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tachyondecay
Multigenerational family epics are difficult. One of the most powerful things a writer can do is create a protagonist the reader can invest in. Multigenerational stories spurn this wisdom for a different kind of magic, one that relies on the reader to follow the threads that connect the family members over years, decades, sometimes even centuries. If not done properly, the result can be messy or just uninteresting. Every once in a while, however, I read a book that gets it right. The House of the Spirits is one such book. Isabel Allende very slowly captures my heart and makes me care about three generations of a family in twentieth-century Chile.
I had no idea what this book was about when I began reading it. I had never heard of Isabel Allende. It took me a while to even realize the book was set in Chile. At first, ignorant dunce that I am, I saw “translated from the Spanish” on the frontispiece and assumed the book was set in Spain. (Maybe I can’t be blamed for having Spain on my mind though.) Enough references to pesos, Indians, and other distinctly non-Spanish things finally penetrated my thick skull, and I began to realize this was set in South America. Which is really quite cool, because I don’t read enough fiction set in South America, by South American authors. So this is a treat.
Of course, it could all have gone downhill from there. It took me a week to read The House of the Spirits. Though not too long, it is dense. There is very little dialogue. Instead, each lengthy chapter consists mostly of description and narration laid out in huge, gangly paragraphs that perch upon the page, waiting leap out at unsuspecting readers and swallow them whole. I managed to escape such a fate, fortunately, and report back, but it took me a little longer than I would have liked.
There’s a narrative reason for this ponderous prose. The book is a journal by Alba Trueba recollecting the lives of her parents and grandparents, as well as the beginning of her own life. She has cobbled it together from her grandmother Clara’s journals, her own recollections, and her grandfather Esteban’s recollections. Allende even includes short passages rendered in the first-person from Esteban’s point of view; these provide key insights into events only Esteban witnesses, as well as insights into Esteban himself. So the meagre amount of dialogue and emphasis on exposition makes sense.
The characterization here is impressive, no less so because Allende breaks that cardinal rule of “show, don’t tell.” We’ve come to expect our fiction to have the pace of the scene-then-sequel, revealing through action and dialogue the thoughts and feelings and tenors of the characters. But Allende proves that every rule in writing can be broken if one has a good reason. At first, I had no idea who any of the characters were or what was going on. Daunted by all the names and the massive paragraphs, I was unsure if I would ever get comfortable in this story. Gradually—and I have no idea how it happened, so I can only credit Allende for some kind of magic—it all coalesced and began to make sense.
Esteban Trueba is the one who stuck with me the most as an example of Allende’s excellent characterization. He begins as a grubby, ambitious miner who pays suit to Rosa, Clara’s older sister. After Rosa dies, he leaves for his family’s country estate, over which he establishes his dominion with an iron fist. And he’s not a nice person: he rapes peasant girls, and he keeps his tenants in squalor and poverty. But then, he promises his dying mother to marry, so he goes off to his former beloved’s family and marries their last daughter (like you do), the slightly-psychic Clara.
From there, the picture becomes more complicated. Esteban is a moody bastard—but he genuinely falls head-over-heels for Clara, who does not return that affection. He opposes the feminist stances of his wife and daughter, becoming ever more conservative and ornery as he grows older. By the time he is an old man, with a granddaughter who is the apple of his eye, he is the acknowledged caricature of a reactionary, incorrigible old-timer, walking around yelling at people and gesticulating with his trademark silver cane. Esteban is not a nice person. But Allende shows us moments of tenderness with Clara or Alba. He shows grudging respect for his political and personal enemy, Pedro Tercero García. I found this portrayal of all the different sides of Esteban Trueba extremely effective at gaining my sympathy.
It’s also a reminder that people are complex. Good people are seldom good all the time; bad people are seldom bad all the time. Life is a messy collection of circumstance. Through the three generations of this family, Allende explores what that means, how people can act in good or bad ways depending on their age and influences, and what effect that might have on others. We can’t choose who our relations are, only how we relate to them. And sometimes that can be awkward all around: Esteban’s granddaughter is the lover of a Communist revolutionary; Alba is the granddaughter of a leading conservative senator. Both struggle with these kinds of relations, as they figure out how to create their own public and private identities while sharing links to people whose philosophies or actions disagree with theirs.
The House of Spirits also portrays a country in political turmoil. It does this obliquely, its characters mostly on the periphery of politics, with only a few, like Esteban and Miguel, directly engaged. In this respect, it reminds me of A Thousand Splendid Suns, which portrays Afghanistan's lurching transition from monarchy to Soviet communism to Taliban totalitarianism through the experiences of one woman and her family. As Chilean society changes, Esteban's views are cast into different lights, and at times he's even worn down, coming to accept that women might be able to work and participate in the sciences. At the end of the novel, Esteban discovers that his faith in the honour of a military he initially supported had been misplaced. Though we might shake our heads in disbelief, Allende demonstrates the attitudes of denial, anger, and compromise that must have been prevalent at the time. Even amid something as disruptive and bloody as a coup, it isn't obvious how or when freedoms and liberty have slipped away.
Esteban is interesting because of how he changes over the decades. On the
other hand, Alba enters the story towards the end, albeit after much foreshadowing. She exemplifies how other people's decisions, even those made before one's birth, affect the course of one's life. Alba doesn't discover her true parentage until adulthood, and she manages to take the news in stride. I wonder how her life would have been different of she had known the identity of her father.
I wish Alba's uncles had received more prominent stories. Jamie stays involved right up until the end and plays an important role, but Nicolas is put on a bus well before the end. Then again, I suppose that only shows how some people are with us all our lives while others come and go or simply go.
The House of the Spirits isn't going to impress everyone. It is a slow, lingering look at a family's brief caress by history. But I enjoyed its careful pacing and introspection. It also educated me about a country and historical event about which I knew very little.
I've managed to get through this review without mentioning magical realism (and now I've gone and ruined it). Honestly, I don't think it's anything to get hung up about in this book. It's worth discussing, however, why Allende crossed that line between portraying Clara as a believer and showing her moving objects or predicting the future. Clara's clairvoyance and precognition provide an elegant symmetry to her all-encompassing notebooks which are the backbone of the narrative. Her visions of the future made her realize the importance of preserving the past. This tight relationship between past and future, linked by storytelling, is evident in the book's recursive ending.
I was pleasantly surprised by this book. If you want a slower, more relaxed read that still offers much to mull offer, you can't go wrong with The House of the Spirits. Allende does multigenerational right, creating characters who change as they clash, cooperate, and come together during a tumultuous time in Chile.
I had no idea what this book was about when I began reading it. I had never heard of Isabel Allende. It took me a while to even realize the book was set in Chile. At first, ignorant dunce that I am, I saw “translated from the Spanish” on the frontispiece and assumed the book was set in Spain. (Maybe I can’t be blamed for having Spain on my mind though.) Enough references to pesos, Indians, and other distinctly non-Spanish things finally penetrated my thick skull, and I began to realize this was set in South America. Which is really quite cool, because I don’t read enough fiction set in South America, by South American authors. So this is a treat.
Of course, it could all have gone downhill from there. It took me a week to read The House of the Spirits. Though not too long, it is dense. There is very little dialogue. Instead, each lengthy chapter consists mostly of description and narration laid out in huge, gangly paragraphs that perch upon the page, waiting leap out at unsuspecting readers and swallow them whole. I managed to escape such a fate, fortunately, and report back, but it took me a little longer than I would have liked.
There’s a narrative reason for this ponderous prose. The book is a journal by Alba Trueba recollecting the lives of her parents and grandparents, as well as the beginning of her own life. She has cobbled it together from her grandmother Clara’s journals, her own recollections, and her grandfather Esteban’s recollections. Allende even includes short passages rendered in the first-person from Esteban’s point of view; these provide key insights into events only Esteban witnesses, as well as insights into Esteban himself. So the meagre amount of dialogue and emphasis on exposition makes sense.
The characterization here is impressive, no less so because Allende breaks that cardinal rule of “show, don’t tell.” We’ve come to expect our fiction to have the pace of the scene-then-sequel, revealing through action and dialogue the thoughts and feelings and tenors of the characters. But Allende proves that every rule in writing can be broken if one has a good reason. At first, I had no idea who any of the characters were or what was going on. Daunted by all the names and the massive paragraphs, I was unsure if I would ever get comfortable in this story. Gradually—and I have no idea how it happened, so I can only credit Allende for some kind of magic—it all coalesced and began to make sense.
Esteban Trueba is the one who stuck with me the most as an example of Allende’s excellent characterization. He begins as a grubby, ambitious miner who pays suit to Rosa, Clara’s older sister. After Rosa dies, he leaves for his family’s country estate, over which he establishes his dominion with an iron fist. And he’s not a nice person: he rapes peasant girls, and he keeps his tenants in squalor and poverty. But then, he promises his dying mother to marry, so he goes off to his former beloved’s family and marries their last daughter (like you do), the slightly-psychic Clara.
From there, the picture becomes more complicated. Esteban is a moody bastard—but he genuinely falls head-over-heels for Clara, who does not return that affection. He opposes the feminist stances of his wife and daughter, becoming ever more conservative and ornery as he grows older. By the time he is an old man, with a granddaughter who is the apple of his eye, he is the acknowledged caricature of a reactionary, incorrigible old-timer, walking around yelling at people and gesticulating with his trademark silver cane. Esteban is not a nice person. But Allende shows us moments of tenderness with Clara or Alba. He shows grudging respect for his political and personal enemy, Pedro Tercero García. I found this portrayal of all the different sides of Esteban Trueba extremely effective at gaining my sympathy.
It’s also a reminder that people are complex. Good people are seldom good all the time; bad people are seldom bad all the time. Life is a messy collection of circumstance. Through the three generations of this family, Allende explores what that means, how people can act in good or bad ways depending on their age and influences, and what effect that might have on others. We can’t choose who our relations are, only how we relate to them. And sometimes that can be awkward all around: Esteban’s granddaughter is the lover of a Communist revolutionary; Alba is the granddaughter of a leading conservative senator. Both struggle with these kinds of relations, as they figure out how to create their own public and private identities while sharing links to people whose philosophies or actions disagree with theirs.
The House of Spirits also portrays a country in political turmoil. It does this obliquely, its characters mostly on the periphery of politics, with only a few, like Esteban and Miguel, directly engaged. In this respect, it reminds me of A Thousand Splendid Suns, which portrays Afghanistan's lurching transition from monarchy to Soviet communism to Taliban totalitarianism through the experiences of one woman and her family. As Chilean society changes, Esteban's views are cast into different lights, and at times he's even worn down, coming to accept that women might be able to work and participate in the sciences. At the end of the novel, Esteban discovers that his faith in the honour of a military he initially supported had been misplaced. Though we might shake our heads in disbelief, Allende demonstrates the attitudes of denial, anger, and compromise that must have been prevalent at the time. Even amid something as disruptive and bloody as a coup, it isn't obvious how or when freedoms and liberty have slipped away.
