Saramago's style is just totally unreadable. I generously gave the book two chapters, skipped ahead to the middle and end, and discovered that it's like this throughout the entire book: run-on sentences, dialogue offset only by commas and never separated by paragraphs, nary a quotation mark to be seen. Now, I don't mind when an author subverts a few grammatical rules to make a point or enhance his or her style. Totally disregarding them, on the other hand, is just sadistic.

Since this is a translation from the original Portuguese, I'm willing to accept it's not entirely Saramago's doing. However, after some further reading, it looks like this is Saramago's "signature style", so I shall place the blame at his feet.

Blindness may or may not be a fascinating story, but I'm not going to subject myself to that torture in order to find out. A plot summary will have to suffice.

Somehow I managed to become trapped inside a world of streaming consciousness, present tense narrative that jumped from inelegant metaphor to inelegant metaphor. I barely made it out alive, swallowing almost fifty pages before declaring defeat and making a strategic retreat to the next book on my to-read shelf.

Thank goodness I got out in time!

Ali Smith's writing style in this book is too jarring for me to get into the story and actually enjoy it. Reading this book took more effort than [b:The Name of the Rose|119073|The Name of the Rose|Umberto Eco|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1415375471s/119073.jpg|3138328] for significantly less return, and after nearly fifty pages, the story didn't seem to be going anywhere--which is actually an accomplishment, since at first glance there appears to be no story whatsoever.

Rather than adhering to established literary conventions, such as quotation marks to mark up dialogue, Smith has decided instead that everything should be presented in a stream of consciousness narrative in which Capital Letters make a frequent cameo and the word "substandard" reappears in awkward places. Now, I'm all for experimenting with the medium, as long as such experiments don't detract from the telling of the story itself, which is the case here. The thing about quotation marks is that they aren't just a stylistic innovation; they're actually functional devices. And I miss them.

I should have been suspicious from the cant of the reviews on the back: "Ali Smith is a true original", according to Joyce Carol Oates. Just how original I found out after the prologue.... Then "I love Ali Smith's work"--Jeanette Winterson, The Times. Well that's certainly ... informative--if only about Winterson's reading habits and not Smith's actual talent. Maggie O'Farrell is correct when she says that Smith is "a writer of incredible inventiveness, versatility and uniqueness", but I don't think I would agree with the intent behind that utterance. Lastly, the Independent must have been sent the wrong book by mistake, for it declared Smith "an extremely readable, easy-flowing writer and one of the subtlest and most intelligent around."

I wish that I could criticize the actual book itself more, but I put it down so early into the novel that it's hard to do so. I wish I could have finished it--I very seldom give up on a book, trying instead to keep an open mind and soldier on no matter how difficult it becomes. And that's the thing: there is a very fine line, more a one-dimensional edge, that separates genius voice from literary trainwreck. Douglas Coupland and Paul Quarrington have genius voice; Ali Smith has unfortunately landed on the trainwreck side of this divide--at least in my opinion.

I have a question, for you, dear reader of this review: how many times in your life have you encountered a novel printed entirely in sans-serif font? I'm willing to bet the number you come up with is, if not "zero," then very low indeed—on the higher end, perhaps, if you read more self-published/POD fiction than I do. Reason Reigns is the first book I can ever recall reading in sans-serif font, and until now, I've given scant thought to the fact that the publishing industry adheres to a serif standard for its novels. I'm not sure how well the science supports the position that "serif fonts are easier to read," but it's certainly true that thanks to this nearly universal usage of them, I am used to serif fonts in my novels and conditioned to expect them. I don't expect novels to deviate from this, and when they do, it becomes that much harder to pay attention to the story, because all the while I'm worrying about the typeface. Thus, when I opened Reason Reigns and found a sans-serif bonanza, I was stymied.

That feeling didn't go away.

This is probably my fault. I somehow got it into my head that this was a book about the conflict between reason and irrationality, that it was set in a world at a time roughly analogous to our Enlightenment. Now that I think about it, the odd cadence and syntax of the back cover copy should have alerted me that this book is something else entirely. That being said, it took me until page 3 to realize exactly what was going on.

