Sorry, that person's shelf is private.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
my rating |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
||||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 098455050X
| 9780984550500
| B0039PT4BO
| 3.74
| 6,314
| Feb 22, 2010
| Feb 22, 2010
|
it was ok
|
Living in space is hard. Like, really hard. Like, super almost-impossibly-crazy-stupid hard. Leviathan Wakes has some great moments that illustrate th
Living in space is hard. Like, really hard. Like, super almost-impossibly-crazy-stupid hard. Leviathan Wakes has some great moments that illustrate the various hazards of living in space, and it underscores the importance of Earth’s continued existence to the otherwise estranged colonies and stations. Yet even it has a fairly optimistic outlook on our ability to harness the solar system for our needs. Containment, on the other hand, makes even starting up a colony on Venus an issue. Christian Cantrell goes for brutal realism when it comes to some of the challenges facing the Venusian colonists, even if he is somewhat less realistic in the technology and plot of this story. I found the technology in Containment somewhat paradoxical. They have quantum computers and nuclear fusion, but they still can’t communicate reliably with Earth? (There are other reasons for this, of course, but I won’t get into that.) And why does it take until someone like Arik comes along to develop artificial photosynthesis by using evolutionary algorithms? We already do that in robotics; why wouldn’t someone think to do that in biology? I can set those nits aside, though. It’s clear Cantrell has done the research regarding trying to survive in an environment like that present on the surface of Venus. He has plenty of cool science-fictional ideas, ranging from genetic engineering to robotics and cybernetics. In many respects, Gen V reminds me of the Supers from Nancy Kress’ Beggars and Choosers —so advanced they leave their progenitors in the dust. But Containment isn’t a book about the complications surrounding genetic engineering, or even a book about the challenges facing our society in the future. The society of Earth in Containment is practically non-existent. As Arik works on solving the mystery he discovers after recovering from a near-fatal accident, he stumbles across a secret bigger than he would ever have imagined. Cantrell pulls an M. Night Shyamalan (literally) and turns our frame of reference on its head. This twist should have been just another OMG moment in an already compelling story—except it wasn’t. As much as Containment is a clever vision that mixes environmental catastrophes with solar system colonization, Cantrell’s writing drags the story back down into mediocrity. His offense is one of the most mundane: telling rather than showing. In between chapters set in the present and flashbacks to the past, there are chapters consisting solely of infodumps about the colony and its history. Infodumps have their place in any story, and especially in science fiction, but there are classy infodumps with their own rooms and curtains that cover the window, and then there are the cheap, trashy infodumps that proposition you on a street corner while you drive by. Containment’s infodumps are, sadly, of the latter variety: very plain, by the book, and with all-too-little sex appeal. They read like something straight out of the backgrounder wiki or bible that writers often prepare for themselves prior to writing a story. Thus, while the infodumps unquestionably contain cool ideas and tantalizing visions of the future, they quench any momentum the story has developed and bring the plot to a grinding halt. Showing cedes the floor to telling elsewhere in the book too. Rather than demonstrate Arik’s feelings towards others, the narrator often resorts to explaining, in detail, Arik’s thought process. As with exposition, a little of this is fine and probably even necessary. However, Containment spends more time in Arik’s head or in the exposi-space in between than it does in action sequences or intense exchanges of dialogue. The conflict between characters here is watered-down and B-movie in its delivery: the minor characters like Cadie and Cam are either wooden or one-note in their stock reactions to everything. I loved the twist around which Containment pivots, and the mystery leading up to the reveal. It’s dramatic and believable, changing the direction of Cantrell’s plot and themes entirely will preserving a great deal of ground he has already laid. Arik’s solution is innovative and exciting, so there’s little reason for this book to be unsatisfying—except, alas, the writing. I just had a hard time enjoying the book, enjoying reading it. The ideas here are assembled nicely, but the work as a whole lacks the polish to make it truly shine. Containment is science fiction where that fusion between science and fiction hasn’t quite taken hold—plenty of both, but not quite in the right proportions. [image] Merged review: Living in space is hard. Like, really hard. Like, super almost-impossibly-crazy-stupid hard. Leviathan Wakes has some great moments that illustrate the various hazards of living in space, and it underscores the importance of Earth’s continued existence to the otherwise estranged colonies and stations. Yet even it has a fairly optimistic outlook on our ability to harness the solar system for our needs. Containment, on the other hand, makes even starting up a colony on Venus an issue. Christian Cantrell goes for brutal realism when it comes to some of the challenges facing the Venusian colonists, even if he is somewhat less realistic in the technology and plot of this story. I found the technology in Containment somewhat paradoxical. They have quantum computers and nuclear fusion, but they still can’t communicate reliably with Earth? (There are other reasons for this, of course, but I won’t get into that.) And why does it take until someone like Arik comes along to develop artificial photosynthesis by using evolutionary algorithms? We already do that in robotics; why wouldn’t someone think to do that in biology? I can set those nits aside, though. It’s clear Cantrell has done the research regarding trying to survive in an environment like that present on the surface of Venus. He has plenty of cool science-fictional ideas, ranging from genetic engineering to robotics and cybernetics. In many respects, Gen V reminds me of the Supers from Nancy Kress’ Beggars and Choosers —so advanced they leave their progenitors in the dust. But Containment isn’t a book about the complications surrounding genetic engineering, or even a book about the challenges facing our society in the future. The society of Earth in Containment is practically non-existent. As Arik works on solving the mystery he discovers after recovering from a near-fatal accident, he stumbles across a secret bigger than he would ever have imagined. Cantrell pulls an M. Night Shyamalan (literally) and turns our frame of reference on its head. This twist should have been just another OMG moment in an already compelling story—except it wasn’t. As much as Containment is a clever vision that mixes environmental catastrophes with solar system colonization, Cantrell’s writing drags the story back down into mediocrity. His offense is one of the most mundane: telling rather than showing. In between chapters set in the present and flashbacks to the past, there are chapters consisting solely of infodumps about the colony and its history. Infodumps have their place in any story, and especially in science fiction, but there are classy infodumps with their own rooms and curtains that cover the window, and then there are the cheap, trashy infodumps that proposition you on a street corner while you drive by. Containment’s infodumps are, sadly, of the latter variety: very plain, by the book, and with all-too-little sex appeal. They read like something straight out of the backgrounder wiki or bible that writers often prepare for themselves prior to writing a story. Thus, while the infodumps unquestionably contain cool ideas and tantalizing visions of the future, they quench any momentum the story has developed and bring the plot to a grinding halt. Showing cedes the floor to telling elsewhere in the book too. Rather than demonstrate Arik’s feelings towards others, the narrator often resorts to explaining, in detail, Arik’s thought process. As with exposition, a little of this is fine and probably even necessary. However, Containment spends more time in Arik’s head or in the exposi-space in between than it does in action sequences or intense exchanges of dialogue. The conflict between characters here is watered-down and B-movie in its delivery: the minor characters like Cadie and Cam are either wooden or one-note in their stock reactions to everything. I loved the twist around which Containment pivots, and the mystery leading up to the reveal. It’s dramatic and believable, changing the direction of Cantrell’s plot and themes entirely will preserving a great deal of ground he has already laid. Arik’s solution is innovative and exciting, so there’s little reason for this book to be unsatisfying—except, alas, the writing. I just had a hard time enjoying the book, enjoying reading it. The ideas here are assembled nicely, but the work as a whole lacks the polish to make it truly shine. Containment is science fiction where that fusion between science and fiction hasn’t quite taken hold—plenty of both, but not quite in the right proportions. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
2
|
Jul 11, 2012
not set
|
Jul 12, 2012
not set
|
Sep 27, 2024
|
Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||
| 0099529734
| 9780099529736
| 0099529734
| 4.08
| 852,364
| Dec 17, 1843
| 2009
|
really liked it
|
Some stories are so popular they have permeated culture to the point where almost everyone knows them, even if they haven’t so much as glanced at the
Some stories are so popular they have permeated culture to the point where almost everyone knows them, even if they haven’t so much as glanced at the source material. Such is the case with A Christmas Carol, which has inspired numerous adaptations in every medium imaginable. As a result, Ebeneezer Scrooge is a household name, and the basic plot of A Christmas Carol is a familiar one. The source material, however, is well worth the read. Charles Dickens tells the story with his usual skill for setting and characterization. In his hands, the redemption of Scrooge really does become a Christmas miracle. I confess I find the idea of dedicating the end of the year to a binge on good cheer somewhat hypocritical. Shouldn’t we just be good to people all year long? Scrooge, however, makes any twinges of misanthropy on my part look statistically insignificant. As the fact that his surname has become synonymous with his catchphrase, “Bah! Humbug!” attests, Scrooge is the ultimate antidote to Christmas cheer. For Dickens, he is also a caricature of the cold-hearted, supercilious Victorian businessman who is unwilling to give succour to the poor. Yes—you didn’t think Dickens would write a book without championing the downtrodden working, did you? I love this line uttered by Marley’s ghost: I wear the chain I forged in life....I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. I don’t believe in the afterlife. There is no promise, for me, of an eternity in heaven or hell. Some might suggest this leaves me less motivated to do good works—after all, I labour under no fear of eternal damnation, no hope of eternal paradise. I choose to look at it differently: this is all I get, so I better make the most of it. Nevertheless, I still find Dickens’ imagery compelling, and the message behind it equally so: Scrooge has forged the chains himself; they are of his own making. It is our actions by which we are judged (if not by a higher power, then certainly by other people), not our wealth or acumen or even, sad to say, our intentions. And for Scrooge, Dickens, and his contemporary audience, the idea of Scrooge’s glimpse at his afterlife—and the ghostly visitations that follow—certainly have an impact. A Christmas Carol is not religious in any strict sense. Dickens doesn’t name-check God, Jesus, or the angels. This isn’t about honouring the birth of the Saviour so much as instilling in Scrooge the value of Christmas spirit and, consequently, of being nice to people. While Dickens doesn’t overtly involve the Christian mythos, however, spiritualism and mysticism play a large role. Scrooge is, quite literally, scared into being nicer. As a narrative device, the visitations of the three spirits works extremely well. They split this novella into three clear episodes, each of which show Scrooge’s progression from curmudgeon to reformed man. The first ghost, of Christmas Past, provides context, showing how Scrooge grew from a lonely boy into a man who chooses money and business over the love of his life. Here, Dickens criticizes the Victorian “sensibilities” that have supplanted to the Romantic idealism of the previous century. He challenges the reader to entertain, for a moment, what Scrooge’s life might have been like had Scrooge chosen Belle, teasing us (and Scrooge) with a vision of her life with another man. The spirit shows Scrooge how the choices he made have brought him to this point. The second ghost takes over from there, showing Scrooge how people regard him currently. Two major scenes dominate this section: the house of Bob Cratchit, Scrooge’s clerk; and the house of Scrooge’s nephew, who is entertaining some friends. In both cases, Scrooge observes examples of Christmas merriment, the type of unbelievable joy and warmth that can only come from family and friends celebrating together. Dickens works tirelessly to humanize the lower class, to show that even the poorest families can have noble spirits and celebrate in the same manner as the wealthiest of families. Despite their poverty and the ailment of Tiny Tim, the Cratchits seem to have an abundance of joy. Both parties also mention Scrooge at one point—unfavourably, of course—just to hammer home the point that he is not well-liked and is the antithesis of the happy moments they are now enjoying. Scrooge’s reconsideration of his attitude is most evident when he begs the spirit for a glimpse of Tiny Tim’s fate. Suddenly the child he would have consigned to death as “surplus population” seems so important to him! The final ghost is supposed to be the most terrifying. Whereas the other two spirits were communicative, this ghost is a glorified tour guide. Oppressively silent and cowled, this ghost leads Scrooge into the future—or, at least, a possible future—one where he has died and no one is bothered. The final tally is taken, and Scrooge’s life—all that he has striven for—is worth, what? Some sheets? Some bad memories? Once again, Dickens’ message sneaks through: money isn’t worth it unless you have people to share it with, people who will benefit from you while you are alive and when you are gone. Scrooge’s redemption in so short a period of time, given how much of a curmudgeon Dickens portrays him as at first, is truly miraculous. I like to think it’s because, deep down, there is a tiny part of Scrooge that knows he should be nicer, should be more humane. All the spirits are doing is talking to this part, giving it voice. And is there really any doubt what the outcome of this book will be? A Christmas Carol isn’t compelling because of suspense; it’s compelling because of the way in which Dickens illustrates Scrooge’s arc. Moreover, in terms of its status as a perennial classic, there seems to be something about this book that makes it easy to adapt (the same can be said for Shakespeare’s plays). Scrooge’s story can be transposed into virtually any setting, from ancient times to the present day, and retold to the delight of any audience. This is what makes it endure, despite the gulf between Dickens’ contemporary Victorian audience and the audience of today. Dickens has never been afraid to pontificate in his other books, and A Christmas Carol is no exception. In this case, however, he can wrap it in the seasonal setting of spreading the Christmas spirit. The result is something rather beautiful. On one hand, this yet another treatise from Dickens on the inequities of the Victorian class system. On the other hand, it’s a cautionary tale of how our choices and our actions determine how we will be judged—in this life, and in the next. The caution comes with a potent reminder, one of hope: it’s not too late to make amends. N.B.: This edition also contains The Chimes and The Haunted Man, so I will probably read and review those sometime soon. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Dec 30, 2012
