Reality Check: My Prizes by Thomas Bernhard

Here's a sentence I never thought I'd write. Thomas Bernhard, he of the impenetrable yet addictive literary sludge was actually a really funny guy. Laugh out loud, double over, try to catch your breath funny. Not that you would have known it from his novels. Dreary, depressing, sure. But not funny. Turns out it was all a ruse. In this short collection of reflections, Bernhard tells us what he really thought of the various prizes he won. Needless to say, he doesn't hold back and I suspect that pretty much every institution that saw fit to give him an award later came to regret it. Some might brand Bernhard a sore winner, but for me it was refreshing to see a person whose misanthropy could transcend his ego.

There are those, I suppose, who collect accolades
Though others prefer that they went to their graves
Integrity shining not once selling out
Here Bernhard makes quite clear what he was about
Dark and obsessive in print, when loquacious
He's spiteful, sardonic and wholly ungracious!

And yes, i realise I was supposed to read the new Chinua Achebe book for this challenge, but after the great disappointment of the Gunter Grass I felt it was okay to cheat a little and do the old bait and switch. Yet again Bernhard saves the day!

Reality Check: Life by Keith Richards

If Patti Smith's book verged on poetic high art, Keith Richards has cranked out its gutter-dwelling, drug-addled little cousin. Which isn't to say that Life isn't also high art, though of a very different kind. It all makes me feel even more inadequate as I continue to lump you with these annoying rhymes. I just don't know how Dr. Seuss lived with himself...

Oh, well, stuff this in your hat:

From somewhere beneath a dark heroin haze
Ol' Keef takes a look back on halcyon days
It's brutal and honest and dripping with swagger
And his sympathy lies with the devil, that's Jagger
Though hefty this book left me scratching my head
After all he's consumed how the hell's he not dead?

Reality Check: The Monster of Florence by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi

I grew up on true crime books. The Stranger Beside Me, Hunting The Devil, The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer. I just couldn't get enough. So obsessed was I that my parents were called into school a number of times so that my teachers could voice their concerns. Most notable was dear Mrs. Begley, who found expressions of extreme violence in my creative writing output. She famously told my mum that "he writes very well, but couldn't he just once write about flowers and hills?" So next story I wrote for her class (hilariously named Writing For Young Authors - the class, not the story!) had someone murdered on a hill and their body sprinkled with flowers.

When it came to putting together the list of books I would attempt for the December Challenge I figured it would be a good opportunity for me to check out what's making it big in the genre these days. Preston and Spezi's investigation into the Monster of Florence serial killings (which, if you like literary trivia, were the inspiration for Thomas Harris's final Hannibal Lecter book) had been getting some serious raves so I thought I'd give it a go.

Pull up your green eggs and ham, folks. Here's what I thought:

Somewhere near Florence in picturesque hills
There lurks a monster who viciously kills
To this day unsolved by detectives inept
These journos turned up on the list of suspects
Point as they might to Sardinian trails
Frustrated, it ends with them chasing their tails

Reality Check: Regions of the Great Heresy by Jerzy Ficowski

He might only have had the chance to crank out two short story collections before being brutally murdered as an act of revenge against his Nazi protector, but Bruno Schulz is one of the towering figures of mid-20th European century literature. I became obsessed with him after seeing a Theatre de Complicite production of Street of Crocodiles and quickly hunted down the two slim volumes, devouring them with a sense of sheer wonder. Surreal, harrowing and completely other-worldly, they are amongst the greatest story cycles ever to be published. In this biographical meditation, Ficowski goes a long way to demystify the enigma that has sprouted from Schulz's unmarked grave.