It should not come as a surprise, especially if you've read my reviews of The Sword of Truth series, that I'm not a fan of Objectivism, mostly because I find it rather silly. So when I realized that I had stumbled onto a thinly-veiled treatise on the subject, a hitherto-silent voice in my brain suddenly begun yelling, "Run away, Ben! Run away now!" Unfortunately, I am stubborn and hate to give up on a book, so I persevered.

This is the tale of my miraculous survival and inexorable defeat.

One good thing came out of my attempt at reading Reason Reigns: I have a lot more respect for Terry Goodkind as a writer. He might lay on the philosophy in large gobs of speeches, narration, straw men, and Mary Sues, but he can actually tell a story. Say what you might about the series, and especially its protagonist, some of the Sword of Truth books aren't that bad. They are at least readable.

The book opens—as far as I can tell, because the abstract diction made it difficult to follow what was happening—with a doctor refusing to provide medicine, which he invented, that is the only known cure for a deadly disease. His reason?

"As I will not be ruled by a single human being, neither will I forfeit my rights to the public. An emperor has no claim on me; neither does a poor man. Need is not a claim."

As the movie trailer voiceover might say, "In a world where doctors do not take the Hippocratic Oath … one man stands against all those who would dare live without paying him for the privilege!" And, let me be clear, this doctor, Ari Hugo, is supposed to be a good guy. We're supposed to be cheering for someone who sits around cackling about how awesome it is that those darn poor people haven't violated his right to make a profit off his medicine. Somewhere, the shade of Charles Dickens is having a conniption.

The next paragraph goes on:

Many appreciated Ari's principled stance which was in keeping with the individual rights enshrined in the island's Constitution. But some vowed to destroy him. Each thought, "Ari is a danger to our cause and to society. He must be stopped!"

And this is really where the problems with the book, in terms of its incoherent style, become apparent. In a lighter book that aims for the absurd, like Liberation: Being the Adventures of the Slick Six After the Collapse of the United States of America, this type of melodrama might work. However, it is regrettably, gobsmackingly clear that Ilyn Ross and Reason Reigns are utterly serious. More's the pity.

It's also vague. It speaks of antagonists to Ari's cause as if they are a nebulous, unseen force that threaten him at every corner. And it tells me nothing about either Ari's supporters or his opponents, except that apparently in the world of Reason Reigns, if you disagree with someone, you are morally obligated to "destroy" them.…

Moving on to page 4, we arrive at my next "WTF" sticky note: a conversation between Lola, Ari's ten-year-old daughter, and a classmate:

"It's good to be humble."

"Why?"

"Everybody says so."

"I am not humble," Lola declared. "I respect and love myself. I always do my best because I don't ever want to feel low and small."

Lola's classmate realized that self-love was the hallmark of a good person.

This is the point where I realized the Objectivist subtext. We have a ten-year-old girl telling her classmate about how the best thing to do is "love oneself" and condemn modesty.

Reason Reigns employs flashbacks that are mercifully labelled in large letters at each chapter heading. It starts in the present in what is essentially a prologue, then it jumps back forty years and works its way back to the present day over about fifty pages. This type of narrative structure is fine, ordinarily, but the same problems I had comprehending the plot made it difficult to distinguish between any changes in the time period. Every chapter, every set of characters, every single conversation, sounds very similar. It's bland.

So a few chapters down the road, we get to learn how Ari married the woman who becomes Lola's mother. Let's watch:

The lady saw Ari enter the bookstore. His confident bearing caught her eye. She looked at him closely and felt attraction for the first time. He had an athletic, six-foot-five-inch frame, ruddy complexion, short, dark, wavy hair, and a strong face with a perfectly chiseled nose. The lady approached and engaged him in a conversation. She looked into his eyes. They conveyed a powerful intelligence. She fell in love.

"I am Ari. You must love reading. You know a lot about books."

"I work here. I am Glenda."

"Glenda, may I invite you for dinner?"

So Ari has the physique of a Greek god. Good to know. Oh, and following this conversation, Ari and Glenda get married after 4 days, and that's when they learn each other's last names.

No one talks like that. It's the exact opposite of natural conversation, at least among people who are older than five. Stilted dialogue is a big problem in Reason Reigns. Here's some more:

"Jaya is now forty-four years old." Ari remembered details. "Jon Ray is the policeman's son. He is twenty-one years old. Who is the bride?"