|
Dec 31, 2012
|
Dec 30, 2012
|
Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0356500896
| 9780356500898
| 0356500896
| 4.48
| 101,846
| Nov 27, 2012
| Nov 29, 2012
|
it was amazing
|
**spoiler alert** Harry Dresden is back, baby! Seriously, I’m going to drop major spoilers about halfway through this review. I’m not kidding around he **spoiler alert** Harry Dresden is back, baby! Seriously, I’m going to drop major spoilers about halfway through this review. I’m not kidding around here. After dying (or nearly dying) and solving his own murder as a ghost, Harry has returned to find his body in the care of Mab. Harry has not escaped his obligations as her new Winter Knight, and so Cold Days opens with a montage of his physical therapy—Mab trying to kill him in creative ways—and a party at the Winter Court in his honour. Harry refers to this as his “first day in the prison yard” and, to continue the metaphor, he smacks down one of the biggest and baddest fae he can find to show that he means business. Harry Dresden is most definitely back. The Winter Knight is the Winter Queen’s hitman for mortal targets. But Mab’s first assignment for Harry is to kill the Winter Lady, Maeve, who is most certainly not a mortal. Not only does this make it difficult for Harry to carry out his assignment, but he has to wonder why Mab wants Maeve dead—and whether it is in his and humanity’s best interests to comply. Of course, the truth turns out to be a good deal more twisted and complex than it appears on the surface. As Harry leaves Faerieland and returns to Chicago to sort this out, Jim Butcher delivers us another fast-paced and fascinating story with stakes reminiscent of Small Favor and Changes. Whereas Ghost Story forces Harry to confront how he has shaped other people’s lives, by seeing how his death and absence has affected them, Cold Days is about Harry confronting his new role as the Winter Knight. Suddenly, he is suspect, tainted by the touch of Winter. The mantle of Winter Knight changes its wearer, and numerous people warn Harry that he is going to turn into a sex-hungry, domineering, violent man who only exists to kill and fulfill Mab’s cruel designs. It’s just a matter of time, they say. Power corrupts. And Harry is scared, because he fears they’re right. He wants to resist, hopes he can resist, but with each passing hour he notices changes in himself—and others, like Murphy, notice it too. And Cold Days takes place on Halloween—barely a day and a half. How much will Harry have changed after a month? A year? Two years? This has long been a problem for Harry, though. Throughout the Dresden Files, forces have tempted him and tried to corrupt him. Perhaps the most potent example is the shadow of Lasciel, Lash, that lived in his mind for several years, trying to persuade him to use Lasciel’s denarius. So far Harry has resisted all of these attempts, something he chalks up to a strength of will and a knowledge that there is always an alternative: There’s always a choice…. That’s the thing, man. There’s always, always a choice. My options might really, truly suck. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a choice. Much has been made of the fact that humans have souls and free will, while other creatures—like Mab and Maeve and their Summer counterparts—do not. As recently as Ghost Story, Uriel stepped in to remind Harry that whatever else Mab might try—blackmailing him, cajoling him, coercing him—she cannot change who he is, cannot affect that essential core that makes Harry himself. Only Harry can do that. What started as a series following Chicago’s only professional wizard has turned into a much more epic exploration of optimism and the power of free will. This is all the more important after what happens at the very end of Cold Days. The last 25 pages of this book are off the chain and are entirely the reason I’m giving this five stars instead of four. This review has a spoiler warning for a reason, people. Mab, answering Harry’s eleventh hour summons, shows up to the battle on Demonreach. We’ve learned that Demonreach is a maximum security prison, built by the original Merlin, for dangerous immortal creatures. And Maeve and Lily have been working to undermine that prison’s security and trigger its destructive failsafe. Lily thinks she’s working against a contagion caused by the Outsiders, one that infects people and co-opts them. But Maeve has already been infected, and Demonreach’s destruction will only further the Outsiders’ plans. At this point, Butcher has already significantly expanded our knowledge of the Outsiders and how the Fae relate to the eternal struggle against them. And then Mab, through Murphy, kills Maeve. And Molly becomes the new Winter Lady. Oh. Em. Gee. Up until that point, I had been enjoying Cold Days. As much as I liked Ghost Story, my principle complaint with it had been that its actual plot was quite lacklustre; the book itself was only good because of how it advanced the overall series arc. This book doesn’t suffer from that problem: it both advances the series arc and has its own compelling story to tell. But in those last 25 pages, and in turning Molly into the Winter Lady, this book achieved another whole level of epic awesomeness, because the ramifications of these developments are stunning. Leaving aside the upheaval caused in the Winter and Summer Courts by Maeve and Lily’s deaths and the two new Ladies, let’s look at where this leaves Harry, Molly, and Murphy. Murphy has already expressed reluctance at getting involved with Harry because she will age but he—and Molly, as a fellow wizard—won’t. Harry is definitely attracted to Molly, but he doesn’t want to get involved with her. He feels that it would be a breach of trust, having known her since she was a child, despite Molly making it clear that such a change to their relationship would be OK with her—and that’s the other problem, because Molly is in love with him, but he doesn’t return the feeling. Now Molly is the Winter Lady, making her kind of Harry’s boss. And as we saw with Lily earlier in the book, it’s only a matter of time before Molly turns into a Maeve-like clone, with all the same urges and predilections. Much like Harry, she is doomed by the mask she wears—or is she? Butcher has suddenly made the stakes so much more interesting, something the series needed. He can only spin out Harry dealing with the challenges of being the Winter Knight for so long. Adding Molly’s struggle to the mix adds a new dimension. On one hand, it might make Harry’s job slightly more bearable, at least in the short term. On the other hand, it further amplifies the conflict between fate and free will and adds a new urgency to the ongoing theme of how one’s masks and roles change one. Masks and identity, much like the motif of free will, have always been huge in this series. Identifying things, naming things, has been half the battle in many cases. From true names that bind to the human-like forms adopted by gods and Dragons alike, the Dresdenverse takes nomenclature and identity very seriously. And this is another area in which humans differ so much from supernatural creatures. Humans change. Fae, demons, vampires, etc., do not. Oh, their forms and functions might change, as Kringle remarks to Harry at the opening of this book, as the stories about those creatures change. But Butcher takes the trouble of reminding us, time and again, that for immortals the flow of time has much less meaning. This is a result of their own stasis. Harry and his mortal friends have changed so much over the course of this series, whereas the immortals have remained relatively the same. It’s this distinction, in addition to that pesky free will, that makes humans so interesting and disruptive to immortals’ designs. Humans might not be the most powerful players, but they are the least predictable and the most mutable with time. At the beginning of this series, Harry Dresden was just a private investigator who happened to be a wizard. He saved Chicago, even the world a few times. That got him noticed, and gradually he began tangling with bigger foes and messier conundrums. He has had the Sword of Damocles over his head, been chased by Wardens of the White Council, been a Warden himself, and become the guardian of a semi-sentient island. Eventually he became the one who was feared, the big, badass Harry Dresden—though, for some reason, the bad guys continued to underestimate him. Now he’s the Winter Knight, the Winter Faerie Court’s mortal hitman, and his onetime apprentice has become the Winter Lady. They are on the forefront of a war against the Outsiders, who will stop at nothing to undermine reality itself. Cold Days marks yet another turning point in this series. The previous five books, beginning with White Night, have had Harry move from stumbling around in the big leagues to become a player in his own right. He is facing the consequences now, but more importantly, he is beginning to move from the big leagues to the bigger leagues, as he learns more about the purpose of the Fae and his own role to play in larger things to come. I’m quite looking forward to the next books—in particular, as much as I enjoyed this one, it was extremely Harry-centric, without much time devoted to the secondary characters. But I am looking forward to the next book, because Butcher just keeps delivering fantastic new twists and developments that advance the story and keep things fresh. After fourteen books, that’s saying a lot about a series, and it’s one reason I love the Dresden Files so much. My reviews of the Dresden Files: ← Ghost Story | Skin Game → [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Dec 23, 2012
|
Dec 23, 2012
|
Dec 24, 2012
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 3.91
| 114,627
| 1995
| 1998
|
it was ok
|
Since I moved to England this fall, I haven’t done too much travelling around the country. I’ve been to London a couple of times, neither of which I d
Since I moved to England this fall, I haven’t done too much travelling around the country. I’ve been to London a couple of times, neither of which I did much that could be described as a touristy; the same applies to my trips to Cambridge. I went up to Scotland during the half-term and had a good time there, but I’m looking forward to visiting a few other places around the UK. Until I do, travel writing like Notes from a Small Island will have to serve to whet my appetite. Bill Bryson is a brilliant writer. A Short History of Nearly Everything is one of my favourite books. Bryson has a deft touch to description that makes him an apt writer of non-fiction; he manages to make something that could be dull and make it come alive through anecdotes and humour. I knew he had done some travel writing, a genre that’s been on my mind while teaching AS Literature. So I picked this up during a trip to Waterstones and settled into what I hoped would be a very unique perspective on Great Britain. Bryson didn’t grow up here but has lived here for decades. Preparing to move back to the United States with his family, he tours the island one last time. The result is certainly unique, but not in the way I wanted. The prologue chapter is every bit as brilliant and entertaining as I had hoped it would be. Bryson relates his first days in England, in 1973. He describes butting heads with the formidable Mrs Smegma, the proprietor of a boarding house and perpetually disapproving of whatever Bryson does. He reminisces about his youthful awe over the differences between Britain and the United States, and it’s a delightful prelude to the beginning of his tour of the country twenty years later. I’d be exaggerating if I said that the book goes drastically downhill after that strong start, but it would not be wild hyperbole. Notes from a Small Island suffers from two chief defects. Firstly, as I noted above, Bryson is a brilliant writer—and, unfortunately, he knows this. Secondly, it turns out that his reactions to various places in Britain are very similar and often involve a lot of unfavourable comparisons to how things used to be. Bryson’s wit often seems to get the better of him here. Of course, there are plenty of moments when that humour works well and livens up what might otherwise be a mundane description of his travels through Brighton or Yorkshire. Unfortunately, it often seems like his humour is there to distract us from the fact that he isn’t actually talking about the particular place in question. There are segues into sexist ruminations on the differences between men and women (and he himself labels at least one such episode as sexist, as if that somehow excuses it). At least twice during visits to Chinese restaurants he makes comments that are, if not racist, then culturally insensitive. Such moments were enough to make me feel uncomfortable, particularly because I had so wanted to find this book funny. And throughout the book, he manages to portray himself as a short-tempered, intolerant, rude person who would probably make a terrible travelling companion. To be fair, he seems to be aware of these shortcomings and occasionally even apologizes for them. But he also seems to labour under the delusion that this makes him even more interesting rather than less. The second defect concerns how Bryson describes the way the places he visits have changed over the decades. In almost every case, he manages to point out how development and change has ruined a city. He laments the arrival of indoor shopping malls and the slow destruction of Britain’s hedges. He complains about the motorways, about the rail system, about the distribution and diversity of restaurants. It wouldn’t be so bad if each successive chapter weren’t just more of the same. It’s as if he set out not just to tour Britain but to find as much fault with it as possible in order to justify his relocation to the United States. For someone who claims to love the country—and he does make several keen observations in favour of Britain and its people—he spends a lot of time sounding like someone who doesn’t want kids on his lawn. It’s not all bad news. There is charm to be had in Notes from a Small Island. Bryson shares in common with certain humour writers that talent to transform what are assuredly mild incidents in their lives into wild, slightly absurd anecdotes that nevertheless have the ring of truth. These otherwise excellent moments are spoiled by how repetitive Bryson manages to make the book feel. After the first few chapters, the novelty has worn off. As I approached the end of the book, I was paying very little attention to what he was actually saying, because it felt like more of the same. Notes from a Small Island doesn’t replicate the sense of wonder and enjoyment I derived from A Short History of Nearly Everything. It doesn’t quite give me a sense of the country in which I’m living either. Instead, it’s more like a catalogue of Bill Bryson’s unfavourable experiences across Great Britain. It’s occasionally funny and occasionally charming but not the encomium of travelling through Britain that I want or need. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Dec 08, 2012
