4.05.2006
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
I sat down to read the chapter of Klug's Genetics that we're covering in class tomorrow. I made it about ten pages in before my focus fell apart and I started thinking about sleep. It would've been smart to crash at ten since I'm still a bit sleep deprived from cramming for Monday's exam; this was not to be (for when have I ever acted prudently when fiction is involved?) I picked up The Moon is a Harsh Mistress and had my mind blown by page two. Beautiful book, where have you been all of my life?
I mean, the book opens with dialog between a computer who has been awake for a few months and a micro-mechanic who is the only person who has noticed. They discuss whether the computer's jokes are funny. The mechanic strikes me as a cross between the plumber from Brazil and Winston Smith; he named the computer Mycroft after Holmes's brother because he sits there and thinks. Because he is a loonie, he speaks in the lunar patois, a blend of English, Russian, Spanish and other bits I can't identify, a language that has thoughtfully eliminated all of those frivilous definite and indefinite articles that we put up with every day.
I am utterly charmed.
How could my hometown librarians let me grow up in an environment free of this book? I'll be calling them tomorrow, asking if I can buy a copy for their collection. I'll put a bookplate inside the front cover, "donated by" - it will be the beginning of my life as a philanthropist.
I'm about fifty pages into the book and I've already noticed one reference to dishwashing as the ideal job for philosophers. I think reading Heinlein's Job when I was fifteen permanently warped my mind, at least concerning theology and dishwashing.
I mean, the book opens with dialog between a computer who has been awake for a few months and a micro-mechanic who is the only person who has noticed. They discuss whether the computer's jokes are funny. The mechanic strikes me as a cross between the plumber from Brazil and Winston Smith; he named the computer Mycroft after Holmes's brother because he sits there and thinks. Because he is a loonie, he speaks in the lunar patois, a blend of English, Russian, Spanish and other bits I can't identify, a language that has thoughtfully eliminated all of those frivilous definite and indefinite articles that we put up with every day.
I am utterly charmed.
How could my hometown librarians let me grow up in an environment free of this book? I'll be calling them tomorrow, asking if I can buy a copy for their collection. I'll put a bookplate inside the front cover, "donated by" - it will be the beginning of my life as a philanthropist.
I'm about fifty pages into the book and I've already noticed one reference to dishwashing as the ideal job for philosophers. I think reading Heinlein's Job when I was fifteen permanently warped my mind, at least concerning theology and dishwashing.