This is As You Know exposition in its rawest form. Ari is stating facts like he's some kind of computer program. He's not human. While I like to entertain the notion of "love at first sight" and wholly support authors who choose to include it in their fiction, Ari and Glenda's relationship tests even my credulity. They fall in love and get married after 4 days? With nary a fight or disagreement between them? It's not believable. You might even call it … unreasonable.

So yeah, I'm not a fan of Objectivism, but that is far from my only (or even my major) objection to this book. I should be able to read a book whose themes I disagree with and, if not enjoy it, at least finish it. I did it for The Sword of Truth. Unfortunately, beyond its questionable philosophical underpinnings, Reason Reigns just isn't a good novel. The prose is lacklustre in a phenomenal way; the dialogue is stilted; the characters are flat and unbelievable.

Reason Reigns fails at telling a story. A story is more than narrative, more than plot, and certainly more than theme. It is the expert combination of all of these ingredients, and more, into something that sways us both by reason and by emotion. One cannot successfully tell a story using logos alone. That makes for a dry, brittle thing. Adding ethos—which Reason Reigns sorely lacks—would help too, for strong characters aid one's rhetoric even as they bolster and support the story itself. Above all else, however, one cannot forget pathos. We have to feel for the characters, to sympathize if not empathize with their plight, to understand their sorrow and their suffering. Otherwise, without that emotional connection, the story is an empty husk.

I couldn't finish Reason Reigns. I made it through fifty-six pages, and then I decided I'd had enough. When I give up on a book, it's not because I dislike its plot (although that's usually part of the problem). No, I like to finish my books, and since I joined Goodreads I have only given up on three. When I give up on a book, it's usually due to an incompatibility between the way the book was written and the way I like to read. Often this isn't a reflection on the book's quality—I could not, for the life of me, finish Blindness, even though I know many people find it a poignant tale.

In this case, my rejection is a reflection on the book's quality.

Reason Reigns is a painfully earnest endeavour. Putting aside my reservations about Objectivism for a moment and treating this book only as evincing motifs of rationalism, there is potential here. I find the idea of reifying the forces of rationalism and anti-rationalism in the form of political entities really fascinating. But the "Big Idea" of a novel is never going to be sufficient for the novel to succeed. Success requires also a proportional level of skill. And sandwiched as she was in my reading between the consummate skill of Robertson Davies, China Miéville, and Ursula K. Le Guin—all of them masters of their craft—Ross' shortcomings in this area are all the more apparent.

Much like The Burning Glass, I don’t think it was a good idea trying to read this during the school year. After four days I got less than 60 pages into the novel. Just no traction whatsoever.

The romance aspect of this novel was not enough in evidence for me to comment on it—we hadn’t even jumped back to the Tudor part yet. I mean, Celia and Richard’s relationship was shallow and fraught with tired, clichéd appeals to “destiny”. Despite the unfulfilling characterization, however, Green Darkness is probably of superior quality and research to the average historical romance.

Am I going to come back to it? Honestly? Probably not. I don’t remember why I added this to my to-read shelf in the first place—did someone, knowing my affinity for novels set in Tudor England, recommend it to me? It is tempting, but I have many other books I am much more excited to read. I will likely pass this on to someone who will find more enjoyment in it.

There’s something about the King Arthur legends that fascinate me and tug at my imagination. It’s probably the tragedy of the tale mixed with that message of hope—Arthur’s body spirited away to Avalon to await his return. Merlin is literally the wizard who helps Arthur answer the Call, and I’ve always identified with that archetype on account of my intellectual and autodidactic leanings. So I’m always happy to try a book that attempts to put a new spin on the legend of King Arthur—why not?

Maurice Broaddus deserves commendation for his Knights of Breton Court series. The idea is intriguing: retell (or rather, reimagine) the story of King Arthur as a story of Indianapolis gang warfare. And Broaddus is good at crafting a setting, atmosphere, and characters that all seem authentic. The characters in King Maker run the spectrum: some are not nice at all and have no qualms about using a gun to close a deal; others are more decent and more conflicted about the life they are leading. And because of the way he focuses on Breton Court, Broaddus creates this sense of community within the story that sets the groundwork for connections that would no doubt be important, if I had ever finished the book.