|
Dec 13, 2012
|
Dec 08, 2012
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||||||
| 0140274219
| 9780140274219
| 0140274219
| 3.59
| 96,337
| Oct 1966
| Sep 03, 1998
|
liked it
|
As I mentioned in my recent review of Jane Eyre, I have the pleasure of teaching an AS Level English Literature course (with a grand total of two stud
As I mentioned in my recent review of Jane Eyre, I have the pleasure of teaching an AS Level English Literature course (with a grand total of two students). For the prose study section, we are studying Jane Eyre paired with Wide Sargasso Sea, a combination selected by the teacher with whom I share the course. I had read Jane Eyre a long time ago and was happy to revisit it. I had never heard of Jean Rhys or Wide Sargasso Sea, but the description along the lines of, “Postcolonial take on Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester from Bertha Mason’s point of view” meant I was looking forward to it. Spoiler alert not for this novel but definitely for Jane Eyre. Let’s unpack that description, starting with the character of Bertha Mason (or, really, Bertha Rochester). She is the bogeyman of Jane Eyre even before we become aware of her identity. In that grand Gothic tradition that Charlotte Brontë emulates, Bertha is the mystery at the centre of the house that will bring Rochester’s careful facade of normalcy crashing down around him. She, not Grace Poole, is the owner of that haunting, diabolical laugh. That she is mad Brontë establishes beyond much doubt—the notorious attempt to burn down the house is but one example. But the backstory to that madness is more pithy than it is palatable—she is mad because she has to be mad, to make the plot work. Could there be more to it though? I suspect that I would not have been as disposed towards Wide Sargasso Sea if I hadn’t recently re-read Jane Eyre. In part it’s because this book is probably easier to understand within the context of its connection to Jane Eyre. However, it’s mostly because my recent re-read highlighted the flaws of Rochester’s personality—how his passion and vanity makes him selfish and somewhat controlling. Rhys saw these qualities as well, replicating them in the unnamed man who marries Antoinette Cosway and calls her Bertha. Then she adds additional cultural baggage to make the relationship and the romance all her own. This is where the postcolonial part of that description enters the picture. As in Jane Eyre, Bertha Mason hails from the Caribbean Islands. In Wide Sargasso Sea, she is not Richard Mason’s brother but instead the daughter of his wife by a previous marriage. And Bertha’s real name is “Antoinette.” Her late father was a slave-owner, and at the time of the book, Britain had only recently freed all slaves. As a result, the local Black community views Antoinette and her mother with suspicion and disgust, compounded by the family’s obvious fall from grace. Her mother exists in a state of withdrawn depression. These factors conspire to cause Antoinette to grow up in isolation, first with her mother, then at a convent school. Antoinette is a woman grown before she re-enters society and is almost immediately thrust into marriage by her stepfather. Antoinette belongs nowhere, a situation summed up by the label that the island’s Black community gives her and her family—white N-word. The colour of her skin, not to mention her heritage, means she is forever an outsider. Yet to the English who visit (and marry) her, she is just as much a foreigner. She has no concept of England as they do, very little concept of anything, really, aside from her limited vista and, perhaps, God. It’s this naivety, I think, that eventually pushes her husband’s feelings for her from apathy to outright loathing. Rhys provides a much more intense and sustained exposure to his feelings of betrayal and dissatisifaction with his marriage-for-means scheme than Brontë ever gives us with Rochester. In the sections of the novel told from his perspective, he wastes no time reminding us that Richard Mason deceived him, that he’s a nice guy who doesn’t deserve to be burdened by a woman who is apparently on some kind of countdown to madness. What really seems to trigger him, however, is Antoinette’s refusal to confront or even interact much with the real world. This reluctance to change on her part means that he views her as a child and treats her as such. He negates her as much as possible. In the middle of the novel, after she discovers that a relative has been sending him letters warning him of her impending insanity, he refuses to discuss the matter rationally with her because he claims she is too emotional, too volatile for such deliberation. His anger at the situation in which he finds himself blinds him to any reconciliation with Antoinette; she is not a person but a symbol of his discontent. During my recent re-reading of Jane Eyre, I paid a lot of attention to how Rochester treated Jane and the extent to which he attempted to impose his own worldview upon hers. This is a man who locked his mad wife in the attic and then agreed to marry someone else! Whereas Brontë focuses on Bertha’s state when she is at Thornfield, and how her actions (and very existence) affect Jane, Rhys is more concerned with Antoinette’s transformation and descent into madness. Though Bertha is an intriguing character, she is essentially a plot device. In Wide Sargasso Sea, Antoinette is a living, breathing, changing human being. As a companion to Jane Eyre, this is a thought-provoking work that highlights several important themes for careful consideration. Literature isn’t a vacuum; books can be conversations. On its own (i.e., if you have not read Jane Eyre—and why not?) Wide Sargasso Sea still works quite well. That being said, Rhys’ style can make this book feel a little inaccessible at times—in this respect, it reminded me of The Woman on the Edge of Time . This is a strong novel, but had it not hitched its star to a literary classic, I’m not sure if it would have had enough of an impact to stand on its own. Surely this is a moot point, though. And while I wouldn’t go so far as to call Wide Sargasso Sea an essential follow-up to your Jane Eyre experience, I suspect it is a far superior option to any possible sequels floating around out there à la Pride and Prejudice. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Dec 07, 2012
|
Dec 09, 2012
|
Dec 07, 2012
|
Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0099514079
| 9780099514077
| 0099514079
| 4.14
| 2,523
| Jul 24, 1958
| Aug 07, 2008
|
really liked it
|
Many people have recommended P.G. Wodehouse to me many times, and now I have finally read one of his books. I had no particular reason for choosing Co
Many people have recommended P.G. Wodehouse to me many times, and now I have finally read one of his books. I had no particular reason for choosing Cocktail Time as my first Wodehouse experience. I went to a used bookstore for the first time here in my new town, and at the back of the shop was a small bookcase full of very new-looking Wodehouse books. With no idea where to begin, I looked to the proprietor for some advice. He was the very idea of a used bookstore proprietor: older, with a somewhat detached air that made it seem like he was always slightly surprised I was still around—and, of course, he only accepted cash. My plea fell on deaf ears, though. He rebuked me, “I never give recommendations,” and proceeded to give a semi-helpful lecture on the different strands of Wodehouse’s oeuvre. So I shrugged and took Cocktail Time and Carry On, Jeeves. At least in the case of the former, this decision proved fruitful. Wodehouse might not have jumped to the top of my list of favourite humorous authors, but I can definitely appreciate his sharp satire and keen enthusiasm for creating zany characters and silly situations. Fred, Lord Ickenham, has a youth that belies his older appearance. He’s the kind of person who looks at a situation and then asks, “How can I possibly make this more interesting?” Never content to leave things simply to develop on their own, Lord Ickenham always has to stir the pot a little more. The plot gets going when Ickenham’s influence causes his brother-in-law, Raymond “Beefy” Bastable, to write a novel—also called Cocktail Time. Beefy has a beef with today’s youth, because one of them knocked off his top hat with a catapulted Brazil nut. The real culprit, of course, is Ickenham, who at the time had no idea it would turn Beefy into the secret author of a bestseller. Events continue to spiral out of control as more of Ickenham’s social circle becomes involved—and that’s just how he likes it. The action culminates in Dovetail Hammer with a tense auction for a fake walnut cabinet, an incriminating letter, and Ickenham’s hand in matchmaking several couples. It’s all masterfully executed in such a way that I never felt like I need to look behind the curtain and spoil my disbelief. The happy ending is almost assured by the novel’s light tone, but I enjoyed watching Wodehouse pull all the threads neatly into place. And the characters themselves are wonderfully uncomplicated—there are villains and rogues and schemers and senile old men. They’re all types, allowing Wodehouse to explore the variations within British society (and particularly within the wealthy and well-to-do). But as circumstances shift, the characters have to change too—Cosimo goes from wanting to reveal the real author to wanting to keep the charade of his authorship alive after Cocktail Time lands a multi-hundred-thousand-dollar movie deal. Several times, Ickenham’s own schemes go awry, and he is forced to improvise swiftly and skilfully. Wodehouse’s style is twofold. First, he is a master of what I would call whimisical description. He always knows the perfect thing to say—often a simile or, if no such simple beast is available, he springs for a metaphor—to elevate any description from mundane to amusing. And then there are paragraphs like this, which opens Chapter 12: OLd Howard Saxby was seated at his desk in his room at the Edgar Saxby literary agency when Cosmo arrived there. He was knitting a sock. He knitted a good deal, he would tell you if you asked him, to keep himself from smoking, adding that he also smoked a good deal to keep himself from knitting. The paragraph goes on to invoke comparisons to Stilton cheese and ghostly ectoplasm. Wodehouse’s vocabulary and diction are both dazzling, aided by the relative simplicity of the plot, which allows one to sink into the story and just enjoy the writing. Wodehouse’s second element of style is the snappy dialogue he writes for his characters. It reads like a comedy sketch, with short sentences and plenty of interruption as one character plays off another’s words. The omniscient narrator reveals what everyone is thinking, contributing even further to the sense of irony that practically saturates this thin volume. I don’t have much else to say about Wodehouse or Cocktail Time. It was a nice novel to spend a couple of days reading, and now I have a firmer idea of what Wodehouse has to offer. I’ll read the next one sometime in the next few months, and we’ll see how the relationship goes from there—I don’t like to take things too fast, after all. Beefy certainly waited a long time, and it worked out all right for him. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Dec 03, 2012
|
Dec 05, 2012
|
Dec 04, 2012
|
Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| B00A5TSV2A
| 2.86
| 7
| Nov 2012
| Nov 2012
|
liked it
|
