The Bodhisattva

Over at FBS Brian pointed to some bloggers contributing to a Friday feature highlighting books that may not get as much pub as they should. The different levels or layer of what truly is forgotten or overlooks are substantial. For instance, if talking to some (most) crowds a Zoran Zivkovic would easily qualify, but in the SF/F community we have all heard Mr. Zivkovic lauded. Also, I have various lengthy lists out there that while obviously not comprehensive presents myself with a bit of a task to find books that are not only deserving of more recognition but for my own purposes book that I haven’t gone on about in length as well. So while I think Jeff VanderMeer’s excellent collection Secret Life or Richard Bowes’ Minions of the Moon or something like Su Tong’s My Life as Emperor or Tamar Yellin’s The Zenizah at the House of Shepher should be discussed more often in our circles (and those that overlap) I’m going to try to talk about books that are new to me to talk about with this feature. If anybody could be called predictable and recommend Nowehere Near Milkwood by Rhys Hughes it would be me. These will be rather short as guilt won’t allow me to write usual 2kish word review, and isn’t a review at all just a brief passing on of books from that cabinet we all have - the one mired in shadows (but not as nice as that one that VanderMeer guy has from the Borges Furniture Carnival)

This brings me to my selection this week. If SF’s traditional Old Guard triumvirate were not Asimov, Heinlein, and Clarke answered by Dick and was instead Judith Merril, Leigh Brackett, and C.L. Moore and were answered by Le Guin then Michael Bishop would have been the male Tiptree. Bishop is certainly known by any writer and reader in the field of merit but like many writers who were deified before the internet falsely became a a barometer of gravitas we know him by association, rarely do we mention his own work even, when his associations become work (as noted in my post about the intro to Rhys Hughes’ The Crystal Cosmos). A noted crafter of short fiction, I instead want to point out one of his novels, Brittle Innings, another book for the fan of the fantastic and baseball to read after Chabon and and takes us to the time of the greatest generation in the U.S. and a minor league baseball team in the South. Bishop as usual not only creates atmosphere but doesn’t ignore that which already exists in the setting and as with all great Fantastic fiction, it would stand as still a poignant story without the whimsical element, but is given the artificial outsider to put things in greater focus. Bishop shifts gears in prose style as events come to focus and is novel that is an example of a writer that is not constricted by eras. Like a Le Guin, like a Moorcock, Bishop seemingly has the ability to wait for time to catch up to him, but has done so more quietly, and it’s very hard to choose a book by Bishop that is clearly a favorite - this is something he share with writers like a Graham Joyce, Jonathan Carroll, or a Tim Powers - but Brittle Innings and the story of Danny Boles and his brush with Shelly remains a book that turns out of all things an incredible story about passions.

_{*So in tune to the notion of Forgotten Friday, I indeed forgot yesterday was Friday - thinking quite clearly it was Wednesday - this is what happens when Around the Horn and PTI are off my viewing schedule during a week because of some channel programmer’s idea that Tennis is remotely interesting}