Or, as Dr. Seuss would put it:

For the pilgrims who flock to the great Kafka's grave
There's another, unmarked and ignored I'm afraid
A disciple now digs and tries to resurrect
To give voice, and give ink and to piece back the flesh
Indignant he holds high his art to the end
A shot in the arm for one shot in the head

Reality Check: The Box by Gunter Grass

I was pretty excited to get my hands on the latest instalment of Gunter Grass's memoirs, even more so because I had heard that this volume was stylistically more interesting, perhaps even with a fictional flourish. Alas, halfway through this short (especially short given the heftiness of Peeling The Onion) curiosity of a book, I was struck by a Solzhenitsyn-inspired Eureka moment. I actually don't really like Gunter Grass. Sure, I waxed lyrical in the past about The Tin Drum but, at the end of the day, he is kind of boring. Sorry Professor Graewe (my fantastic German Literature lecturer of yore), I want to like your hero but I just can't. And not because of his past, I don't really care about that. It's just that his turgid meanderings put me to sleep. I get it, Mr. Grass. You screwed around, had eight kids and wrote books of which you are rather proud. But this added nothing to your canon. When all is said and done, The Box will be a minor footnote, if it even makes it that far.

So without further adieu, here is The Box as rhyming verse.

I've come to believe the Nobel is a curse
For all of its winners grow gradually worse
After great revelations of Wafen SS
Grass comes in again and wants us to assess
Through the lens of his camera, an old fashioned box
This life in eight pieces is slight and a flop

Reality Check: The Possessed by Elif Batuman

It was a simple Cartesian equation. I like Russian literature. Elif Batuman has written a book about "Russian Books and the People Who Read Them". Ergo, I will like this book. And I did. Sort of. Sucked in by a pretty cute premise, I found myself drifting as I waded ever deeper in to its pages. I think this started as a collection of essays, published separately, in various lit rags. That would make sense. This book works if approached in bite-sized chunks. As a whole, I'm less convinced. Anyway, here's the review in three couplets of rhyming verse. Apologies for the extra syllable in the last line. I needed it to get in the godawful Russian literary pun. As I said at the start of this month, I've never claimed to be a poet!

There's something that's rather peculiar you see
About readers of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky
Conspiracy theorists and paranoid freaks
How they do Babel on these Chekhovian geeks
It's a glimpse into worlds of high lit and first loves
She's Possessed but I wasn't, when Pushkin came to shove

Reality Check: Just Kids by Patti Smith

Ok, so I have to say this straight out. However bad I was at haiku or limerick, I am truly appalling at rhyming couplets. But as you know all too well by now, I never let my dignity get in the way of fulfilling a promise, so here is the first instalment of my December reading/poetry challenge. Thankfully, I started with a book that I truly loved. Not knowing all that much about Patti Smith or Robert Mapplethorpe, but growing up in awe of the New York cultural scene of the 60's and 70's, I was mesmerised to read about it straight from the horse's mouth (sorry, pathetic pun...). So here you have it, my terrible rhyming couplet review of Patti Smith's wonderful Just Kids.

Many a hymn has been sung to New York
But none of its Lower East Saint Mapplethorpe
From squats to the halls of the Chelsea Hotel
Of great falls and rises the high priestess tells
A tale sometimes tender and other times sordid
Vale to Puck, once rent boy now applauded!

Reality Check: The December Challenge

Forgive me Fyodor, for I have sinned. When I made my new year's resolution to write a literary blog I intended from the outset to quirk it up with absurd challenges that took me out of my reading comfort zone into new, mostly humorous, territory. I started off quite well but, alas, the best of intentions have fallen by the wayside, victim to my penchant for self-indulgence. I wanted to read books I liked. Shoot me.

It's now December and I figure I have but one last chance for redemption. I must tackle the thing I dislike reading more than anything else (except perhaps the crap I had to read for February's Books I Swore I'd Never Read challenge). Yes, in a last ditch attempt to save me from having to admit defeat come December 31, and consequently forcing myself to repeat this whole shebang again next year, I intend to spend a month reading non-fiction. To be fair, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I have built up a respectable pile of mildly interesting looking tomes of truth over the past few years. The fact I get to finally open them, and knock them all over in one month, makes the whole task seem almost bearable.