Full disclosure: I received a copy of this story free from its author. Loves me the free short stories. At the time I write this, I have 196 followers Full disclosure: I received a copy of this story free from its author. Loves me the free short stories. At the time I write this, I have 196 followers on Twitter. I’m pretty sure most of them are bots of one kind or another, because that number seems rather inflated. I have 147 Facebook friends. I have 97 followers on Goodreads, though again, many of those may be automated people attempting to profile me or lie in wait to sell me things. I’d be interested in seeing a social graph of my Goodreads connections, in seeing how my various friends and followers are connected. As a mathematician, I’ve studied graph theory and love how its applications become more and more important as the Internet’s social layer deepens. Who talks to whom? And for how long? When it comes to the identities behind the entitites following my online activites, though, does it matter if they be human or machine? The latter might seem less real, less important, but perhaps the converse is true. After all, machines—or shall we say, algorithms—are often what make the difference in the online give-and-take. Algorithmic trading happens faster than humans could ever hope to follow. Similarly, algorithms following a human’s activities and reacting to those changes in reputation might have more of an impact than the slower, organic followers. “Snow Falling” taps into the recent trends of gamification and reptutation-tracking. It’s a world where the metrics of the online persona are everything, and all actions are worth watching, rating, reviewing. The more someone does something worthy of applause, the more their reputation rises, and the more they receive gifts and sponsorship that could make the difference between making rent or moving out. Though Robert Harken doesn’t go into much detail about the state of the world in this near-future, it feels very much like the general, somewhat bleak and dour atmosphere that permeates the post-cyberpunk pages of Moxyland or Virtual Light . Civilization hasn’t collapsed so much as let itself go, and the gap between the rich and the poor has become a wall guarded by wilful blindness. Harken splits the narrative into two streams. In the first, two newscasters follow the ascension in reputation of someone working under the alias “Snow”. In the second, an impoverished young woman named Kate labours as Snow to collect and sell as many gifts as possible to keep her and her mother alive while staying anonymous online. Apparently, that’s a terrible breach of etiquette, because the government pulls out an entire SWAT team just to find out Snow’s real identity. As Snow’s reputation swells and the SWAT teams close in on Kate, the story becomes a race to see who will fall first—and faster. It’s cool that we get to see the story from these two competing angles, and it is an efficient way for Harken to show how this world is subtly different without resorting to too much exposition. As the hysterical reaction to Snow’s anonymity demonstrates, this is a post-privacy world, where everything and everyone is watched at all times; in fact, their reputation depends on it. But this has its drawbacks, because there is no way to ditch one’s old identity and start anew. Or at least, if one manages to do that, one has to be careful not to garner too much attention, lest the SWAT team come a knockin’…. As a science-fiction story, “Snow Falling” does what good science fiction should: it speculates about our society and about the people in it and how all that might change in the future. However, the trappings that Harken uses to do this could stand some scrutiny. For example, we regularly see Kate enter her login details to assume her Snow persona, and her password is “deprecated”. Even in this era of computing that password—a dictionary word!—would not pass the sniff test. This, for an account that has attracted global attention for its skyrocket ascent to fame? Any such account would necessarily be the target of numerous hacking attempts. Kate seriously needs to rethink her security strategy. In many ways this story is a little over the top. There’s the bubbly, very false atmosphere of the newscasters, which reminds me a lot of the decadent and loud personalities of the hosts in The Hunger Games movie. Then there are the characters like the Deputy Vice Minister of External Affairs, and the antiphonal motto, “Disclosure begets honesty. Honesty begets accuracy. Accuracy begets order. Order is peace.” The whole story has a “Harrison Bergeron”, Kurt Vonnegut-like quality to it. That being said, I don’t see “Snow Falling” as a satire of post-privacy so much as an honest attempt to explore what some of the implications of a culture of post-privacy reputation munging might entail. In that respect, I finished this story feeling almost certain it would have worked better as a novel (or at least a novella). There are just so many little ideas packed in here, from Kate’s mother’s unjust arrest and wildly ironic rehab addiction to the system by which online personae receive gifts from sponsors (in return for doing … what … exactly?). As far as the world and its characters go, there’s enough for a novel here. The plot would need some thickening (so that it could then be stretched like taffy); as it is, the short length lends itself well to the atmosphere of tension that Harken creates, and I don’t think the same kind of “race against time” conflict would work as well if this became a novel—not without a few more twists and turns. But there is plenty here that hints at the deeper ideas Harken wants to highlight, questions about the nature of truth and the best way to use technology to facilitate democracy, and in a short story, highlighting is all that is possible. Although I might have issues with the length, I’m still satisfied by the story, and in particular the ending. It’s a tragic but poetic ending with just the right hint of hope. Kate might be beaten, but only temporarily, only set back rather than defeated. She has risen before, and she’ll do it again. Such are the vagaries of living by online reputation. Whereas much of the story highlights a news broadcast or Kate’s online actions, the ending is firmly grounded in the real world, with plenty of emphasis on the physical, even visceral nature of Kate’s life. It’s a reminder of the fragile and ephemeral nature of the online personae we create: Snow fades away because, for all her dazzling notoriety, none of the relationships she forged were meaningful or genuine (as we see in the tragic case of Amy_207). That’s not to say that online relationships are always shallower or less real than offline ones, just that they require the same type of commitments. The Web is still relatively young, and this is something we are just starting to figure out. It will be interesting to see how our online and offline interactions continue to intersect and overlap in the next few decades. “Snow Falling” provides a stimulating glimpse at one possible equilibrium, and one person’s struggle to game the system. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Nov 25, 2012
|
Nov 25, 2012
|
Nov 25, 2012
|
Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||||
| 9780007263073
| 0007263074
| 3.70
| 164,500
| Jun 12, 2007
| Jul 01, 2008
|
liked it
|
Supernatural creatures capture our imaginations for all sorts of reasons. Vampires are really very individualistic, singular monsters: they are an out
Supernatural creatures capture our imaginations for all sorts of reasons. Vampires are really very individualistic, singular monsters: they are an outward manifestation of our obsessions with mortality, sexuality, and appetite. Zombies, too, prey upon our fear of a loss of self and self-determination. Faeries, though, are a little different. Thanks to their firm grounding in folklore across Europe, with plenty of hints as to a larger society and hierarchy, faeries offer a reach source of material when one needs supernatural creatures with a little class. In Wicked Lovely, Aislinn is a teenage girl like many other teenage girls—except she can see faeries. They’re everywhere but ordinarily invisible. She can’t let on that she can see them, because that would attract their attention, which is the last thing she wants. So, naturally, the story kicks off when a faery manifests himself in human form to try to pick Aislinn up. Good going, Aislinn. Way to keep a low profile. The plot is fairly simple and easy to articulate: Keenan is the Summer King, but the majority of his power lays dormant until he can find a human to become his Summer Queen. To do this, she must pass a test by grasping the staff of the Winter Queen. But if she fails the test, she instead takes on “Winter’s chill” and becomes the “Winter Girl”, which is kind of like a runner-up position that involves serving the Winter Queen for eternity. And the Winter Queen, who happens to be Keenan’s mother, is definitely icy. Yes, it’s rather like a soap opera in its details, but Wicked Lovely managed to grow on me. Marr drives Aislinn’s internal conflict through an ersatz love triangle: Keenan finds himself drawn to Aislinn, convinced that she is the one who will finally pass the test and become his queen; Aislinn loves a slightly older boy named Seth, whom she has, until now, been keeping in the friend zone lest she risk a relationship-collapsing one-night stand. After drinking some faery wine on a (probably ill-advised) date with Keenan, Aislinn’s fate is sealed: she’s turning into a faery one way or the other; the question now is only whether she will accept the mantle of Summer Queen. But if she goes along with it and becomes Keenan’s queen, where does that leave her with Seth? Is there any doubt that Aislinn will end up as the Summer Queen? Marr tries her best to sow a few seeds, but it’s rather obviously the only fulfilling end to the story. The only question is whether Seth will figure in it at all. For what it’s worth, though, that question alone manages to keep the suspense ticking for the majority of the book. That’s fortunate, because there is little else going on here. Aislinn’s eventual investiture as the Summer Queen is supposed to be a big deal because it will release the rest of Keenan’s power. With it, he can beat back his mother’s Winter and restore the power of the Summer Court. Without it, no more summer, and the world freezes. It’s a neat idea, and I wish Marr had taken it further. It gets mentioned once or twice, but nothing significant really happens to establish it as a real threat. Instead, Marr focuses more on how Aislinn’s accession would affect her personally. Unfortunately, this can make Aislinn seem rather whiny at times. Her own personal comfort appears to take precedence of the survival of the entire world. Similarly, Marr doesn’t always show us the big picture in as much fidelity as I would like. There are four faery courts: Winter, Summer, High, and Dark. The latter are more aloof from the human world, so they don’t figure very prominently. Beira presides over the Winter Court, and Keenan is the Summer King, albeit less potently, ever since she killed his father. Beira’s motivations are somewhat sketchy—she just seems to be inherently cold and otherworldly, as one might expect a Winter faery. When it comes to portraying faeries, there is a fine line to be walked: on one hand, they are indeed of another world, and their motivations are not like human motivations; on the other hand, if they are central characters to the story, they have to feel like more than plot devices. Perhaps this is why so many other stories keep the faeries at arm’s length as much as possible. Don’t let my criticism dampen anticipation or enthusiasm for Wicked Lovely, though. It’s still lovely, and a little bit wicked, and considering it’s probably made more for the young adult crowd, it probably works quite well for its audience. I like that Aislinn takes charge of her problem and decides she will find a solution, and that the solution doesn’t involve giving in to some magical faery king just because he’s hot. She’s a good protagonist (even if she is a little bit self-absorbed). While it has its shares of plot snags and character quibbles, Wicked Lovely is what I’d call above average. Marr’s marriage of faery lore with contemporary adolescent issues isn’t seamless, but it’s still pretty interesting. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Nov 23, 2012
|
Nov 24, 2012
|
Nov 24, 2012
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0099518473
| 9780099518471
| 0099518473
| 3.99
| 1,910,436
| 1932
| Dec 06, 2007
|
really liked it
|
One of science fiction’s most enduring traits is its ability to ruminate upon the ways in which science and technology allow us to manipulate and re-e
One of science fiction’s most enduring traits is its ability to ruminate upon the ways in which science and technology allow us to manipulate and re-engineer society. In this sense, the distinction between soft and hard science fiction disappears—all science fiction is inherently social, for no matter how much detail goes into describing the technological advances that populate possible futures, the meat of the story is always the effect these technologies have on the people using them. Innovation begets change, and change is often disruptive—our future mirrors the past in this respect. Brave New World is rightfully a classic work of science fiction that demonstrates the potential for technology to help us reshape society. Aldous Huxley leaves us with a potent question: what kind of society do we want to make? Brave New World is deceptively simplistic in its structure. Top-heavy in exposition, the novel begins with a walking tour through the Central London Hatchery. Women no longer give birth. Instead, babies are grown and then decanted, an ultimate triumph of genetic engineering. Even before birth, each potential person’s life has been mapped out and determined by gene sequences and other processes. Some are destined to be Alphas, the intellectual elite. More will be Betas or Gammas, who provide the specialized labour that keeps places like the Hatchery in operation. More still will make up the bottom of the social pyramid, the Deltas and Epsilons with their restricted worldviews and even more restricted intellects. Huxley makes it very clear that this vision of the future is one based on the mass production, mass consumption ideals of twentieth century America and, in particular, Henry Ford. Everyone has his or her place, a cog in the great machine of civilization as it grinds onward in stability for all eternity. This is the nightmare of Huxley’s utopia, at least for me. It’s that inexorable predestination of one’s life and potential: you are a Beta, and that will never change. You will be trained, in your sleep and while you are awake, for a single job. You will consume the basest forms of arts and entertainment—high art having gone the way of history. Such weighty endeavours are too emotionally complex for these new humans. Tragedy and suffering have been sacrificed in the name of stability, and what few passions are allowed to citizens are carefully monitored and controlled through very specific outlets. While the World State is not the overtly totalitarian presence made manifest in Nineteen Eighty-Four, it is still a covertly authoritarian government in which people are happy only because they have been manufactured that way. Huxley then proceeds to show some of the cracks in the otherwise perfect society. Bernard Marx is an Alpha-Minus who has somehow developed a little too much individuality. In a society predicated upon sameness, this is undesirable. While visiting a Savage Reservation, where specimens of the old style of humanity continue to live their squalid, imperfect lives, Bernard makes a discovery that changes everything for him. John Savage (as he comes to be called) is the child of a modern woman who became trapped in the Savage Reservation after she was separated from her party and given up for dead. Bernard takes John back to England with him and proceeds to show him off to society (and show society off to him). Huxley sets up Bernard as the protagonist of Brave New World, but this proves to be a smokescreen. Earlier on, Huxley hints at Bernard’s vanity. Indeed, Bernard becomes caught up in the celebrity that he shares with John. It alienates him from those few people he numbered friends before bringing John to England. And when John’s behaviour becomes increasingly erratic and disruptive, Bernard is the first to seek to distance himself from the Savage in a bid to save his own skin. As the climax unfolds, any prospect of Bernard rising to the occasion and assuming the mantle of hero fades away with a whimper. Bernard is a diversion, a stepping stone towards the piece’s principal protagonist, John Savage himself. He is Huxley’s reminder that merely possessing individuality does not itself make one brave or honourable or heroic. John’s heroism is passive; he does not actually take down the World State or even offer serious opposition. Rather, he exists as the embodiment of what the