Prediliction? That's one of those big words again. I get them on this site from time to time. If I can just find out what it means, I'll use it in a sentance to impress all my friends. Are there various predilictions? Sexual? Religious? Technical?
Or is it a lizard thing?
My last big word on here was pedantic, by A Squared. Pedantic, I think, means "wordy." Is it possible, therefore, to have a pedantic prediliction, or can I say that in mixed company on a public forum? It does sound rather embarassing, whatever it means.
The lizard thing is all physics. Rather newtonian. Iguana tell ya more, but frilly I can't. Asp, and ye shall receive, and all that.
Which is to say, I'm getting away from the intent of the thread, flying books. Perhaps one of the best, if your time is limited, is Freefa, by Jim Brooks. It's a story of a man who began skydiving with the intent of becoming a professional freefall photographer. Unfortunately his career effort was short lived, having suffered a fatal accident on his first skydive. You only get about 30 seconds into it, and the book ends.
What is is that drives us to read flying books, anyway? You don't see a mortician reading the latest offering by Stephen King while waiting for a viewing to start, or a vet reading James Herriot. Instead, in the real world, priests read child pornography, lawyers read Death of a Salesman (and his net worth and liabilities), and the masses study romeo and juliet by bill shakesburry (while downing cornflakes and cake donuts and beer). We're a twisted lot. We should be reading transcripts from documentaries by Jerry Springer, and keeping up with Time Magazine's pick for man of the year. But flying books?
If you're not looking for warmth and cheer, (I can't recommend it), try "The Day Rain Never Fell," by Martin Azimuth. It's an effort at combining nostalgic fictional aviation with history. It's the story of a man who rewrote history and the accounting of the Berlin Airlift, in which, instead of dropping food, candy, and supplies, he uses C-54's and C-46's to drop komodo dragons. The results are startling, but predictable. In the final chapters, a young girl hides away one of the dragons in her attic, feeding it scraps of newspaper and bubblegum, praying for it, and singing it songs of hope and love. She protects it from the masses, who are justifiably upset about receiving six foot lizards instead of boxes full of food dropped softly by parachutes.
In the adopted sequel, written by Bach, two old women who remember the great Berlin Komodo Drop, teach it to knit and sing for peanuts. The Komodo finally dies of malnutrition, as komodos can't eat peanuts, but not before making a final desperate bid at life by devouring the two old dour women in a display of predilictious wanton carnivouristic violence that leaves stories about war and love and lust to rot in the company of boorish cacaphony.
Or so it says on the dustjacket, anyway. I'll loan you my copy.