I know I might be accused of bandwagon-jumping, but I'm starting off with Patti Smith's National Book Award winning memoir, Just Kids and will follow it with Elif Batuman's examination of Russian bibliophiles (that is, people who love and obsess over Russian literature, not just anyone from Russia who can read), Possessed. I figure, with those two, I at least have a connection, spurious as it may be: early punk rock and wanky literature are two of my great areas of interest. Next up I'm going to hit something I've meant to read for years, Jerzy Ficowski's biography of and meditation on the criminally under-appreciated Polish writer Bruno Schulz, Regions of The Great Heresy. If the name doesn't ring a bell, wait for Jonathan Safran Foer's next book. I suspect you will find yourself chasing down copies of his two amazing story collections, Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, before you can say Drohobycz. I'll also give my high school obsession with true crime another run with The Monster of Florence by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi. Comic relief shall be provided by Keith Richards and his anti-Jagger bitchfest, Life. And, finally, I'll round out the month with two memoirs by great authors, Gunter Grass and Chinua Achebe.

Now I know what you're thinking. This all sounds a bit too easy for the very last challenge of the year. Don't worry, spanner, meet works. I am going to attempt to review them all in six line verses of rhyming couplets. I don't even really know what that means. Oh, well, I guess it could have been worse. There was always the chance I'd be lumped with haiku again.

The November Non-Challenge: Books I'm Reading Instead of The Books That Changed The World

Way back in January, when I was plotting out monthly challenges, I had intended The Books That Changed The World to immediately follow Books For Blasphemers. I wanted to wade through all the major works that have helped shape this crazy world we live in. For better or for worse. In the list I had J. S. Mill's On Liberty, Marx's The Communist Manifesto, Mao's Little Red Book, Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams, Darwin's Origin of The Species, Hitler's Mein Kampf and Greer's The Female Eunuch. I had yet to decide on a poetic form with which to review them, my two favourites having been taken up by the Biblical texts (limerick) and the Books I Swore I'd Never Read (haiku). Perhaps a few sonnets were in order. Then it occurred to me. Hadn't I suffered enough for your entertainment? I read Eat Pray Love for fuck's sake! Plus, did I really want to go out and buy Hitler's paranoid rantings? I'd be too ashamed to do it in person, even more so than that time I bought The Celestine Prophecy. Or Twilight. Ordering it online would put me on some CIA watch list. Again. I get arrested at airports enough as it is. While I was being consumed by existential kvetching, the pile of books I was excited to read continued to grow, and I came to realise that I needed to abandon the whole challenge approach altogether. And so I bring you a very loose theme for November, Books I'm Reading Instead of The Books That Changed The World. Yeah, it's wordy but I like the sound of it. I've already knocked over the new Auster and Krauss novels (more to come on them soon). Don Quixote straddled the October/November divide. I'm about to start the new Bernhard Schlink. And any day now I. J. Singer's The Brothers Ashkenazi, which I am very chuffed to see is back in print, shall find its way to my mailbox. I haven't decided what else will make the list this month but hey, I like to live dangerously. In a room. In the corner. With a book.

Back to Basics: Nemesis by Philip Roth

The plague as literary device has a long and distinguished history. Albert Camus used it to devastating effect as a critical metaphor for France's cowardice in the face of the Nazi threat. Fellow Nobel laureate Jose Saramago's tale of a contagion that blinded an entire country was an equally powerful examination of the fragility of 'community', unmasking humanity's propensity to resort to base instincts when faced with challenges to its survival. Now the last great man of American letters, Philip Roth, has entered the fray with his new novel Nemesis, the story of an unlikely Jewish adonis struck down both physically and emotionally by New Jersey's polio epidemic of 1944.

Eugene “Bucky” Canter is about as far from the typically hapless Jewish Roth caricature as you could get. Sporty, popular, self-sufficient and successful, he only escaped being drafted because of his poor eyesight. Now the playground director at Chancellor Avenue School's summer program, he has become a hero to the small pack of Jewish kids in his charge. Yet under his chipper exterior Bucky is battling with the guilt of staying behind while his friends are off fighting in Europe. His personal woes are soon to take a back seat, however, as reports of local children succumbing to polio begin to filter out. As if the sweltering summer was not already a breeding ground for frustration and claustrophobia, the disease quickly reaches epidemic proportions and Bucky can do nothing but stand by and watch in despair as his beloved community disintegrates.

