Yet more books making the long goodbye. Warning: this post spans the highlights of six grocery bag’s worth of books. Ten points for sticking through to the end.

The Gypsy, by Steven Brust and Megan Lindholm. It pains me to do this, as I’m a long time Steven Brust fan; I’ve been reading him since Jhereg was first in print, back when I was in college. He’s one of the few authors I buy in hardcover; and when a new book comes out, I read it aloud to Jane. But this one, alas, I’ve never even been able to finish. I’ve carried from house to house since 1992, and it’s time to let go.

Lysistrate and The Frogs by Aristophanes. I picked up the Penguin Classics edition of these plays when on vacation on Maui whilst recovering from a nasty bout of food poisoning and desperate for anything to read. I feel confident that no one else in the history of the world has ever done this. The only bookstore in the vicinity had a lot of Penguin Classics for some reason; I think some more pretentious store must have gone under. I’ve not read them since; and I feel certain that if I want to I’ll be able to find copies.

Foreigner, etc., by C.J. Cherryh. I like Cherryh, and I picked up the fourth novel in the Foreigner series when it came out; that was eleven years ago, and I’ve still not read it. Who says that men can’t commit? Most of my Cherryh collection is in a box in the closet, and I suspect I’ll cull a lot it when next I get at it. I can’t imagine ever reading the “Faded Sun” trilogy again, for example. Others, like Cyteen, I’ll certainly keep.

Primary Inversion, by Catherine Asaro. I so did not like this book. It started out interesting, but then it got…kinky…and I stopped reading. I remember thinking, “I’m not in this book’s target demographic.”

Jeffrey Archer. Archer is an engaging writer, but except for his delightful Not a Penny More, Not A Penny Less, one of the great caper novels, it’s time to see him off. I’d like to give an honorable mention to The Eleventh Commandment, though. I bought it while on a business trip to Australia, and read it on the flight home from Sydney to Los Angeles. It’s about a spy on the run from his masters, and at one point he flies from Sydney to Los Angeles…on precisely the flight I was on while reading the book. Made me chuckle.

The Swiss Family Perelman, by S.J. Perelman. This is an old book of my parents. It’s mildly funny. I chuckled a time or two. But Mr. Perelman is no Wodehouse. (I’m chucking Acres and Pains as well.)

Moby Dick, by Herman Melville. I finally essayed upon this massive tome hoping for an epic sea story. It began well; I enjoyed reading about Ishmael’s quest for a ship. And then, suddenly, I realized two things: the Pequod had been at sea for weeks without so much as a hint of spray or salt air; and that I no longer cared what happend to Ishmael.

Robert Barnard. I picked up a whole slew of Barnard’s whodunnits used some years back. Good stuff; but I ground to a halt about halfway through the set. Time to move on.

Charles Dickens. There’s nothing wrong with Dickens, but I don’t cordially love his work; and as with Aristophanes I’m sure I can find it at Project Gutenberg if I should want it. Meanwhile, I’ve cleared another five inches of shelf space.

Metamorphoses, by Ovid. I don’t remember where I picked this up; but as with Aristophanes and Dickens, so with Ovid.

Singularity Sky, by Charles Stross. Some of Stross’s books I really like. Others, meh.

The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle. Another book I’m tired of wanting to like.

Melissa Scott. Scott wrote a lot of good space opera once upon a time; I find that I have nine of her books. I hope they end up in a good home.

Robert Rankin. I bought three of Rankin’s books on the strength of a title, The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse. In retrospect, that title’s trying a little too hard. I read a book and a half before I gave up.

Who Censored Roger Rabbit? by Gary Wolf. This book, which has almost nothing in common with the movie that was based on it, has an interesting conceit: what if comic strips and comic books were photographed rather than drawn? Unfortunately, the tale itself is rather dreary.

The Ring of FIve Dragons, etc., by Eric Van Lustbader. With its sequels, this is an interesting space fantasy; but it’s yet another series I’ve let slide on by.

Connie Willis. I’m keeping To Say Nothing of the Dog, but everything else must go.

The Reformer, by S.M. Stirling and David Drake. I like Stirling’s books. I like Drake’s books. This one…not so much. Not much at all, in fact. I don’t recall why; I got fifty or a hundred pages into it, and decided that it wasn’t worth my time.

For All The Saints by N.T. Wright. Tom Wright’s a smart cookie; here, he attempts to show first that the liturgical calendar matters, and that second that the Catholic understanding of the Communion of Saints is gravely mistaken. I agree about the first and disagree about the second.

