FF7

I’ve often stated my opposition and position on cats. I don’t tolerate them well, even physically I’m allergic to them. If we are to get down to the brass tacks of the root of the matter, they are the freeloaders of the domestic pets and smarmy with it. Kind of like a unemployed partner who gets to sleep all day, good meals, affection on tap, care etc and gives nothing in return. Our wolf is not impressed with them at the moment either as her face is nearly hanging off her with the ringworm she’s contracted from the feral cats in the yard. However there are always exceptions in any animal society that stand out from the crowd - making them….well exceptional. And they have made their owner somewhat famous and a pretty penny also. Whilst I cannot pick just one of his works out I have made a selection of 3 books of his as ‘appetisers ‘ if you will, Dianas Story, The Cat who came in from the cold, & Enough to make a Cat laugh..

Originally from Matlock in the UK, his first novel was ‘Diana’s Story’ is an account of his wife’s long running battle with ME. Diana was reliant on Deric, for the majority of her needs, throughout her illness but she held on fiercely to her independence until the last. Ultimately and inevitably Diana dies, but the book is not about her death; rather, it’s a celebration of her life and the impact she had on those around her. It sounds like just another sad autobiography, but the truth is, it is so much more than that. This book is funny. Each catastrophe, and each new medical problem, some of which would have ordinary people in despair, is seen by the participants from the funny side and narrated as such by Deric. “I guess you had to have been there” moments abound through this book, but thanks to the narrative skills , the reader feels that they were indeed “there” and can picture the moment perfectly. Incidents such as Diana falling downstairs, whilst the house is empty and breaking her arm, yet lying there painting the woodwork while she waits for assistance has the reader simultaneously in tears and in laughter. Upon arrival at the hospital, a nurse enquires of Diana what happened this time, and to a packed waiting room she announces that he hit her again, because his egg wasn’t cooked correctly.
Deric, Diana and the nurse burst into laughter whilst the waiting room looks on, horrified.
Incidents such as these abound throughout the book, mixing laughter with tears in such a way that the book turns into one of those you cannot put down. You can feel the raw emotions coming through the page, sadness, resignation, love, grief, hilarity and acceptance; often all in the same sentence.
Deric also wrote of another loss in his life which was made into a movie ‘Lost for words’. Which was about the relationship and downward spiral of his mothers Alzheimer’s condition. My mother read the latter and recommended I read it since we had just lost my Nana to an eight year battle with the dignity stripping condition. His use of humour and positivity where a tonic for the spirit, especially since I had just suffered a huge personal loss myself. His ability to envelope the reader completely in his world was a much needed diversion from torment of a broken and destroyed heart. I bought every book of his and sat down for two weeks in an effort to turn the grief into laughter and Longden can only be described as a magician of words for me.
In the cat that came in from the cold Deric Longden’s neighbour Patrick, has just acquired a kitten but doesn’t seem to be very responsible. It’s raining and the kitten is outside. His intentions are only to temporarily rescue it from the elements and return it back to Patrick. Deric’s life however is going to change dramatically and somehow a kitten will become a new focus in his life. Longden confesses he was never a cat-lover but he and his wife, English novelist Aileen Armitage, adopted the stray and named him Thermal after he nearly froze in their refrigerator and recounts the misadventures of a high-energy cat who eats peanut butter, cavorts with dachshunds, shreds envelopes while sitting in a wastebasket and stays away from home for a full month. The cheerfully busy household expands when a second adoptee, Tigger, turns the cellar into a halfway house for roving neighborhood cats. As Thermal changes from an ankle-rubbing sycophant to a toilet-roll-spinning terror, it's touching to watch Longden's affection for and understanding of his feline friend blossom

In Enough to make a cat laugh’ Deric mainly writes now about his life with his wife and his army of his cats -the likes , dislikes and special personalities of his feline family; Thermal, Tigger, Arthur and Frink , sharing with the reader warm, amusing and entertaining anecdotes. And when not talking about his cats Deric also makes the most ordinary occurrences luminous , looking at the absurdities of life and stopping to actually think about what is said and done and putting a different slant on things. Here is one such example of him visiting a deli in the supermarket ‘As I stood there my eyes were drawn to a small sign that had been rammed deep into an innocent sausage roll. “Free-Range Pork Pies“. Instantly my mind was off once more, this time to a sunny knoll atop a flower-sprinkled meadow somewhere deep in the heart of the English countryside where a couple of rather mature Melton Mowbrays were keeping a watchful eye on their individual pork pies as they romped gaily amongst the buttercups and daisies below" The book chronicles a year in the life of the Longden household, starting with spring then summer, autumn and finishing with winter. New members of the family include Arthur’s wire brush and a sultana called Ralph – but you will have to read the book if you want to know more about these two! This is a book guaranteed to make you laugh if you have any connection with cats in the house yourself but, on the other hand, it is equally able to give you an understanding of cats , their owners and the bond they have. I still don’t like them though