As with any epidemiologically mysterious threat, blame is thrown about like a weathered ball. The Italian kids, a slimy hot dog, the humble blow-fly, Horace the filthy local 'unfortunate', God and, from the outside, the Jews all become the subject of paranoid bile. When one of the playground children, Alan Michaels, dies, what is left of the community dies with him. Bucky eventually escapes to the Poconos to join his fiancee at the Indian Hill Summer Camp but is relentlessly down on himself for abandoning the Chancellor children in their time of greatest need. There is a brief lull and the novel drifts to frivolity, but soon enough polio strikes in the mountains too and Bucky suspects that he is the camp's Typhoid Mary, something for which he never forgives himself. Perhaps it is put best by the narrator Arnie Mesnikoff, one of the Chancellor playground kids and himself a polio victim, who observes towards the end of the novel that his former hero is "the very antithesis of the country's greatest prototype of the polio victim, FDR... disease not having led Bucky to triumph but to defeat."

It is difficult not to read Nemesis as a conversation of sorts with Camus's great masterwork, albeit through the more modern prisms of terrorism and economic collapse. Indeed, the two novels could sit comfortably as companion pieces, although Roth's is by far the more accessible treatment. It is also the more expansive, ruminating on the existential angst of an individual's potential extinguished as well as the wider panic that overcomes a community besieged by an inexplicable threat. The polio epidemic is the perfect vehicle for Roth to continue with the theme of mortality and all that flows therefrom that he has been exploring in his twilight years. But whereas Everyman was too caught up in a fear borne of the sudden realisation that the author might soon die, and The Humbling mired by cringeworthy sexual explorations, Nemesis finds Roth on the other side of his dark, intensely personal tunnel looking back at the demons he has overcome. Few authors could possibly hope to be writing novels of this quality and profundity so late in their careers.

The September Non-Challenge: Back To Basics

Last month I lost sight of why I read. Sure, I blog to provide you, the computer nerd and Kindle addict, with a bit of light entertainment at my expense. And the whole 'reading a few major religious texts and reviewing them in limerick form' schitck was kinda funny... except for the reading part. But those thirty one days provided me with no epiphanies, no moments of pure joy. If anything, I came out of August with a small degree of enlightenment and the ability to loosely define my religious outlook. Turns out I am an atheist with Buddhist philosophical leanings and Jewish traditional practices. What can I say? I love latkes, so long as no animal was harmed in their making.

This month I want to get Back to Basics, to the essence of why I read. And there could be no reason more simple - I read because I love it. It is the thing that relaxes me most. A great book engages and expands my mind more than anything I do on a professional day-to-day basis (Apologies to any criminals that I have defended who might be reading this... Yes, yes I know... Big assumption there.)

So I am not going to set myself a reading challenge for September. Instead, I intend to read purely for pleasure. There is a stack of new books by authors I love sitting on my bedside table (I mean the books are on the table, not the authors... That'd just be weird). Philip Roth, Jose Saramago, Gary Shteygart, Ismail Kadare, Hans Keilson, Hans Fallada, Karel Capek... and they just keep coming.

Right now, as I stare at the stack of spines, I figure I had best start working my way through them before the pile grows too large and collapses on me Homer and Langley style (though dying under a massive stack of books is a pretty cool way to go). No Gods will be angered, no dignity will be sacrificed. I'll just be my good ol' self, waxing lyrical and pontificating on a bunch of good books, not to mention all manner of topics that have been on my mind of late. You'll probably still get the odd laugh. With me, at me... Whatever. Happy Spring y'all...

