“Now, Corgan, how did you get that broken skin on your hand?”
“Dammit, Mendor, I told you I don’t know.”
Mendor’s gasp was like a gale blowing through the Box.
“Where did you learn that word, Corgan?”
“What word?” But he knew exactly the word Mendor meant.
I was wrong. This isn’t Matilda: The Fantasy YA Series. It’s Rugrats: The Fantasy YA Series.
Think about it.
Part 1 of the Harry Potter Readstravaganza series (there was a Part 0)
Never again will I wonder what Matilda would be like as the first book of a seven-part series. It is here before me: Harry Potter and the Sorcerolosopher’s Stone.
This is a good, upstanding, morally upright adventure. It gives me the impression that J. K. Rowling respects kids’ intelligence and urges them to trust their instincts, even when their hunches aren’t totally right.
There’s a part, though, where the narration says something like “maybe Harry was imagining things, but Slytherin didn’t seem very nice.” In this case Harry’s instincts are totally right, because all of Slytherin is so evil and awful. Prove me wrong.
Harry Potter is just another series on my neverending list of stuff to read. I’ve never read it before, which is surprising because I grew up with the books, and fans of the books, and movies based on the books, and birthday parties inspired by the books, all around me. I claimed to like reading, too.
A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered. You are speaking, Hmán, as if the pleasure were one thing and the memory another. It is all one thing. The séroni could say it better than I say it now. Not better than I could say it in a poem. What you call remembering is the last part of the pleasure, as the crah is the last part of a poem. When you and I met, the meeting was over very shortly, it was nothing. Now it is growing something as we remember it. But still we know very little about it. What it will be when I remember it as I lie down to die, what it makes in me all my days till then—that is the real meeting. The other is only the beginning of it. You say you have poets in your world. Do they not teach you this?
…And how could we endure to live and let time pass if we were always crying for one day or one year to come back—if we did not know that every day in a life fills the whole life with expectation and memory and that those are that day?
Maybe I should watch a Melissa McCarthy movie soon, eh?
I mean that I need a better word.
It is here. At long last, the world knows where to find the online “headquarters” of Joi Massat. We welcome this day with loving arms.
How many people will read this? Not this blog, but like, this post. Five people? Six?
Anyway, thank you for visiting. Dedicated Quinlan Circle fans may know me as an artist for ATL: Stories from the Retrofuture, but profound Quinlan Circle fans know that I’m a writer above all, for they know I have created The Fifty Names of Scooby-Doo. What a seminal work that one is. Someday soon I’ll put out fiction that isn’t just a creepypasta. I’m always writing, and I hope to publish a serial story or two on QC in the near future. Keep your eyes peeped.
But for now, I’ll just publish blog posts. On stories I’ve read or watched, mostly.
Hope you have a nice day!