It therefore makes almost no sense that I can stomach dark, even scary, books. One of my favorite authors is Neil Gaiman. Description: Nice man who writes creepy and/or disturbing things. Another favorite writer: Robin McKinley. She’s penned an award-winning book with vampires in (called, ironically enough, Sunshine). Other recent reads: Pretty Monsters (win a copy here!) and The Forest of Hands and Teeth. Soon-to-be-read selections for the Everything Austen Challenge: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Mr. Darcy, Vampyre (contest to win a signed copy here). You can count on the fact that if either of them are made into movies, though, I will be far, far away.
[Note: I will grudgingly admit to having seen the movie version of Twilight. I was fairly sure it couldn’t be traumatic, as the book was heavy on teenage obsession and light on gore. I was right. Giggled in disbelief and incomprehension through the whole thing.]
Perhaps there’s something in the written word: a distance, or more nuanced and underlying humor in the sinister that renders it endurable to me rather than the film and television adaptations of those dark books. In any case, I think that a good collection and contrast of mediums (written, filmic, aural) is necessary to any full life. Perhaps one of these days I will let someone tie me to a chair to watch Silence of the Lambs. You never know. Pigs may start flying too.