Books For Blasphemers: Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard

Dear Tom Cruise,

Could you please explain how a cheesy, overwritten self-help book could make a claim for religious legitimacy? Dianetics is scientific quackery at its worst, chock full of post-War paranoias and hilariously made-up verbiage. Scientology? Hello? What the fuck does that even mean? I suppose this crap probably makes sense if your life is totally worthless (sure, you were married to Nicole, but do you actually think you were the aggrieved party there?). And I know Gods and Buddhas are kind of silly, but aliens? Really?

Now, I realise you want to be taller. And you want to erase that couch jumping episode from the collective consciousness. And I get that Dianetic therapy seems to provide a means of doing both those things. But self help books are for idiots. They give the illusion of working when you're too lazy to get off your fat arse and take responsibility for your own failures. Or maybe I've just been invaded by Thetans and my engrams are in overdrive. Whatever. I wrote you a poem. Feel free to read it to John Travolta when you're next cuddled up together.

PS I recommend you read The Secret. It's totally up your alleys.

I've often believed science fiction
Would be a great source for religion
But it wasn't the Jedi
Who caught on, Instead I'm
Afraid it's L. Ron's composition

The human is geared for survival*
But most times before his arrival
Bad engrams imbued**
When the mum went and poohed***
Or they tried to abort the poor child

Behold it's all psychosomatic****
The aberee's cleared of the static*****
Check out their conversion
From sexual perversion******
To cash giving foolish fanatic

For those who still swear by the outcome
You're not just misguided you're real dumb
With utter reliance
On cheap junk faux science*******
Here's snake oil, you might wanna buy some!

(* This is rule number one in Scientology. The dynamic principle of existence is to survive. Fair enough, can't argue with that)
(** Quick Dianetics lesson. You have two minds, the analytic and the reactive. The analytic is good, allowing reflection etc, and must always stay switched on. The reactive mind stores baddies called engrams which, when triggered, make you sick or otherwise fuck up your life. These are imbued when the person is 'unconscious' which means not engaging their analytic mind.)
(*** The classic stage of unconsciousness is pre-birth. Hubbard postulates many situations that inflict unconsciousness on the unborn child. Vomiting from morning sickness, mother needing to poop, parents having sex, attempting to abort the child which apparently happens very often, father beating the crap out of mother, etc. I think Hubbard's favourite thing was writing these little dramatic interludes. To be fair, they were pretty funny.)
(**** Pretty much most ills are caused by engrams kicking in. So basically your mind causes you to fake things. Classic examples are arthritis, headaches and any endocrinological disorder. Take that, diabetics!)
(***** Another quick Dianetics lesson. A 'Clear' is someone free of their engrams. An 'Aberee' is someone afflicted with residual engrams.)
(****** Sexual perversion is one of the great manifestations of engrams. Examples Hubbard provides are homosexuality, lesbianism, sexual sadism, taking it in the poop chute, etc etc)
(******* The bit that infuriated me most was Hubbard's continual reliance on 'scientific tests' that 'proved' his theories. Can't argue with science, right? However, he never provides data to substantiate these 'tests' and, even worse, claims many scientific studies that have been substantiated, Pavlov for example, are rubbish because Hubbard's so-called tests disproved them.)

Books For Blasphemers: The Book of Mormon

When I lived in Templestowe, I often had early morning visitors trying to spread the good word. I knew very little about them other than that they had American accents and wore bad suits. My neighbour once engaged them in conversation and, when they would not leave, he ran to the other room, stripped down to his underpants, grabbed a cap gun and returned to the door. He was never visited again. Now, many years later, I figure it's time to find out for myself why so many of my weekend sleep-ins were ruined. This limerick is long because I only have two days left in the month to read and review Dianetics so I can't break it down into its usual two or three parts. Two things I should point out though; I couldn't find doctrinal support for polygamy (quite the opposite), and its approach to sin was better than The New Testament's (babies are born sin-free here). For the most part The Book of Mormon is harmless. And funny. Unless you just got stabbed in the kidney and need a blood transfusion. Then you're pretty much fucked.