FFF4

Political Correctness - we are all familiar with it. We have to be. In a sensitive world of religion, identity, sex, creed, color, age, orientation, profession , class, the list goes on and on. If anyone has seen Blazing Saddles the movie, knows that even though it satires the PC of everything, they would also know that it would be an extreamly difficult and tall order to reproduce the movie or remake it in this day and age. You simply could not make that transition in this era. James Finn Garner first published Politically Correct Bedtime Stories: Modern Tales for Our Life & Times in 1995, he took a look at how ridiculous the political awareness was spinning out of control and satirised it through the medium of fairy tales.

When I first read Politically Correct Bedtime Stories: Modern Tales for Our Life & Times, I didnt know what to expect; I half heartedly believed that what I had bought was going to be slightly funny but perhaps a little enduring with the tweaking. But I became quickly aware just how James Finn Garner has honed Political Correctness into an art.Can you imagine a scenario where Cinderella actually ended up getting along with her sisters-of-step? How would The Three Bears handle Goldilocks being a rogue environmental scientist? Within these pages you can find the answer to these questions and more. This book takes these and other classic fairy tales from our childhood, strips them of offensive (to some people) language, replaces said language with more neutral word choices, for a brand new take on classic stories. Sounds boring? Hardly. With a selection of twenty-two Western European fairy tales enslaved in the shackles of sexism, ageism, anthrocentrism and any other forms of bias he could detect, he has re-worked them ,offering us gems like "The Three Codependent Goats Gruff" and "Sleeping Persun of Better-Than-Average Attractiveness." He uses spellings like "wommon" and "womyn," refers to Hansel and Gretel as "pre-adults" and talks about "three goats who were related as siblings." He carefully specifies that Red Riding Hood's grandmother "was in full physical and mental health and was fully capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult.".Without a doubt Mr Garner is the master of sanitation when it comes to the editing process. I have included 2 stories for examples. If you fancy a reading five or ten minutes before going asleep, this is the perfect bedtime companion - although the temptation would be to read on until the book was finished, please dont you are in danger of guilding the lily with such stories or gorging yourself on two much of a good thing. Savour these stories like exceptionally rich chocolates from a box - too many of them could disagree with you but one at a time will leave you salavating for more.


Politically Correct Three Little Pigs
Once there were 3 little pigs who lived together in mutual respect and in harmony with their environment. Using materials that were indigenous to the area they each built a beautiful house. One pig built a house of straw, one a house of sticks, and one a house of dung, clay and creeper vines shaped into bricks and baked in a small kiln. When they were finished, the pigs were satisfied with their work and settled back to live in peace and self-determination.

But their idyll was soon shattered. One day, along came a big, bad wolf with expansionist ideas. He saw the pigs and grew very hungry in both a physical and ideological sense.

When the pigs saw the wolf, they ran into the house of straw. The wolf ran up to the house and banged on the door, shouting, "Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!"

The pigs shouted back, "Your gunboat tactics hold no fear for pigs defending their homes and culture."

But the wolf wasn't to be denied what he thought was his manifest destiny. So he huffed and puffed and blew down the house of straw. The frightened pigs ran to the house of sticks, with the wolf in hot pursuit. Where the house had stood, other wolves bought up the land and started a banana plantation.

At the house of sticks, the wolf again banged on the door and shouted, "Little, pigs, little pigs, let me in!"

The pigs shouted back, "Go to hell, you carnivorous, imperialistic oppressor!"

At this the wolf huffed and puffed and blew down the house of sticks. The pigs ran to the house of bricks, with the wolf close at their heels. Where the house of sticks had stood, other wolves built a time-share condo resort complex for vacationing wolves, with each unit a fibreglass reconstruction of the house of sticks, as well as native curio shops, snorkelling and dolphin shows.

At the house of bricks, the wolf again banged on the door and shouted, "Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!"