Esteban is interesting because of how he changes over the decades. On the
other hand, Alba enters the story towards the end, albeit after much foreshadowing. She exemplifies how other people's decisions, even those made before one's birth, affect the course of one's life. Alba doesn't discover her true parentage until adulthood, and she manages to take the news in stride. I wonder how her life would have been different of she had known the identity of her father.
I wish Alba's uncles had received more prominent stories. Jamie stays involved right up until the end and plays an important role, but Nicolas is put on a bus well before the end. Then again, I suppose that only shows how some people are with us all our lives while others come and go or simply go.
The House of the Spirits isn't going to impress everyone. It is a slow, lingering look at a family's brief caress by history. But I enjoyed its careful pacing and introspection. It also educated me about a country and historical event about which I knew very little.
I've managed to get through this review without mentioning magical realism (and now I've gone and ruined it). Honestly, I don't think it's anything to get hung up about in this book. It's worth discussing, however, why Allende crossed that line between portraying Clara as a believer and showing her moving objects or predicting the future. Clara's clairvoyance and precognition provide an elegant symmetry to her all-encompassing notebooks which are the backbone of the narrative. Her visions of the future made her realize the importance of preserving the past. This tight relationship between past and future, linked by storytelling, is evident in the book's recursive ending.
I was pleasantly surprised by this book. If you want a slower, more relaxed read that still offers much to mull offer, you can't go wrong with The House of the Spirits. Allende does multigenerational right, creating characters who change as they clash, cooperate, and come together during a tumultuous time in Chile.
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What do you do when you undergo an accident that leaves you unable to interact with the basic technology underpinning your society? What do you do when that accident leaves you fit for one task few others would care to assume? What do you do when your new status leaves your old friends uncomfortable and your new ones unimpressed with you?
What do you do when it turns out your accident was no accident, and no one will listen?
In Debris, Tanyana is among the elite of Varsnia. In her society, technology harnessing elementary particles known as pions powers almost everything. Tanyana is a pion-binder, one of the best, an architect of buildings and statues for the highest bidder. But an accident during an unexpected inspection renders Tanyana unable to see pions any more. Instead, she can see debris, a byproduct of pion usage that interferes with pions (and not much else). Tanyana becomes pressed into being a debris collector: the gig comes with a silver suit bonded to her wrists that provides some limited shapeshifting capabilities. Despite their critical role in society, debris collectors receive little notice and little respect.
There are hints that not all is as it should be—or used to be—almost from the beginning. Tanyana and her team of debris collectors lurch from one disaster to the next. Eventually, Tanyana discovers that she is a pawn in a larger gambit involving forces far beyond her comprehension. Her accident was no accident, and since then she has not been as abandoned as she thought—instead, she has been shaped and manipulated by people close to her as well as those watching from a distance.
My problem is that I felt like I was watching from a distance, and that did not help at all. In some books, the hint of grand conspiracies and hidden histories is tantalizing and can help drive the plot as we cheer for the characters to solve the mystery. In this case, I just didn’t find myself invested in the characters or their problems.
Tanyana annoyed me at first, but then I realized it isn’t her fault. She’s actually a nice person, and proactive in her own way—what was annoying me was every person blaming Tanyana for everything that went wrong. She was like a personal magnet for the blame of Murphy’s Law. Moreover, no one seemed to want to explain anything to Tanyana (and then they blamed her when she was ignorant of a procedure). These behaviours made every character seem like an ass, and I disliked all of them. (Except maybe Lad. Lad’s cool.)
I also struggled with not knowing enough about the world Anderton has obviously gone to pains to construct. Pions are an actual thing. Are the magical pions of Debris supposed to be related? It’s not clear. Anderton seems to indicate that everyone can see pions but not many are skilled at manipulating them as Tanyana used to be. What does everyone else spend their time doing? If pions have replaced the role of old school machines, what happened to all the scientists and engineers? I don’t doubt that Anderton could provide a satisfactory explanation, because revolutions like the one she describes have certainly happened in our past. But for all the interesting ideas she throws in here, there are still aspects of her society that remain vague.
It’s not all bad news. Anderton genuinely has something interesting here. I’d like to learn more about debris collecting, and I definitely want to know why the bad guys are so bent on doing something that seems to threaten existence as we know it—are they just evil, or are they misguided? Part of this curiosity is the result, of course, of that vagueness I mentioned above—but part of it is because Anderton whets my appetite with the right amount of conflict and questions.
Additionally, I loved watching Tanyana adapt to her new circumstances after her accident. Her world changes so completely. At first she lives in denial, thinking she might get to maintain her accustomed lifestyle. Gradually she realizes how wrong she is. She must make new friendships—many of her old “friends” desert her following her loss of status—and determine how to cope with her inability to use pions—which, in this society, is definitely a disability.
Debris is a kind of bland novel. It has some of the basic book nutrients: a passable plot, serviceable characters. It lacks the zest and spice that make a book memorable. I want more, but I don’t know how much more—and certainly not with any urgency.
I wasn’t overly fond of Debris, Jo Anderton’s first book in this series, and I approached Suited with trepidation. I wasn’t sure Anderton had what it would take to grab me and make me enjoy this book. And as I started reading, and the characters felt flat and uninspiring, I resigned myself to another dull review. Then it got interesting. The characters began changing. The stakes got higher. And by the end of the book, I was furiously flipping electronic pages as I raced to discover what would happen—and suddenly, Anderton had proved me wrong. Well done!
So, Suited starts off in a lacklustre way. Tanyana’s team of debris collectors gets split up by the manipulative puppet men. Tanyana and Lad go to one, newly-formed team, while Lad’s protective brother, Kichlan, stays with some of the others. This split creates an interesting dynamic, with Tanyana and Lad having to look out for each other. For the most part, however, Suited starts off slow. There is too much drama about (and whining from) the Keeper, the mysterious being whom only Lad (and Tanyana, when suited) can interact with. The Keeper is intimately connected with the debris that Tanyana and other collectors are charged with retrieving, but Anderton keeps her cards very close to her chest until the end of the book. As a result, I was frustrated and not particularly interested in liking any of these characters. Yet I soldiered on.
One issue I had with Debris was the paucity of detailed worldbuilding. Anderton tossed around terms like the “veche”, and I gathered that the book was set in a city called Movoc-under-Keeper that is part of a larger country called Varsnia. However, we never get a sense of what kind of city or country these places are. We don’t get a very clear idea of the culture. Although there are hints that Varsnian society is highly stratified (Tanyana, before her accident, occupying that tenuous, upper-middle-class position of the nouveau bourgeoisie), there is very little description of how the ordinary citizens of Movoc-under-Keeper go about their lives. The pages are flat in this sense; they seem a little barren and empty in the background. On the macro level, we get almost no sense of the politics of this country. Suited does little to rectify the deficiencies of culture. However, it does clarify the relationships between the national and local veches and the puppet men. We learn about the origins of the puppet men and why the veche is interested in working with them, and all of this provides more context as Anderton sets up events for the third book.
I was also very frustrated with Tanyana’s lack of agency in Debris. Part of this is a natural response to suddenly being rendered powerless, friendless, and alone—not to mention suffering a major trauma. Nevertheless, the refrain that she was being manipulated and used by the puppet men, which is continued in this book, started to become repetitive and annoying. At least in Suited, though, the ways in which the puppet men are shaping Tanyana—and to what ends—become more clear. Anderton further develops the antagonism between the Keepers and the puppet men, and Tanyana’s role as a kind of pawn caught in the middle, effectively, albeit not necessarily with much skill or detail.
Suited’s weaknesses are quite similar to its predecessor in this respect. Anderton clearly has good ideas, but almost all of my dissatisfaction with these books are a result of her description—or lack thereof. She’s just frightfully vague at times. There are “doors” in the world that lead to a world of nothingness? It’s not exactly lazy writing, because I get the sense that she tries very hard. It just doesn’t quite measure up to my very exacting standards.
Somehow, though, everything pulls together in the final act. Tanyana has made some major discoveries. And finally, finally, she steps up and decides to go full metal jacket on the puppet men. (This is not a metaphor, as her suit is a metal-like substance!) The moment after Tanyana’s new fugitive status forces her hand and forces her to declare that “enough is enough” was a moment I had been waiting for since halfway through Debris, and experiencing it was sweet indeed. In concert with the disturbing transformations wracking Tanyana’s body, this declaration of war on the puppet men is a welcome (if predictable) turn of events.
(I wish Anderton could have done more with Tanyana’s pregnancy, however, because the way she treats it makes it seem more like a plot point than anything else.)
There are almost two climaxes in the book, the first acting as a motivator for the second. In Tanyana’s confrontation with Aleksey—who demonstrates what will become of her if she becomes merely a tool of the puppet men—we lose Lad. He sacrifices himself to save her, and in so doing provides Tanyana with the strength to forge ahead and survive, but at a cost. This leads to her declaration of war and taking the fight to the puppet men, who very nearly kick her ass. The last chapter is an adrenaline rush equivalent to nothing else in the rest of the book, not even the fight with Aleksey. Suddenly, the hints that Anderton has laid throughout the book come into focus—those not-so-subtle references to “programmers” start making sense. Again, the weakness of the description leaves me less-than-fully invested in the direction Anderton has chosen to take this story. I must admit to being intrigued, however!
Anyone who has read Debris and didn’t absolutely hate it should do themselves a favour and read Suited. It is progress, for the story and the writing show promising development. I am now very eager to read book three. There is probably no better compliment than that!
My reviews of the Veiled Worlds series:
Suited →
What do you do when it turns out your accident was no accident, and no one will listen?
In Debris, Tanyana is among the elite of Varsnia. In her society, technology harnessing elementary particles known as pions powers almost everything. Tanyana is a pion-binder, one of the best, an architect of buildings and statues for the highest bidder. But an accident during an unexpected inspection renders Tanyana unable to see pions any more. Instead, she can see debris, a byproduct of pion usage that interferes with pions (and not much else). Tanyana becomes pressed into being a debris collector: the gig comes with a silver suit bonded to her wrists that provides some limited shapeshifting capabilities. Despite their critical role in society, debris collectors receive little notice and little respect.
There are hints that not all is as it should be—or used to be—almost from the beginning. Tanyana and her team of debris collectors lurch from one disaster to the next. Eventually, Tanyana discovers that she is a pawn in a larger gambit involving forces far beyond her comprehension. Her accident was no accident, and since then she has not been as abandoned as she thought—instead, she has been shaped and manipulated by people close to her as well as those watching from a distance.
My problem is that I felt like I was watching from a distance, and that did not help at all. In some books, the hint of grand conspiracies and hidden histories is tantalizing and can help drive the plot as we cheer for the characters to solve the mystery. In this case, I just didn’t find myself invested in the characters or their problems.
Tanyana annoyed me at first, but then I realized it isn’t her fault. She’s actually a nice person, and proactive in her own way—what was annoying me was every person blaming Tanyana for everything that went wrong. She was like a personal magnet for the blame of Murphy’s Law. Moreover, no one seemed to want to explain anything to Tanyana (and then they blamed her when she was ignorant of a procedure). These behaviours made every character seem like an ass, and I disliked all of them. (Except maybe Lad. Lad’s cool.)
