→ August 14, 2020
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Or What You Will.

Jo Walton’s Hugo-winning novel Among Others   is one of my favorite novels of any genre, a beautifully written story around two incredibly compelling characters that just happens to have a slight element of fantasy to it. It’s an exemplar of genre fiction in that the fantastical parts of the book accentuate the plot but don’t define it. That book led me to pick up her 2019 novel Lent, which delves into Renaissance and Roman Catholic history and, again, uses a fantasy-like twist to tell a better story, but where the main character is the real star. And that, in turn, led me to her brand-new novel Or What You Will, which seems like an even more serious novel while drawing on the great history of metafiction in literature, going back to Italo Calvino’s If on a winter’s night a traveler… and Flann O’Brien’s At Swim-Two-Birds to explore life, death, and meaning in new ways.

Or What You Will gives us Sylvie, the author, in her 70s, widowed, writing her new novel while visiting Firenze, which serves as the inspiration for her fictional duchy of Thalia and a series of novels set in the equivalent of the Renaissance, featuring several characters borrowed from Shakespeare’s plays (notably The Tempest and The Twelfth Night, the latter of which gives this book its title). The narrator and protagonist, however, is a voice in Sylvie’s head who has become many characters within her novels, and who realizes that when Sylvie dies, he will too, so he hatches a plan to make them both immortal through her writing – not just through fans, but a form of actual immortality in a Thursday Next-like world inside her books.

The chapters alternate, roughly, between scenes from within this new Thalian novel, which include Orsino and Viola (The Twelfth Night), Caliban and Miranda (The Tempest), Geryon (Dante’s Inferno), and the real-world Marsilio Ficino; and conversations between Sylvie and the narrator that unfurl the former’s life story, including an abusive first marriage and an idyllic second one, a brutal and unloving mother, and a late-blooming yet successful literary career. Those introspective chapters, which I assume at least draw a little from Walton’s own life (she didn’t get her first published novel until she was 35), are clearly the superior ones here, implicit meditations on life and legacy, unfolding a fascinating personal history of a three-dimensional character. The chapters set in Thalia are strongly reminiscent of Lent, which was set in Firenze during the Renaissance and featured Ficino and Pico della Mirandolo, who also appears in this book, but there are a couple of twists to life in Thalia versus that of real-like Italy that put it strongly in the realm of science fiction or fantasy. The characters in Thalia are aware that their world is different, and that other worlds exist, although they only know Sylvie as a god. It becomes a bit like Lisa Simpson’s “I’ve created Lutherans!” experiment; we’re looking down at these people, waiting for them to figure out what we already know, and knowing that they’ll have to figure it out for the book to end. There’s a separate intrigue around the rivalry between Orsino and Geryon, and the sudden appearance of Caliban from beneath the ground, which is moderately interesting but takes a clear back seat to the main storyline.

Walton manages to keep the narrator’s specific plan to save Sylvie’s life, and thus his own, out of the novel until close to the end, and introduces a clever wrinkle for the narrator to surmount for the entire plan to work. The conclusion is a bit beside the point, however, since it doesn’t work in our world and thus prompts you, the reader, to think about your own mortality and legacy, something that has at least been on my mind more than ever this year, between the pandemic, friends losing loved ones, and changes in my own life. That’s really why the novel works even with its implausible fantasy elements – that, and Walton’s typically lovely writing, especially when it comes to describing our world’s Firenze, a city she clearly loves – these themes are universal and timeless, and the way she presents them is both novel and still as comfortable as the familiar routines of Sylvie’s writing life.

Next up: I’m halfway through Emily St. John Mandel’s newest novel, The Glass Hotel.

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→ June 17, 2020
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Cyteen.

I started C.J. Cherryh’s Hugo Award-winning novel Cyteen back in February, which feels like a decade ago, but stopped after 190 pages because it was so slow and I was wrapped up in finishing the top 100 prospects package for The Athletic. I returned to it in late May and did indeed finish it the day before the draft last week, because I’m very stubborn, and it bothered me that I had just three Hugo winners left to read. (I now have two, the last two books in the Mars trilogy by Kim Stanley Robinson, which in turn inspired the game Terraforming Mars.)

Cyteen is not very good, just as Downbelow Station, a novel set in the same universe as Cyteen that is Cherryh’s other Hugo winner, was not very good. They’re emblematic of what science fiction used to represent – books that were so heavy on the fictional science that they paid little attention to the aspects that make a novel good: plot, prose, and characters. Cyteen has a plot, sort of, although it’s paper-thin for a novel of more than 650 pages. The prose is leaden enough that you could use it at the dentist’s office to protect your chest during X-rays. The characters are at least moderately interesting, although I found it hard to get to them through the byzantine renderings of story and scene in the book.

