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.