I also struggled with not knowing enough about the world Anderton has obviously gone to pains to construct. Pions are an actual thing. Are the magical pions of Debris supposed to be related? It’s not clear. Anderton seems to indicate that everyone can see pions but not many are skilled at manipulating them as Tanyana used to be. What does everyone else spend their time doing? If pions have replaced the role of old school machines, what happened to all the scientists and engineers? I don’t doubt that Anderton could provide a satisfactory explanation, because revolutions like the one she describes have certainly happened in our past. But for all the interesting ideas she throws in here, there are still aspects of her society that remain vague.
It’s not all bad news. Anderton genuinely has something interesting here. I’d like to learn more about debris collecting, and I definitely want to know why the bad guys are so bent on doing something that seems to threaten existence as we know it—are they just evil, or are they misguided? Part of this curiosity is the result, of course, of that vagueness I mentioned above—but part of it is because Anderton whets my appetite with the right amount of conflict and questions.
Additionally, I loved watching Tanyana adapt to her new circumstances after her accident. Her world changes so completely. At first she lives in denial, thinking she might get to maintain her accustomed lifestyle. Gradually she realizes how wrong she is. She must make new friendships—many of her old “friends” desert her following her loss of status—and determine how to cope with her inability to use pions—which, in this society, is definitely a disability.
Debris is a kind of bland novel. It has some of the basic book nutrients: a passable plot, serviceable characters. It lacks the zest and spice that make a book memorable. I want more, but I don’t know how much more—and certainly not with any urgency.
I wasn’t overly fond of Debris, Jo Anderton’s first book in this series, and I approached Suited with trepidation. I wasn’t sure Anderton had what it would take to grab me and make me enjoy this book. And as I started reading, and the characters felt flat and uninspiring, I resigned myself to another dull review. Then it got interesting. The characters began changing. The stakes got higher. And by the end of the book, I was furiously flipping electronic pages as I raced to discover what would happen—and suddenly, Anderton had proved me wrong. Well done!
So, Suited starts off in a lacklustre way. Tanyana’s team of debris collectors gets split up by the manipulative puppet men. Tanyana and Lad go to one, newly-formed team, while Lad’s protective brother, Kichlan, stays with some of the others. This split creates an interesting dynamic, with Tanyana and Lad having to look out for each other. For the most part, however, Suited starts off slow. There is too much drama about (and whining from) the Keeper, the mysterious being whom only Lad (and Tanyana, when suited) can interact with. The Keeper is intimately connected with the debris that Tanyana and other collectors are charged with retrieving, but Anderton keeps her cards very close to her chest until the end of the book. As a result, I was frustrated and not particularly interested in liking any of these characters. Yet I soldiered on.
One issue I had with Debris was the paucity of detailed worldbuilding. Anderton tossed around terms like the “veche”, and I gathered that the book was set in a city called Movoc-under-Keeper that is part of a larger country called Varsnia. However, we never get a sense of what kind of city or country these places are. We don’t get a very clear idea of the culture. Although there are hints that Varsnian society is highly stratified (Tanyana, before her accident, occupying that tenuous, upper-middle-class position of the nouveau bourgeoisie), there is very little description of how the ordinary citizens of Movoc-under-Keeper go about their lives. The pages are flat in this sense; they seem a little barren and empty in the background. On the macro level, we get almost no sense of the politics of this country. Suited does little to rectify the deficiencies of culture. However, it does clarify the relationships between the national and local veches and the puppet men. We learn about the origins of the puppet men and why the veche is interested in working with them, and all of this provides more context as Anderton sets up events for the third book.
I was also very frustrated with Tanyana’s lack of agency in Debris. Part of this is a natural response to suddenly being rendered powerless, friendless, and alone—not to mention suffering a major trauma. Nevertheless, the refrain that she was being manipulated and used by the puppet men, which is continued in this book, started to become repetitive and annoying. At least in Suited, though, the ways in which the puppet men are shaping Tanyana—and to what ends—become more clear. Anderton further develops the antagonism between the Keepers and the puppet men, and Tanyana’s role as a kind of pawn caught in the middle, effectively, albeit not necessarily with much skill or detail.
Suited’s weaknesses are quite similar to its predecessor in this respect. Anderton clearly has good ideas, but almost all of my dissatisfaction with these books are a result of her description—or lack thereof. She’s just frightfully vague at times. There are “doors” in the world that lead to a world of nothingness? It’s not exactly lazy writing, because I get the sense that she tries very hard. It just doesn’t quite measure up to my very exacting standards.
Somehow, though, everything pulls together in the final act. Tanyana has made some major discoveries. And finally, finally, she steps up and decides to go full metal jacket on the puppet men. (This is not a metaphor, as her suit is a metal-like substance!) The moment after Tanyana’s new fugitive status forces her hand and forces her to declare that “enough is enough” was a moment I had been waiting for since halfway through Debris, and experiencing it was sweet indeed. In concert with the disturbing transformations wracking Tanyana’s body, this declaration of war on the puppet men is a welcome (if predictable) turn of events.
(I wish Anderton could have done more with Tanyana’s pregnancy, however, because the way she treats it makes it seem more like a plot point than anything else.)
There are almost two climaxes in the book, the first acting as a motivator for the second. In Tanyana’s confrontation with Aleksey—who demonstrates what will become of her if she becomes merely a tool of the puppet men—we lose Lad. He sacrifices himself to save her, and in so doing provides Tanyana with the strength to forge ahead and survive, but at a cost. This leads to her declaration of war and taking the fight to the puppet men, who very nearly kick her ass. The last chapter is an adrenaline rush equivalent to nothing else in the rest of the book, not even the fight with Aleksey. Suddenly, the hints that Anderton has laid throughout the book come into focus—those not-so-subtle references to “programmers” start making sense. Again, the weakness of the description leaves me less-than-fully invested in the direction Anderton has chosen to take this story. I must admit to being intrigued, however!
Anyone who has read Debris and didn’t absolutely hate it should do themselves a favour and read Suited. It is progress, for the story and the writing show promising development. I am now very eager to read book three. There is probably no better compliment than that!
My reviews of the Veiled Worlds series:
Suited →
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I love heist movies. It’s a weird addiction that I can’t shake. It doesn’t matter what type of heist movie: Ocean’s Eleven, Foolproof, The Perfect Score, that one episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine where they rob the holosuite casino to help their holographic friend (don’t ask). I love that moment in the middle where we get walked through the plan, usually as a montage set to a voiceover. It feels like a privileged sneak peek, because then we get to see the real thing.
Anyway, this has nothing to do with Giant Thief. I just wanted to rhapsodize about my love for heist movies for a paragraph. Plus, it leaves me well-disposed towards thief characters in general. I enjoy watching a protagonist take on someone who really deserves their comeuppance and construct an intricate plan to deliver it, usually by taking something away the antagonist values—or taking back something that isn’t theirs in the first place.
We don’t get a lot of that in Giant Thief. David Tallerman instead presents Easie Damasco, a thief whose mouth is faster than his brain and whose penchant for stealing is matched only by his ability to get into trouble. The story begins with him hanging—yes, he gets as far as the noose—only to be saved at the last moment by Moaradrid, the leader of an army that is invading this land. (I’m a little unclear on the exact geography, but I believe the entire land is called Castovalia.) Easie becomes a conscript in this army in a unit essentially used as cannon fodder. So he escapes, with a giant in tow.
It’s all very contrived and not a little wonky for the first few chapters. And the next few. And the few after that. See, Giant Thief feels like a single, drawn-out inhalation of breath. Easie gets captured, escapes, and runs. He find some allies, and runs. He almost gets captured, and runs. Each chapter finds Easie getting into another scrape, followed by another. He doesn’t get a chance to catch his breath, and neither does the reader.
Another book might do this and earn the label “intense,” but that’s only if the stakes keep increasing as the protagonist continues to get into scrapes. This is where Giant Thief falters in the application of that magic formula. Easie is hauling around an important ruby (I won’t spoil it by revealing what the ruby does, but it’s a perfectly serviceable MacGuffin). Tallerman attempts to draw out the revelations related to this ruby, and this is almost enough to increase those stakes. However, it seldom seems like Easie is any better or worse off in one position than he is in the next. If I were going to draw a Freitag pyramid for this book (which I won’t, because they are dull), it would be pretty damn flat.
And Easie is a thief, for heaven’s sake. He should do thief things. I could probably tally the number of times we see him actually steal something on one hand (I won’t, because I can’t type very well one-handed). He does plenty of stealing, but it all happens off-page, or it gets mentioned but not actually described. Similarly, I expect thieves to be clever, to scheme. If Easie is so clever, why does he keep ending up in so many scrapes? To be fair, Tallerman attempts (there’s that word again) to have Easie make plans—they just all go awry. But you have to toss a win in there once in a while to keep the reader’s attention.
Instead, Tallerman hopes Easie’s wit will do that job. Giant Thief is relentlessly humorous. That is to say, every line of dialogue seems crafted with the intention of being droll. This has the effect of making me feel strapped into a seat at a local comedy theatre. I don’t particularly enjoy stand-up comics, and it’s not just because most of them to tend to rely on stereotypes and weak humour; there’s something innately unfunny about sitting around just to listen to jokes. I my jokes to be contextual. Much like I expect thieves to be clever, I also expect them to be sardonic and funny, and Easie Damasco posesses these qualities in spades. However, Tallerman overuses them to the point that they become white noise. When every line is keyed for maximum punch-line-osity (this is a technical term, I assure you), you risk joke-oversaturation.
Moreover, it seems like a lot of the humour in this book comes at the expense of depth or additional stakes. It’s as if Tallerman is choosing between humour or depth and choosing humour nearly every time. That’s a false dilemma: it’s possible to be funny and raise the stakes at the same time—check out The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy or jPod. This is a shame, because there are definitely threads here that could make for a very compelling and fascinating story. But as it is, I just don’t see it.
Finally, a word about setting. The world of Giant Thief never quite coalesces into a well-defined structure for me. Easie and friends bandy about some names, and we meet a prince or two, who seems to be the ruler of a city. Along the way we meet a mayor, and some elders of a village … and it all just feels like cookiecutter fantasy tropes without much in the way of distinct culture. The village, the city, and all the various characters who populate such venues have all been conjured from the fantasy stock pot without so much as a little extra seasoning thrown in.
It’s a really neat idea, pairing a giant with a thief. But they have to let loose. There has to be drama from the beginning, not just a very long chase sequence. There has to be real stakes. And if you want those to include the fate of a country, you need to give me some sense of that country’s history and culture and what makes them worth saving. Giant Thief tries hard to be intense, witty, and enjoyable. And, to throw in some faint praise at the end here, it wasn’t all that boring; there was never a point where I felt like I needed to stop reading. It’s just steeped in missed opportunities.
Certainly, it’s no heist movie.