Cyteen is set on a planet and two space stations of that name, serving as the capital of the Union, which has itself declared independence from the Alliance … none of which is necessary to know to read this book. The intrigue here is all internal to Cyteen politics, as the wise, Machiavellian leader Ari Emory, who runs the cloning-research station Reseune and serves on Union’s executive council, is murdered early in the book, after which some of her adherents initiate a program she’d designed to raise a clone of her to take over where she’d left off. The bulk of the novel follows her clone, also named Ari, and sets her in opposition to two groups: her ‘uncles’ Denys and Giraud, who are both powerful figures in the Reseune hierarchy and would benefit from Ari’s return to power; and the Warricks, Jordan and his clone/son Justin, as well as Justin’s clone and companion Grant, who were implicated in the first Ari’s death and remain untrusted rivals as the second Ari grows up and gains authority.

That’s about enough story for a novel of half Cyteen‘s length, but Cherryh stretches this out to a needless degree, incorporating all manner of side plots or irrelevant details that make this an utter slog to read. The discussions of young Ari’s puberty felt made me feel like I was invading a fictional character’s privacy, and it’s discomfiting to see a young girl’s moods reduced to a function of her hormone changes. The details of the cloning program are not interesting in the least, nor are those of the Alliance-Union conflict or the internal intrigues of Cyteen and Reseune politics. It just doesn’t work: making readers feel interested in the details of politics of fictional entities requires a lot of effort, at the macro level and the micro level of individual characters, and Cherryh just doesn’t do it.

The character of Ari is by the far the most compelling, although it’s more for what she represents than who she is. Ari is genetically identical to her predecessor, and her guardians attempt to mimic as many conditions of her predecessor’s upbringing as possible, as if by creating a perfect facsimile of the original’s nature and nurture they will thus develop a perfect facsimile of the original person. Of course, it’s never quite possible to replicate the ‘nurture’ half of the equation, and Ari deux is still a person with free will and agency, eventually pushing back against the bounds of her strict environment. It’s also a meditation of sorts on predestination, whether the second Ari can escape the destiny that’s been assigned to her by her genes and her makers.

The Hugo Awards have recently faced and defeated an attempted coup by a small number of white, male, pathetic authors who claimed that their works were being unjustly overlooked in the voting in favor of works with more progressive themes. My interpretation is that these authors, whose leaders include an open white supremacist, want a return to the earlier era of the Hugos and sci-fi in general, where setting took precedence over story or character – greater reliance on the science part of science-fiction or heavier use of fantasy elements in fantasy. Cyteen is heavy on the science, both hard sciences and soft, and that might be why it won the award in 1989, but I don’t think it would get nearly the same reception, critical or commercial, today. Cherryh is still writing and I presume she still has an audience, since I always see new books of hers whenever I’m browsing in bookstores, but this type of science fiction is best relegated to the dustbin of history.

Next up: I’m about to start Richard Nisbett’s Mindware: Tools for Smart Thinking.

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→ May 7, 2020
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The Parable of the Sower.

I’ve read a lot of science fiction authors, including at least one book by every winner of the Hugo for Best Novel, but had never read anything by Octavia Butler until I read The Parable of the Sower last month. Butler, the most prominent woman of color in sci-fi and a direct inspiration for the highly decorated author N.K. Jemisin, was the first science fiction writer to win a MacArthur “genius” grant, and published 14 novels in her career before her untimely death at age 58 in 2006.

One thing often absent from science fiction novels and short stories, especially those written in the first few decades of the genre, are realistic women characters, something that inspired Butler to start writing her own stories. The Parable of the Sower is narrated by a young woman of color named Lauren who is a “sharer,” born with a condition called hyperempathy syndrome, so when she sees anyone else suffering physical pain she’s hit with the same pain even though she didn’t suffer the injury.

Set in the United States in the 2020s in a post-capitalist collapse that seems like it might have inspired the Purge movies, The Parable of the Sower follows Lauren from her poor but protected compound in southern California on her flight north while she develops her belief system, which she calls “Earthseed.” Her father is a pastor, which is a rare source of guaranteed income in this dystopian economy, but she finds herself unable to believe in his traditional Christian religion, or even in its conception of God, instead writing down verses and descriptions of humans as Earthseed, driving towards a heaven in the stars where man colonizes new planets now that he’s destroyed this one.