If nine hundred odd pages of Jesus
Was still insufficient to please us
Joe Smith has a story
Revealed him in glory*
Get ready for this garbled thesis

The once was a preacher called Nephi
Son of a pariah called Lehi
Quite shameful he found
To be laughed out of town**
So he set sail to find those who agree

A new holy land he discovered***
Then three hundred pages are covered
With Nephites off warring
Lammanites off whoring****
And clear explanations being smothered*****

Then Jesus decides a vacation
Is just what he needs to be takin'
Those nails really hurt
So I figure I ought
Check out this American nation******

Again he reels off the same talk*******
Why fix it if first time it worked?
Right here Jews will gather
Yea they misheard his blabber
'Cos they gathered instead in New York

I mean here not to make a mockery
Of Joe Smith's providential stockery*******
But all he relates
Was set down upon plates*********
Which makes sense cos its laughable crockery

(* Joseph Smith claims to have been given the book by the angel Moroni when he was just a wee lad. Talk about revelations!)
(** Like his father, Nephi also got laughed out of Jerusalem. Their preaching reminded me of that scene in Life of Brian where all the random 'prophets' are lined up near the temple flogging their spiritual wares)
(*** It goes without saying that the new holy land was America. Duh!)
(**** For those not in the know, the Nephites are the good guys and the Lammanites are the bad guys. Basically the entire book is about their to-ing and fro-ing. Whenever the Nephites follow the laws all is good, and when they are seduced into sin the world turns to shit)
(***** Jospeh Smith cops out far too often. There are many instances of "And he said much more but I'm not going to tell you" in The Book of Mormon).
(****** Which is the entire crux of this religion. Jesus reappears in America and chats with Joseph Smith's forefathers. Get it?)
(******* The Sermon on the Mount, choosing new Disciples etc etc... It all gets rehashed. The theory goes: God chose the Jews, Jesus chose the Nephites. Aweome, huh?)
(******** And herein lies the crux. The book is there to justify Joseph Smith's status as a prophet who can pass it on to his future generations.)
(********* The book, as passed on to Joseph Smith, was given as a series of engraved copper plates.)

Books For Blasphemers: The Mahabharata (Part 2)

Unlike Return of The Jedi, Porky's Revenge or the straight-to-video Legally Blonde 3: Legally Blondes, the third instalment of the Mahabharata is a corker. Sure, it gets light on the fighting but this is where all the best philosophical waxing happens. So grab a soy-dog and home-made tomato relish and settle in for another fine night's reading:

Books 11 – 18 (After The War)

With arrows the sky has been blackened
And mourners left wondering what happened
The body count's stacking
Raksasas sent packing
And the baddies appear to've been flattened

What's left? Only deep introspection
Dead Bhisma gives lively reflection*
When all else is silence
The path of non-violence
Is dharma for prime resurrection

So we end up in heaven eternal
Though to get there we passed the infernal
The fam's reunited
And all love's requited
The way home was always internal**

(* It is interesting that the Bhagavadghita gets all the praise - probably thanks to Ghandi - when Bhisma's speech just before he leaves his human form is far longer and much more philosophically fascinating. Thanks a lot, Mahatma!)
(** At least whoever penned this didn't do a David Foster Wallace and leave a massive brick of a book unresolved mid-sentence.)

Books For Blasphemers: The Mahabharata (Part 1)

This Hindu canonical text is the epic to end all epics; a trilogy that makes Lord of The Rings look like the work of a clumsy amateur. In narrative terms the best of the bunch so far, it is a ripping tale of family, war and losing at dice. If you can't be stuffed trawling through the 800 or so pages, here's my digested limerick review.

Books 1-5 (Before The War)

Meet Krsna, that's best pronounced Krishna
And his trusty fun buddy called Bhisma
Great lords and aescetics
For most of this epic
They'll guide you so sit back and lishna (sic)*

Five books of unbridled kin shagging**
And a gambling match used for some padding
Til storm clouds do grumble
“You ready to rumble?”
I'm hooked and for what's next I'm gagging***

(* Yeah, I went there. Thanks to Adrian for helping me find the rhyme)
(** It is interesting to note the parallels between the Mahabharata and other religious naratives. This particular part reminded me of the “begat begat begat” section of the Torah, although obviously far more expansive)
(*** Whoever wrote this book was a master storyteller. I can't get across how great it is to read.)