Anyway, this has nothing to do with Giant Thief. I just wanted to rhapsodize about my love for heist movies for a paragraph. Plus, it leaves me well-disposed towards thief characters in general. I enjoy watching a protagonist take on someone who really deserves their comeuppance and construct an intricate plan to deliver it, usually by taking something away the antagonist values—or taking back something that isn’t theirs in the first place.
We don’t get a lot of that in Giant Thief. David Tallerman instead presents Easie Damasco, a thief whose mouth is faster than his brain and whose penchant for stealing is matched only by his ability to get into trouble. The story begins with him hanging—yes, he gets as far as the noose—only to be saved at the last moment by Moaradrid, the leader of an army that is invading this land. (I’m a little unclear on the exact geography, but I believe the entire land is called Castovalia.) Easie becomes a conscript in this army in a unit essentially used as cannon fodder. So he escapes, with a giant in tow.
It’s all very contrived and not a little wonky for the first few chapters. And the next few. And the few after that. See, Giant Thief feels like a single, drawn-out inhalation of breath. Easie gets captured, escapes, and runs. He find some allies, and runs. He almost gets captured, and runs. Each chapter finds Easie getting into another scrape, followed by another. He doesn’t get a chance to catch his breath, and neither does the reader.
Another book might do this and earn the label “intense,” but that’s only if the stakes keep increasing as the protagonist continues to get into scrapes. This is where Giant Thief falters in the application of that magic formula. Easie is hauling around an important ruby (I won’t spoil it by revealing what the ruby does, but it’s a perfectly serviceable MacGuffin). Tallerman attempts to draw out the revelations related to this ruby, and this is almost enough to increase those stakes. However, it seldom seems like Easie is any better or worse off in one position than he is in the next. If I were going to draw a Freitag pyramid for this book (which I won’t, because they are dull), it would be pretty damn flat.
And Easie is a thief, for heaven’s sake. He should do thief things. I could probably tally the number of times we see him actually steal something on one hand (I won’t, because I can’t type very well one-handed). He does plenty of stealing, but it all happens off-page, or it gets mentioned but not actually described. Similarly, I expect thieves to be clever, to scheme. If Easie is so clever, why does he keep ending up in so many scrapes? To be fair, Tallerman attempts (there’s that word again) to have Easie make plans—they just all go awry. But you have to toss a win in there once in a while to keep the reader’s attention.
Instead, Tallerman hopes Easie’s wit will do that job. Giant Thief is relentlessly humorous. That is to say, every line of dialogue seems crafted with the intention of being droll. This has the effect of making me feel strapped into a seat at a local comedy theatre. I don’t particularly enjoy stand-up comics, and it’s not just because most of them to tend to rely on stereotypes and weak humour; there’s something innately unfunny about sitting around just to listen to jokes. I my jokes to be contextual. Much like I expect thieves to be clever, I also expect them to be sardonic and funny, and Easie Damasco posesses these qualities in spades. However, Tallerman overuses them to the point that they become white noise. When every line is keyed for maximum punch-line-osity (this is a technical term, I assure you), you risk joke-oversaturation.
Moreover, it seems like a lot of the humour in this book comes at the expense of depth or additional stakes. It’s as if Tallerman is choosing between humour or depth and choosing humour nearly every time. That’s a false dilemma: it’s possible to be funny and raise the stakes at the same time—check out The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy or jPod. This is a shame, because there are definitely threads here that could make for a very compelling and fascinating story. But as it is, I just don’t see it.
Finally, a word about setting. The world of Giant Thief never quite coalesces into a well-defined structure for me. Easie and friends bandy about some names, and we meet a prince or two, who seems to be the ruler of a city. Along the way we meet a mayor, and some elders of a village … and it all just feels like cookiecutter fantasy tropes without much in the way of distinct culture. The village, the city, and all the various characters who populate such venues have all been conjured from the fantasy stock pot without so much as a little extra seasoning thrown in.
It’s a really neat idea, pairing a giant with a thief. But they have to let loose. There has to be drama from the beginning, not just a very long chase sequence. There has to be real stakes. And if you want those to include the fate of a country, you need to give me some sense of that country’s history and culture and what makes them worth saving. Giant Thief tries hard to be intense, witty, and enjoyable. And, to throw in some faint praise at the end here, it wasn’t all that boring; there was never a point where I felt like I needed to stop reading. It’s just steeped in missed opportunities.
Certainly, it’s no heist movie.
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I wasn’t overly fond of Debris, Jo Anderton’s first book in this series, and I approached Suited with trepidation. I wasn’t sure Anderton had what it would take to grab me and make me enjoy this book. And as I started reading, and the characters felt flat and uninspiring, I resigned myself to another dull review. Then it got interesting. The characters began changing. The stakes got higher. And by the end of the book, I was furiously flipping electronic pages as I raced to discover what would happen—and suddenly, Anderton had proved me wrong. Well done!
So, Suited starts off in a lacklustre way. Tanyana’s team of debris collectors gets split up by the manipulative puppet men. Tanyana and Lad go to one, newly-formed team, while Lad’s protective brother, Kichlan, stays with some of the others. This split creates an interesting dynamic, with Tanyana and Lad having to look out for each other. For the most part, however, Suited starts off slow. There is too much drama about (and whining from) the Keeper, the mysterious being whom only Lad (and Tanyana, when suited) can interact with. The Keeper is intimately connected with the debris that Tanyana and other collectors are charged with retrieving, but Anderton keeps her cards very close to her chest until the end of the book. As a result, I was frustrated and not particularly interested in liking any of these characters. Yet I soldiered on.
One issue I had with Debris was the paucity of detailed worldbuilding. Anderton tossed around terms like the “veche”, and I gathered that the book was set in a city called Movoc-under-Keeper that is part of a larger country called Varsnia. However, we never get a sense of what kind of city or country these places are. We don’t get a very clear idea of the culture. Although there are hints that Varsnian society is highly stratified (Tanyana, before her accident, occupying that tenuous, upper-middle-class position of the nouveau bourgeoisie), there is very little description of how the ordinary citizens of Movoc-under-Keeper go about their lives. The pages are flat in this sense; they seem a little barren and empty in the background. On the macro level, we get almost no sense of the politics of this country. Suited does little to rectify the deficiencies of culture. However, it does clarify the relationships between the national and local veches and the puppet men. We learn about the origins of the puppet men and why the veche is interested in working with them, and all of this provides more context as Anderton sets up events for the third book.
I was also very frustrated with Tanyana’s lack of agency in Debris. Part of this is a natural response to suddenly being rendered powerless, friendless, and alone—not to mention suffering a major trauma. Nevertheless, the refrain that she was being manipulated and used by the puppet men, which is continued in this book, started to become repetitive and annoying. At least in Suited, though, the ways in which the puppet men are shaping Tanyana—and to what ends—become more clear. Anderton further develops the antagonism between the Keepers and the puppet men, and Tanyana’s role as a kind of pawn caught in the middle, effectively, albeit not necessarily with much skill or detail.
Suited’s weaknesses are quite similar to its predecessor in this respect. Anderton clearly has good ideas, but almost all of my dissatisfaction with these books are a result of her description—or lack thereof. She’s just frightfully vague at times. There are “doors” in the world that lead to a world of nothingness? It’s not exactly lazy writing, because I get the sense that she tries very hard. It just doesn’t quite measure up to my very exacting standards.
Somehow, though, everything pulls together in the final act. Tanyana has made some major discoveries. And finally, finally, she steps up and decides to go full metal jacket on the puppet men. (This is not a metaphor, as her suit is a metal-like substance!) The moment after Tanyana’s new fugitive status forces her hand and forces her to declare that “enough is enough” was a moment I had been waiting for since halfway through Debris, and experiencing it was sweet indeed. In concert with the disturbing transformations wracking Tanyana’s body, this declaration of war on the puppet men is a welcome (if predictable) turn of events.
(I wish Anderton could have done more with Tanyana’s pregnancy, however, because the way she treats it makes it seem more like a plot point than anything else.)
There are almost two climaxes in the book, the first acting as a motivator for the second. In Tanyana’s confrontation with Aleksey—who demonstrates what will become of her if she becomes merely a tool of the puppet men—we lose Lad. He sacrifices himself to save her, and in so doing provides Tanyana with the strength to forge ahead and survive, but at a cost. This leads to her declaration of war and taking the fight to the puppet men, who very nearly kick her ass. The last chapter is an adrenaline rush equivalent to nothing else in the rest of the book, not even the fight with Aleksey. Suddenly, the hints that Anderton has laid throughout the book come into focus—those not-so-subtle references to “programmers” start making sense. Again, the weakness of the description leaves me less-than-fully invested in the direction Anderton has chosen to take this story. I must admit to being intrigued, however!
Anyone who has read Debris and didn’t absolutely hate it should do themselves a favour and read Suited. It is progress, for the story and the writing show promising development. I am now very eager to read book three. There is probably no better compliment than that!
My reviews of the Veiled Worlds series:
← Debris
So, Suited starts off in a lacklustre way. Tanyana’s team of debris collectors gets split up by the manipulative puppet men. Tanyana and Lad go to one, newly-formed team, while Lad’s protective brother, Kichlan, stays with some of the others. This split creates an interesting dynamic, with Tanyana and Lad having to look out for each other. For the most part, however, Suited starts off slow. There is too much drama about (and whining from) the Keeper, the mysterious being whom only Lad (and Tanyana, when suited) can interact with. The Keeper is intimately connected with the debris that Tanyana and other collectors are charged with retrieving, but Anderton keeps her cards very close to her chest until the end of the book. As a result, I was frustrated and not particularly interested in liking any of these characters. Yet I soldiered on.
One issue I had with Debris was the paucity of detailed worldbuilding. Anderton tossed around terms like the “veche”, and I gathered that the book was set in a city called Movoc-under-Keeper that is part of a larger country called Varsnia. However, we never get a sense of what kind of city or country these places are. We don’t get a very clear idea of the culture. Although there are hints that Varsnian society is highly stratified (Tanyana, before her accident, occupying that tenuous, upper-middle-class position of the nouveau bourgeoisie), there is very little description of how the ordinary citizens of Movoc-under-Keeper go about their lives. The pages are flat in this sense; they seem a little barren and empty in the background. On the macro level, we get almost no sense of the politics of this country. Suited does little to rectify the deficiencies of culture. However, it does clarify the relationships between the national and local veches and the puppet men. We learn about the origins of the puppet men and why the veche is interested in working with them, and all of this provides more context as Anderton sets up events for the third book.
I was also very frustrated with Tanyana’s lack of agency in Debris. Part of this is a natural response to suddenly being rendered powerless, friendless, and alone—not to mention suffering a major trauma. Nevertheless, the refrain that she was being manipulated and used by the puppet men, which is continued in this book, started to become repetitive and annoying. At least in Suited, though, the ways in which the puppet men are shaping Tanyana—and to what ends—become more clear. Anderton further develops the antagonism between the Keepers and the puppet men, and Tanyana’s role as a kind of pawn caught in the middle, effectively, albeit not necessarily with much skill or detail.