The Parable of the Sower is grim and unflinching, especially in its depiction of women as an oppressed underclass in this still-patriarchal facsimile of a society. If you leave the protection of the compound where Lauren and her family live, you put your life at risk; if you do so as a woman, especially alone, you are extremely likely to be sexually assaulted, and Lauren sees multiple women who appear to have been victims of brutal rapes whenever she heads outside of the commune’s walls. In a world where so many people have too little to eat, and very little to lose, and the police are worse than useless, theft is almost expected, and everyone is armed to protect themselves and their property. Butler also adds the wrinkle of a new drug, nicknamed ‘pyro,’ that causes addicts to light fires so they can be mesmerized by watching the flames. This isn’t our world today, but Butler’s prescient writing about the impacts of increased income inequality and food insecurity on top of a country already armed to its teeth feels a lot more possible right now than it would have when she wrote it in 1993 – even before you layer on a global pandemic and the rise of an entire political movement ready to discard tens of thousands of citizens just to goose the stock market.

The Earthseed belief system, which revolves around the idea that God is change and holds that man’s destiny is to colonize the stars, gets some treatment within this book, but the specific tenets are less important than Lauren’s development of the system, and how she uses it to try to build a fledgling community around herself while in flight to northern California. The core idea of Earthseed that God is malleable, and humanity can shape God, conflicts on some level with its idea that God shapes the universe, which I assume Butler would continue to address in the sequel (The Parable of the Talents); even within this book, Lauren is challenged by the people in her ragtag band of followers, who range from ardent skeptics to curious adherents, to explain this and other paradoxes – or even explain why anyone should believe at all in the face of such widespread misery and existential dread.

I read Rivers Solomon’s An Unkindness of Ghosts about a year and a half ago, and was constantly reminded of that book, which also has a young female protagonist struggling against multiple levels of oppression in a dystopian environment, while reading Parable; searching now, I see multiple references to Solomon and their novel as a ‘successor’ to Butler’s work. The connections are undeniable, but it also seems like a reminder that voices like theirs and Jemisin’s remain uncommon in the worlds of science fiction and fantasy writing, and thus these themes of sexism, racism, inequality, and othering are also underrepresented, even as they become so much more prevalent in mainstream literature (e.g., with Colson Whitehead winning two of the last four Pulitzer Prizes for Fiction with novels about race and racism). Butler also wrote with a gritty, unflinching realism that existed in that era but was, at least, outside the more genteel strains of sci-fi that won awards and garnered more attention, a style that probably put her twenty years ahead of her time. It’s a particular shame that she died so young when, if she were alive today, she’d have seen her influence spread so far, and have seen the world of science fiction expand to include voices and styles like hers become not just accepted, but lauded.

Next up: Still reading 24: Life Stories and Lessons from the Say Hey Kid, by Willie Mays and John Shea. John will be on my podcast next week to talk about the book.

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→ April 6, 2020
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Lent.

Jo Walton’s Among Others was one of my favorite novels from my reading of (nearly) all of the Hugo winners, a perfect use of fantasy elements to elevate a brilliant story, rather than relying on the fantasy (or sci-fi) bits to provide the entertainment. Her latest novel, Lent, goes a bit further in leaning on a single fantastical quirk to take the real-life story of Girolamo Savonarola, a martyred monk in 1490s Italy who was believed to have the gift of prophecy, and turn it into an extensive meditation on how small choices in our lives can have extensive, long-lasting effects on our world.

The first third or so of the book seems like a straightforward telling of the last six years of Girolamo’s life, from 1492 until the infamous “bonfire of the vanities” that led to a turning of public sentiment against him and his eventual imprisonment, torture, and hanging at the hands of the “do as we say, not as we do” Catholic Church. Girolamo preaches against corruption and secular art, gets under the skin of the Pope and other powerful clergy, and eventually they manage to win the political battle and execute him. After his death, however, we learn something about Girolamo before he returns to earth, back in 1492, to try it all over again – but this time with the knowledge of what transpired in his previous life, as well as that new bit of information, and thus can alter his choices to see if he can get the outcome he ultimately desires. He’ll fail again, return to earth, make new decisions, fail again, and so on until the final chapter where we will learn if he gets it “right” in the last attempt in the novel.

That conceit itself isn’t new, but the reason Girolamo gets to play life as a sort of role-playing game where he restarts from his last save is a new twist that provides a stark backdrop to the choices he makes – and, in many ways, makes some of them more selfless than before. Walton thus gives us a meditation on free will and chaos theory within a story about grace and salvation, one that upends traditional Catholic theology while playing around within its borders. There’s a slow build in the first section, but once you see what’s going on, and Girolamo himself is armed with the same knowledge, the entire concept becomes more interesting, and every subsequent decision that he makes carries much more weight, even when you know that it’s going to ultimately fail and lead him back to restart the cycle from some point in his past.