World State does not offer: passion, a penchant for peril, and a spirituality that is practically profane in the face of a society that has conflated Henry Ford and God. Long before John’s final conversation with the World Controller, we see this in his dealings with Lenina Crowne. He falls for her but is not sure how to make his feelings apparent. Raised on Shakespeare and community ideas about marriage and proving one’s devotion, John is not prepared for Lenina’s extremely casual approach to sex—nor can he handle her commitment to promiscuity, any more than she could conceive of dedicating herself exclusively to him. For me, the most emotionally-charged and harrowing scene in the entire novel occurs when Lenina visits John’s apartment, strips, and throws herself at her. He freaks out and flies into a fit of rage that, in turn, causes Lenina to become more terrified than she has ever been in her entire life. After living entirely on-script, Lenina finds herself in an entirely new situation, and she can’t handle it. John’s reaction channels the darker aspects of humanity that the World State has worked so carefully to repress through its redaction of art, history, and literature (there is a reason these are called the “humanities”, after all). He calls her a strumpet and a whore, and then his verbal abuse escalates to physical violence: The Savage pushed her away with such force that she staggered and fell. “Go,” he shouted, standing over her menacingly, “get out of my sight or I’ll kill you.” He clenched his fists. This scene crystallizes the complexity of Brave New World. It’s a genuinely frightening moment, because John’s behaviour endangers the empathy I, as closer to him in many ways than to Lenina, felt for him up until that point. Huxley reminds us that there is nothing saintly about individuality or non-conformity. Similarly, while I continue to feel sorry for Lenina as a victim of her conditioning, the sinister subtext of her beliefs is laid bear here. As Bernard is fond of repeating, she sees herself as meat. The World State offers casual sex on a platter, but it’s still a patriarchal, heteronormative approach to casual sex. And it’s one where consent is valued less than conformity—Lenina and Fanny’s conversation prior to the former’s confrontation with John demonstrates this, and Lenina’s persistence in offering herself to John despite his hesitation reaffirms it. The idea that one might reject an offer of sex is so alien that it smacks of illness. The World State is a utopia. It is stable, free from war or strife. Even natural causes of distress, such as disease or disaster, are mitigated by propaganda, enforced hormone supplements, and of course, the ubiquitous and subliminally-reinforced use of soma. But if the World State is utopia, then I don’t want to live in utopia. It’s bland and boring—for those same passions that drive John to violence and to self-flagellation are the same passions that make life worth living. It’s stable but also stagnant, for even science is seen as an enemy, a potential source of innovation and thus disruption. It feels … like a dead end. Our society is far from perfect, but one of its best attributes is its constant state of flux. Everything is changing all the time, and we can try to predict what our world will be like in twenty or fifty years, but the truth is, we don’t know. The World State doesn’t have that luxury. Aside from the minor advancements and tweaks the World Controllers allow through the decades, it will keep grinding on in the same fashion for as long as possible. With no potential for dramatic paradigm shifts, for revolution or evolution, for the comforts of chaos, we can’t really call it living any more. Humanity is alive, but in the big picture, it has been reduced to little more than cellular automata. Brave New World is nothing short of a horror story. And it works because Huxley writes with such earnestness. He doesn’t try too hard. On paper, it’s terrifying, although if you think about it long enough and start poking enough holes, it starts to become almost as unrealistic as the post-apocalyptic world of The Hunger Games. Huxley’s World State has figured out what the Capitol has not: to avoid rebellion, make your subjects feel like they don’t need to rebel. Even when John manages to incite brief moments of passion in a group of identical Deltas, a little bit of soma and some riot police contain the situation quite easily. Rebellion has been bred out of people. Some people don’t drink the koolaid, and then the oligarchs who maintain the utopia have to deal with them. There are basically three choices: death, co-option, or exile (also known as the Omelas outcome). Bernard and his friend Heimholz end up exiled to an island where they will join fellow Alphas who have drifted too much towards individuality. Mustapha Mond, the World Controller for Western Europe, was like them once, but he chose co-option over exile and is now one of the ten wizards behind the curtain. I’d be on the island. Brave New World pits individuality against social stability and asks if happiness is more important than the freedom to be unhappy. Other books have asked this question before, and others have asked it since. Yet Brave New World endures long since we have left behind the pre-war climate of the 1930s. It endures because, as Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited , our society still seems to be on this trajectory. Mass consumption and mass production remain the rule. And, as much as Orwellian surveillance haunts us after September 11, 2001, corporations that want the public to consume still attempt to persuade us that the latest and greatest technology, fashion, or food will make us happier. That’s not to say that a Brave New World-esque future is inevitable. Like most utopian authors, Huxley glosses over a lot of the process involved in forming the World State (though, to his credit, he gives us a lot more than some authors do). As much as globalization and telecommunications have brought us together, I feel like it would still be very difficult to establish the level of control and uniformity that the World State has at the beginning of this story. I like my postapocalyptic menu as varied as the next reader, but tales of fractured societies and isolated governments seem a little more realistic these days than a fraternity of World Controllers. And I’m not just saying that because they’re reading this. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
2
|
Nov 16, 2012
not set
|
Nov 22, 2012
not set
|
Nov 21, 2012
|
Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0552152595
| 9780552152594
| 0552152595
| 4.00
| 156,812
| 1986
| Jan 01, 2004
|
liked it
|
It’s been a long time since I read The Colour Magic. I’ve read a few other Discworld novels but am now kind of trying to read them in order. Terry Pra
It’s been a long time since I read The Colour Magic. I’ve read a few other Discworld novels but am now kind of trying to read them in order. Terry Pratchett is a writer whose sense of humour aligns exactly with the type of humourous fiction I want to read: dry and absurd. From Discworld to
Good Omens
, Pratchett always delivers, and The Light Fantastic is no exception. I read the first half of this book with a sense of dragging anticipation. I was waiting for the book to begin. It took me a while to realize what The Light Fantastic reminds me of and, in so doing, allow me to change my mindset and enjoy it more. This book is very much like The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. There is a core group of characters—Rincewind, Twoflower, Cohen, Bethan, and of course, the Luggage—with occasional scenes featuring the antagonist or supporting cast. And this core group doesn’t so much do things as react to the various things that happen to them. Much like how Arthur Dent goes from lying in front of a bulldozer in his housecoat to tromping about the galaxy in a ship powered by an infinite improbability drive, Rincewind isn’t so much following a plan as trying to cope with the latest set of unfortunate circumstances in which he finds himself. Once I came to terms with this, The Light Fantastic became a lot more fun. I mean, that’s the point of Discworld: everything is just totally bonkers, from the elephants perched on the turtle’s back to the immense forces of magic. I think the word “romp” might have been invented solely to describe Discworld adventures. If I had to express any kind of disappointment about this book, it would simply be that there isn’t enough of it. It’s a slim volume. And there were segments where I wished Pratchett had delved more deeply into what was happening. For example, Death is present in this book, but in a more tangential capacity. Rincewind and Twoflower pay a visit to his hall but don’t stay very long, quickly showing themselves out. That’s understandable—I wouldn’t overstay my welcome at Death’s place either. But The Light Fantastic is very much a road comedy, and while that gives Pratchett plenty of opportunities for funny sequences, it also makes some of those sequences very fast, drive-by affairs. The calculus here is rather simple. Reading Discworld? Read it. If you haven’t read any Discworld novel, I probably wouldn’t start with this one. It’s a loose sequel to The Colour Magic, which I think was probably a stronger book (not that I remember all that much about it). So I would start there—or with another book later in the series, since this is one of those things where order doesn’t necessarily matter (combinations, not permutations!). [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Nov 08, 2012
|
Nov 12, 2012
|
Nov 08, 2012
|
Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0582461464
| 9780582461468
| 0582461464
| 3.89
| 2,617,926
| Feb 25, 1937
| 2001
|
liked it
|
I read this on a train back to where I’m living in England from a trip up to Scotland for a holiday. It didn’t take me long to read, and I can see now
I read this on a train back to where I’m living in England from a trip up to Scotland for a holiday. It didn’t take me long to read, and I can see now why it is so relentlessly studied in schools. The story itself almost seems designed not to be imposing, and the physical volume is much the same. The way my copy—a Longman edition for students, with extra notes and questions for consideration—was bound, as a slick hardcover built to withstand years of desks and bags and storage cupboards and everything else in between, with the sans-serif font staring out at me, definitely makes it even less imposing. Like so many classics, Of Mice and Men has become a book that can be packaged and consumed—classics meet mass culture. Of Mice and Men has a simple style but should not be taken as a simple book. It’s certainly worthy of being regarded as a good novel, for despite Steinbeck’s adherence to clear, descriptive prose and plenty of dialect-infused dialogue, there is a very serious, thoughtful subtext here. There are enough layers here for one to peel it very thoroughly over several readings. This style is not one that appeals to me that much, but Steinbeck demonstrates how, my own tastes aside, it remains as vibrant and viable as any other. The core of the novel is the relationship between the two main characters, George and Lennie. George is small, clever, and has dreams for the future. Lennie is big, too strong for his own good, and “simple-minded”. Theirs is a relationship that vexes many other characters: why does George bother sticking up for, and looking out for, Lennie? Steinbeck never explicitly addresses this, though he comes close, hinting that without Lennie, George would truly be alone and would staunch that loneliness with the same remedies as the rest of the farm labourers—booze and women. George needs Lennie to keep the dream of the future—their own plot of land—alive. Without someone else to work towards this goal, George would lapse into easier but emptier ways. The emptiness of that era, or at least that part of society in that era, pervades the story. Steinbeck’s sparse writing lends itself well to creating a sense of isolation on this farm. The world has stopped; progress has come to a standstill. To these men there is only the job: six days on and one day off, getting paid so they can spend it at the end of the week, moving on when it is time to find a new employer. It’s a dull cycle, and though we may gripe at our 9-to-5, we would be hard-pressed to say that we are worse off, with our Internet, mobile phones, libraries, and parks. I can only fault Steinbeck for not being as loaquacious and expansive as I would like. There’s nothing stopping him from expanding his narrative. As it stands, Of Mice and Men’s story suffers from the kind of aimless, “and then this happened” storytelling that lesser writers make intolerable. It works here, thanks to Steinbeck’s other stylistic choices, but it’s not my favourite type of storytelling. And I know one can achieve effects similar to Steinbeck but with purpler prose—Of Mice and Men reminds me of John Irving’s works, particularly The Cider House Rules. So I can see why Of Mice and Men has ruled the charts for so long. Like many classics, it doesn’t necessarily resonate with me personally—I think it’s a good novel, but it’s not one of my classics. Its brevity and simplicity mean, however, that reading it is not a chore. For that reason alone, this is probably a good novel to put on your list so you can cross it off and say, “Yeah, I’ve read that.” It’s another chapter in the cultural consciousness. And you never know … it might mean a lot to you. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Oct 31, 2012
|
Oct 31, 2012
|
Nov 02, 2012
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0012219886
| 9781607012757
| 3.77
| 742
| Nov 16, 2010
| Mar 17, 2011
|
liked it
|
I’ve always thought wizards are cool. If you walk up to me on the street and utter the word, “Fantasy” to me, the first thing I’ll do is give you a bi
