On urban fantasy, from another place on the Internets.

I HATED this book. HATED it. I am so FREAKING TIRED of urban fantasy books featuring waif-like women with masses of tangled hair of whatever goshdarn color. I wanted to drop-kick Isabelle and her precious waif-like paintings out of a plate glass window. And WHY in the name of all that's good in the world are the main characters in urban fantasy novels always painters or lute players or madrigal singers or earth mothers or writers? Does nobody in Newford have an actual job?

I would give nearly anything for an urban fantasy novel that features a stocky banker. With short hair. Who studied accounting. At least then I would have the feeling that I wasn't reading a singles advertisement from the writer over and over and over again. Bookish male, 40s, seeks waif-like artist with masses of tangled hair for a carefree and magical existence. Likes Celtic music and pre-Raphaelite painting. WE GET IT, OKAY? Sheesh.

From the Confessions, Saint Augustine

Is this the rhythm of our world? Is this what you prescribed when from the heights of heaven to the depths of earth, from the first beginnings to the end of time, from the angel to the worm, from the fist movement to the last, you allotted a proper place and proper time to good things of every kind and to all your just works? How can I hope to understand the height and the depth of you, from the greatest to the most lowly of your works? You never depart from us, yet it is hard for us to return to you.

(translation R.S. Pine-Coffin)