Girolamo himself makes for a fascinating protagonist as Walton writes him, although I think she’s softened his character a little to emphasize his generosity of spirit and belief in the church as a way to spread the religious and mundane philosophies of Jesus Christ in the world, thus deemphasizing to some extent his puritanical beliefs and attacks on secular art and culture. There’s one scene of a burning of secular or “profane” works, although even within that Girolamo is presented as more resigned to the event than the fanatic he appears to have actually been. He becomes friends with more than one character who is committing adultery, including a woman who would certainly have been seen as “fallen” in that time, which seems like it may not have been consistent with the actual Girolamo (although it’s a reasonable use of poetic license).

The magic of Walton’s writing seems to be in the getting there more than the destination itself, as I think it’s fairly clear where Lent is likely to end; it’s how Walton gets to that point that captivates. I wish she’d been able to give a bit more depth to the panoply of characters around Girolamo, many of whom are interesting even when a bit two-dimensional and just required more page time to help flesh them out, but the main character is so fascinating – as is the side character Crookback, whose real-life identity may be apparent to astute readers – that the book still soars without it.

Next up: José Saramago’s The Double.

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→ November 11, 2019
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The Calculating Stars.

Mary Robinette Kowal won the trifecta of sci-fi literary awards this year for her novel The Calculating Stars, taking home the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus prizes for the year’s best novel. (The Hugo’s list of nominees included six titles, five written by women, which I think is a record.) The book seems destined to hit the screen somewhere, given its popularity, themes of feminism/misogyny, racism, and climate change. It’s also utterly awful, a bit of trite juvenilia, easily one of the worst Hugo winners I’ve read, with silly plotting, stock characters, and prose befitting a first-time author. How this book won any of those awards, let alone all three, is totally beyond me, because, while I finished it since it’s an easy read, it is treacly nonsense.

Elma is the protagonist, and as the novel opens, she’s on a hillside north of DC with her husband, where they’ve flown in a private plane to get away for a little sexytime, only to have their reverie interrupted by a massive explosion somewhere to the south. After their initial fears that the Soviets have launched a nuclear missile appear to be unfounded, they realize it was a massive meteorite strike into the ocean, which they learn shortly afterwards has vaporized the mid-Atlantic coast, killing millions, and will eventually lead to runaway global warming because of all of the water vapor the impact sent into the atmosphere.

Elma and her husband Nat both work in aerospace, she as a computer (a term that used to refer to people, not machines), he as an engineer, and both are immediately involved in the international effort to race into space to try to get off this planet before it boils. Elma is also an experienced pilot, having worked as a WASP (Women’s Airforce Service Pilots, although I’m sure Kowal intended the wordplay around calling Elma, a somewhat observant Jew, a WASP) during World War II, and she seethes when she realizes that NACA (the actual predecessor of NASA) is only considering men as astronauts, even though colonizing the moon or Mars or anywhere else would obviously require women. (Actually, it only requires women; you can send the male contribution to reproduction to space in a test tube.) The bulk of the book covers her quest to become an astronaut, to change hearts and minds, to fight a little garden-variety racism, and to overcome her anxiety disorder enough to get a seat on the rocket.

There’s so much wrong with The Calculating Stars, but nothing is worse than how incredibly obvious the whole book is. Of course Elma is going to be an astronaut. Of course she’s going to fight racism and win. Of course everything she does is going to work out, because this is a children’s book – well, it would be, were it not for the frequent and very awkwardly written sex scenes, although even those are written as they might be in a young adult novel. Elma is ridiculously perfect as a person; the calculations she can do in her head defy credibility, and if there are people who can do what she does there couldn’t be more than ten in the United States. (Her obsession with prime numbers, however, is completely credible, and one of the only things about her character to which I related.) She nearly always has the right words, the right responses, and when she doesn’t, Nate does. It makes Kowal’s hamhanded attempts at cliffhangers fall totally flat, because they always work out within a few paragraphs in some ordinary fashion.

The science also feels incredibly dicey to me. Kowal refers to colonizing Venus, which scientists already suspect was inhospitable to life by this time period, as Rupert Wildt theorized that the surface temperature of Venus was above the boiling point of water due to all of the carbon dioxide in its atmosphere. She later creates a sort of cold fusion mechanism in a chapter heading, where “a catalyst” allows rockets to combine atomic oxygen in the upper atmosphere into O2, releasing substantial quantities of energy for free. Even throwing those small points aside, Kowal has 1950s science building and successfully launching an orbiting space station and planning a lunar colony several years before the MOSFET transistor, without which modern computing would not exist, was even invented. It’s a fantasy, and it detracts from the realism Kowal is trying to infuse in the cli-fi aspects of her story.

