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My school had two 9th grade English teachers that seemed to form a set. They were both short men named Bob. They both had mustaches, but not beards. They both wore suits, rather than dressing like teachers. They both had a fondness for elaborate diagrams with colored chalk. They swapped classes for a couple of months every spring, so twice as many students could have the dark Bob teach us grammar (with sentence diagrams in colored chalk) and also have the blond Bob teach us Dickens (with plot diagrams in colored chalk). It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
I remain indifferent to diagrams in colored chalk, however elaborate. That's not quite right. I'm indifferent now. I was actively hostile, then. I spent weeks of remarkably intense effort at the stage of "You say these colored lines are supposed to convey some kind of meaning, some meaning beyond having the words themselves in a particular order. I'd like to believe you, but I can't find any evidence for it."
The blond Bob read to us from the detective story he was writing. It's been more than 20 years, but I can still remember most of it. Not because I liked it; just because it was my introduction to a certain style of first-person-smartass narration.
"My tongue felt like a fuzzy blanket. I reached for my fuzzy blanket. It felt like a tongue. Good. I like to know the world is balanced and sensible." (*)
Why do I think of this now? Last week, I read _Only Forward_, Michael Marshall Smith's first novel. Rysmiel told me this was the same Michael Marshall who later wrote _The Straw Men_. For the first hundred pages or so, I still found myself wondering if it could be my old English teacher writing under another name. The echo of the voice was too familiar.
( spoilers for _Only Forward_ )
_The Straw Men_ was much better. I'm not sure if it's darker. I tend to be a lot more comfortable with straightforward treatments of appalling situations than with attempts to play them for laughs.
(*) Now, one would almost certainly write "fair and balanced," but of course he didn't.
I remain indifferent to diagrams in colored chalk, however elaborate. That's not quite right. I'm indifferent now. I was actively hostile, then. I spent weeks of remarkably intense effort at the stage of "You say these colored lines are supposed to convey some kind of meaning, some meaning beyond having the words themselves in a particular order. I'd like to believe you, but I can't find any evidence for it."
The blond Bob read to us from the detective story he was writing. It's been more than 20 years, but I can still remember most of it. Not because I liked it; just because it was my introduction to a certain style of first-person-smartass narration.
"My tongue felt like a fuzzy blanket. I reached for my fuzzy blanket. It felt like a tongue. Good. I like to know the world is balanced and sensible." (*)
Why do I think of this now? Last week, I read _Only Forward_, Michael Marshall Smith's first novel. Rysmiel told me this was the same Michael Marshall who later wrote _The Straw Men_. For the first hundred pages or so, I still found myself wondering if it could be my old English teacher writing under another name. The echo of the voice was too familiar.
( spoilers for _Only Forward_ )
_The Straw Men_ was much better. I'm not sure if it's darker. I tend to be a lot more comfortable with straightforward treatments of appalling situations than with attempts to play them for laughs.
(*) Now, one would almost certainly write "fair and balanced," but of course he didn't.
