This is a sign that though I can never fully separate myself from the world, I will always cherish things creatively made with bare hands, inventive eyes, and passionate hearts.
The Alchemyst is truly engaging, period—Harry Potter or not. Michael Scott surely captivates with engrossing details, magic, and adventures that unexpectedly transpire for two fairly ordinary teens, Sophie and Josh, a part-time coffee shop attendant and a book store clerk. The story begins with Sophie in the middle of a typical tête-à-tête on her cell phone at the cafe and Josh filing books across the street, in a bookshop owned by Nick Fleming, who is really Nicholas Flamel in disguise, when mayhem suddenly strikes with the stink of “rotten eggs”, emitted by the wicked, English magician, Dr. John Dee, who manages to steal an ancient text, the codex of Abraham the Mage, from Nick’s guardianship, but only after Josh has fortuitously snatched its two most significant pages. Next, the teens are swept along a mad flight with the French magicians and a vampire ally named Scathach. Nicholas must retrieve the magical book to protect the twins, whose destiny intertwines with the fate of the entire world, and stop Dee from summoning the evil gods of the Elder race, the dark elders who’ll either enslave or destroy humanity and ultimately rule the world. Nicholas must also recover the codex to prevent Dee, whose immortality had only been granted by a dark elder in return for total servitude, from acquiring the secrets of the elixir of life hidden in the book. The alchemist and his wife, themselves, need the ever-changing spell for immortality, for without it, they age and weaken about a year’s worth each day.
The riveting adventure continues in Paris, in the spellbinding sequel, The Magician, wherein fiends, like the Italian immortal, Machiavelli, the beast, Niddhog, and the war god, Mars, among others, wreak havoc and formidable new allies continually beguile. You’d never dare imagine the Eiffel tower in the same light as Joan of Arc’s husband, Saint-Germain, has. As the alchemist aptly puts, [Humans use but a tiny percentage of their senses. They barely look, rarely listen, never smell, think that they can only experience feelings through their skin. But talk—oh, do they talk, which makes up for the lack of use of their other senses]. But whereas “Desperate men do stupid things,” says Saint-Germain in referring to Machiavelli and Dee, who, like the dark elders, only see “the humani”, or humans, as “a bunch of people”, “slaves”, or “food”, “Stupid men make mistakes," replies Nicholas, who see “individuals, with worries and cares, with family and loved ones, with friends and colleagues”. The alchemist clearly sees “people”; I wish politicians had the same view. But for now, we have a truly enchanting tale to follow—from the Warrior Maiden's dojo, to Hekate's Shadow Realm, where the Yggrasil thrives, to Ojai, where Sophie learns the Magic of Air, to Alcatraz, where Perenelle teams up with Juan Manuel de Ayala's ghost and Areop-Enap against the sphinx, and the Morrigan, to Rue du Montmorency, where Nicholas and Perenelle once lived, and to the catacombs of Paris, where the sleeping God lies awake. I can hardly wait for the third sequel, The Sorceress, and set off for London, where the magic continues.
Can you believe this? No wonder why George Carlin gave up voting. Our savings have literally disappeared right before our eyes. It's absolutely maddening and utterly revolting. Forget about who, what part, rather, of the ugly monster would you choose? Its heads or tails? Either choice(party) is insanity, with each of them spouting mouthfuls of principles that are nothing more than ignorant generalizations and unrealistic ideals about national security, retirement, health care, environment, and education. Every one of these politicians plays the blame game and spews out bloated promises, but none of them has ever taken the responsibility to say, "I'm part of the problem--me and my fat salary and undeserved benefits and bonuses while I busy myself exchanging fancy, empty words with other crooks like me", or as in the Clinton case, "...while I get busy receiving or being served..." Haven't the foulest beasts of earth always operated on the same premise of outrageous ideals and constant misinformation. These scums play with peoples' emotions by consistently using the plight of whites or blacks or low-income or homeowners or immigrants. Where is the sincere concern just for people, period. Where is the concern for their hard-earned livelihood? What about the ones who are faceless and voiceless? What about the young family of three who conscientiously work together to save, but still can't afford to purchase a home, since rent, gas, and every other expense that constitutes the monthly bills has gone up? Is there assistance available out there for the poor of the middle class? Thank Godness for a family who doesn't have cable. If not politics, it's mostly reality shows or ludicrous extravagance being touted on TV anyway. Plus doing away with cable saves a bit of money, but all for naked uncle sam to also squander. Just as the emperor really had no clothes on...uncle sam is naked too you know. And yet, he does wear nice clothes, and is driven around in fancy cars, and have his fine dining in swank hotels, and is coddled by both celebrities and other devious big shots, as they all bask in the same posh lifestyles.
Imagine getting trapped in a nightmare where you're on the run from your pursuers—the mall security and a foe so foul that it could only be, well, your worst enemy and no, it's not your wicked stepmother or vicious aunt either, but the one who loathes you for no reason, the bully Damian—and you haven't the faintest idea how you got into this mess, especially when it's virtually impossible for you to even get into the slightest mischief, since you're basically a good person with glasses, who intends to stay out of trouble by immersing yourself in everything nice and intellectual, like your books. And your name is Milton—even Harry Potter has a better chance in life more than you. You're just Milton, not a wizard. Anyhow, you're caught in the middle of a blind escapade, where you're suddenly thwarted by a giant marshmallow bear towering over a mall's main hall. So, your ruthless enemy wastes no time in blasting the colossal treat to destroy you. Apparently, he succeeds and, in a massive explosion, you go down in quite literally a rapid descent into a hellish place called Heck, which is a great deal more horrendous than your revolting foe. In short, your nightmare doesn't end, since it isn't really a nightmare to begin with. It's real. In fact, everything that's transpired in one continuous, uncontrollable, rapid flow of events is real, and Heck is where you really get banished for your misdeeds prior your ill-fated death, even if you were genuinely as sweet as an oversize melted marshmallow your whole life. The fact is you stole something, even if you were tricked and are truly innocent. Therefore, you're damned like a regular imp, because "the Big Guy doesn't grade on a curve…" and "your last sin is typically your greatest…with no chance to redeem yourself with your sticky end". And it only gets worse. You're supposed to survive this nightmare called the rest of your life in the company of a total mischief in the person of your sister, Marlo. This blue-haired Goth, who delights in dark stuff and exploits, and steals out of sheer enjoyment and simply because she can, was also the punk who fooled you, plucked you out of your comforts, dragged you into her capers, inadvertently died with you in the explosion, and ultimately got you into this appallingly huge Heck of a mess. But you've no choice but endure this wretched place with her roguish presence, as well as the demonic principal, Bea "Elsa" Bubb, and her monstrous minions, including a hair-net donning, hairless cafeteria witch that boasts "hairy moles and weeping boils" and relentlessly serves overcooked brussel sprouts that resemble "wilted globs of pale green snot" for a nourishing after-life lunch. To top it off, the nasty vermin, Damian, who maliciously blew you up above ground has now followed you underground. Meanwhile, you feel like the vermin, yourself. You're only eleven years old with a fuzzy ferret named Lucky. And, again, you're just Milton. The only consolation you have is meeting a clumsy character, Virgil, who becomes your buddy, the possibility of your sister's unlikely allegiance to you, and a slim chance for escape, and still, perhaps, a little bit of luck."And for the first time in his life—and death—Milton enjoyed being different. He felt free: free from caring what people thought, free to choose his own path…All our days are numbered, he thought before drifting off into unconscious bliss, but that number is infinity."Enough said. Here's a link to author, Dale E. Basye, for more info.