Suited’s weaknesses are quite similar to its predecessor in this respect. Anderton clearly has good ideas, but almost all of my dissatisfaction with these books are a result of her description—or lack thereof. She’s just frightfully vague at times. There are “doors” in the world that lead to a world of nothingness? It’s not exactly lazy writing, because I get the sense that she tries very hard. It just doesn’t quite measure up to my very exacting standards.
Somehow, though, everything pulls together in the final act. Tanyana has made some major discoveries. And finally, finally, she steps up and decides to go full metal jacket on the puppet men. (This is not a metaphor, as her suit is a metal-like substance!) The moment after Tanyana’s new fugitive status forces her hand and forces her to declare that “enough is enough” was a moment I had been waiting for since halfway through Debris, and experiencing it was sweet indeed. In concert with the disturbing transformations wracking Tanyana’s body, this declaration of war on the puppet men is a welcome (if predictable) turn of events.
(I wish Anderton could have done more with Tanyana’s pregnancy, however, because the way she treats it makes it seem more like a plot point than anything else.)
There are almost two climaxes in the book, the first acting as a motivator for the second. In Tanyana’s confrontation with Aleksey—who demonstrates what will become of her if she becomes merely a tool of the puppet men—we lose Lad. He sacrifices himself to save her, and in so doing provides Tanyana with the strength to forge ahead and survive, but at a cost. This leads to her declaration of war and taking the fight to the puppet men, who very nearly kick her ass. The last chapter is an adrenaline rush equivalent to nothing else in the rest of the book, not even the fight with Aleksey. Suddenly, the hints that Anderton has laid throughout the book come into focus—those not-so-subtle references to “programmers” start making sense. Again, the weakness of the description leaves me less-than-fully invested in the direction Anderton has chosen to take this story. I must admit to being intrigued, however!
Anyone who has read Debris and didn’t absolutely hate it should do themselves a favour and read Suited. It is progress, for the story and the writing show promising development. I am now very eager to read book three. There is probably no better compliment than that!
My reviews of the Veiled Worlds series:
← Debris
These days, it is common to lament the spread and dominance of English, the way its uncouth touch corrupts and infects other languages. Yet it’s no secret that English is a prolific thief when it comes to words. Henry Hitchings explores this phenomenon in The Secret Life of Words, where he examines how the encounters between people who speak English and people who speak other languages have shaped and influenced English over its long history. Along the way, he spouts a veritable fountain of words cribbed from abroad. Thanks to those years of French class, I knew that souvenir is from French, and I was even aware that swastika comes to us via Hindi. But I didn’t know that gambit is from Italian, mattress from Arabic, and nephew is a Norman alternative to the Saxon brothorsunu. I also discovered while reading that totem, a word we Canadians might associate more with the totem poles of British Columbia, is actually from Ojibwe, a people closer to my neck of the woods. Hitchings also makes the connection between bikini the swimsuit and the Bikini Atoll. (Interestingly, he doesn’t delve further to explain that the island takes its name from the Marshallese pikini for “coconut place”. I had to visit Wikipedia for that tidbit.)
I discovered this book by accident. I was actually checking to see if Suffolk Libraries had a copy of The Secret History of the English Language, by M.J. Harper, and it offered me this instead. “Sure, why not?” I thought, and I placed my reservation. Well, it’s been an interesting but ambivalent read. On one hand, The Secret Life of Words is a very comprehensive yet detailled look at loanwords in the English language. On the other hand, it is a frustratingly verbose and unstructured compilation.
I am amazed and awestruck by the amount of research Hitchings must have done to prepare this text. He acknowledges his debt to The Oxford English Dictionary, my favourite dictionary and indubitably an invaluable resource in such an endeavour. Yet the sheer breadth of historical and linguistic topics covered here guarantee that Hitchings must have consulted hundreds of articles, papers, books, and oracles. And his organization and note-taking skills must be impressive. After reading this book, there is no way I can remember even a quarter of the etymologies he presents here; he has either a superhuman memory or an extremely efficient filing system….
Whatever the causes, the results are worth it. In every chapter, Hitchings provides a positively delectable feast of words. Starting with a broad historical summary of the events and movements relevant to that chapter, Hitchings slowly transitions into looking at specific words acquired by English during that period. This ramps up into more, longer lists of words, lists so fluid and euphonious that it’s impossible not to slow down and feel the words roll off the tip of your tongue as your eyes scan over them. English owes such a debt to other languages, not to mention the expansionist and colonialist efforts of the British that drove our contact and interaction with the speakers of those languages.
And so we go through history. From the Roman occupation and withdrawal from Britain to the Anglo/Saxon/Jute/Pictish invasion to the Danes and the Normans, Hitchings explores how Old English developed in the crucible of the British Isles. Of particular interest was the observation that English began to care about word order and less about inflection as it rubbed shoulders with Norse. I found that fascinating! He goes on to look at the Norman role in Old English’s transformation to Middle English, which naturally provides a springboard for talking about Chaucer. (Shakespeare is a recurring thread throughout the book, but Hitchings does not actually give him much in the way of his own section, curiously enough. He acts instead as a touchstone, his plays offering a kind of referent for Hitchings to use to note how certain words were used in the sixteenth century.) Later chapters follow Britain’s expansion into the New World, Africa, and India.
Hitchings makes the perhaps obvious, nonetheless important connection between politics and language. Political ideologies and aspirations shape a language—certain words come into or fall out of favour based on the government in power. (This reminded me a lot of Orwell’s musings on how politics will shape a language, which recurs throughout his novels and is explicitly articulated in Homage to Catalonia.) Similarly, English has at times embraced the words of another language even as the English have worked to eradicate or suppress that language and its people (after all, having a distinct language is just one step away from having a distinct identity, and we can’t have that, can we?). This puts us in the unenviable position of having a language enriched by conquest. (English is by no means alone in this, of course.)
The Secret Life of Words contains a wealth of information, so much that it is overwhelming. Even a single chapter is dense with those lists of loanwords I mentioned above. Now try 16 chapters of that! Each chapter theoretically covers English’s interaction with another language, with a strong historical component included for context. Actually, I found the history portion of every chapter far more interesting than the part that was mostly lists. Each new loanword is, by itself, a novelty. But I’m not going to remember them all, and presented like this in quick succession, they leave my head as quickly as they enter, prompting me to ask, “What’s the point?”
There is also little continuity or connection between chapters. The lack of an introduction or conclusion chapter makes this evident. I don’t require my non-fiction to have a narrative. However, it would have been nice if Hitchings had employed some larger themes tie everything together. Instead, each chapter is interesting in its own right, but altogether the book is more of a strange smorgasbord than a satisfying, multi-course meal.
I’m not sure I would recommend this book. I don’t not recommend it. I urge those who would undertake it to dive and dip into a chapter at a time rather than trying to devour it in a single, sustained stretch. (I can’t help it; the latter way is just how I tend to read!) This might make it easier to enjoy The Secret Life of Words. As it is, I can admire this book, but it isn’t as entertaining as I want my non-fiction to be.
I discovered this book by accident. I was actually checking to see if Suffolk Libraries had a copy of The Secret History of the English Language, by M.J. Harper, and it offered me this instead. “Sure, why not?” I thought, and I placed my reservation. Well, it’s been an interesting but ambivalent read. On one hand, The Secret Life of Words is a very comprehensive yet detailled look at loanwords in the English language. On the other hand, it is a frustratingly verbose and unstructured compilation.
I am amazed and awestruck by the amount of research Hitchings must have done to prepare this text. He acknowledges his debt to The Oxford English Dictionary, my favourite dictionary and indubitably an invaluable resource in such an endeavour. Yet the sheer breadth of historical and linguistic topics covered here guarantee that Hitchings must have consulted hundreds of articles, papers, books, and oracles. And his organization and note-taking skills must be impressive. After reading this book, there is no way I can remember even a quarter of the etymologies he presents here; he has either a superhuman memory or an extremely efficient filing system….
Whatever the causes, the results are worth it. In every chapter, Hitchings provides a positively delectable feast of words. Starting with a broad historical summary of the events and movements relevant to that chapter, Hitchings slowly transitions into looking at specific words acquired by English during that period. This ramps up into more, longer lists of words, lists so fluid and euphonious that it’s impossible not to slow down and feel the words roll off the tip of your tongue as your eyes scan over them. English owes such a debt to other languages, not to mention the expansionist and colonialist efforts of the British that drove our contact and interaction with the speakers of those languages.
And so we go through history. From the Roman occupation and withdrawal from Britain to the Anglo/Saxon/Jute/Pictish invasion to the Danes and the Normans, Hitchings explores how Old English developed in the crucible of the British Isles. Of particular interest was the observation that English began to care about word order and less about inflection as it rubbed shoulders with Norse. I found that fascinating! He goes on to look at the Norman role in Old English’s transformation to Middle English, which naturally provides a springboard for talking about Chaucer. (Shakespeare is a recurring thread throughout the book, but Hitchings does not actually give him much in the way of his own section, curiously enough. He acts instead as a touchstone, his plays offering a kind of referent for Hitchings to use to note how certain words were used in the sixteenth century.) Later chapters follow Britain’s expansion into the New World, Africa, and India.
Hitchings makes the perhaps obvious, nonetheless important connection between politics and language. Political ideologies and aspirations shape a language—certain words come into or fall out of favour based on the government in power. (This reminded me a lot of Orwell’s musings on how politics will shape a language, which recurs throughout his novels and is explicitly articulated in Homage to Catalonia.) Similarly, English has at times embraced the words of another language even as the English have worked to eradicate or suppress that language and its people (after all, having a distinct language is just one step away from having a distinct identity, and we can’t have that, can we?). This puts us in the unenviable position of having a language enriched by conquest. (English is by no means alone in this, of course.)
The Secret Life of Words contains a wealth of information, so much that it is overwhelming. Even a single chapter is dense with those lists of loanwords I mentioned above. Now try 16 chapters of that! Each chapter theoretically covers English’s interaction with another language, with a strong historical component included for context. Actually, I found the history portion of every chapter far more interesting than the part that was mostly lists. Each new loanword is, by itself, a novelty. But I’m not going to remember them all, and presented like this in quick succession, they leave my head as quickly as they enter, prompting me to ask, “What’s the point?”
There is also little continuity or connection between chapters. The lack of an introduction or conclusion chapter makes this evident. I don’t require my non-fiction to have a narrative. However, it would have been nice if Hitchings had employed some larger themes tie everything together. Instead, each chapter is interesting in its own right, but altogether the book is more of a strange smorgasbord than a satisfying, multi-course meal.
I’m not sure I would recommend this book. I don’t not recommend it. I urge those who would undertake it to dive and dip into a chapter at a time rather than trying to devour it in a single, sustained stretch. (I can’t help it; the latter way is just how I tend to read!) This might make it easier to enjoy The Secret Life of Words. As it is, I can admire this book, but it isn’t as entertaining as I want my non-fiction to be.