I didn’t even get halfway done. I just couldn’t get into King Maker, try as I might. There’s something to be said for reimagining the Arthur legend or keeping the allusions to it light and subtle—the last thing one needs is a story that hits the reader over the head with allusions to the classic Arthur mythos. Yet Broaddus is almost two subtle. Some things are obvious: Luther is Uther, and his son King is the Arthur analog; Merle is a Merlin figure. But the magic is tentative, almost non-present for what I managed to read of this novel. We get no sense of King’s larger plan, or indeed of anyone else’s plan.

I stopped reading when I realized I had been reading an entire chapter and didn’t know who it was about. There are plenty of characters … but which ones really matter? Which ones are the protagonists? Who should I be cheering for? These are not questions a reader should have to be asking! Obviously King is a protagonist, but he is absent for vicious swathes of the first half of the book, leaving a second string line of characters to take up the slack … and they don’t do it well. King Maker is a soup of scenes and characters that didn’t manage to hold my interest.

It’s conceivable I could return to this after I’m finished my practicum, which has placed constraints on my time that make me less charitable to what I’m reading. But I’ll have to think about it. King Maker isn’t necessarily a bad book; it has some glowing reviews here on Goodreads, so it obviously works for other people. Unfortunately, in my case, it was a clever idea with a payoff that just seemed too far away.

I’m not the right person to read this, at least not right now.

I know it’s kind of my hang-up to turn everything into a generational thing, but I think that’s in operation here. I didn’t live through the 1960s or the 1970s. I don’t get what the political climate was like then, either in North America or in Europe, and I come to New Wave science fiction experiencing everything second hand. That doesn’t mean one needs to be of that age to grok or even enjoy books like this—but I suspect those readers have a bit of a head start. As it is, Moorcock’s constant reference to sex and drugs are baked into a zeitgeist I could never take part in. Sex and drugs are themselves rather constant, yes, but their modes and moods change with the times, and the Cornelius Chronicles of the twenty-first century would probably look different from the ones written in the 1960s.

As I attempted, however diligently, to make my way through this 974-page behemoth of a collection, I found myself turning too often to my dad, who was sitting next to me at the baseball games where I tried reading this, and said, “This book makes no sense.” But I understand that’s kind of the point, and to criticize it entirely for that reason would be, if not unfair, then missing the point. However, I can’t bring myself to finish it. I cannot just keep stumbling from page to page with absolutely no idea, none whatsoever, of what is going on, because it seems like every page the characters are different, with different motivations, like they’re all following a script we never get to see. One moment a character is an enemy, and then suddenly they’re an ally, and I have no idea what is going on. I get there are multiverse hijinks happening, but they are too inscrutable for my pay grade.

So there you have it. I wish I were the right kind of person to like this book, or at least to finish it, but I don’t think I am. So I won’t make myself. I make myself finish a lot of things, and sometimes that results in a very fun bad review. But The Cornelius Chronicles aren’t worth it—I don’t think I bring myself to hate them, and I don’t want to read another 500 pages to find out.

I don’t abandon books lightly, but it had to be done. If I hadn’t borrowed enough books from the library that I have to read about 1 per day to finish them before I move to England, I definitely would have finished this. I don’t think I would have liked it, mind you, but it’s not horrible enough to abandon.

I should have paid attention to Jeet Thayil’s biography. Poets-turned-novelist rarely work for me. Their emphasis of style over substance and urge to be “experimental” in that style often leave me shaking my head and looking around frantically for some kind of, any kind of plot. That’s definitely my experience with Narcopolis. The plot telescopes backwards through each character, moving from the main character (whose name I forget) to the eunuch prostitute Dimple to her Chinese opium mentor Mr. Lee and so on, swinging back around eventually (I hope).

This will work for some people, I’m sure, and since I haven’t finished it, I can’t really talk much about the story itself. Thayil seems to work hard to capture the atmosphere of the Bombay drug underworld, the mixture of brutal criminal enterprise with addict tourism. Along the way we get glimpses of politics and philosophy. It might be good—but I don’t really have the patience or the time, right now, to find out.

I did not finish this.

It’s a nominee for the Carnegie Medal, which is why I started reading it. Unfortunately, it didn’t engage me enough to make me want to keep reading.

