Her name is not really Coraline, of course, but it is one of her very favorite books, and Elsewhere University does seem like a parallel world she’s stumbled into, so she takes the name proudly. She thinks she ought to fill the part she’s been assigned, and little by little her pockets fill with buttons and pieces of glass through which to see the truth. Not all the time, but enough to count, she counts things – doorways and anything blue, among a variety of objects, arcane and mundane alike.
The girl called Coraline also answers to Buttons and MIST, but it took some time for her to notice those sounds referred to her. Once, her scene partner called her Other Mo—but his tongue had barely cradled the second sibilant against his teeth when her hand shot out and clamped around his wrist. “That’s not what I am,” she hissed, “and I won’t become it either. Now go back a few lines; let’s start at ‘Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I’ll be gone’.” Something was smiling on her that day, or frowning on him, but he does not try to unstitch the seam that hangs ragged from his skin.
(I might do more with the girl called Coraline eventually)
I had forgotten what fiction was to me as a boy, forgotten what it was like in the library: fiction was an escape from the intolerable, a doorway into impossibly hospitable worlds where things had rules and could be understood; stories had been a way of learning about life without experiencing it, or perhaps of experiencing it as an eighteenth-century poisoner dealt with poisons, taking them in tiny doses, such that the poisoner could cope with ingesting things that would kill someone who was not inured to them. Sometimes fiction is a way of coping with the poison of the world in a way that lets us survive it.
And I remembered. I would not be the person I am without the authors who made me what I am—the special ones, the wise ones, sometimes just the ones who got there first.
It’s not irrelevant, those moments of connection, those places where fiction saves your life. It’s the most important thing there is.
FROM NEIL GAIMAN’S NEWBERY ACCEPTANCE SPEECH (Also in The View from the Cheap Seats)
((OOC: So Neil Gaiman (the author of Coraline) reblogged my Other Mother cosplay and I am freaking out only the tiniestlittlebit. Honestly one of my very favourite authors… The Ocean at the End of the Lane and American Gods are two of my favourite books and obviously, Coraline is just wonderfully creepy.
Please go read his books, if you haven’t done so already.))
John Grisham’s fast-paced legal thrillers like The Firm, The Client, and The Pelican Brief still make up roughly 60 percent of all airport bookstore sales around the world. What you are less likely to find there is Grisham’s 2001 novel Skipping Christmas, which became the basis for the 2004 “comedy” film Christmas With the Kranks. Funny, we must have been in the bathroom when Tim Allen’s corrupt law firm framed him for murdering a prostitute.
Christmas With the Kranks stars Allen and Jamie Lee Curtis as Luther and Nora Krank, a couple who feel depressed that their daughter is not going to be home for Christmas, so they decide they’re going to spend the holidays on a cruise instead. This draws the wrath of their psychotic neighbors (led by Dan Aykroyd), who are aghast at the Kranks’ decision not to decorate their house and stay home like everybody else. By the end of the film, the Kranks decide to celebrate Christmas after all, because blah blah wacky misunderstanding, emotional confession, and Christmas spirit again.
Christmas With the Kranks’ questionable Yuletide message did not go over well with critics, as the film currently holds a 5 percent rating at Rotten Tomatoes. When you watch a Grisham adaptation, you expect to see Tom Cruise strangling a corporate hit man in a parking garage, not Tim Allen strangling the abstract concept of comedy on a dining room table.