Quick correction regarding my initial Book of Dust post – The Book of Dust is the name of the trilogy, La Belle Sauvage is the name of the first book. You can understand why I was mistaken; look at the cover again:
Okay, so actually it came out last Thursday. But my copy didn’t get here until today (I was a dummy and chose 5-6 day shipping because dumb reasons).
When I heard that Philip Pullman was writing a new trilogy called La Belle Sauvage, I was incredibly excited. The new trilogy opens with The Book of Dust and is set in the same world as His Dark Materials but ten years earlier.
Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, The Amber Spyglass) had a huge impact on my formative reading years. When I picked up The Golden Compass and met Lyra and Pantalaimon for the first time, I was a child (at a guess, maybe in 5th or 6th grade). I had never read something before that resonated with me so profoundly. As Stephen Koch says, “Whenever it strikes, it is invariably telling you something vital about yourself. …The shock of recognition is a moment of excitement that shakes the soul. It may be hard to describe, but like other forms of love, you will know it when you feel it.”*
His Dark Materials left an indelible mark on my reading psyche, and taught me about loyalty and honor, friendship, sacrifice, and independence. Reading and re-reading it helped me through a lot of struggle and dark times. To this day, I still rank the trilogy at the top of my favorites list though it’s been years since I lost myself in those worlds.
All I want to do now is slide into those pages and be warmly welcomed home. (I try really hard not to hype myself up too much, but I don’t think that’s working this time.)
Excuse me now while I go devour some words. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Sometimes, though rarely, you can come away from reading something feeling like you’ve just caught a glimpse of something true. And while you might not be able to explain exactly what it is, you know that it moved through you in a way that left you knowing something differently. That’s how I feel about “The Husband Stitch” by Carmen Machado. It’s possibly one of the most beautiful lyrical pieces of prose that I’ve read. When I was finished, I felt… something. Like someone had explained a part of the world to me that I had trouble naming before even though I had always known its existence. I came away from it knowing I wouldn’t have the words to explain, but that I would have to share the story.
It’s part of Machado’s short story collection Her Body and Other Parties (affiliate link). The stories are loosely based in style and structure on fairy tales and fables. They are stories about women’s bodies and women’s lives. As soon as I finished “The Husband Stitch,” I ordered a copy of her book.
I’ll leave you with some links to a couple pieces that can better explain:
Go, read, lose yourself in some beautiful words, think: “The Husband Stitch” by Carmen Machado (contains sexually explicit language).
I’ve been doing a lot of reading over the last couple months. Just devouring and devouring books upon books almost indiscriminately. Sci-fi, fantasy, horror, biographies, cookbooks, romance – bits and pieces of everything (I read a tad broadly…). I’ve been drinking these words in and swimming in them, luxuriating in them, indulging. It feels like I’m gorging on them, barely even choosing, heedless of genre (or sometimes quality). For the past two months now, it’s felt hurried and frenetic, and I didn’t stop to wonder why.