This time in response, the pigs sang songs of solidarity and wrote letters of protest to the United Nations.

By now the wolf was getting angry at the pigs' refusal to see the situation from the carnivore's point of view. So he huffed and puffed, and huffed and puffed, then grabbed his chest and fell over dead from a massive heart attack brought on from eating too many fatty foods.

The three little pigs rejoiced that justice had triumphed and did a little dance around the corpse of the wolf. Their next step was to liberate their homeland. They gathered together a band of other pigs who had been forced off their lands. This new brigade of porcinistas attacked the resort complex with machine-guns and rocket launchers and slaughtered the cruel wolf oppressors, sending a clear signal to the rest of the hemisphere not to meddle in their internal affairs. Then the pigs set up a model socialist democracy with free education, universal health care and affordable housing for everyone. {My note: well it is a fairy tale after all.}

Please note: The wolf in this story was a metaphorical construct. No actual wolves were harmed in the writing of the story.

Little Red Riding Hood - A Politically Correct Fairy Tale


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by Jim Garner

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There once was a young person named Red Riding Hood who lived with her mother on the edge of a large wood. One day her mother asked her to take a basket of fresh fruit and mineral water to her grandmother's house -- not because this was womyn's work, mind you, but because the deed was generous and helped engender a feeling of community. Furthermore, her grandmother was not sick, but rather was in full physical and mental health and was fully capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult.

So Red Riding Hood set off with her basket of food through the woods. Many people she knew believed that the forest was a foreboding and dangerous place and never set foot in it. Red Riding Hood, however, was confident...

On her way to Grandma's house, Red Riding Hood was accosted by a Wolf, who asked her what was in her basket. She replied, "Some healthful snacks for my grandmother, who is certainly capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult."

The Wolf said, "You know, my dear, it isn't safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone."

Red Riding Hood said, "I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop your own, entirely valid worldview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way."

Red Riding Hood walked on along the main path. But, because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the Wolf knew of a quicker route to Grandma's house. He burst into the house and ate Grandma, an entirely valid course of action for a carnivore such as himself. Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist notions of what was masculine or feminine, he put on grandma's nightclothes and crawled into bed.

Red Riding Hood entered the cottage and said, "Grandma, I have brought you some fat-free, sodium-free snacks to salute you in your role of a wise and nurturing matriarch."

From the bed, the Wolf said softly, "Come closer, child, so that I might see you."

Red Riding Hood said, "Oh, I forgot you are as optically challenged as a bat. Grandma, what big eyes you have!"

"They have seen much, and forgiven much, my dear."

"Grandma, what a big nose you have -- only relatively, of course, and certainly attractive in its own way."

"It has smelled much, and forgiven much, my dear."

"Grandma, what big teeth you have!"

The Wolf said, "I am happy with and what I am," and leaped out of bed. He grabbed Red Riding Hood in his claws, intent on devouring her. Red Riding Hood screamed, not out of alarm at the Wolf's apparent tendency toward cross-dressing, but because of his willful invasion of her personal space.

Her screams were heard by a passing woodchopper-person (or log-fuel technician, as he preferred to be called). When he burst into the cottage, he saw the melee and tried to intervene. But as he raised his ax, Red Riding and the Wolf both stopped.

"And what do you think you're doing?" asked Red Riding Hood.

The woodchopper-person blinked and tried to answer, but no words came to him.

"Bursting in here like a Neanderthal, trusting your weapon to do your thinking for you!" she said. "Sexist! Speciesist! How dare you assume that womyn and wolves can't solve their own problems without a man's help!"

When she heard Red Riding Hood's speech, Grandma jumped out of the mouth, took the woodchopper-person's axe, and cut his head off. After this ordeal, Red Riding Hood, Grandma, and the Wolf felt a certain commonality of purpose. They decided to set up an alternative household based on mutual respect and cooperation, and they lived together in the woods happily ever after