Did you know George R.R. Martin wrote novels before A Game of Thrones? Yes, it’s true! And you can read them! On paper, even! The Armageddon Rag is a 1980s tale of a journalist-turned-novelist recapturing the zeitgeist of the 1970s music scene. Spurred by a mysterious, sacrificial killing of a music promoter, Sandy Blair discovers that there might be more to it. Someone has a plan to reunite the band Nazgûl—particularly troubling since its lead singer is dead.
Sandy leaves the adult world of responsibility behind and goes off on a cross-country road trip to track down the surviving members of the Nazgûl. Along the way, he visits several friends with whom he has lost touch—members of the revolutionary circles in which he moved when he was younger. The trappings of Sandy’s present fall by the wayside in favour of continuing to recapture his present. As he continues to investigate the killing of Jamie Lynch, Sandy discovers that there is a supernatural element to his news story. And it might just eat his soul.
The Armageddon Rag is a very different beast from A Song of Ice and Fire, but they do share one thing: both are ambivalently supernatural at first. It’s not clear, at the beginning of this book, whether there is a supernatural element to the crime or merely the appearance of one. GRRM teases us, dangling the possibility of magic but never quite confirming it. He fakes us out a few times—the seemingly-impossible re-emergence of Patrick Hobson is one example. It’s not until the second half of the book, as Sandy’s sanity, steeped in the atmosphere of the renewed Nazgûl, begins to unravel.
So for the majority of the book, this is a music murder mystery. Sandy is an unlikely detective (GRRM hangs a lampshade on this through Sandy’s own reflections). However, it’s fair to say that the story isn’t about the mystery as much as it is about the music, and the relationship between music, culture, and the revolution that Sandy held so dear in his younger days. To this end, Sandy’s various reunions with his old pals provide great insight into how he has changed in response to the decline of that revolutionary attitude. Each of his friends has reacted to that decline in different ways. Maggie has clung to her old lifestyle, attempting to remain carefree. Lark—restyled as L. Steven Elleyn—has embraced the suit-and-tie atmosphere of middle management. Bambi has stuck her head in the sand and joined a commune. And Sandy, of course, quickly discovers that he isn’t quite so adult and settled as his life as a writer and boyfriend might make him appear.
I’m actually rather surprised by how much I enjoyed The Armageddon Rag. So much of it takes place—or is influenced by the atmosphere of—those “lost decades” of history for me, the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. Too recent to have received much coverage in history classes; too distant to have the same connection to me as the 1990s and 2000s, those decades seem forever just out of reach. I can’t identify with Sandy the way an older reader might. So it’s a testament to GRRM’s skill that I still understood and sympathized with this journey of rediscovery, which ultimately culminates in Sandy abandoning his journalistic endeavour to do public relations for the Nazgûl.
The tone of the book begins to shift, with supernatural elements coming to the fore. Sandy begins to realize that the reunion of the Nazgûl, the “resurrection” of Patrick Hobson, their new concert at West Mesa, are all part of a larger plan. Trust someone like GRRM to come up with the idea that Judgement Day will take the form of a concert! Despite the apocalyptic angle, however, the climax of the book isn’t so much about the battle between good and evil as the battle between Sandy’s sense of self-determination and his commitment to the “cause”. His entire journey is an examination of whether he abandoned the “revolution” because he wasn’t committed enough. His crucial decision at the climax of the concert is the last word.
The Armageddon Rag has moments of brilliance. Its supernatural elements aren’t quite married with my own tastes in this genre, and for that reason I can’t give it five stars. But the mystery, story, and especially the characterization are all what one would expect from GRRM. It’s not enough to tide me over until the next Song of Ice and Fire book … but it helps.
Sandy leaves the adult world of responsibility behind and goes off on a cross-country road trip to track down the surviving members of the Nazgûl. Along the way, he visits several friends with whom he has lost touch—members of the revolutionary circles in which he moved when he was younger. The trappings of Sandy’s present fall by the wayside in favour of continuing to recapture his present. As he continues to investigate the killing of Jamie Lynch, Sandy discovers that there is a supernatural element to his news story. And it might just eat his soul.
The Armageddon Rag is a very different beast from A Song of Ice and Fire, but they do share one thing: both are ambivalently supernatural at first. It’s not clear, at the beginning of this book, whether there is a supernatural element to the crime or merely the appearance of one. GRRM teases us, dangling the possibility of magic but never quite confirming it. He fakes us out a few times—the seemingly-impossible re-emergence of Patrick Hobson is one example. It’s not until the second half of the book, as Sandy’s sanity, steeped in the atmosphere of the renewed Nazgûl, begins to unravel.
So for the majority of the book, this is a music murder mystery. Sandy is an unlikely detective (GRRM hangs a lampshade on this through Sandy’s own reflections). However, it’s fair to say that the story isn’t about the mystery as much as it is about the music, and the relationship between music, culture, and the revolution that Sandy held so dear in his younger days. To this end, Sandy’s various reunions with his old pals provide great insight into how he has changed in response to the decline of that revolutionary attitude. Each of his friends has reacted to that decline in different ways. Maggie has clung to her old lifestyle, attempting to remain carefree. Lark—restyled as L. Steven Elleyn—has embraced the suit-and-tie atmosphere of middle management. Bambi has stuck her head in the sand and joined a commune. And Sandy, of course, quickly discovers that he isn’t quite so adult and settled as his life as a writer and boyfriend might make him appear.
I’m actually rather surprised by how much I enjoyed The Armageddon Rag. So much of it takes place—or is influenced by the atmosphere of—those “lost decades” of history for me, the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. Too recent to have received much coverage in history classes; too distant to have the same connection to me as the 1990s and 2000s, those decades seem forever just out of reach. I can’t identify with Sandy the way an older reader might. So it’s a testament to GRRM’s skill that I still understood and sympathized with this journey of rediscovery, which ultimately culminates in Sandy abandoning his journalistic endeavour to do public relations for the Nazgûl.
The tone of the book begins to shift, with supernatural elements coming to the fore. Sandy begins to realize that the reunion of the Nazgûl, the “resurrection” of Patrick Hobson, their new concert at West Mesa, are all part of a larger plan. Trust someone like GRRM to come up with the idea that Judgement Day will take the form of a concert! Despite the apocalyptic angle, however, the climax of the book isn’t so much about the battle between good and evil as the battle between Sandy’s sense of self-determination and his commitment to the “cause”. His entire journey is an examination of whether he abandoned the “revolution” because he wasn’t committed enough. His crucial decision at the climax of the concert is the last word.
The Armageddon Rag has moments of brilliance. Its supernatural elements aren’t quite married with my own tastes in this genre, and for that reason I can’t give it five stars. But the mystery, story, and especially the characterization are all what one would expect from GRRM. It’s not enough to tide me over until the next Song of Ice and Fire book … but it helps.
I picked this up off the library shelf based solely on the fact that I’ve enjoyed the other works of Kazuo Ishiguro that I’ve read—particularly the stellar The Remains of the Day. Music doesn’t capture me in the same way that it does many of my friends. That is to say, I find music powerful and compelling, but stories about music don’t always hold the same allure for me. Bell Canto stands out as a notable exception; most end up like Overture though.
Nocturnes isn’t a novel, though, but an anthology of five short stories. One could even argue they are more closely related than the typical short story collection. A character from the first story even reappears in the fourth story, in an expanded and slightly different role. Each story features a different type of protagonist who has a different relationship to music. Most of them are musicians. One of them is merely a music lover. In every case, their relationship with music is a key part of the story.
The second story, “Come Rain or Come Shine”, is probably the weakest of the five. Its protagonist is the non-musician, the music lover. Ray has returned to England after teaching English in Spain, and he is staying with a couple of friends who are going through marital problems. The husband goes off on a work trip, so Ray stays behind with Emily. In university they bonded over their musical interests, but now they have drifted apart. The principal plot revolves around Ray’s harebrained attempts to conceal his peek into Emily’s small journal. In any other collection this might be a humorous little diversion. Unfortunately, this story’s connection to the music seems tenuous at best; unlike its companions, it does not clearly belong in this book.
My favourite of the remaining stories is “Malvern Hills”. Its nameless, optimistic guitarist/songwriter retreats to his sister’s cafe for the summer after an unsuccessful hunt for a band in London. There, he encounters a Swiss couple on holiday and, after a rocky first meeting, learns they are a professional performing duo—she sings and he plays. They offer him slightly different perspectives on living for and off the music. Tilo, the husband, is closer in temperament to the protagonist: idealistic and optimistic, full of love and hope for what lies around the corner. Sonja, his wife, is more realistic, more pragmatic. She sees the hard edges and dangerous undercurrents that lurk beneath every tour, every performance. For the protagonist, who is struggling to launch his own career and make ends meet, these two perspectives are invaluable. And it’s interesting to watch him process them and integrate them into his own thinking.
The other stories are all right but didn’t quite stay with me in the same way. People who make music, or even people who love music in a different way from the way I do, might find this collection more entertaining. As it is, the stories exhibit a lot of the skill I would expect from Ishiguro. The characters have that same intense, almost melancholy pathos that seems to pervade his characters in his other novels. However, I can’t get as excited about the quality or value of Nocturnes as I can about those other books. They just don’t compare.
Nocturnes isn’t a novel, though, but an anthology of five short stories. One could even argue they are more closely related than the typical short story collection. A character from the first story even reappears in the fourth story, in an expanded and slightly different role. Each story features a different type of protagonist who has a different relationship to music. Most of them are musicians. One of them is merely a music lover. In every case, their relationship with music is a key part of the story.
The second story, “Come Rain or Come Shine”, is probably the weakest of the five. Its protagonist is the non-musician, the music lover. Ray has returned to England after teaching English in Spain, and he is staying with a couple of friends who are going through marital problems. The husband goes off on a work trip, so Ray stays behind with Emily. In university they bonded over their musical interests, but now they have drifted apart. The principal plot revolves around Ray’s harebrained attempts to conceal his peek into Emily’s small journal. In any other collection this might be a humorous little diversion. Unfortunately, this story’s connection to the music seems tenuous at best; unlike its companions, it does not clearly belong in this book.
My favourite of the remaining stories is “Malvern Hills”. Its nameless, optimistic guitarist/songwriter retreats to his sister’s cafe for the summer after an unsuccessful hunt for a band in London. There, he encounters a Swiss couple on holiday and, after a rocky first meeting, learns they are a professional performing duo—she sings and he plays. They offer him slightly different perspectives on living for and off the music. Tilo, the husband, is closer in temperament to the protagonist: idealistic and optimistic, full of love and hope for what lies around the corner. Sonja, his wife, is more realistic, more pragmatic. She sees the hard edges and dangerous undercurrents that lurk beneath every tour, every performance. For the protagonist, who is struggling to launch his own career and make ends meet, these two perspectives are invaluable. And it’s interesting to watch him process them and integrate them into his own thinking.
The other stories are all right but didn’t quite stay with me in the same way. People who make music, or even people who love music in a different way from the way I do, might find this collection more entertaining. As it is, the stories exhibit a lot of the skill I would expect from Ishiguro. The characters have that same intense, almost melancholy pathos that seems to pervade his characters in his other novels. However, I can’t get as excited about the quality or value of Nocturnes as I can about those other books. They just don’t compare.