I’ve always thought wizards are cool. If you walk up to me on the street and utter the word, “Fantasy” to me, the first thing I’ll do is give you a bizarre look and, if I don’t know who you are, probably say something along the lines of, “What?” But the second thing I would do is conjure an image of a slightly stooped old man with a white beard, flowing robes, and yes, an impressive, gnarled staff. From Gandalf to Belgarath to the Order and Chaos mages of Recluce and Candar, wizards have been around for a good amount of my epic fantasy reading. And when it comes to urban fantasy, my favourite such series, the Dresden Files, is all about a wizard. These figures, people who live and breathe magic, capture our imaginations because they embody the quirks and dangers of confronting and using magic on a daily basis. No matter how hard they try, it always changes them. Not every wizard has to be a greybearded old man, though. The Way of the Wizard is a celebration of the diversity of wizardry in storytelling. John Joseph Adams has curated an impressive number of tales from an equally impressive pantheon of writers, and each of them brings their own concerns, styles, and bailiwicks to the table. George R.R. Martin’s “In the Lost Lands”, with its medieval characters trying to get the better of one another, reminds me of A Song of Ice and Fire. Simon R. Green’s “Street Wizard” is reminiscent of his down-to-earth, “street” style. And then you have very non-traditional approaches to wizards, such as Jeremiah Tolbert’s “One-Click Banishment” (which I really enjoyed). This anthology is definitely not a run-of-the-mill sword-and-sorcery book. Combined with the quantity of stories, the names attached to them, and the breadth of themes and subjects they address, this makes The Way of the Wizard a potent anthology. With any anthology of this size, however, there is wheat and there is chaff. It’s really a numbers game; unless your tastes are remarkably broad, you’ll love a few of the stories here, like many of them, dislike almost as many, and outright hate one or two. Adams has elected to be inclusive, which means there are stories here that just won’t appeal. I’ll highlight a few of my favourites—some of them were easy to love, and others won me over. I quite enjoyed “How to Sell the Ponti Bridge,” by Neil Gaiman. To call myself a Gaiman fanboy might be a little too accurate, so I shan’t, but this is one of the best stories in the entire book. Reading it reminded me of Mr. Wednesday’s con games in American Gods. Though not strictly involving wizards per se, this story is about what wizards leave behind, and how people can make a profit off it. This is a case where I’m glad Adams was so broad in his selection criteria. I had previously read “Endgame” when it was nominated for a Hugo. It is, to date, the most enjoyable part of Lev Grossman’s Magicians universe. His two novels have been rather lacklustre, with the second a slight improvement over the first. Grossman seems comfortable writing shorter fiction; or, maybe it’s just that he doesn’t have time to transform all of his characters into whiny, self-entitled prats. Whatever the case, “Endgame” is the perfect combination of clever characterization and action-adventure. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention “The Word of Unbinding”, by Ursula K. Le Guin, because … it’s Le Guin. “Love is the Spell That Casts Out Fear”, by Desirina Boskovich, is one of those stories that grew on me. At first, I wasn’t a fan: Boskovich’s style of alternating seamlessly between our world and the other world was a little confusing. But her integration of Hannah’s issues between the two worlds was awesome. In the end, Hanna the wizard gives up everything she has and lets go of the world of magic, and it’s tragedy tinged with redemption. Once in a while I meet a short story in an anthology that really sticks with me. More often, I dredge up the spectre of a short story many years later, when I’m reminded of it by an event or another story. (“Oh yeah, I read a short story about that once….”) All of the stories in The Way of the Wizard are well-written and, in their own way, fascinating. None, in my opinion, are all that memorable (though a few, like “The Word of Binding”, have obviously demonstrated long-lasting appeal). I haven’t read other things by all of these authors, but those I have read have produced better work. This is a mixed bag of stories. It’s worth reading if you have the time and, like me, are slightly wizard-crazy. That connecting topic is a good idea—why aren’t there more anthologies devoted to wizards‽ And hopefully, among the vast offering in The Way of the Wizard, you’ll find a gem or two that reminds you of those days curled up in a chair, just you and your wizard of choice, working magic to win the day. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Oct 15, 2012
|
Nov 23, 2012
|
Oct 15, 2012
|
ebook
| |||||||||||||||
| 0435126024
| 9780435126025
| 0435126024
| 4.15
| 2,145,997
| Oct 16, 1847
| Jan 01, 1993
|
really liked it
|
**spoiler alert** I’m sharing an AS Level (sixth form) literature class this year, and the other teacher wanted to use Jane Eyre as the core prose tex
**spoiler alert** I’m sharing an AS Level (sixth form) literature class this year, and the other teacher wanted to use Jane Eyre as the core prose text. (This whole teaching professionally thing is also why I haven’t reviewed much lately! Working on it!) So I’m re-reading this after several years—and it has been several years too many! My opinion of Jane Eyre has improved—and it was pretty high to begin with. While I’m not quite ready to award it full marks, Charlotte Brontë continues to amaze and entertain with this story of a young woman struggling to do what she thinks is right. In my previous review, Cecily asked me if I thought this is a love story. I gave a conditional yes, reflecting upon how uncomfortable Rochester’s capricious and controlling personality made me. This was a significant source of discomfort during my re-read: I was not enjoying the forceful personalities of either Rochester or St John. I was not very enthusiastic about Jane ending up for life with Mr Rochester, considering not only how he treated his original wife (no matter how far gone she was) but how he treated Jane during their engagement. He seemed to be into her for him, rather than for her, and her needs and opinions were irrelevant compared to the opinions he had on her behalf. Does it matter that Rochester mellows out after going blind? Does he get redeemed enough to deserve Jane? She seems to want to be with him regardless, and of course, this is her story, and it’s her choice. Thanks to the convenient inheritance that Brontë drops on her, she’s set for life and has no need to marry. Indeed, maybe that’s why Brontë chose to give Jane the inheritance—to remove any doubt in the reader’s mind that Jane’s reasons for marrying Rochester were anything other than love. (That being said, Jane’s strong sense of duty and loyalty might be motivating factors as well—she may feel compelled to care for Rochester because of their past association and the fact he has so few people left to care for him.) It seems like Brontë has as much to say about duty as she does love. After all, that’s what motivates Rochester to care for his wife for all these years. That’s what causes Jane to leave Thornfield, and ultimately it’s probably why she returns. Brontë portrays Jane as someone who escapes the unfortunate circumstances of her birth through that heady combination of luck and determination. She makes the best of her time at Lowood. She finds a good position, and when she decides to leave, she strikes out with nowhere to go and no money to her name. Jane has balls. Jane Eyre is very much a novel of serendipity and circumstance. It is almost classical in some ways, with Rochester’s eventual semi-tragic fate wrapped in a happy ending for the both of them. But as the title implies, it’s actually just the coming-of-age story of a young woman who finds what she sees as love even though she is not conventionally attractive. Jane has her flaws—she is awfully proud of her integrity, and is quick to judge the less constant nature of others—but I can’t help but like her, just as I like the book in which she stars. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Sep 24, 2012
|
Oct 2012
|
Sep 21, 2012
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0857662635
| 9780857662637
| 0857662635
| 3.44
| 3,074
| Aug 02, 2012
| Jul 31, 2012
|
really liked it
|
The robot apocalypse pops up all the time in science fiction, and with good reason. Humans are generally bad at getting along with each other; sharing
The robot apocalypse pops up all the time in science fiction, and with good reason. Humans are generally bad at getting along with each other; sharing this planet with intelligent life of an entirely different variety would probably not go down well. Isaac Asimov, of course, famously developed three laws of robotics that were designed to avoid android armageddon. All of them were designed to sanctify human life, to make it inviolable in the eyes of robotkind. Then, Asimov proceeded to demonstrate how such laws could go horribly wrong. vN reminds me a lot of Asimov’s robotics stories. It is the journey of its protagonist, Amy, as she figures out who (and what) she is in a world with both robots and humans when she, a von Neumann robot, discovers her anti-human-violence failsafe doesn’t work. Instantly a pariah and a fugitive, Amy goes on the run and winds up in the company of an itinerant vN. Oh, and she has the memories and personality of her grandmother inside her … because she ate her grandmother. Yeah. Of course, unlike Asimov, Madeline Ashby is great at women characters. It really shows with Amy, who makes or breaks the book. In the first chapter, where the narration follows the human Jack and his concerns for his vN daughter, I was still ambivalent about vN. I was wondering where it was going and when Ashby would start providing some more background into the history of vN and the terminology she was subtly slipping into each paragraph. After Amy’s confrontation with and consumption of Portia, I was hooked. It became difficult for me to put vN down, because I needed to find out what Amy was going to do next. I like Amy. The entire world turns against her, and she doesn’t whine. After accidentally getting involved in a jailbreak, she goes on the run with Javier. He iterates (the process by which vNs spawn smaller copies of themselves that will grow into new people as they absorb vN food), and his son Junior is injured while they escape capture. They get separated, and Amy finds herself with Junior in her care. So she assumes a false identity and starts making money to rectify what she perceives as her fault. And this is where it gets really interesting, because Ashby uses Javier to remind us that vNs aren’t human and to demonstrate that Amy is special. Javier doesn’t really care that Junior has “bluescreened”—he’ll just iterate again in a few months. I love it. I love that after spending so much time convincing us of the veracity of Amy’s vN emotions, Ashby challenges that perspective by showing us Javier’s transparent lack of compassion for his own progeny. Thanks to his failsafe, it is impossible for him not to love humans, to harm humans, to watch humans get hurt. But he couldn’t care less about other vN, even his own children, and he is brutally honest with Amy about his conception of vN emotions. He knows his are simulated—and he points out that human emotions are also simulated, chemically—and therefore doesn’t view them as real. The conflict between Amy and the government, as well as the one between Portia and Amy, speaks to that tension between humanity’s need for homeostasis with the vNs and the vNs’ very sucky position in society. Portia’s methods are reprehensible, but her cause might be just. vNs aren’t exactly slaves of the Cylon variety, but they are not respected and not treated fairly by the vast majority of society; the term second-class citizen comes to mind. Since Amy is both our protagonist and a vN, we are largely encouraged to feel empathy for their plight (or at least, I was)—but I don’t think it’s that simple. Thanks to the actions of Javier and other vNs, it’s possible that Amy is an exception rather than the rule—maybe vN aren’t really ready to be free after all. Thanks to this complexity, Ashby avoids turning vN into anything so banal as a “message” novel (aside from the hopefully self-evident message that hunting people down because they are different is wrong). There is plenty of room here for interpretation: maybe vN aren’t people so much as very well-programmed simulacra. (Then again, what are people?) Amy is special though, and several characters point out at different times that Javier seems to have accompanied her because her behaviour and emotions are so human-like. Is this why she doesn’t seem to have a failsafe? Or is that a result of absorbing Portia? Ashby unspools the mystery behind Amy’s estranged grandmother and the future of vNs quite slowly. I wasn’t satisfied with all of her explanations (and by that, I mean I didn’t really understand parts of the ending!), but I really enjoyed the ride. I also wish that vN had more tangible antagonists. This seems to be a common problem with fugitive fiction: the enemy all too often manifests in the form of minions, police officers and troopers and bounty hunters sent to pursue the fugitive. With no scenes in the evil lair, all we know is that “the government” is out to get Amy. It’s an effective but rather lazy crutch of storytelling in what’s otherwise a very well-designed story. I’ve raved before about how much I love the “hard” SF, those stories that go on to no end about the technobabble explanations behind the tech du jour. Ashby doesn’t do that. This might not be great news for me, but I think it helps make the story more accessible to people who are more tentative about robot fiction. It’s not quite possible to read vN as an ordinary story about a girl on the run—but in many ways, that’s what it is. She just happens to be a robot, and a quirk of her robotics happens to be why she’s on the run. Ashby’s focus on the social implications—for Amy and her family and the world—of Amy’s run help to make vN a more welcoming and appealing book. Hard science fiction certainly has its place, but it’s nice to see that someone can do robots-with-feelings without all the extra vocabulary and still produce a good story. When it comes to writing about robots, it has, in the end, kind of all been said and done. vN manages to dust off the old tropes and give them a shiny new coat of paint, however. There is probably a line between human and robot emotions. Hell if I know what it is. My reviews of the Machine Dynasty series: iD → [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 31, 2012
|
Sep 02, 2012
|
Sep 01, 2012
|
ebook
| ||||||||||||||
| 0857661949
| 9780857661944
| 0857661949
| 3.12
| 2,521
| Jan 01, 2011
| Jan 05, 2012
|
liked it
|
Empire State is a frenetic concoction of noir mystery, Prohibition-era gangster-style criminal conspiracy, and Golden Age superhero fiction. Reading i