FFF3

Books have seen me through the most trying of times. For instance in a time when devestation set up its stall in my life it took 6 books by the same humourous author got me through some of the numbness and pure phsyical pain of it all. Although my now regular friday slot is indicitive that all reviewed are fictions - this is not entirely the case. All the books featured here are from my library, each one significant and special to me. And whilst this authour I speak of writes in a non fiction genre Im sure there are pockets of embelishments that make it borderline fiction..
Tony Hawks (not the skater) is a British comedian and author of this memoir and was drunk when he bet a friend 100 pounds that he could hitchhike around Ireland in a month--taking along a refrigerator. But he kept his bargain, and in the process met an intriguing cast of Irish Characters. During his hobo travels around Aul Eyerland he also became a minor celebrity when he was made the subject of a daily radio feature the annoyingly housewifes favourite here in these Isles known as Gerry Ryan (whom I think is a padantic git). Here recounts his travels and celebrates the culture of helpfulness that made his preposterous journey possible and is determined to prove his friend wrong, Hawks purchases the smallest fridge he can find at the time before the advent of the personal mini fridge and sets off on his mad adventure. I have painstakingly typed out the introduction to the book just to give you the general flavour of what to expect, but be warned dont eat/drink when reading a copy of this in public the humourous moments are fast paced and plenty but they are of the pie in the face variety and catch you unawares. You have been warned.

In 1989 I went to ireland for the first time. I dont know why it had taken so long. Some parts of the world you make a consious effort to visit and others have to wait until fate delivers you there. When the moment arrived for me to set foot in the eEmerald Isle, it was a result of a badly written song. An irish friend from London, Seamus, had urged me to compose a piece for him and his mate Tim to sing at an international song competition which was held each year in his hometown. Qualification for the final , he explained, was a formality provided I agreed to do a twenty minute stand up set for the audience when the judges where out. Seamus wanted to do a humourous song and had asked me to come up with something that would 'set it apart' from the mundane entries. In the event, what would set it apart would be a significant drop in standard.
The song I had written was called ' I wanna have tea with batman'. Now I consider myself to be a good songwriter (in spite of my only commercial success being a one off record called 'stutter rap - by morris minor and the majors) but this song was... how can I put it?... Yes, thats it - poor. To their credit Seamus and Tim conjured up a perfect performance to match it.
In an extraordinary gesture which was at best surreal and at worst embarrassing , they dressed as batman and robin. At least that is what they aimed to do, but a limited costume budget had left them in borrowed tights, miscellaneous lycra and academic robes doubling as capes. They resembled a couple of children entered for a fancy dress competition by uninterested parents. Seamus seemed unconcerned, his theory of comedy being that if you had an outrageous outfit that was enough; and then he announced his master stroke that one of them would carry a teapot and the other a kettle.
One had to admire his courage, for he was performing in front of his hometown and everyone who he had grown up with was there. Friends, family, teachers, shopkeepers barmen, drunks and priest were all rooting for him. If one was going to let oneself down very badly- and Seamus was most definately going to do that- it would be difficult to imagine an assembled throng with which it would have more resonanace.

Seamus and tim took centre stage. The audience responded with an inhalation of breath. For them, there was little to suggest that the two characters before them were supposed to be Batman and Robin, and they were clearly taken aback with the magnificent fusion of colour, tights and kitchen appliances.

I watched from the back , experiencing for the first time a curious blend of wonderment and discomfort, and could see in the faces of both performers that their self belief in the costume selection was ebbing away with each elongated second. Thankfully, from the congregation, astonishment subsided to applause. The conducter caught the eye of our superheros and they nodded to establish themselves as ready. The band struck up. The musical introduction finished, but neither Seamus or tim began singing. The looked accusingly at each other. Paralysed with nerves, one of them missed their cue. Someone near me allowed their head to drop into their hands. Seamus, man of the moment stepped forward and signalled to the conductor to stop the band.Astonishingly the maestro ignored him. He was pretending that he could not see Shea's frantic signals. For gods sake , how bad could his eyesight be ? was it not possible to notice the flapping arms of the caped crusader brandishing a teapot in anger?
The conductor was more focused than most of us could ever hope to be. He had a long evening to get through and he was going to get through it in the shortest available time. Going back and starting again for those who screwed up wasnt on the agenda, even if it was 'good ol sheamus' from down the way. And so with all the abduracy of a first world war general, his head stayed down and the band played on. Time went into statis. I have simply no way of knowing how long it was before Seamus finished his gesticulations , punched Tim and they both began singing. Indeed I cant recall how badly they performed the rest of the song. Who cares? The audience applauded, they won most entertaining act and so began my fascination with Ireland.
Aside from the song contest debacle, there was another incident which made my first trip to Ireland stand out in my mind. On arrival at Dublin airport, I had been met by Sheamus's lifelong friend Kieran and driven to Cavan. As we headed north and discussed Batman and Robin's prospects I noticed a man at the side of the road hitchiking. I looked closer as one does with hitch hikers to make that split second assessment of their appearence to make that split second assesment of their suitablity for travel companionship. This was odd, very odd. He had something along side of him and he was leaning on it. It was a fridge. 'Kieran, was that man hitch hiking with a fridge?' 'oh yeah' there was nothing in Kierans tone of voice to suggest the slightest hint of suprise. I had clearly arrived in a country where qualification for 'eccentric' involved a great deal more than that to which I had become.
Years passed, the anecdote of the fridge was brought up from time to time at dinner parties and one in particular in my friend Kevin’s in Brighton. A vast quantity of wine had been consumed and the atmosphere was, shall we say, lively. Round about midnight those present settled on a short discussion on the merits of the new fridge which had been bought, and then, by a series of turns, our rattled attention was given to the trip Kevin was planning to Ireland. The juxtaposition of the two triggered a triumphal re-mergence of my fridge hitch-hiking story which I relayed to the guests via a long winded collection of badly slurred words. Kevin’s response was unambiguous. ‘Bollocks’ ‘Its not bollocks’ I countered. I had hoped this would see him off but there was more. ‘Yes it is. Nobody could ever get a lift with a fridge’ ‘They could in Ireland , it’s a magical place’ ‘Magical?! So is my arse!’ I let the subject drop. Experience had taught me that someone mentioning how magical their arse was tended not to precede stimulating and considered debate.

