A Bibliophile's Reverie's "Countdown to "The Wolf Gift" Begins Tomorrow...

   On Valentine's Day, during the year of the impending 2012 apocalypse, Anne Rice plans to release a book which features werewolves for she has decided once again to move onto to a new cosmology with a new breed of enigmatic creatures. In lieu of this release and Alfred K. Knopf's recently release synopsis with new tantalizing details about the novel, I am launching four themed months that encompass all of Anne Rice's supernatural creatures as "The Wolf Gift" symbolizes Anne Rice's courageous return to the creatures of the night or the "sinful aberrations" cast out by pious society. These creatures are consciously aware that they cannot inhabit the world of daytime much like King Hamlet's ghost or the band of twisted, contradictory witches from Macbeth

  During each of these months, I will feature detailed posts about the history of each of these creatures and how Anne Rice has refashioned them to fit within her fictitious universe. Also, I'll strive to review any notable works that include different interpretations of these creatures.

As of now, the supernatural creatures/individuals being represented are...


November=Mummies
December=Vampires
January=Witches (I'm required then to review Roald Dahl's The Witches!!!!)
February= Werewolves (Review of Anne Rice's "The Wolf Gift," Posts about the philosophy of "The Wolf Gift, and hopefully an interview with Anne Rice herself)



If you haven't already, click the book cover below for "The Wolf Gift" to read the details that Alfred K. Knopf, the publishers of Anne Rice's books, have happily released about the novel itself:

Never Enough

Every occurrence of writing
Makes me feel abashed
For I have to shed some unexpressed feelings and
Weave them into a poetic tapestry that is
Both beguiling and bewildering


After my hands leave the keyboard and
The Poem lies in finished form
Before my dispirited eyes
I can only feel pain that
Now everyone can discern past the
Enticing metaphors and
See directly into my core

Writing should be a private love affair
Behind Closed doors
Where the writer consummates with their lusty muse
To conceive a written work
Filled with nuances that hint at
A deeper significance that lies beneath

Sometimes, my prose is overwrought
To the extent where it overreaches its
Intended goal
Other times, I can just imagine
The disapproval  of my disastrous work
 Laying in a pretentious heap
On the floor of the motel room
Where my muse and I
Worked tirelessly to create
Something poignant


Why do I share these precious works of mine?
What is this burdensome artistic incline
That strives to share these meaningless
Pieces of pedantic poo
Tomorrow morning, I could care less
If the maid who periodically cleans
My rented motel rooms
Discards these pieces of
Used Toilet Paper

Even as my writing leaves me unsatisfied
I still have this insatiable desire to have another
Romp with my muse-
All writers desire this cathartic release
Because we thrive off the ecstasy of
That climatic moment where our work
Beautifully comes together
Writing is our elixir, our passion
In the end, we just cannot get enough

Through the Narrow Gate

With a stuttered heart and

a careful exhalation of this fragile breath

I beheld my dead aunt with these lifeless eyes

Tears trickled down my marble cheeks

Then, I carefully sniffled

To recapture my lost breath

For, I’m not ready to lie motionless

Before so many fear stricken faces  and

Pretend that I am somewhere safe

Outside this present nightmare

Suddenly, a curmudgeonly pastor

Adorned with bleak blackness

Ascended the stage before my aunt’s

Bedraggled Body

It was a welcoming sight because-

Didn’t pastors pacify

This unsettling grief

Of course, his words were reverent

Flowery descriptions of my aunt’s empathy

Flowered the desolate wasteland of my

Deathly thoughts

Flowers overflowed in excess in this church

To ward away the melancholy that visits us

They were affixed to the windows

Acting as sentries to watch

For the malevolent forces of the outside world-
          These fiends cannot even enter through the

Small crack of these immaculate sheets of

Grime-less Glass

Eventually, the chilling air of

This cloistered church

Confined me to the coldness of my

Corrosive Mind

The seemingly warm pastor

Transfigured himself into death itself

While he invoked the indignant spirit

Of his supposed Imperturbable God

A hint of mournful surrender
Entered his voice

While he solemnly spoke about

The many people unlike my aunt

Who cannot partake in communion and exist

Beyond this temporal state of tragedy

Only we are entrusted with the secret knowledge

To pass through the narrow gate between

Death and the unknown

We that are few in number will

Bask in God’s glory

While the rest fall into a state

Of Sleep where they’ll

Never be remembered

Or have a chance to be loved

Everyone in the church produced

A facsimile of Mary’s smile

While I struggled in vain

With my resilient empathy

For all the lost sheep

Whom never found the serenity

That salvation supposedly insures

My heart tugged at my eyes and

Flooded them with waters

Which the elect like Noah

Masterfully Evaded

By receiving favor in God’s eyes-

Why didn’t he care at all for those he left behind?