If I had to speculate on why this book won the big three awards, I’d guess it’s because the novel is, indeed, a climate change story. The climate isn’t changing because of man in The Calculating Stars, but it’s changing, and because the meteorite in the novel hit water and not land, it has probably pushed the climate past the point of no return. Kowal simply accepts that as a given, and then uses it to give us Republicans in Congress denying the accuracy of climate models, or average citizens asking why the government is spending money on long-term projects instead of helping people who need it today. It’s so thinly veiled you can see right through it, and even though I’m obviously on the side of the world’s scientists who say that climate change is real, I found Kowal’s approach graceless and infantile, including how easily some of the climate change deniers in the book suddenly drop their opposition. I don’t see the present GOP changing its tune on climate change quite so easily.

That’s without even getting into how weak the characters are; most are more memorable for their names than anything about their personalities. Elma and Nathaniel are themselves just too good; he’s certainly a dream husband for the era, progressive and willing to stand up for what he thinks is right. People are flawed, even the best people, and protagonists like these two don’t really appear in adult novels, not in 2019, certainly not in novels that deserve consideration for major awards.

It’d be hard to be worse than the second Hugo winner, They’d Rather Be Right, which isn’t really even a proper novel, but The Calculating Stars comes close. After the Broken Earth trilogy won the last three Hugos – and while I had issues with those novels, especially the third, they are way better written and more intelligently plotted than this novel – Kowal’s book is a huge letdown. I need to read some of the other nominees because there is no way there wasn’t at least one sci-fi novel better than this one in 2019.

Next up: B. Catling’s The Cloven, the conclusion to his Vorrh trilogy.

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→ October 21, 2019
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High Life.

Claire Denis’ dystopian sci-fi film High Life, which just hit Amazon Prime earlier this month, is a strange and brooding film that uses its setting to distill life to its most basic functions. By putting her characters into tense situations that force them all to confront their mortality in a more overt way than we would normally face, she explores the darkest sides of humanity … but it is a long, slow drag to get there, punctuated by some highly disturbing sequences.

Robert Pattinson plays Monte, the sole surviving member of an interstellar journey whose purpose becomes apparent later in the film. His only companion on the ship is a baby, the one successful child to come from the ship’s scientist’s artificial insemination program – a program that, of course, causes a lot of outrage among the rest of the crew – all of which is explained in flashbacks over the course of the film. Without spoiling too much here, the gist is that these crew members were all criminals, given the choice to go on a mission that takes them well beyond the solar system rather than face life in jail or execution. Living in such close quarters, with the added stresses of both the control of the scientist (Juliette Binoche) and her bizarre effort to breed the crew members, only increases the odds of conflict, which is graphic and violent when it comes.

Before then, however, we see much more of the quotidian lives of the crew members through flashbacks, including their work in the ship’s gardens, the favorite spot of Tcherny (Andre Benjamin), and the use of what fans of the film have called the “fuck box,” a masturbation machine used by most of the crew members but not by Monte. Denis appears to want to strip her characters down to the basics – food, sex, shelter – to dehumanize them, making it easier to follow some of them down into a bestial sort of madness that ultimately leaves all of them dead except for Monte.

I’m not sure why this film exists, though. Pattinson is excellent – he’s turned out to be quite a good actor – and does everything he can to prop this movie up, especially in the torpid first half, but by the end I certainly had no idea why Denis had taken any of us on this particular journey. What does the rising tide of violence that engulfs the crew actually tell us about people as a whole or these characters in particular? Are we just to think that once a violent criminal, always a violent criminal? Or are they driven to madness and violence by the realization that their mission can only have one possible end?

The look and feel of High Life far surpass the content of the film. The spaceship’s exterior has a barebones look by design, as Denis has said she couldn’t imagine this dystopian future country spending on anything superficial for a mission of this kind. The interior also looks stark and grim, again fitting the nature of the mission, also enhancing the general sense of dread around the story and the fatalistic outlook of the various people on the ship. There are little details around things like resource management – including, of course, how they recycle their waste products – that give the film a layer of additional realism that would have really paid off if the story were better.

In the end, though, I never got on board with High Life‘s plot. Pattinson is good, but I didn’t relate to the character, and I think Denis’ decision to tell the story via flashbacks ultimately robs the movie of any real dramatic tension. It’s an experiment, with a decent idea at its core, but the experiment doesn’t succeed.

