I guess you’ll notice I’ve been conspicuously quiet over these last two weeks. I’ve got the same excuses, yes, I’m busy, but so is everyone. Mainly, I’ve been curious to see how the werewolves have yelped onto cyberspace in terms of this latest undeath match up. Nice try Twitter peeps on the #undeathmatch shout outs for werewolves. It’s lovely to see that there’s more than just howling at the moon going on.
Admittedly, I haven’t read Kelley Armstrong. And @tanlight assures me that she makes werewolves seriously hot and even kind of sexy, which is why I’ve got Bitten on my nightstand to be read this weekend. But here’s the rub: where are all the other werewolves in literature and can they honestly say they’ve had the literary longevity of oh, say, the vampire?
(And no, I’m not talking about the “history” employed by she who will not be named in a book that shall not be mentioned that starts with a “T” and ends with a “wilight.”)
Let’s talk about the best of the best here people. The lists to end all lists. The books that made a difference to our overall understanding of what makes for great literature. The books that Hollywood loves to repeatedly ruin (oh, Francis Ford Coppola, I adore you, but you know I’m looking at you.) and ruin. And ruin (poor Dorian Gray was never the same). Where is the beastly werewolf in literature? Where’s the seminal werewolf book that made it on to the 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die list. Oh. Wait. There isn’t one. But what’s that knocking on the door of my pristine ivory tower?
Hello #794, Dracula, my dear friend.
So while all the hairy beasts are outside catching fleas and howling at the moon, I’m going to crack open the spine, sup on a glass of wine, and appreciate the literary value vampires bring to this whole equation.
Oh, and werewolves might be winning in the poll for the moment, let me just remind all of you that vampires came from behind last time too.