The Quiet War is certainly what is advertised in the title: a war so quiet, no one knows it is happening. Not even me.
It’s the future. The not-so-distant but not-quite-near twenty-third century. No warp drive or United Federation of Planets, though. In fact, we can barely colonize the solar system without squabbling about it. The various powers of Earth—though we largely concern ourselves only with the Europeans and the more powerful Great Brasilia faction—are working on a way to control or otherwise subdue what they perceive to be the growing threat from the Outers, humans who have colonized the moons of the Jovian planets. The Outers are dangerous politically but also, the Earth governments believe, scientifically. Various Outer scientists and governments have embarked on programs of genetic engineering designed to improve the human species and take control of humanity’s evolution.
Paul McAuley follows characters on both side of the conflict. Unfortunately, discerning which characters are the principal ones in this tale proved to be quite a challenge. I found myself halfway through the book with little to show for it in the way of comprehension. Had someone asked for a summary, I doubt I could have managed a cogent response. I doubt I could have explained which characters mattered the most or who was fighting for what. Although, in many ways, The Quiet War has all the elements for a good science-fiction thriller, it is also too messy.
This is particularly true for that crucial first half. I only barely followed the machinations of Macy Minnot and Loc Ifrahim—and I certainly didn’t care that much about them. There were two barriers. First, as I’ve already mentioned, McAuley was slinging too many characters at me with no clear guide as to who was important and who wasn’t. Second, there was an insane amount of technobabble. I can get behind technobabble when it later becomes important to the plot—and to some extent, a little technobabble here and there is an appropriate spice to flavour the pages. McAuley takes it too far, though, dosing us with terminology and explanations that, while appropriate for the milieu, do little to further the plot. Hence, the technobabble moves beyond the tenuous realm of reasonable exposition into the territory of total gratuitousness. (And it’s not even the kind of gratuitousness that gets censored in the cable version!)
Suffice it to say, then, that The Quiet War just isn’t very welcoming to its reader. There is a story there, and a plot, and worthwhile characters. But it really demands that the reader is willing to sit down, strap in, and scrutinize the situation. I’m willing to do that for War and Peace; for this book, not so much.
I actually considered giving up, even though I was more than halfway through, simply because I wasn’t sure how I would be able to review this. I perservered, though, and I’m glad I did. The second half of The Quiet War picks up—the war’s volume increases—and the characters solidify into more distinct groups with clearer motivations. The political machinations become easier to understand, and with my confusion set aside, I was able to allow myself to sink into the suspense and paranoia McAuley was building up with each round of events.
McAuley does a good job depicting how the government of Great Brasilia manipulates various factions within the Outer community and showing how this can exacerabate tensions that lead to war. There’s certainly a lot of that going on in the world today, with various governments (not naming any names) manipulating other countries for their own ends. The issues might not be the same—but they could be, in a few years’ or decades’ time. As our science and technology develops, so too will people’s appetites for altering our bodies and our genome. We have to be ready for the political and sociological questions that will come along with such procedures. The Quiet War, for all its flaws, is a good look at one possible type of conflict that could result.
I wish, however, that there had been more emphasis on the consequences and questions surrounding this aspect of the Outer ideology. McAuley spends so much time on the political side of the story. Aside from the bacteria-focused technobabble near the beginning and some allusions to various, more mild genetic tweaks here and there, the issues that get mentioned don’t otherwise take centre stage. So, while they serve their purpose as a motivating factor in the plot, they don’t quite approach that “big idea” level of significance that I tend to expect from my science fiction.
Trite phrases like “perfectly serviceable” or “admirable attempt at a political thriller in space” come to mind when I think about how to summarize The Quiet War. It isn’t bad, but it holds itself back from being good. I’ve got the sequel as well from the library, expecting that I would want to read it. Alas, now I’m not so sure.
It’s the future. The not-so-distant but not-quite-near twenty-third century. No warp drive or United Federation of Planets, though. In fact, we can barely colonize the solar system without squabbling about it. The various powers of Earth—though we largely concern ourselves only with the Europeans and the more powerful Great Brasilia faction—are working on a way to control or otherwise subdue what they perceive to be the growing threat from the Outers, humans who have colonized the moons of the Jovian planets. The Outers are dangerous politically but also, the Earth governments believe, scientifically. Various Outer scientists and governments have embarked on programs of genetic engineering designed to improve the human species and take control of humanity’s evolution.
Paul McAuley follows characters on both side of the conflict. Unfortunately, discerning which characters are the principal ones in this tale proved to be quite a challenge. I found myself halfway through the book with little to show for it in the way of comprehension. Had someone asked for a summary, I doubt I could have managed a cogent response. I doubt I could have explained which characters mattered the most or who was fighting for what. Although, in many ways, The Quiet War has all the elements for a good science-fiction thriller, it is also too messy.
This is particularly true for that crucial first half. I only barely followed the machinations of Macy Minnot and Loc Ifrahim—and I certainly didn’t care that much about them. There were two barriers. First, as I’ve already mentioned, McAuley was slinging too many characters at me with no clear guide as to who was important and who wasn’t. Second, there was an insane amount of technobabble. I can get behind technobabble when it later becomes important to the plot—and to some extent, a little technobabble here and there is an appropriate spice to flavour the pages. McAuley takes it too far, though, dosing us with terminology and explanations that, while appropriate for the milieu, do little to further the plot. Hence, the technobabble moves beyond the tenuous realm of reasonable exposition into the territory of total gratuitousness. (And it’s not even the kind of gratuitousness that gets censored in the cable version!)
Suffice it to say, then, that The Quiet War just isn’t very welcoming to its reader. There is a story there, and a plot, and worthwhile characters. But it really demands that the reader is willing to sit down, strap in, and scrutinize the situation. I’m willing to do that for War and Peace; for this book, not so much.
I actually considered giving up, even though I was more than halfway through, simply because I wasn’t sure how I would be able to review this. I perservered, though, and I’m glad I did. The second half of The Quiet War picks up—the war’s volume increases—and the characters solidify into more distinct groups with clearer motivations. The political machinations become easier to understand, and with my confusion set aside, I was able to allow myself to sink into the suspense and paranoia McAuley was building up with each round of events.
McAuley does a good job depicting how the government of Great Brasilia manipulates various factions within the Outer community and showing how this can exacerabate tensions that lead to war. There’s certainly a lot of that going on in the world today, with various governments (not naming any names) manipulating other countries for their own ends. The issues might not be the same—but they could be, in a few years’ or decades’ time. As our science and technology develops, so too will people’s appetites for altering our bodies and our genome. We have to be ready for the political and sociological questions that will come along with such procedures. The Quiet War, for all its flaws, is a good look at one possible type of conflict that could result.
I wish, however, that there had been more emphasis on the consequences and questions surrounding this aspect of the Outer ideology. McAuley spends so much time on the political side of the story. Aside from the bacteria-focused technobabble near the beginning and some allusions to various, more mild genetic tweaks here and there, the issues that get mentioned don’t otherwise take centre stage. So, while they serve their purpose as a motivating factor in the plot, they don’t quite approach that “big idea” level of significance that I tend to expect from my science fiction.
Trite phrases like “perfectly serviceable” or “admirable attempt at a political thriller in space” come to mind when I think about how to summarize The Quiet War. It isn’t bad, but it holds itself back from being good. I’ve got the sequel as well from the library, expecting that I would want to read it. Alas, now I’m not so sure.
Rest assured, this is a China Miéville book. I was a little worried when I first started reading, because everything made sense. The plot and narrative seemed very straightforward, and I wasn’t confused. His description, though sometimes inventive, resided well within the realm of comprehensible. In short, this didn’t immediately blow my mind the way Miéville’s prose often does. There are mind-blowing things that happen later on, but Kraken is remarkably accessible. (“Remarkably accessible”—how’s that for a blurb?)
It’s easy to explain the gist of the story: Billy Harrow is a curator at the Darwin Centre (a real place), an expert on the giant squid (also a real thing). On his latest tour, he walks into the room on which the centre’s giant squid specimen is displayed … only to find it missing, stolen. This plunges Billy into a surreal experience involving squid cultists, unionized familiars, and living tattoos. Billy is on a race against time to find the squid—or kraken—before whoever stole it uses it to start an apocalypse. Because that would be a downer.
Actually, in describing the plot of this book to a friend, I came to the startling realization that it all sounds an awful lot like a Dan Brown thriller. The literature snob within me caught wind of this and reared his head: “China Miéville? Writing a Dan Brownesque novel? Preposterous!” Truly, there are some striking similarities. However, Miéville differs from Brown in a few key points: he isn’t claiming this is all fact, covered up by some shadowy organization. The cults and conspiracy theorists in this book are just that. And he’s embracing the magic of London, in the vein of many other fantasy authors who have set their books in that city, picking up on the multi-faceted, multicultural history and the many rich layers of substance that makes London what it is.
Kraken is an enjoyable book. Billy makes a good hapless protagonist, thrust into a world he didn’t know existed the night before. At first he rides with the police’s underfunded, underappreciated division that handles cult-related zaniness. Soon enough he finds himself on the run along with an ex–squid-cult member, Dane Parnell, trying to get to the bottom of the kraken’s kidnapping. Unfortunately, Miéville muddies the plot significantly enough that it takes far too long for them to solve the mystery. Every few chapters, just when I thought we would make a big break, there would be a new twist or new piece of information.
It’s not that I want my mystery to be formulaic, predictable, or even straightforward. But it’s fiction, and fiction needs some boundaries and guidelines. I am awful at guessing whodunit in Agatha Christie’s works, but I still enjoy them because she sets careful parameters and lays out the clues like a market merchant setting out their wares. I know it’s one of several possible people, as opposed to a random character whom we don’t meet until a few chapters before they are revealed as the criminal
In this way, it would have been nice if Miéville had gone to the trouble of immersing us in his London far more intensively and with more variation earlier in the book. Billy doesn’t get out much, doesn’t stretch his legs. Aside from some mild name-dropping (in the case of Grisamenthum), Miéville doesn’t spend much time introducing the major players and the history of this aspect to the city. I realize that, for Billy, this is all supposed to be unsettling. But I feel like there could have been some alternative ways to structure the story that would leave us better prepared for confronting the mystery of the kraken.
This is the mind-blowing part, the most Miévillian of all the book, that kraken and its significance. There is a squid cult. There’s a disembodied villain. There’s a man out for revenge. And all along, Billy and another neophyte to this world, the innocent Marge, can’t quite believe what they are seeing or hearing. It’s all too incredible for them. How could this world exist just beneath the surface of everyday experience? In particular, I love how Marge uses the Web, particularly forums, to navigate this world and educate herself about it. It’s such a topical, contemporary way to learn the lore and pick up those darker arts, and Miéville doesn’t make a big deal about it.