Books 6 – 10 (The Great War)

After spending nigh three hundred pages
Introducing gods, demons and sages
Along comes a war
That kills almost them all
What the fuck, learning names took me ages!

But before all the killing and burning
Great Krsna delivers his sermon
The Bhagavadgita*
To the gathered Ksatriyas**
Cos slaughter's best done after learning

There's an air of Tolstoy*** mixed with Tolkien
And a sure hint of Dungeons and Dragons
Those magical powerups****
Felt like playing X-Box
It's more fun than I had imagined!

(* Many consider this single speech the crux of Hindu belief, probably because it was Ghandi's favourite. It is more like the Sermon on The Mount – crucial, but short. Some refer to it as a book within a book but it is really only five or so pages)
(** This is the caste below the Brahmin. Ksatriyas are warriors, responsible for most of the fighting during the Kurukshetra war.)
(*** There's even a large chapter called War and Peace, though there's no riffing on potato farming)
(**** A few of my favourites: the weapon of Brahma's head, the weapon of disappearance, the weapon of light, the weapon of bewilderment, the weapon of human understanding and, the shiniest of them all, the weapon of lust)

Books For Blasphemers: The Dhammapada

I realise there is no definitive Buddhist text, but I went for The Dhammapada because it is a collection of aphorisms from the original Buddha and is therefore accepted as important by most strains of Buddhism. Also, it is only 60-odd pages. Which makes me wonder why the others can't just get to the darn point. Anyway, here goes:

At last here's a book that is shorter
With no angry gods, hate or slaughter
A collection of sorts
Of the Buddha's best thoughts
On living your life as you oughta

Of temptation it's best to be wary
Turn your back on those folk most contrary
Meditate and revere it
Smell like serene spirit*
Cos the the path you walk's just temporary

Some texts I have met with aversion**
Cast first the net then the aspersions
Buddha's pathway to peace
Does this atheist please
So where do I line up for conversion?***

(* Ok, surely you weren't expecting me to resist the temptation to make a Nirvana joke?!?)
(** By some texts, I mean pretty much all the religious texts I have read thus far this month.)
(*** Don't worry mum, I don't really intend on converting to Buddhism.)

Books For Blasphemers: The Qur'an (Part 2)

Well, I've reached the midpoint in my challenge for the far-too-long month of August. If you haven't already done so, scroll down to check out my limerick reviews of the Torah (Old Testament) and New Testament. Stay tuned for the Dhammapada (Buddhism), Mahabharata (Hinduism), The Book Of Mormon (You Can't Be Seriousism) and Dianetics (You've Gotta be Fucking Jokingism). But for now, here's the second half of The Qur'an:

With a nod to you Superman buffs
There's an army of spiritual tuffs*
Confederates damned**
The Jinn take a stand
And poor Iblis is doing it rough***

For those who persist with their reading
The second half gives room for breathing
Much warmer and purer
The mystical Suras
Are by then just what you'll be needing

I found this on whole quite confounding
Mixed messages rather astounding
So for all those who claim
That the book's not to blame
Have a read, be not ignorant sounding

(* I talk here of the Jinn, the spirits that walk on earth. They are the coolest religious characters since Jesus's zombies.)
(** The Confederates is the collective term used for all the enemies of God.)
(*** Iblis is, for those that haven't read the book, the archetypal unbeliever.)

