Oh, I see — yeah, no continuity, no worries.

"his serious book and his masterpiece."

My valve! My valve!

"I'm thinking of jumping straight to The Long Goodbye next.  Any reason not to?"

If anything, Orwell is kinder to Kipling than I'd be.

I read the Devil's Dictionary in high school, but if my copy had the verse in it — it might have been a cheapo abridgment — I've mercifully blocked it out.  I'd forgive Bierce just about anything, though.

By the way: I love Kipling.  Passionately, unapologetically.  I love Kim, I love Stalky & Co, I love his short stories — I think he's arguably the greatest short story writer in the English language.  But can we all agree that his poems are awful?  Like, embarrassingly, face-punchingly awful? I dare anyone here to…

I read most of Dick Francis a few years ago, and most of them were completely disposable, but two stand out in my memory as really superior thrillers: Break-In and Bolt.

I've been plugging through les Rougons-Macquart this winter — I've done Fortune, the Kill, Belly of Paris, Pot-Luck and Ladies' Paradise — and I think I topped out with that last one.  I was going to do L'Assamoir next, but I don't think I can face more Zola for a month or two — but I also forget what it's like to not…

To me, After Hours is top-tier Scorsese, it's right up there with Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull and Goodfellas.  It's note-perfect beginning to end, and it's not quite like anything else you've seen.

@avclub-a80fcd777df4edacea4dd9e20f8730e4:disqus He probably figured it took you three minutes to type that comment.

Those are three minutes he'll never get back, Sam Adams.

Hey, there was a reason Ringo got twice as much fan mail as the rest of the Beatles put together.

Hush.

Angela Carter was there slightly ahead of Lee (not that it's a race, obv) and to me is even stronger.

Agreed.  The Prince's mother is a cannibal, for starts.

I saw it in the theatre and I barely remember it.

You let your girlfriend sass-talk you like that, ElDan?

Oh, come on.  All these are weak pretenders to the Jaromir Jagr mullet-throne and you guys know it.

None.  None logic.