When I awoke in the morning, in a physical condition which served as a reminder as to what had taken place the night before, I found a note by my bed:

I herby bet Tony Hawks the sum of one hundred pounds that he cannot hitch hike round the circumference of Ireland, with a fridge within one calendar month. And there was Kevins Signature, and below it , an illegible squiggle, which I took to be mine.


And so the bet was made.

FFF Book No 2

I found this book when I was researching an illustrator called ‘Arthur Rackham’ ,
like Bantocks book it was in the wrong place at the right time for me. I checked it out of the library immediately after perusing its pages and squeeled with laughter that night tucked up in bed with the winters low wind growling outside. Theres a lot to be said about the cosiness of a bed and a good read. It makes for a better method of falling asleep than any pill and it makes you forget about the stress’s and strains of the day especially if its entertaining and endorphin boosting like this one. The book begins by explaining that Terry Jones and Brian Froud, during a period of unemployment, had taken up flower arranging at the Institute for the Criminally insane, whilst there they chanced upon a tin box with Quentin Cottingtons journals and two pieces of equipment buried behind the institute. A researcher of little known notoriety -Quinten Cottington - is obsessed about the fetid world of strange stains & mysterious smells and their overall r’aison d’etre. Having a famous sister , Lady Cottington, famous for her ability to communicate with the faery world , such is Quintens ability of communicating with the world of tarnish’s and putrid smells. Quentin's series of experiments discover the corporeal manifestation of stains and smells and as a result establishes that he can talk to them and learns what makes them unique. The stains voices were recorded and their images painted . With Jones & Frouds discovery of the journals and equipment (which consisted of a "Psychic Image Nebulising Generator" and the "Primary Odour Nasalising Gasificator" ) they can reveal the true nature of stains and smells in a very individual existence.
Jones & Froud are reported to have "located and interviewed over seven hundred and eighty stains and odours." in their research for this book. The fantastic artwork is a lyrical as Jones Hillarious words and must be read in all manner of English accents by the reader to ensure the ‘python humour’ of book is not lost whilst Froud lends his artistic wizardry to give a visceral corporealness to each of the olfactory sprites and unclean articles. Each page holds a discovery of species , and it's paired with the entity's image. It begins with Bule Ketty, an unhappy shirt-front stain , Vlad the Inhaler; a smell that lingers in an overripe socky kind of way, and then theres Roddy the Biker, who is the hazy stain one finds on the plexi glass of atm machines . Plunging itself onwards into the world of nasal extrusions, underarm smells , you can even find a type of stain which resides on the asphalt beneath parked cars and trucks that likes to do Elvis impersonations. Strange stains and Mysterious Smells is indeed a riot of dirty madcap fun and it is Jones & Frouds finest hour in their seven year partnership.

Here is a excerpt from the book on one such stain. I have purposely left out the ones I consider ’gems’ for the element of hilarious surprise.

