I could not finish Wolfe’s The Book of the New Sun: Shadow and Claw. This is not to say that I found it poorly written, but because I was not in the mood for that book. I returned it to the library last night; I was about halfway through The Shadow of the Torturer. I shall save it for another time.
Instead I find myself discovering, as many before me have discovered, Jorge Luís Borges. The Book of Imaginary Beings has been a godsend and I find myself becoming enchanted with stories from The Book of Sand. I begin to see echoes of his style in Umberto Eco and Gabriel García Márquez. There is little to no doubt that I shall check out Collected Fictions and Selected Poems in the near future. I think that my life could have been written by him, storyboarded by Maxfield Parrish, Winsor McKay, or P. Craig Russell, and scored … well, I have yet to find an appropriate soundtrack. It would probably have to be some sort of combination of Ozomatli, Afro Celt Soundsystem, Ella Fitzgerald, and Bobby McFerrin (especially if you include his classical leanings.)
As I grow older, I learn of those whose works inspire my own inspirations … and I see how small is my stride.