Empire State is a frenetic concoction of noir mystery, Prohibition-era gangster-style criminal conspiracy, and Golden Age superhero fiction. Reading it is like sitting in a bare room, concrete walls and a single steel table with an uncomfortable chair, as the clock above the door ticks steadily towards 3 AM. It’s minimalist and rough, sometimes surreal and always uncomfortable. Just when I thought I had it figured out, Adam Christopher changes gears and leaves me in the dust. I like that I was always kept guessing in that sense. However, Empire State’s characters and story also leave much to be desired. I’m not sure how great a book this is, but it’s definitely a very interesting experience. Without spoiling too much of the story, Empire State is basically about the relationship between two alternate universes. The first universe is like ours, except that New York in the 1930s came with two superheroes attached. The second universe, the Empire State, is itself a distilled, distorted version of the first, even more different from our own universe. (And don’t worry, Empire State obeys the airship law of alternate universes (TVTropes), though it’s somewhat justified here because of the time period.) Although mysteries were my first novel love, way back in grades five and six, I never made it as far as the noir and pulp traditions—I stayed safely in the posh land of Poirot and Holmes and their ilk. Empire State features a private detective named Ray Bradley. He’s exactly what one would expect: short on funds, caught in the middle of an interminable separation/divorce with a woman he might still kind of love, not quite an alcoholic but well on his way to being dependent on the bottle, and possessed of slightly too much in the way of integrity to make his way in this broken town. Unlike his counterpart from New York, Rex, I found Ray a rather tolerable and sometimes even entertaining protagonist. Christopher aptly bridges the noir genre with speculative fiction. Though I’m not really qualified to judge the noir aspects of Empire State, I think that in general this is a very natural union. The science fictional parts of Empire State are almost but not quite Lovecraftian in atmosphere, almost but not quite steampunk in implementation. Both of these styles are compatible with the dreary, gritty atmosphere of the noir realm, that sense that the world is a tough, unyielding place of grey skies and unceasing rain. On top of this union Christopher adds the superhero element. The Skyguard and Science Pirate were once a crimefighting duo in 1930s New York. Then they became bitter enemies for reasons no one knows. Their final, climactic fight is related directly to the origins of the Empire State, and the identities of the Skyguard and Science Pirate play a crucial part in the resolution of the book. These heroes are of the technological, Batman kind rather than the alien or mutant kind: their powers are marvels of science and engineering, not natural gifts. This all fits with the setting Christopher has created. Some other reviews have questioned whether these superheroes are necessary (or, along similar lines, lamented the way their stories are sidelined and shoehorned into the rest of the plot). I can see the reasoning behind those critiques, but I personally didn’t mind the superhero part of the plot. Could Christopher have achieved the same ends with different means? Perhaps. But the inclusion of superheroes doesn’t hurt anything. Instead, I am more disappointed in the characterization—of the superheroes, yes, but also the rest of the characters. Most of the time, the narration follows Rad, occasionally jumping to a different character. Sometimes their actions come out of the blue—Carson’s twist during the climax is a good example of this. With other characters, like the anomalous Katherine Kopek or the Science Pirate, are complete ciphers without so much as a motivation call their own. Christopher has an interesting in-universe excuse related to the paradoxical nature of the Empire State’s existence. Even so, as someone who reads books primarily for the juicy drama of relationships between real human beings, this leaves much to be desired. I still liked Empire State, mostly because I love what Christopher attempts to do with these universes he has created. I’m not just talking about worldbuilding (a term about which I feel increasingly ambivalent these days), though I can see why Angry Robot decided to use it as the basis for the WorldBuilder project. I’m referring to the way Christopher has intentionally taken these disparate but very compatible genres of noir, superhero, and alternate universe and fused them into a recognizable, workable story. The plot is sometimes lackadaisical in its pacing, and the characters irritate me, but the framework on which these two elements hang is itself very intriguing. But better a novelist should take a stab at something clever and original and fascinating than play it safe. Empire State doesn’t succeed in a marvellous fashion—but its very attempt, and the creativity behind it, deserves high marks. It’s a story that should appeal to a broad audience—fans of noir mysteries or alternate universe shenanigans will probably find this a must-read. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 28, 2012
|
Sep 30, 2012
|
Aug 30, 2012
|
ebook
| ||||||||||||||
| 0857660926
| 9780857660923
| 0857660926
| 3.69
| 1,929
| Sep 02, 2010
| Apr 07, 2011
|
it was ok
|
Thanks to the Internet, it’s very easy to transmit information around the world much faster than it used to be. It’s also easy to spread misinformatio
Thanks to the Internet, it’s very easy to transmit information around the world much faster than it used to be. It’s also easy to spread misinformation. “Democratization” of the Web and media aside, we still rely on authorities and experts for our news—and often their job, even if they are doing it properly, is made much more difficult by secretive and uncooperative governments and organizations trying to obscure what’s really happening on the ground. It’s the age old story, whether perpetrated by an autocratic regime in the Middle East or a corrupt official in North America or colony and resource extraction planet out in the middle of nowhere. In Embedded, Dan Abnett comes up with a novel way to circumvent such circumspection: journalist Leo Falk goes along for the ride by piggybacking the mind of a soldier. His body suspended in a sensory deprivation tank, Falk’s consciousness takes up residence in the back of Nestor Bloom’s brain. After a sneak attack by terrorists devastates the teams travelling with Bloom, Falk finds himself in control of Bloom’s body, facing the daunting task of regrouping the few survivors and figuring out what’s happening fast enough to stay a survivor. It’s a gritty, fast-paced, high stakes thrill ride as Falk races to discover who was behind the attack and why—wondering, all the while, whether he or Bloom or both of them will ever make it out alive. Mental eavesdropping. It has so much potential as a plot device. In this case, Bloom was aware of and consented to the eavesdropping. The tech people who make this possible for Falk never really explain how it works, so I don’t know if it requires the host mind to be equipped and prepared for such a connection—if it didn’t, that would be on hell of a way to spy. Similarly, there are all sorts of psychological issues when it comes to inhabiting—or cohabiting in—someone else’s body. So it is frustrating that Abnett spends very little time investigating any of this, choosing instead to focus on a straight shoot-em-up style action novel with very little in the way of subtext. Look, we get it: war is hell. Corporations do evil things because they need to keep their discoveries secret so they can make a profit. Everyone lies. Let’s move on, shall we? Let’s do something. Embedded sure takes its time getting started. Falk begins leisurely meandering about Eighty-Six, sticking his nose into places that don’t want him around, before falling in with the right group of people to send him on this little assignment. Their motivations aren’t all that complex—essentially they want the truth out there, and they also want to be the first ones to break the story. Yet, as with the other things I noted above, Abnett spends precious little time delving deeper into the ethics and ideas behind this type of journalism. It’s more like, “Falk is a journalist. People don’t tell him the truth. Oooh, look, a gun.” Abnett seems more interested in the military part of military science fiction than the science fiction part. And that’s fine to a certain extent—I’m aware he’s a Warhammer 40K author, and his style is definitely reminiscient of a shared universe franchise author. But it’s not just style. Embedded lets me down because it never really accomplishes anything. Let’s consider Leo Falk for a moment. Yes, analyzing the protagonist—scary stuff. Let’s look at his relationships. He’s reunited with Cleesh, someone he has worked with before but has never met in person, since she spent all her time working remotely from a space station. They talk, she gets him this gig, and then he doesn’t see her again. He develops a rivalry that evolves into some kind of tenuous mutual respect with another reporter, Noma, also known as “green hiker girl”. He is a jerk to just about everyone else he can possibly manage to offend. And then there’s Nestor Bloom. Bloom talks to Falk for about a minute, enough to tell him that Bloom is not interested in talking—because talking to yourself is not advisable when you, and everyone else around you, are heavily armed. So it would be inaccurate to say that Bloom and Falk have any kind of relationship, but at one point Falk is the only thing keeping Bloom’s body alive. Despite all that rich potential for serious explorations of philosophy of mind and the sense of self, all we get a few wry moments of introspection at the end of the book, as Falk wonders at not having any scars on his own body. It’s better than nothing, I suppose, but it’s still not much. The actual plot is little better. The attack that wipes out Bloom’s squad and nearly kills Bloom and Falk is over something “big”, as in significant. This is obvious, because nothing else would motivate the Central Bloc (ooh, such an original name for an antagonist!) to turn the cold war on Eighty-Six into a legitimately lukewarm one. Instead of dropping tantalizing hints and making it more central to the plot, though, Abnett prefers to have Falk stumble through a few hundred pages of live fire before getting a glimpse of the thing. It’s alien tech, obviously (what else would it be), but if you’re hoping for so much as a bare description of what it is (or might be), you will be out of luck. Even the fact that it’s alien tech is never so much as whispered, but Abnett is at least competent enough to telegraph it in some fairly heavy dialogue. I miss the good old days when the alien tech was actually a part of the story, the bad guys weren’t faceless factions sending soldiers after the good guys, and there protagonist’s relationships were more than a set of names and some vague feelings associated with each of them. But I guess that’s too much to ask for in this case. Embedded has some nifty action sequences and definitely comes up with an interesting premise. Its execution, in plot and character, comes up way too short. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 26, 2012
|
Aug 27, 2012
|
Aug 26, 2012
|
Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||
| 3.87
| 57,821
| 1998
| Aug 27, 2002
|
really liked it
|
This is the second work of historical fiction I’ve read in a month that has a colour in its title and features art as a significant component of its s
This is the second work of historical fiction I’ve read in a month that has a colour in its title and features art as a significant component of its story. The other,
Sacré Bleu
, was an irreverent “comedy d’art” by Christopher Moore. My Name is Red definitely isn’t that. Good thing I like to read widely! My Name is Red opens with the voice of a dead man. Elegant Effendi describes the sensations of knowing he is dead, of his spirit decoupling from his body. He hopes his murderer will be found and brought to justice (the more creative the better). From there, Orhan Pamuk goes on to hop perspectives every chapter, weaving a story of magic and mystery in sixteenth-century Istanbul. Centred around a workshop of miniaturists who are working on a somewhat controversial book for the Sultan, My Name is Red dips into some of the questions raised in the sixteenth century as the Ottoman Empire continued to coexist uneasily next to the Christian nations of Western Europe. The time is the past and the setting is, as always, that battleground between change and tradition. This book reminds me a lot of The Name of the Rose . Superficially they have so many similarities: both are translations, one from Turkish and one from Italian. Both are set in the past and involve a murder mystery. Both are written in a style that is, if not challenging, then definitely demanding of one’s full attention. Beyond the surface, though, the striking similarities continue: both of these novels are about the tension between different schools of thought. In The Name of the Rose it’s the growing chasm between science and religion, between the empirical principles of Bacon and Occam and the spiritual communion of the Franciscans and Dominicans. In My Name is Red it’s the clash between the older, traditional ways of depicting people in Islamic art and the new style imported from Venice—a style that, some worry, comes too close to the real thing. And in both these novels, the murders are inextricably linked to these questions of style, change, and tradition. I can see why many people express frustration over this book’s narration. It’s not the easiest book to read. Translated from Turkish, My Name is Red doesn’t always have the same kind of unity and coherence that a novel originally written in English might have. Moreover, Pamuk has very little time for dialogue. Most of the book is either description or introspection from the narrator to the reader. My Name is Red reminds me of a stage play. In each scene, several actors would be in tableaux while the narrator of the scene delivers an extensive monologue. Then, with a flourish, he or she triggers the action, the other actors unfreeze, and the plot drags forward for a few minutes before the narrator re-assumes control. Although i understand why some people see the narrators as flat, I thought the moments when they comment on their actions, their drawings or letter-writing or courting, were quite confessional. Just the character and I in a musty, dark room, as the character hurriedly scribbles out the journal of their last days. One of them is a murderer …. Thanks to the way Pamuk structures the novel, attempting to discover the identity of the murderer is half the fun. The murderer narrates both as himself and as his ordinary miniaturist alter ego, always careful never to reveal anything about his actions as a miniaturist that would shed light on his identity. So, for example, Pamuk has each of the three suspect miniaturists tell three parables labelled Aliph, Bet, Djim, allowing the murderer to refer to these stories without revealing which miniaturist he is. But the clues are there, getting louder as the novel approaches the climax and the identity of the murderer is revealed. I was sure it was one miniaturist pretty early on—and I was wrong. So it goes. The miniaturists’ chapters are also very interesting looks at the ongoing debate regarding Islamic versus Western art. Is it sacrilege to paint in the Frankish style? What is style, anyway? Is it sacrilege to have one’s own style, rather than labouring to faithfully reproduce the old pieces as flawlessly as possible? True flawlessness, of course, just like true creativity, is the domain of Allah and not something a mere human artist could achieve. These questions spill over beyond the miniaturists’ chapters, however, and into the concurrent love story between Shekure and Black and the murder mystery itself. The ideas Pamuk juggles are particularly appropriate to the context of the story, but they are timeless and still relevant today. Above all else, Pamuk manages to convey how personal the process of making and rendering art can be. Making art is a thoughtful, time-consuming activity that can be as emotionally draining as it is physically. The crises of faith experienced in My Name is Red are all too real. They happen as a result of the expression of self necessary for art to be possible: what you make, and how you make it, says something about yourself and your convictions, what you believe and the values you hold dear. To set that down on paper, in ink, in stone, on canvas, for others to view and discuss and rip apart … it’s a little terrifying. Worse still, in the act of such creation, you begin to think about these beliefs and sometimes even question them—or, through the influence of other creators, you realize that there are other sets of beliefs out there. Which ones are true, better, practical, enriching, etc.? Does it even matter? So, you know, art is serious business. Serious enough in this case that someone was willing to kill Elegant Effendi for questioning if what they were doing was compatible with the wishes of Allah. On one hand, such actions seem like the same old, same old internecine and destructive effects of organized religion—but that would be a disingenuous and uncharitable evaluation. For on the other hand, the conflict in My Name is Red is less about religion and more about personal values that hinge upon the intersection of history, politics, faith, and art. It took me a while to read My Name is Red, partly because I did so while moving to another country and partly because of its heavily stylized narration. But read it I did. While it did not necessarily excite me or enthrall me in the same way The Name of the Rose did, its meditations on the nature of art and artistry, style and sacrilege and sacrifice, are still interesting. It is a deep and thoughtful book; as long as you are willing to spend the time and effort on it, it is also a rewarding one. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 21, 2012
