From Hell

Would it be better if I wrote this blog about the books I read? All of the time? Some of the time? Thoughts? A while ago I read about a study of how many books people read in a year, and the vast majority of Americans read less than 10. In a year. I found this horrifying and incomprehensible, and I am more than ready to admit that my feelings are very colored by my own habits. I knew that I read more than that. A lot more. But how much? Only a year could tell. So I tracked how many books I read. I numbered them, noted the date, title, author and brief notes to myself. That was over a year and a half ago. I ended year one at exactly 150 books (granted, I was reading until like 11:56 cause I wanted to end on an even number). Then I realized that having this book journal was kinda interesting to me, so I'm still cranking. How many books will I read in year 2? Check back end of September.


Last night I finished From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell. It was terrific, and I went to write about it in my journal. I had spent most of the afternoon finishing it, however, and it had taken up residence in my head in a scary way, so I kept my remarks short and promised myself I would write about it on my blog in a well lit room. I really should stay away from serial-killer-related literature.


I did love the book, though, before it gave me nightmares. I'm not a huge fan of the black and white art, graphic novels can occassionally be confusing to me when I can't see something in the pictures, and black and white makes it worse. But in this case it was chillingly effective. When Mary Kelly dies (and I really don't think I'm spoiling the ending for anyone) there are pages and pages with no words, and nothing graphic in the pictures, just people going in and out of a dark door. Scared the poo out of me. Also the notion that someone would have warned her, so she knew what was coming was horrifying. In a related story, though, I didn't get that mystery bit at the end, Alan. Does that make me stupid? Did Mary get away and go back to Ireland, and her buddy Julia was the one who got sliced up? Or was it a ghost story thing? Its going to remain a mystery, I suspect.


My only other problem, which really isn't one, is that I don't but the royal-marriage-conspiracy-theory story. But who cares what I really believe here? Not even me. It makes for a good story: gruesome, horrifying, and much to imagination stoking for me, but great nonetheless. Alan Moore made a particularly crazy craziness seem almost...understandable, but still unfathomable, and never pretending for a second that the Ripper might really be doing the right thing.


Oh, and then I couldn't sleep last night. I had to watch loads of West Wing episodes before I could even try.