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→ August 19, 2019
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The Golden Compass.

Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy is about to get a new adaptation this fall, with the BBC and HBO distributing a television series based on the three books, starting with The Golden Compass (also known as Northern Lights). That book also appeared on the Guardian‘s list of the 100 greatest novels ever written that I’ve sort of been working my way through, which seemed to make this an apposite time to start Pullman’s work with this book, which is a cold, dispassionate counter to the very fantasy novels Pullman seems most apt to criticize. It appeared on the Guardian‘s list of the 100 greatest novels that I’ve been working my way through the last few years.

The protagonist is Lyra Belacqua, around 11 or 12 years old at the start of the book, whose somewhat idyllic life in a castle in England in a universe parallel to our own is interrupted both by the mystery of children vanishing around London and the arrival of an enigmatic woman, Mrs. Coulter, who takes a specific interest in Lyra’s future. In this universe, all humans have familiars known as “daemons” who can shapeshift while their humans are young but who eventually take on a permanent form when their persons reach adulthood. The mystery of the children, which of course eventually merges with the story of Mrs. Coulter (and more), appears connected to something known as Dust as well as to the phenomenon of aurora borealis, colloquially known as the northern lights. The quest to solve the mystery takes Lyra on a voyage north to the archipelago Svalbard, which (in our universe) hosts the northernmost permanent human settlement on earth, on board a vessel filled with “gyptians” (essentially Roma), some of whom have lost children to the kidnappers.

Everything in this book is cold, including the setting and the weather. Svalbard sits at 74 to 81 degrees latitude, so in the winter it’s dark and average temperatures are below freezing. Much of the book’s action takes place there or on the trip there, and it is perpetually dark and cold in the prose, which mirrors everything about the main characters. Lyra, the ostensible star of the book, has very little charm or character of her own; she has the drive to find her missing friend, and believes she’s on a mission to help her uncle Asriel and thwart Mrs. Coulter, but she’s surprisingly inert compared to the child heroes of other classics of YA fiction. None of the gyptian characters is memorable, and even Mrs. Coulter is on the dull side for a villain in either YA fiction or in the sort of sci-fi/fantasy genres in which Pullman is treading. Great YA genre fiction endures because of readers’ connections with the main characters as much as the plot, and The Golden Compass misses on that point entirely.

The plot, however, has much more going for it, although much of the question at its heart remains unresolved at the end of the first book. The conceit involves the many-worlds hypothesis of quantum physics, although the exact mechanism by which it works in the books isn’t revealed in the first part of the trilogy – discovering that is tied into the various mysteries of the missing children and Mrs. Coulter. Pullman abjectly despises C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, writing in a 1998 essay of “the misogyny, the racism, the sado-masochistic relish for violence that permeates the whole cycle” of Lewis’ books, and at the very least he’s right about the violence part. There’s some violence in The Golden Compass, but it’s secondary to most of the action and is never glorified. What Pullman doesn’t mention in his essay is his antipathy for Lewis’ specific version of Christianity; in response, his novels rely not on myth but on science, trading elements of fantasy for the grounding of science fiction, but in the process he loses some of the whimsy of better fantasy series like the Harry Potter novels or even the more mature Magicians trilogy.

The second book in the series shifts the setting to our version of earth, and the third combines the two to finish the story. I’m mixed on whether I’ll continue; I’m a completist by nature and hate dropping series without finishing, but I’m also not driven to complete Lyra’s story or see how Pullman resolves the Dust mystery.

Next up: Hilary Mantel’s first Booker-winning novel, Wolf Hall.

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→ May 13, 2019
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Good Omens.

I’m a definite fan of Neil Gaiman’s work, having loved American Gods and also enjoyed Anansi Boys and The Graveyard Book, but have yet to get into any of Terry Pratchett’s output, including his famous and very popular Discworld series. With amazon about to release its adaptation of their joint novel Good Omens on May 31st, I picked up the novel a few weeks ago to prepare myself for the impending apocalypse. For a book written by two authors, it’s remarkably fluid and consistent, and, as you might expect given their reputations, it’s quite funny.

As the marketing campaign for the series has probably told you, the end of the world is nigh and someone has misplaced the Antichrist – more specifically, the forces of good and evil have discovered that they’ve lost track of the infant spawn of Satan, who was switched at birth with another baby thirteen years previously in a swap that went awry without anyone noticing. The ads sell the book a bit short, at least, as there’s much more going on than that particular mix-up; the book focuses far more on the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley, who turn this book into an unlikely buddy comedy as they try to get the eschaton back on track even as events spiral beyond their control and, in Crowley’s case, various other agents of the devil come after him for possibly screwing up the apocalypse.

