Houlcroft > Recent Status Updates

A mundane lie hiding an exotic truth is deception; an exotic lie hiding a mundane truth is storytelling. Deception may be necessary to preserve life, but storytelling makes life worth living.

“The original point of Twitter - back when that was the platform's official name, and not just the one by which most people still referred to it- was, basically, mumbling aloud to yourself. These days, it was full of people doing exactly the opposite, people who knew how to shout things that were Right and Meaningful and got them lots of attention”

"This is what I can't stand about you Al natives - this assumption that as long as you ask a question, you'll always get your answer.

My hand, already disconnected from my own will, reached for the pencil. The particles of lead left their traces on the paper. Each incomplete line seemed to tremble as though it were attempting to tell me something. For the first time today, the paper filled not with words but with a single, tangible shape, one that made clear the essential condition of the tower's design. I was astounded.

Must. Should. The words, as firm as concrete, clanked and jolted within me. They were the sturdy columns and crossbeams I had erected to keep myself upright. I often spoke like this, using the language of will and obligation to put pressure on myself and those around me. I wanted to remove any unstable elements that had a chance, however remote, of causing the house I inhabited to collapse.

I love that even 400 years ago heat authors were making poop jokes

“Even in the twenty-second cen-tury, no way had yet been discovered of keeping elderly and conservative [men] from occupying crucial administrative positions. Indeed, it was doubted if the problem ever would be solved.”

“There was no one in Ireland comparable to O’Sanassa in the excellence of his poverty; the amount of famine which had delineated in his person […] in the depths of winter I often saw him on the hillside fighting and competing with a stray dog, both contending for a narrow hard bone and the same snorting and angry barking issuing from them both”

“The gentlemen from Dublin who came in motors to inspect the paupers praised him for his Gaelic poverty and stated that they never saw anyone who appeared so truly Gaelic”

“the sun rose so quickly and ardently, that it would have melted his brains if he had had any.”

A cosy catastrophe, building off the post-apocalyptic world established in Moon of the Crusted Snow, but not necessarily in a way that captivates or intrigues.
The story feels aimless, with little to no real stakes and a climax that feels anything but.
There is a place for this book, and a need for voices such as Rice’s and what he writes, but it still just feels a bit flat.

One time when I returned from Galway in the black of night, what do you think I noticed but that we had acquired a new piglet in the end of the house. […] I took it carefully and allowed it to drop from my hand with amazement when I realised precisely what I had. It had a small bald head, a face as large as a duck-egg and legs like my own. I had a baby-child.

“-There was always good hunting in that house, said he to me. He opened his hand and what might one imagine was there but five shillings in silver, a fine elegant lady's necklace and a small golden ring. He placed these objects in some inside pocket with satisfaction and hurried me away with him onwards.”

“With regard to hunting, the Old-Grey-Fellow [..] leaped suddenly over the fence. I followed him. Before us in a little field stood a strong stone-built house. In the twinkling of an eye the Old-Fellow had opened a window and had disappeared out of sight into the building. I stood for a moment pondering the wonders of life and then, as I was about to follow him through the window, he came out as precipitately.