|
Aug 25, 2012
|
Aug 23, 2012
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||||||
| Liu, Ken
*
| 4.14
| 1,122
| Sep 2011
| Sep 01, 2011
|
liked it
|
So we can’t go back in time—but what if we could see back in time? Glimpsing the past is almost as common as stories involving actual time travel. In
So we can’t go back in time—but what if we could see back in time? Glimpsing the past is almost as common as stories involving actual time travel. In The Man Who Ended History, however, Ken Liu puts a very intimate and emotional twist on reliving and remembering the atrocities of war. Coupled with the archaeological premise that these observational trips to the past are always a one-time affair—each act of observation destroys the particles that allow the observation to happen—this allows Liu to explore the ramifications of allowing the past to intrude on the present so vividly. I’ve always been uncomfortable with the way we learn history in Ontario high schools. Grade 10 history is compulsory, but it seems like history ends after World War II—we just spend so much time on it. And yeah, it deserves to have a lot of time spent on it; it was a big deal. But so were many things that happened after 1950—things I have only vague ideas of, since we didn’t talk about them in history class. Recently, however, I’ve begun to notice that there is plenty I don’t know about World War II—and I’m not referring to all the details that get glossed over because there isn’t enough time. The entire Sino-Japanese War portion of the war is, as best I can recall, mentioned in nary a footnote in our history texts. Japan was involved, and not in a good way. That’s about all I learned in school. If it weren’t for reading frivolous things like science fiction, I wouldn’t be aware that the Holocaust and similar ethnic cleansings in Europe were far from the only atrocities happening during that war. It took a novella with shady particle physics and time travel, of a sort, to tell me about Unit 731 and Pingyang. We’re so selective when it comes to “history” and the idea of “historical truth”, and this doesn’t even have to be the result of nefarious intentions. Simply put, humans have terrible memories, and we let our emotions and biases colour those memories. Liu himself makes this point through the unreliability of the people who back to witness the activities at Unit 731. The device of making each trip a destructive excavation of the past presents an interesting dilemma to the reader. And therein lies my problem with The Man Who Ended History: I couldn’t agree with Wei. Sorry, but Yours Is Not Science if it is not verifiable. The emotional retellings of descendants of victims travelling into the past is not verifiable. Maybe sending trained historians might have worked better, but I doubt it. In the end, observing the past isn’t the magic bullet to historicity. As long as humans are the one compiling the history, we will never be objective. Liu doesn’t claim we could be, though, and I don’t want to conflate my reactions against his main character with an idea that this story is poorly-written. On the contrary, it’s magnificently done. And it works well at its length—a short story would have been tantalizingly brief, a novel far too plodding. Plus, in its documentary format, it is more of a series of scenes than an actual narrative with any kind of plot. It’s a carefully designed and executed thought experiment, which is a grand tradition within science fiction. Definitely Hugo material. Perhaps not Hugo-winning—we’ll see what I think of the other nominees in the novella category. But The Man Who Ended History takes real history—somewhat forgotten history, at least for this poor, publicly-schooled Westerner—and asks questions about how new technology might force us to confront our past. That’s what science fiction is all about. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 20, 2012
|
Jul 20, 2012
|
Aug 02, 2012
|
ebook
| ||||||||||||||||
| 9781612421117
| 3.39
| 161
| Nov 2011
| 2012
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** Here’s a tip: if you want to disappear and assume a new identity, don’t befriend children and become their mentor. Inevitably they w
**spoiler alert** Here’s a tip: if you want to disappear and assume a new identity, don’t befriend children and become their mentor. Inevitably they will discover you have a mystery past that you don’t want to talk about. And children are really, really good at uncovering things adults don’t want them to know. It’s like a sixth sense most of us lose at puberty—the moment an adult evades a question, the child files it away under, “I will ransack your house and break into your puzzle box later.” So whatever you do, avoid children. They are the enemy. Master Pregaldin doesn’t listen to this advice in The Ice Owl. It’s not necessarily his undoing, but I think it might have helped. Of course, The Ice Owl isn’t about Pregaldin—and it’s not even really about the eponymous owl, though there is one. It’s about Thorn, a girl who is mature beyond her years because of all the time she has spent being shuttled around the galaxy at the speed of light, her somewhat less mature mother in tow. Thorn is an answer looking for a question, someone with smarts but not much in the way of guidance over even an interesting problem to solve. The setting of The Ice Owl is almost invisible, although the politics are important to the plot. Thorn is not indigenous to this city, which exists on the terminator of a tidally-locked planet and is undergoing a … disagreement of leadership. A puritanical religious sect is poised to take over, which would be bad for the class of society to which Thorn and her mother belong. But what can they do? As they wait for the inevitable to happen, Thorn befriends Master Pregaldin and badgers him until he agrees to become her teacher. They learn a lot from each other, and he gives her the rare—perhaps unique—hibernating ice owl. What a dumb move. Carolyn Gillman might as well have etched, “This thing is doomed” to the side of the owl’s refridgeration unit. The coup eventually happens, and Thorn and her mother have to evacuate post-haste. But Thorn has changed, and now she isn’t always in solidarity with her mother. She tries to leave her mother behind, go on to another planet, one connected to Pregaldin’s past—but a mutual friend comes to get her, reunites her with her mother, and we all learn the true meaning of family. Or something. To be honest, the whole resolution of this story vexed me. It didn’t make much sense, in my opinion, and was too rushed. Gillman seems to spend the first part of this story talking about one thing—Thorn’s isolation, her autonomy, her thirst to do something with her life—but then changes gears and makes it all about Thorn’s relationship with her mother, her responsibilities, her premature ascension as head of the household. It’s … messy. Despite these flaws, The Ice Owl really does strike me as a work worthy of the Hugo nomination. It is science fiction in that most wondrous of senses: rare species as metaphors, big ideas writ small in the background instead of in our faces, and characters who are like us—with pasts lingering behind them, and futures stretching ahead, and motivations spanning the gap between. It’s not a brilliant story, and the conflict is tepid to say the least—but as a short work of fiction, it’s all right. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 20, 2012
|
Jul 20, 2012
|
Aug 02, 2012
|
ebook
| ||||||||||||||||
| 0373802366
| 9780373802364
| 0373802366
| 3.81
| 17,829
| Jul 01, 2005
| Jul 26, 2005
|
it was ok
|
From the other reviews here on Goodreads, I am relieved to see that I am not the only one whose dominant feeling while reading Cast in Shadow was one
From the other reviews here on Goodreads, I am relieved to see that I am not the only one whose dominant feeling while reading Cast in Shadow was one of confusion. Michelle Sagara has clearly come up with a creative, perhaps even compelling world. It’s populated by all sorts of fascinating species: the immortal Barrani and Dragons and Tha'lani, the mortal humans and Leontine and Aerians. Elantra is a city like many others in fantasy, poised on that brink of industrialization, the throbbing heart of an empire riddled with corruption, magical or otherwise. Amidst all this, Sagara gives us a female protagonist who has clawed her way up from poverty and destitution to be the youngest member of the Hawks, the crime-solving unit of Elantra’s judiciary. And Kaylin’s stake in this case is personal, with all the attendant baggage and issues one would expect. With all of these components, Cast in Shadow should be an awesome urban fantasy thriller. But it’s not. As others have singled out, the problem is one of context. Sagara is inconsistent in how and when she chooses to deliver her exposition. The first few chapters are an almost overwhelming soup of names and information; then the flow diminishes to a mere trickle for the rest of the novel. Time and again, characters will be poised on the brink of a big revelation, only for them to stop up their mouths and say, “No, you aren’t ready for that.” Half of this book consists of various people from different species alluding to aspects of their culture that never gets explained. Sometimes, when an author does this, it’s to build tension and make the audience yearn to know more. Indeed I did—except I never felt like I got a payoff at the end. I just felt confused. The plot itself is simple enough to understand. Kaylin used to be an impoverished child, orphaned after the death of her mother, living in the fiefdom of Nightshade. Think urban gang warfare in a pre-industrial city. Eventually (we’re never quite told how) she escapes this area of Elantra and manages to enrol in the Hawks, where she becomes an up-and-coming investigator. She has intense, personal relationships with high-ranking members, such as Sergeant Marcus Kassan, a Leontine (every bit as lion-like as the name implies) and the Hawklord himself, an Aerian. Kaylin is special in every sense of the word, for she has magical powers she can’t trust herself to control. These make her a danger, one that the Hawklord has perhaps unwisely vouchsafed for. And when it turns out that the murders are death magic sacrifices designed to turn Kaylin into a superpowered killing machine … well, that spoils everyone’s day. Cast in Shadow is not a complicated book, so there is no reason it should be so hard to follow. Yet I repeatedly found myself wonder who was present when characters were conversing, or indeed just what was happening during a particular scene. Sagara' description, like her exposition, is inconsistent in its ebb and flow. At times she belabours the nature of Kaylin’s wardrobe, the arrangement of a courtyard or a tower … and then suddenly, the verbiage gives way to conversations about magic or history, and just as suddenly I have no idea where these people are or what they’re doing. It’s disheartening, because I would like to love this book. Kaylin is competent but flawed, wounded from her childhood in Nightshade and mistrustful of the people working with her on this case. Sagara does a good job portraying Kaylin’s growth throughout the novel, as she struggles with working with Severn, whom she blames for an unforgivable act while they were both in Nightshade. I really enjoyed watching Kaylin grapple with the various forces that seemed to be subtly—or not so subtly—manipulating and using her for their own ends. In this respect, I was fully willing to immerse myself into the politics of Elantra—if only Sagara had managed to make that possible. And as I said above, the world of Elantra itself is rich with possibility. The city is cosmopolitan in nature, with the high court dominated by the immortal races while the mortals go about their lives in the more mercantile areas. It appears that the Emperor is a Dragon, a species whose members are humanoid for the most part but can transform into a more conventional serpentine form and wreak devastation. In many ways, Sagara’s species don’t seem all that original or creative—the Aerians have wings; the Leontines are lions! But, even if she doesn’t always communicate it as clearly as I would have liked, there are definitely hints of more complicated cultures underlying all these species. That’s something I would love to see more often in urban fantasy, which usually constrains its non-human ventures to more stereotypical conceptions of elves and dwarfs and ghouls…. Cast in Shadow is a book burdened by flawed writing. At its centre lies a good, old-fashioned mystery—multiple homicides with a clear intent in mind that means nothing good for Kaylin or for the Empire. From the ending, it is clear that Sagara has an entire series conceived in her mind—but I’m not sure I’m willing to read the next book. In the tenuous balance between storytelling and style, Sagara excels at the former but flounders at the latter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 03, 2012
|
Aug 03, 2012
|
Aug 01, 2012
|
Paperback
|
Loading...
