I'm timidly reading Clive Barker's new youth novel, Abarat, purchased at an outlet store yesterday.

Guffaw! Clive Barker? YOUTH Novel?? I know that you're thinking.

The reason I picked it up is that it was so... heavy. The pages are an expensive semi-glossy stock, and every illustration is full color. The pictures are gutsy, thick, bizarre paintings scattered throughout the pages. This thing must have cost a fortune to make. The story is not bad so far. I tend to roll my eyes a little at general fantasy sometimes:

"Quick, Zibbonifict! We must make haste to Fippawongarious in our mangus monstopicus before the Eve of King Pumplefrump!"

Clive, never one of my favorites, is managing to keep the names of things within reason so far. He has some interesting and genuinely entertaining ideas, so I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt until such time as I need to throw down the book in muttering disgust. Gawd, I'm such an optimist.