, a fierce butterfly, and a would-be Maid Marian. You’ve formed a story in your head from reading that last sentence. The book is nothing like that. It’s better.

Who: I do not think anyone should call themselves a fantasy writer that has not read this. I’m sure there are reasonable exceptions. But I’m not seeing any of them.

Why: Read this for characters that will tangle themselves up in your heart and never let go. Read it for Beagle’s skill with prose, the sly humor, the sheer beauty.

When: Don’t read this when you are feeling insecure about your own writing, because it will only make it more so. Read it for inspiration as well as entertainment.

Where and how: Copy passages out and try to figure out how Beagle DID that. How the butterfly enchants us in only a few sentences. How the Bull menaces in even less space. (Be aware that Beagle did write about some of these characters again; they appear in novelette “Two Hearts,” which I only see available in The Nebula Award Showcase 2008 and The Year’s Best Science Fiction, Volume 24.

#sfwapro

One Response

  1. Such an amazing book.

    If it’s any help, “Two Hearts” was also anthologized in “The Very Best of Fantasy & Science Fiction”, which I think is out of print but is a *stellar* anthology well worth hunting down. And it’s also in Beagle’s single-author collection “The Line Between,” which has a couple other uniquely Beagle-ish treasures as well.

    (“Two Hearts” was my own introduction to Beagle, and was it ever a wallop to my heart and mind. A worthy creation in its own right.)

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Media Consumed in September

IMG_4106I was on the road for most of September. That photo’s taken in the elevator of the Flatiron Building while I was in NYC, but other places I stayed included Dallas, Texas and Pocatello, Idaho. (More on that to come!) Here’s what I read in September, according to my notes, which always seem to leave out some stuff. Bolded indicates a particularly notable read.

Alex P. Berg. Red Hot Steele.
Jillian Blake. Antisocial.
Ramsey Campbell. The Parasite.
Jessica Cluess A Shadow Bright and Burning.
George Alec Effinger. Heroics.
Justin Evans. The White Devil.
Rumer Godden. Black Narcissus. Interesting because I’d been thinking about omniscient POV, which this book uses.
Joe Hill. The Fireman.
Tami Hoag. Cold Cold Heart,
Aaron James. Assholes* A Theory. Some useful stuff on dealing with bad-faith actors.
Stephen King and Owen King. Gwendy’s Button Box.
Stephen King. End of Watch.
Mur Lafferty. Six Wakes.
Carrie Ann Noble. The Gold Son.
Dan Padavona. Crawlspace.
Sarah Porter. Vassa in the Night.
Susan Kaye Quinn. Third Daughter. Enjoyable steampunk romance with an Indian-flavored milieu.
Ron Ripley. Berkley Street.
Jon Ronson. So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed. Fascinating read about social media and publicity gone awry.
Sherwood Smith. Inda, The Fox, King’s Shield, and Treason’s Shore.
Wendy Corsi Staub. Lullaby and Good Night.
Steven Rasnic Tem. Deadfall Hotel.

I’ve been watching DC’s Legends and am halfway through Season 2 so far.

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You Should Read This: The Face in the Frost by John Bellairs

Cover of fantasy novel The Face in the Frost by John Bellairs.
The books have been reissued, but this is the cover I'm familiar, and which immediately evokes the book for me. I love the magic system in it - read the book to see why.
John Bellairs wrote a host of children’s books, including one of my favorites, The House with a Clock in Its Walls, and a single adult novel, The Face in the Frost. I wish the ratio had been in the opposite direction, because The Face in the Frost just has such an engaging world and characters that I would have loved more of it. Much, much more. It’s a woefully slim little book, and I will not claim that it has the world’s most satisfying ending, but it delights me in so many ways.

Much of the book’s richness lies in the banter between the two old friends (there’s only one place it falls flat, and it says something about the quality of the texture elsewhere that the flat spot drives me a little nuts every time I read it), who are both skilled and eccentric wizards. The friendship is a longtime one, built of mutual affection, exasperation, and shared experience. Pieces of this book are a buddy roadtrip, taken through a series of small kingdoms, some only town-sized, and the supernatural menace is one that is genuinely haunting.

I’ve read other books by Bellairs, but with the exception of The House with a Clock in its Walls (which has lovely Edmund Gorey illustrations as a bonus), I find that his children’s literature falls flat for me, though I know it’s well-loved by many middle-graders. For me, it lacks the menace that both Face in the Frost and Clock in Its Walls hold.

I used part of the first paragraph for the description of Prospero’s house for our clan housing on Dark Castle MUD, (back in the innocent days of the early Net when the majority of us had no idea what copyright meant); for all I know (and hope) it’s still there, but I somehow doubt it. Here it is, for your delectation:

Several centuries (or so) ago, in a country whose name doesn’t matter, there wa a tall, skinny, straggly-bearded old wizard named Prospero, and not the one you are thinking of, either. He lived in a huge, ridiculous, doodad-covered, trash-filled two-story horror of a house that stumbled, staggered, and dribbled right up to the edge of a great shadowy forest of elms and oaks and maples. It was a house whose gutter spouts were worked in the shape of whistling sphinxes and screaming bearded faces; a house whose white wooden porch was decorated with carved bears, monkeys, toads, and fat women in togas holding sheaves of grain; a house whose steep gray-slate roof was capped with a glass-enclosed, twisty-copper-columned observatory. On the artichoke dome of the observatory was a weather-vane shaped like a dancing hippopotamus; as the wind changed, it blew through the nostril’s of the hippo’s hollow head, making a whiny snarfling sound that fortunately could not be heard unless you were up on the roof fixing slates.

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