Books For Blasphemers: The Qur'an (Part 1)

Seeing as the Qur'an has no narrative structure as such, and is divided into one hundred and fourteen Suras, it was much harder to split the limerick review into workable parts. Therefore, I'm doing the Solomon-like thang (in keeping with the Biblical theme of the month) and just dividing it down the middle. So here goes:

It backfired for ol' Salman Rushdie
And South Park's creators and Dutchies*
So with one caveat
That I've tried to respect
Here's hoping no-one tries to crush me

It thunders right from the beginning
Commands holy wars to be winning
Believers protected
From wrath they're excepted
The rest get one hell of a skinning**

A thief gets a sanction most crude***
With Jews there is free trade of food****
You will be scared to sleep*****
Pascal proves rather chic******
And a woman should not be seen nude*******


(* This is not a reference to marijuana, but rather the Dutch newspapers that ran the infamous cartoon competition. That said, it's probably best not to smoke marijuana while trying to read this.)
(** The Quran doesn't have a lot of good things to say about Jews or Christians, who it often refers to as unbelievers deserving of extreme punishment.)
(*** Chopping off the hand. It's in Sura 5 people.)
(**** Muslims who keep a Halal diet can partake freely of Kosher food. Also Sura 5.)
(***** Apparently God takes your soul when you go to sleep and is liable not to return it if you haven't been a good boy or girl. Sura 39, Line 41.)
(****** As Pascal said, the safer bet is to believe. Doctrinal support can be found in Sura 40, Line 28.)
(******* This is pretty much infused throughout. Questions of modesty and women's rights abound, generally not resolved in favour of women. It should be noted that I could find no textual support for the need to fully cover one's face, which suggests it is clerical exegesis, not the book itself that one must take issue with in this regard. That said, there is the line quite early on that "Women are your fields and you may plow them at will.")

Books For Blasphemers: The New Testament (Part Three)

Great, just when I thought I had a handle on it all they had to go and scare the beJesus out of me:

FROM ACTS TO JUDE*

Though reading it all is a burden
Bit players here do get a word in
While it goes on for ages
Most have less than four pages
Still they're strictly for dogmatic nerdin'

(* Yes, I get that this is a massive cop out but seriously, who cares about the schmoes pickin' up the pieces after the main guy got done in? Brevity is a virtue folks. It's like when an author hits the big time and their editors are too scared to tell them they need to cut back. Yeah, I'm looking at you Rowling... )

THE BOOK OF REVELATION

So we close with what John has foretold
Of the seals that break ending the world
Six six six is the number
For pillage and plunder*
What a horrible sight to behold

Not content with the old hocus pocus
It's got dragons, and horsemen and locusts
And the macabre dance**
Had me filling my pants
Smarten up, He has put you on notice!

(* It is also the inspiration for a darn fine Iron maiden album upon which I had hoped to heap props in the body of the poem. Alas Number of The Beast, you have been relegated to the footnotes.)
(** A message to those stuffy types who might choose to pronounce this word "daaaaahhhnce". Get with program. It's pronounced "dants" and rhymes with "pants". Which, is very handy in this particular instance.)

And that, dear friends brings an end to The New Testament. Next up, The Qur'an... Hmmm... How to approach this tactfully?

Books For Blasphemers: The New Testament (Part Two)

Well, I managed to round out the Gospels last night. Hope nobody takes too much offences, I'm just calling it as I see it:

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO LUKE

I'm sorry it's getting absurd
Of the story this version's the third
Though it starts off with John
While his head is still on*
It moves swiftly to Jesus's word

With some loaves and fish thousands are fed
And a young girl is raised from the dead
Oh, and this is the one
With the Samaritan
And there's still one more version ahead

(* It took me forever to put this tastefully...)

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO JOHN

The first thing I learnt back at law school
No witness can have total recall
So I'm getting suspicious
That some parts near fictitious
Or are at least amplified to enthral

And yet this is the one most internal
Of his chats with his friends it's a journal
Starting off esoteric
It is far less generic
And the message most warm and paternal

From water the wine freely did spout
And Mary proved herself most devout
Next up cue the surprises
When Lazaruses rises
But then end with an Almighty cop out*

(* I'm sorry if this comes across as heretical, but for me John 21:25 simply does not cut it. "Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them was written, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written". That translates to me as "I have evidence. Trust me, I'm a lawyer.")