The Antichrist, meanwhile, grows up as Adam in an unsuspecting family, and gathers a few friends around him in a little gang of mischief-makers called “Them” by the adults in their community, a group of four mirrored later in the book by the appearance of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (although Pestilence has been replaced, a gag I won’t ruin here). The novel’s subtitle refers to an old book of prophecies by a witch named Agnes Nutter, the only truly accurate such book ever published, which of course means it has been summarily ignored throughout history – but one of her descendants arrives in the novel with an annotated copy and index cards referring to specific prophecies with attempted interpretations. There’s a modern-day witchfinder general (not this one), and his helper, Nelson Pulsifer, no relation to Bill, and the witchfinder’s dingbat landlord, a self-proclaimed medium (and, naturally, a fake). The narrative bounces around these different threads as they all converge, for whatever reason, on Tadfield, which is to be the epicenter of the eschaton.

Despite the quasi-religious underpinnings of the book, its best aspect by far is the interplay between Aziraphale and Crowley, who sit on opposite sides of the dualistic divide but appear to be longtime friends who, in this case at least, share a common interest in moving the plot along while encountering many obstacles, mostly of the physical variety. The book is substantially funnier when they’re on its pages, and, while never boring without them, it definitely lags a bit when neither of them is involved in the action. Their banter is snappier, and Gaiman and Pratchett clearly had more fun writing these characters and twisting their personae so that they appear to be acting on the ‘wrong’ sides of the good/evil dichotomy. There are various running gags around these two characters, notably around Crowley’s car, that work extremely well and, like any good running joke, get funnier the more they appear.

For a light farce like Good Omens, sticking the landing is helpful but not quite mandatory; the point is to enjoy the ride, and if the resolution is satisfying, so much the better. Gaiman and Pratchett do stick the landing, however, especially since we know from the start of the book the world isn’t actually going to end – I mean, mild spoiler, I guess, but it’s obviously not that sort of book – and they have to write themselves out of that predicament. It’s a well-crafted ending that doesn’t feel cheap or contrived; I didn’t predict it but after seeing the resolution I could see in hindsight how the authors had set it up. Given how well Good Omens delivers its laughs – and I laughed a lot – a solid ending feels like a bit of a bonus. Now I can’t wait for the TV series to arrive.

Next up: I bailed on James Kelman’s Booker Prize-winning novel How Late It Was, How Late after about 80 pages and around 200 uses of the c-word, so I’ve moved on to Haruki Murakami’s latest novel, Killing Commendatore.

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→ May 8, 2019
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The Player of Games.

As usual, I think one of you recommended Iain Banks’ Culture novels to me, and in particular recommended The Player of Games ($2.99 on Kindle right now), for what I would say is a rather obvious reason: The main character is a board gamer, although Banks simply refers to these as “games,” in a utopian society where games are taken rather seriously and the main character is considered one of the best game players in the world. It’s one of the more unusual concepts for a novel I’ve seen in a while, although the execution is limited in a few ways, including the opacity of that main character.

Jernau Morat Gurgeh is the player from the book’s title, living on the orbital station Chiark, where he dominates nearly all game-play, often attempting to challenge himself by breaking scoring records or achieving perfect scores because he so seldom loses. He’s given an opportunity in one game to gain an illicit advantage, which leads to an extortion attempt that puts him in the clutches of a government mission to the Empire of Azad, a vicious, despotic regime where a complex game, also called Azad, determines everything from social status to the identity of the next Emperor. Gurgeh is supposed to simply go and play the game as a guest, but studies and learns the game well enough to play competitively, which upsets the delicate hierarchy on Azad and helps create a broader conflict that spins beyond Gurgeh’s control.

The story does move incredibly well, even through periods of elliptical descriptions of game play, as Banks seems to have had a good knack for pacing (although it would have been great if he’d had a similar knack for chapter breaks). One problem he dances around, not entirely successfully, is the game of Azad itself. He didn’t actually make up a game, which would itself be as massive a task as writing a novel, but endeavors to describe the game’s components, mechanics, and strategy without ever telling us what the game is. (Maybe he invented the game in his head, but chose not to get too specific in the book, which would probably be smart because people would nitpick the game to death … people like me, I suppose.) On the other hand, the lack of specifics about the game made it hard for me to envision what was happening or to follow when Gurgeh pulled off strategic master strokes to win games he was supposed to lose or stage a massive comeback against multiple opponents working in concert to eliminate him – the latter of which reminded me at least a little bit of the strategy in the game Diplomacy.