The unnamed Smell sprite Rather surprisingly this is the sprite of joss-sticks. It actually produces some of the pleasantest smells to be found in the World of Olfaction, but it is, nonetheless, an unpleasant little creep. It has a deep knowledge of the nose and an understanding of scent that would make its fortune in the perfumeries of Paris, but it is insufferable rude and has as about as much social grace as a three-month old pizza.
It refers to people who light joss-sticks as "jossers" and affects to despize them as "pathetic hippie left-overs of the Sixties' drugs craze"That's what's wrong with this country," it told us, "it's never recovered from the pinko-socialist disaster of the sex-obsessed cup-cake lovers of pre-Thatcherite confection , What we need is a little more capital punishment and a little less Baked Alaska (a kind of dessert). Give the middle classes and those that aspire to join them something to aim for- like motorised pencil sharpeners or designer buckets- and you'll soon turn the economy into a laundromat worth creaming designer jeans for."
We both decided that we didn't want to hear any more of this politically incomprehensible rubbish and we moved on.

Conclusion? An unsavory read for filthy minds and possesors of dirty laughs

Fantastic Fictions

When I was 14 I bought a pack of bookplates (see above) for my fledgling book collection. I thought it would be nice to insert something special into the inside of the books that I truly loved and let all who looked inside of them that they where holding something that I was proud to own. Some of the books that I have read I would like to recommend to you. If not for their uniqueness in story and design. Most of these books that will feature in a weekly post are the kind of books that did not come recommended to me. They where ‘finds’. I love these kind of books because there is something about them that feels like unearthed treasure and essentially that is what they are to me. Although the publications have sold in the hundreds and thousands , in the middle of reading such a great read I almost feel like I am privy to some wonderful secret between the author and I, the authors knowing wink perhaps but its an exclusive feeling to which the world of the author has created and quite often tailor made. The escapism redolent with fresh paper or mustiness of yellow dog ears and strained spines. Certainly as my Vintage Mary Engelbreit bookplate says ‘Books fall open, you fall in’.

Griffin & Sabine
An Extraordinary Correspondance
Author Nick Bantock

I had never heard of Nick Bantock before in any context, I was 15 and had just started to correspond with penpals, the internet was a world away then and being a creative sort illustrated my envelopes with watercolors, marbelling and different themes such as 'the mummy envelope' which was made using thick ribbons of cream colored paper for bandages with two red eyes salvaged from a movie magazine peering from the 'bandages', a corset envelope, spider web envelope etc etc. One day , looking for inspiration I was in the bookstore looking up craft books when I found Nick's Book nestled between origami and paper mache books. I picked it up and fell in love with the whole concept and story. Nick was inspired to do the story from his daily visits to the post office each morning. Living on a small island off the canadian coast, the residents would pick up their post and quite often there would be an exotic looking postcard or stamp on the mail and Nick would sigh to himself , curiosity coursing through his veins wondering what was its contents and story was behind such missives. Being an illustrator by trade fired him up for a story and interestingly enough Bantock also drew some inspiration from a poem by Yeats, lines of which are buried in the text or pictures, like clues in a detective story for which I will not disclose for obvious reasons but the story goes a little like this.
Griffin Moss and Sabine Strohem are two artists who live half a world apart. He is an isolated, hesitant English postcard designer who resides in London, while she is a confident illustrator of postage stamps and denizen of the South Seas. A very strange phenomena causes Sabine to contact Griffin- Somehow she knows his art as well as he does, although they have never met;And in an era just prequiling the internet explosion, the two engage in a correspondance that quite quickly turns into sublime love letters, both are unaware that their profound connection will draw them into a surreal realms of madness and love in this 'Extraordinary Correspondence'. The format of this book is integral to the story as with each page contains a post card, or a letter complete with envelope. You remove the letter from the envelope some are 'handwritten' and some typed complete with spelling mistakes and the reader has the delightful, forbidden sensation of reading someone else's mail in otherwords you become the ultimate voyeur. With each page with a postcard ,or the unfolding of each letter, studying the psychology of Griffin's Artwork or the free spirited language of Sabines words, you cannot help but feel that,In a very real sense, Griffin and Sabine exist. This wonderful story is part of a triology and what actually happens is open to interpritation on so many levels. It is beauty, intrique, madness and thought provoking in the realms of personal mythology and will keep you coming back for re-examining to render the story 'finished' as there is a personal conclusion for the reader itself, and you dont get many of them in the literary world.