Oh God, Where are my friends?

Have they been deemed worthy of damnation

Because their inquisitive minds

Couldn’t properly believe in you.

If this blissful eternity requires

A large number of your flock

Falling into the abyss of the Forgotten

Then, I refuse to be trapped forever in this false joy

As the funeral gathering reveled in their God-granted gladness

                                I ripped down a few flowers obscuring the windows

And peered into Perdition

Through the unfathomable depths of these shadows

Ghostly apparitions of the damned appear

They were undergoing the second death-

Signified by their tortured cries

That shook the aura of peace

Emanating within the stronghold of this church

Again, the semblance of sadness

Threatened to overfill my soul

In retaliation of this jubilant body

Which urged me onwards back into the

Pocket of endless joy

Within the church

I tore at more of the the flowers

Yet they continued to grow back

Frustrated,I screamed madly

As I forced my thoughts to deeply empathize

With the perished souls outside these windows

For one fleeting moment, they grasped for God’s

Loving  hands only to

Find themselves dissipating into the darkness

Till they were no more-

They were the unforgiven, and the forgotten

Fracturing the window

My repressed sadness was awakened-

Tears spilled from my bleary eyes

Screams issued from my unholy lips

Matching the frequency and terror of those

Left Outside

Without realizing it, I was suspended in the darkness

Floating away from the church

A number of disparate spirits

Filled my Morose gaze

They upheld me-My friends

Together, we would soon fade into the darkness

Forlornly, I looked at the church-

The Dear Departed one

That refused to Love in the name of

Selfishly seeking “salvation”

They passed over us like

Those who suffered from Leprosy

My leprosy was the infection of love

Love that refused to part

With my brother’s just so I could

Eternally indulge in the gifts of the sainted heaven

Oh friends, embrace me once more

There still lies hope

That there lies another minute crack

Along this Deceptively Dark Gate

Far beyond our earthly senses  

Link to other blog: Agnostic Inner Sanctum (Click the brilliant Rembrandt painting below!)

I'm posting this if you're interested in reading posts from my other blog:: The Agnostic Inner Sanctum. Earlier this year, I separated the more religious posts from the literary ones because some people find honest religious discussion disconcerting. My other blog is one of my most challenging blogs to post on because I'm always hindered by the "fear" of other people's reactions. Sadly, its still ingrained in me, from my Christian upbringing, that expressing doubt in Christianity is a chief evil. Now, I currently don't believe in that at all or probably never did authentically. But, its still hard for any person to work against neurotic thought processes inherited from their childhoods.

It will be offensive to some people because humanity is ironically offensive to itself. Oftentimes, people don't want to encounter people's honest views because we'd rather hide ourselves underneath those lavish masks provided at Capulet's masquerade party. Sometimes, I think that we need to reread Shakespeare,the Greek rationalists, or the Old Testament stories and see that these people are truly human and not a bunch of uncomplicated "believers" in a religion. Of course, no Christian is "uncomplicated," just like no human is. But often, I think we forget this when we're instructed from the pulpit to strive towards having unwavering belief to insure that we're going to heaven.


Karen Armstrong marvelously details the problems that plague religion presently. This is an illuminating speech and Karen Armstrong is a very bright person who really seems to understand the problems that strain religions.

Anne Rice's fans have requested me to conduct a
survey to determine which of Anne Rice's heart-throbs is their favorite. The three choices are Matt Bomer, Richard Armitage, and that damned, elusive "Scarlett Beckett!"

You can only vote once so take great care in choosing. Soon enough, the results will be sent to Anne Rice and she'll then devote her attention to one of these heart-throbs.

To vote, Click on one of the heart-throbs below!

Choice A) The Scarlet Beckett

Choice B) Richard Armitage

                          Choice C) Matt Bomer