recommended reading

That Marco Polo book has picked up a little since last I wrote. Take this, for example:

Combining a market and a brothel, Quinsai also had the air of a perpetual carnival. One memoirist who came of age there never forgot the man who trained his fish to perform. He has a large lacquer bowl in front of him in which swim turtles, turbots, and other fish. He beats time on a small bronze gong and calls up one of the creatures by name. It comes immediately and dances on the surface, wearing a kind of little hat on its head...There is also an archery expert who sets up in front of the spectators a big wheel a yard and a half in diameter, with all sorts of objects, flowers, birds, and people painted on it. He announces that he is going to hit this or that object, and having started spinning it rapidly, he shoots his arrows through the midst of the spectators. He hits the exact spot he has declared he will hit. He can even score a hit on the most precisely defined spots of the spinning target, such as a particular feather in a particular wing of a bird. The memoirist wandered in a daze among snake charmers blowing on little pipes, luring their hideous charges from the bamboo baskets where they coiled in darkness; and a Taoist monk who carried a trap filled with multicolored shellfish, which he claimed he had hypnotized. Boxers abounded, as did chess players, poets, writers of light verse, acrobats, and magicians. A Chinese record of the era lists five hundred and fifty-four performers who appeared at court, grouped into fifty-five categories, including kite flyers and ball players, magicians and singers, impressionists, artists, and bawdy raconteurs.

Before I came to the above passage, unfortunately, I lost patience, decided to take a break and got into something a little more digestible (no pun intended): World War Z, by Max Brooks. Touting itself as "an oral history of the zombie war," the book is just that: a series of accounts, collected by a nameless journalist (presumably Brooks himself). They are from all over the world, from China (where the outbreaks initially began), India, the U.S., Russia, and obscure spots and outlying regions all over the globe. I won't go into too much detail lest I (a) divulge the finger, cliffhanging points of the plot, or (b) disgust you by revealing myself to be a zombie apocalypse fan (not necessarily zombie apocalypse movie fan, mind you; the concept will do fine). I would like to impress upon you, however, just how realistic the book is, in both discussion of the spread of the virus or contagion or whatever it is, and also in the reaction of the world at large, on both small and large scales. Brooks accurately predicts, with borderline cynicism, the disbelieving attitudes of the people and the inept and dilatory nature of government response. Nor does his anthropic prowess stop there. He also realistically portrays the actions of individuals and governments after the disaster has been acknowledged, in both regrouping and combating the sweeping pandemic. Beyond that, though, the book itself is satisfactorily chilling. There's this one part where a Chinese sub has taken refuge on the seabed, right at crush depth, and begins to hear strange scraping and banging noises on its hull. A look through the periscope reveals legions of the undead, staggering across the ocean floor, clambering all over the submarine's hull, clawing to get inside and devour the crew.

Brooks has taken a more in-depth look at long-term undead residence on Earth and come to some heretofore unsuspected conclusions. He suggests that zombies, having no need for light or oxygen and being impervious to most pressure-related maladies, would be able to exist indefinitely underwater, even crossing oceans on foot. Brooks also puts forth the logical idea that, in extreme northern and southern latitudes, zombies would freeze solid in winter (those that wander about outdoors and are exposed to the elements) and thaw in spring, renewing their menace. I can only suggest that you read the work yourself and see what a suspenseful writer Brooks is, how thoroughly he has researched his ideas, and just what a compelling vision of planet Earth under siege by its own zombified populace would be seen through his eyes.

Apart from that, I have little to report. I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my in-flight reading list (the books I'll use to assuage the epic boredom prevalent on transoceanic international journeys aboard flying sardine cans). I was without the benefit of unread literature during my last hop across the Pacific Ocean and have determined never to be so again; much less this trip, which should add up to be no less than 11 hours, likely more.

To that end, I have ordered, as my last request from What the Book?:

• The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
• Candide by Voltaire
• Ice Hunt by John Rollins
• All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque

There you go, two classic novels of a martial nature, a scathing work of philosophy, and a two-bit adventure story. Boredom ought to be completely subverted.