The second issue that I had with the book was Gurgeh himself, who is as vague as the game he’s playing. He’s not two-dimensional, as Banks does try to get into the personality and ego of someone who is at the top of his field, used to winning, in search of challenges, and perhaps unable to see when he’s being played. However, he’s also drawn without much detail beyond his gamer persona – Banks gives us a very good idea of who Gurgeh is while playing Azad, or thinking about between sessions, but very little sense of his character beyond the game. The book hasn’t been adapted for TV or film – depicting Azad the game would be difficult, and I would actually try to completely rewrite the game play rather than convert Banks’ framework to the screen – but if it were, Gurgeh would need more depth to his personality beyond the games. He’s probably a bit of a conceited ass, which just barely pokes through the surface in the game (such as when he talks to the drone that accompanies him to Azad), but one who’s enjoyable to watch.

Where The Player of Games does succeed is in the crafting of the overall story of how the Culture wants to interact with Azad, which doesn’t get a full explanation until the very last page of the epilogue. It’s a game within the novel, Banks playing with the reader’s expectations by revealing bits of information over a long period before tying everything together at the end. That made it a fun read even with my criticisms of the main character and the game at the heart of the story – enough so that I’ll probably check out something else in the Culture series, since I don’t think Gurgeh recurs in any other novel.

Next up: I’m just about done with Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s Good Omens.

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→ April 3, 2019
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Childhood’s End.

My daughter has five ‘cycles’ in her English & Language Arts class this year, with a choice of four books in each cycle, usually tied together by a common theme in their subjects. We got the list last August, and I was pleased to see Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End, a book many of you had recommended but which I’d never read, on the list for her final cycle, coming up next month. I’d previously read three of his novels – 2001, Rendezvous with Rama, and The Fountains of Paradise, the latter two of them Hugo winners – but never this one, which I think many readers consider his strongest work.

It is … fine, I guess. It’s got an interesting conceit, certainly asks you to open your mind to some giant philosophical questions, and is heavy on the science. Like his two Hugo-winning novels, however, it’s written in such a detached way that there are no interesting characters and thus no compelling individual storylines. You read because you want to see how Clarke wraps up the big picture, but in my case, I never felt any emotional connection to anything or anyone in the book itself, not even when the entire human race is threatened with extinction.

Earth is visited in Childhood’s End by a highly advanced extraterrestrial race known only as the Overlords, who appear over Earth’s major cities, make contact via voice, and proceed to tidy things up for humanity, putting an end to war, famine, and disease around the world, acting as benevolent dictators with just a brief show of force to make their power clear. Their intent, however, is far less so, and under this Pax Overlordia human progress slows, both in the sciences, where the Overlords put a stop to all research into space exploration, and in the arts, where prosperity and lack of want quell the urge to create. One human manages to sneak aboard an Overlord ship bound back for their home planet, after a ‘séance’ that reveals the star system in question, but while he’s gone the true purpose of the Overlords’ visit and de facto occupation of Earth becomes apparent.

Clarke was something of a futurist, and major themes associated with that school appear in each of the book’s three connected yet clearly discrete sections, which function as novellas bound by setting rather than a single narrative whole. He was a staunch atheist who opposed both organized religion and the tenets of religious faith, incorporating the death of religiosity into this novel as he did in Fountains of Paradise. With the question of gods thus dispensed, he asks readers to consider what other meaning humanity might find in a universe without intrinsic purpose, using that as a loose segue to a middle section where he dances around the question of art – why we create it, and whether our urge to do so is a byproduct of the lives we live, ones with agony and ecstasy, with doubt and uncertainty. It’s a wonderful question, but Clarke abandons it before getting far enough to even create an interesting discussion within the novel itself, focusing instead on the closest thing the novel has to an overarching theme, which ties into the resolution of the main story.

I think after reading four novels I have a good sense of my own opinion of Clarke. He was absolutely brilliant, and able to bring complex ideas into his writing without making it inaccessible to most readers, but he had little to no interest in character development, and his prose was parched. This is the sort of novel I loved when I was a kid, because I could get caught up in the setting and the science. I enjoyed genre fiction at the time for its genre, and cared less about the quality of the fiction. I can’t read that way any more, and Childhood’s End struck me as childish, not in the quality of Clarke’s content, but in its aims. I ask more of a novel of ideas than Clarke is able to deliver.

Next up: I’m about halfway through Bill Lascher’s Eve of a Hundred Nights, the true story of his grandparents’ courtship and work as journalists in the Far East in the years before and during World War II.

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