Nick Lake does a good job creating character and setting, and he makes a fair stab at plot. In Darkness is split in two time periods: one follows the Haitian Revolution; the other is set during the most recent Haiti earthquake. Through a good use of parallelism, Lake traces the use and abuse of power in oppressors and the oppressed.

See, In Darkness is far from bad. If it were bad, I could probably have finished it and given it a nice, critical review. As it is, I just couldn’t bring myself to care much about Shorty. He’s a sympathetic character, yet I found Lake’s style too dry. The narrative is mostly stream-of-consciousness, in Shorty’s case, but voice doesn’t come alive for me. It doesn’t help that Lake also uses the convention of beginning dialogue with an em-dash instead of wrapping it in quotation marks.

I always struggle with the decision to give up on a book. Would I return to In Darkness sometime? Perhaps. Perhaps this just wasn’t the right time, given how busy I was. Perhaps another time would have me more interested and more willing to work at the book.

Could not deal.

I looked at my progress today and realized I was only slightly more than halfway through. Every time I go to read it, my eyes feel heavy. Enormous paragraphs of description and narration make for a style of story that just does not work for me at the moment. I need something more quickly-paced, something that grabs and takes me along for the ride.

This is not a bad book. But it’s not interesting me right now. It’s not entertaining me. While I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, if I did, letting go of books that fail to do these things would be one of them. So that’s what I’m doing: I’m not giving up; I’m letting go. Also I kind of forgot about reading the Hugo nominees until a week ago and have so much to get through before the voting deadline.

I might come back to this. I might not. But I know that if I were to continue with it right now, I’d just end up being disappointed with it and giving it a poorer review than it probably deserves. I really like the setting, but the slow pace and embroidered narration make it difficult for me to enjoy in my mood this week.

I read the first 78 pages of this book so you don’t have to.

I was trying to make it to at least 100, but I’m sorry. The body is willing but the mind is weak.

I added this book to my to-read list after reading The God Delusion; it somehow coming up as a counterpoint to Dawkins’ atheistic arguments. I just went back and re-read my review of that book, and I’m pleased to discover it’s less glowing than I thought it was. My atheist leanings have not diminished, but my enchantment with rationalism has, and Dawkins looks even more dogmatic to me now than he did to my 2009 self. In this respect, Terry Eagleton ably critiques the vitrolic nature of Dawkins’ writing. I can’t speak towards “Ditchkins” as a whole, because I haven’t read God Is Not Great. I added it to my to-read list along with this book, but it’s not exactly a priority these days. Because I have better things to do.

It’s not really the content of Reason, Faith, and Revolution that’s the problem here. If that were the case, I’d have hacked it out for all 200 small, wide-margined pages and reported back to you with a 1-star review, stuck it on my “read” shelf, and called it a day. I love demolishing arguments! No, most of the content is pretty sensible—at least, what I can decipher.

See, it’s Eagleton’s style that’s the problem. His writing is somewhere between abstruse academic word vomit and conversational diarrhea. Each individual sentence is comprehensible on its own—some of them are even catchy. Most paragraphs are cogent, albeit often requiring a level of erudition that eludes even me. But each paragraph seems to be disconnected from those that came before and after. One moment Eagleton is talking about the Englightenment, and then suddenly he’s discussing Marx, and then Wittgenstein (Wittgenstein always seems to come up as a parenthetical, for some reason).

And I’m just … wut?

There is just no coherent structure to Eagleton’s argument. And not just from chapter to chapter, which might be bad enough, but as I said above, it’s down to the paragraph level. I waded through the first chapter and a half of this book with very little idea of what Eagleton was saying, other than that everyone else has gotten everything about scientistic and theological thinking wrong, and we should all be ashamed of ourselves and each other. And I’m sure that somewhere in here is an argument worthy of analysis. But I was having to work way too hard to decipher it.

Cannot deal.

I know these derive from lectures, but that is no excuse. Douglas Coupland wrote an entire novel as a series of five hour lectures. Lawrence Hill, Neil Turok … every other author of a CBC Massey Lecture series has managed to create a halfway decent book out of their kick at the intellectual can. But no, you, you screwed it up, Eagleton. Well done.

I am all for reading books critiquing secular humanism, religion, scientism, atheism, rationalism, whatever. But they have to organized, well thought-out, and clear.

This is none of those things. So I’m going to go read another Animorphs novel before going to bed.