Alastor, by Jack Vance. This is an anthology of some of Vance’s lesser known novels, which I read as individual books, then got rid of, and then wanted to revisit. The second visit was sufficient. (Though I’ll never forget the phrase “gruff and deedle”.)

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke. Interesting book, but not interesting enough to justify its size.

Tales of the Otori, by Lian Hearn. I rather liked the first book of this series, Across the Nightingale Floor, and bought the second…which I have never subsequently wanted to read. I’m not sure why.

The Unabridged Mark Twain. The content is good; but the book is darn big to hold comfortably, and the content is easily come by.

Gargantua and Pantagruel, by Rabelais. I bought this in a hifalutin mood, and tried to read it. Alas, it’s beyond me.

In addition to the above, there were a smattering of obscure history books, novels, memoirs, and review copies that didn’t seem worth calling out.

Cryoburn is the latest in Lois McMaster Bujold’s Miles Vorkosigan series, and it packs quite a wallop. Miles, in his role as Imperial Auditor, is conducting an investigation on Kibou-Daini, a planet where a surprisingly large percentage of the population are cryogenically frozen, their votes assigned to the corporations that are keeping them that way. The book is in part a meditation on life, death, selfishness, and maturity; and most of its impact is at the end. The climax surprised Jane and I considerably, and not entirely favorably at first; but on reflection it is precisely the climax that makes sense of the rest of the book.

Unfortunately, I can’t say anything more about it without spoiling it.

If you’ve not read any Bujold, go pick up Young Miles, followed by Cordelia’s Honor, or possibly vice-versa. Do not start with this one; the books are best read more or less in chronological order.

But wait, there’s more? Or, possibly, less, depending on how you look at it. Here are some more authors and books I’m dumping, in no particular order.

James Blaylock. I want to like James Blaylock; he’s a friend of Tim Powers, whose books I very much like. I’ve been buying and reading Blaylock since I was in college, and I’ve wanted very much to like his books for all of that time. They are well-written, quirky, and (alas!) all too often I find them exasperating. I spent some time over the last year re-reading a few of them, and it’s time to admit it—I don’t like Blaylock’s work, at least not in proportion to the space it takes up on my shelves. Sorry, James.

Of Tangible Ghosts, etc., by L.E. Modesitt, Jr. I like Modesitt in general; this book and its immediate sequel I simply didn’t enjoy; and there’s a third book that’s been sitting on my shelf for years.

The Runelords, etc., by David Farland. This is an epic fantasy series with some neat (if rather absurd) ideas. But the fourth book has been sitting on my shelf waiting to be read since 2003. It’s time to let go.

Never the Twain, by Kirk Mitchell. This book has an amusing premise. A descendant of Bret Harte travels back in time to help Sam Clemens keep his silver strike, leaving the literary field open and ensuring that his ancestor will be the leading literary light of the age. I enjoyed it somewhat; and that was in 1987. I’ve not been moved to read it since.

Tom Holt. People like Tom Holt; he’s supposed to be funny. He might even be funny. But I seem to have a blind spot where he’s concerned. I’ve read one or two of his books, and I’ve got several others that I’ve picked up over the years; but I just can’t make myself read them. Dunno why.

John Ringo. I’m keeping a few books by John Ringo, notably There Will Be Dragons and its first two sequels (though not the fourth, for yea, verily, it sucketh) and the March Upcountry books; but the rest are going. Too depressing.

Good Omens, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Sorry, folks; I know I’m in a minority, but I just don’t like it much.

Orlando Furioso, Parts I and II by Ariosto. I actually read about a third of the first volume lo these many years ago. It was amusing. But I’m really not an epic poetry kind of guy. (This is likely a defect in my character, but there it is.)

Eric Flint. Another author who runs hot and cold for me. I’m keeping some of his books, but getting rid of most of them.

The Fionavar Tapestry, by Guy Gavriel Kay. I loved this trilogy when I first read it. Then it got put in a box for a long time, during which I wanted to re-read it but couldn’t find it; and then, finally I found it and did so. And boy, was I disappointed. I wrote a review about it at the time, which you can look up if you like. I’m keeping the rest of his books, though.

Shaman’s Crossing and Forest Mage by Robin Hobb. Strong books, well-written, but there’s something about them I don’t like. The third book is out in paperback, and after looking at it in the store on several occasions, I realized that I didn’t really want to read it. Well, then….

And a handful of others: Neverness by David Zindell. In Death Ground by David Weber and Steve White. The Well at the World’s End, Part I by William Morris. Hellspark by Janet Kagan. Voidfarer, by Sean McMullen. The Deathworld Trilogy, by Harry Harrison.