January's recommendation: The Silent Gondoliers, by . . . well, that's an interesting question.
Is this book even properly fantasy?
Who cares?
The copies of it you generally find in a store will attribute this wonderful little tale to William Goldman. He's a man who has published some books but mostly (as far as I'm aware) has won recognition for screenplays. His true achievement, however, for which he will forever be remembered, came when he abridged (and later adapted for the screen) a quirky little work by a Florinese writer named Simon Morgenstern.
(I trust my readers recognize that name. If any among you don't, leave now and never return. I am ashamed to say I know you.)
My copy of The Silent Gondoliers -- which is illustrated, and hardcover, and has a lovely dust jacket made out of very fine paper -- says it's by S. Morgenstern.
Interpret this how you will.
The Silent Gondoliers isn't a long book, nor is it a terribly complicated one. It sets out to explain just why the gondoliers of Venice, who used to be known as the greatest singers in the world, no longer sing at all. If you want music on your gondola ride, you get an accordion player. Your gondolier will not sing. And the reasons for that lie in a storm that swept the city of Venice some time ago -- but they're not the reasons you think.
I love The Princess Bride, as anyone who knows much at all about me knows, and although the movie is what's truly near and dear to my heart (I think I'd seen it sixteen times before I'd read the book, and I'm up to fifty-four now -- that's an accurate count, mind you), the book has its own charm. Especially in the parts which the movie does not explicitly cover (most particularly the full account of Inigo's history). And one of the things that charms me about the book is the writer's knack for turns of phrase which manage to be quite normal and matter-of-fact and yet somehow punch me somewhere in the vicinity of my emotional solar plexus. The Silent Gondoliers does the same thing, only without a movie to muddy the issue. It's an incredibly funny, incredibly touching book, and I can't for the life of me remember where I came across this copy, with the name it has on the cover, and the illustrations it has inside, but I'll say this much: if you live in the same city as me, and want to borrow my copy so that you may experience the book properly, and you swear on your soul or an appropriate substitute that you will return the book to me in pristine condition . . . you may borrow it.
Otherwise, go find your own copy.
Either way, go read it.