Kraken is trying to be clever and philosophical, but it doesn’t take off for me. It sits there, prodding me with the odd teaser, while remaining annoyingly mundane for a Miéville book. It’s not that it just doesn’t feel odd enough (there is that) … it doesn’t have the same twisted depths of personal injustice. Billy loses his best friend, Leon (and how much of a loss is that?). But, barring the various issues I’ve had with Miéville’s characterization in the past, he has always delivered the most fascinating, intricate, and damaged personalities. The closest we get to that in this book is Tattoo, and maybe his rival, Grisamenthum. But they don’t come close to Miéville’s other creations.
Genuinely interesting and somewhat good, Kraken doesn’t rate highly against the other Miéville books I’ve read. I don’t recommend it as a starting place—because it doesn’t really resemble his other work—and I wouldn’t rush out it buy it unless you’re intent on completing the Miéville oeuvre. Or, you know, you like squid.
It’s easy to explain the gist of the story: Billy Harrow is a curator at the Darwin Centre (a real place), an expert on the giant squid (also a real thing). On his latest tour, he walks into the room on which the centre’s giant squid specimen is displayed … only to find it missing, stolen. This plunges Billy into a surreal experience involving squid cultists, unionized familiars, and living tattoos. Billy is on a race against time to find the squid—or kraken—before whoever stole it uses it to start an apocalypse. Because that would be a downer.
Actually, in describing the plot of this book to a friend, I came to the startling realization that it all sounds an awful lot like a Dan Brown thriller. The literature snob within me caught wind of this and reared his head: “China Miéville? Writing a Dan Brownesque novel? Preposterous!” Truly, there are some striking similarities. However, Miéville differs from Brown in a few key points: he isn’t claiming this is all fact, covered up by some shadowy organization. The cults and conspiracy theorists in this book are just that. And he’s embracing the magic of London, in the vein of many other fantasy authors who have set their books in that city, picking up on the multi-faceted, multicultural history and the many rich layers of substance that makes London what it is.
Kraken is an enjoyable book. Billy makes a good hapless protagonist, thrust into a world he didn’t know existed the night before. At first he rides with the police’s underfunded, underappreciated division that handles cult-related zaniness. Soon enough he finds himself on the run along with an ex–squid-cult member, Dane Parnell, trying to get to the bottom of the kraken’s kidnapping. Unfortunately, Miéville muddies the plot significantly enough that it takes far too long for them to solve the mystery. Every few chapters, just when I thought we would make a big break, there would be a new twist or new piece of information.
It’s not that I want my mystery to be formulaic, predictable, or even straightforward. But it’s fiction, and fiction needs some boundaries and guidelines. I am awful at guessing whodunit in Agatha Christie’s works, but I still enjoy them because she sets careful parameters and lays out the clues like a market merchant setting out their wares. I know it’s one of several possible people, as opposed to a random character whom we don’t meet until a few chapters before they are revealed as the criminal
In this way, it would have been nice if Miéville had gone to the trouble of immersing us in his London far more intensively and with more variation earlier in the book. Billy doesn’t get out much, doesn’t stretch his legs. Aside from some mild name-dropping (in the case of Grisamenthum), Miéville doesn’t spend much time introducing the major players and the history of this aspect to the city. I realize that, for Billy, this is all supposed to be unsettling. But I feel like there could have been some alternative ways to structure the story that would leave us better prepared for confronting the mystery of the kraken.
This is the mind-blowing part, the most Miévillian of all the book, that kraken and its significance. There is a squid cult. There’s a disembodied villain. There’s a man out for revenge. And all along, Billy and another neophyte to this world, the innocent Marge, can’t quite believe what they are seeing or hearing. It’s all too incredible for them. How could this world exist just beneath the surface of everyday experience? In particular, I love how Marge uses the Web, particularly forums, to navigate this world and educate herself about it. It’s such a topical, contemporary way to learn the lore and pick up those darker arts, and Miéville doesn’t make a big deal about it.
Kraken is trying to be clever and philosophical, but it doesn’t take off for me. It sits there, prodding me with the odd teaser, while remaining annoyingly mundane for a Miéville book. It’s not that it just doesn’t feel odd enough (there is that) … it doesn’t have the same twisted depths of personal injustice. Billy loses his best friend, Leon (and how much of a loss is that?). But, barring the various issues I’ve had with Miéville’s characterization in the past, he has always delivered the most fascinating, intricate, and damaged personalities. The closest we get to that in this book is Tattoo, and maybe his rival, Grisamenthum. But they don’t come close to Miéville’s other creations.
Genuinely interesting and somewhat good, Kraken doesn’t rate highly against the other Miéville books I’ve read. I don’t recommend it as a starting place—because it doesn’t really resemble his other work—and I wouldn’t rush out it buy it unless you’re intent on completing the Miéville oeuvre. Or, you know, you like squid.
I don’t read nearly enough urban fantasy. I’m a little prejudiced against it, since so much of it seems to tend towards paranormal romance. That, and I’m getting mighty tired of every urban fantasy book also having to be a mystery as well. When authors really break the mould of urban fantasy—either by doing something different in our universe, or creating an entirely different universe that happens to be urban—I get excited. While Kim Harrison doesn’t quite break the mould with Dead Witch Walking, she gives it a good crack. In an alternative universe, an intense plague wiped out a significant portion of humanity. Its aftermath revealed that humans have been living alongside “Inderlanders”, Harrison’s inexplicable name for supernatural beings. Now, in the present day, Inderlanders and humans live cheek-and-jowl—not that everyone likes it.
Rachel Morgan is a bounty hunter. A runner for Inderlander Security, or IS, she decides to quit her job, because her boss is out to get her. This puts a price on her head, and she has to rely on her wits and the help from a “living vampire” (aka a vampire with a soul) and a pixie assistant in order to stay alive long enough to get IS off her back. It sounds like an intense adventure that promises thrill after high-stakes thrill, and Harrison succeeds in some respects. Yet I have a few reservations right out of the gate.
Rachel spends the first chapter denying that IS will put a hit on her if she quits. Ivy tells her. Jenks tells her. The leprechaun she catches and then decides to let go if it gives her three wishes, to help her in this escape plan, tells her. Everyone except Rachel believes her life is forfeit if she goes through with this. I just find it hard to believe that a hardened hunter like Rachel would be so naive as to believe that she could escape the IS so easily. This credulousness on her part made me more sceptical as a reader, which is never good.
Fortunately, Harrison manages to win me back. She keeps the plot going at an acceptable pace, and she manages to immerse me in the world of the Hollows without bludgeoning me with too much exposition. Gradually, I learn about the difference between a warlock and a witch (degree, not gender), a “living vampire” and a “dead vampire” (souls and sunlight), and a pixie and a fairy (well, kind of). Rachel is rather proactive—if a little foolhardy—in her plan to get the IS death threat lifted. Harrison also cooks up some pretty impressive consequences related to this death threat, which forces Rachel to use some ingenuity now that she can no longer just buy the charms and amulets that she needs.
The magic in Dead Witch Watching is rather low-key, but it suffuses the entire novel. In the wider world, but especially in the Hollows, magic is simply another part of life. It’s possible to bespell objects so that they will react violently to a certain person. Vampires, werewolves, pixies, etc., are all creatures with some kind of natural command of various magicks—while witches and warlocks appear human, but are able to create powerful charms and perform spells using ingredients one might find in a garden (or blood, or ley lines, or … well, Rachel explains it all). Harrison clearly has her magical world thought out; I appreciate that she doesn’t shove it down my throat all at once.
Dead Witch Walking also doesn’t suffer too much from the “smartass wizard” syndrome that creeps into most urban fantasy. Unfortunately, this affects even my beloved Dresden Files books. As with the mystery element I complained about earlier, there seems to be a contractual obligation to make one’s urban fantasy protagonist sassy. Not that I have anything against sass, mind you. I just want some variety in my protagonists. True, Rachel has a sharp tongue—but she gets as good as she gives from others, like Jenks.
I remain ambivalent only because, for all the action that Harrison packs into this relatively slim volume, the depth of the plot remains pretty shallow. I’ve read other books that have done much more with their characters in a first novel in the series. Rachel spends this entire novel spying on and trying to catch Trent Kalamack. I just find myself wishing Harrison had managed to accomplish more in the same number of pages.
The way Harrison ends the story leaves me wanting more, for sure. But it also doesn’t leave me wanting to rush out and buy the sequel, like some first books do. That pretty well describes my feelings about Dead Witch Walking: it’s fun, entertaining, and definitely not forgettable—but it didn’t quite excite or dazzle. (No jazz hands to be hand while reading here.)
Rachel Morgan is a bounty hunter. A runner for Inderlander Security, or IS, she decides to quit her job, because her boss is out to get her. This puts a price on her head, and she has to rely on her wits and the help from a “living vampire” (aka a vampire with a soul) and a pixie assistant in order to stay alive long enough to get IS off her back. It sounds like an intense adventure that promises thrill after high-stakes thrill, and Harrison succeeds in some respects. Yet I have a few reservations right out of the gate.
Rachel spends the first chapter denying that IS will put a hit on her if she quits. Ivy tells her. Jenks tells her. The leprechaun she catches and then decides to let go if it gives her three wishes, to help her in this escape plan, tells her. Everyone except Rachel believes her life is forfeit if she goes through with this. I just find it hard to believe that a hardened hunter like Rachel would be so naive as to believe that she could escape the IS so easily. This credulousness on her part made me more sceptical as a reader, which is never good.
Fortunately, Harrison manages to win me back. She keeps the plot going at an acceptable pace, and she manages to immerse me in the world of the Hollows without bludgeoning me with too much exposition. Gradually, I learn about the difference between a warlock and a witch (degree, not gender), a “living vampire” and a “dead vampire” (souls and sunlight), and a pixie and a fairy (well, kind of). Rachel is rather proactive—if a little foolhardy—in her plan to get the IS death threat lifted. Harrison also cooks up some pretty impressive consequences related to this death threat, which forces Rachel to use some ingenuity now that she can no longer just buy the charms and amulets that she needs.
The magic in Dead Witch Watching is rather low-key, but it suffuses the entire novel. In the wider world, but especially in the Hollows, magic is simply another part of life. It’s possible to bespell objects so that they will react violently to a certain person. Vampires, werewolves, pixies, etc., are all creatures with some kind of natural command of various magicks—while witches and warlocks appear human, but are able to create powerful charms and perform spells using ingredients one might find in a garden (or blood, or ley lines, or … well, Rachel explains it all). Harrison clearly has her magical world thought out; I appreciate that she doesn’t shove it down my throat all at once.
Dead Witch Walking also doesn’t suffer too much from the “smartass wizard” syndrome that creeps into most urban fantasy. Unfortunately, this affects even my beloved Dresden Files books. As with the mystery element I complained about earlier, there seems to be a contractual obligation to make one’s urban fantasy protagonist sassy. Not that I have anything against sass, mind you. I just want some variety in my protagonists. True, Rachel has a sharp tongue—but she gets as good as she gives from others, like Jenks.
I remain ambivalent only because, for all the action that Harrison packs into this relatively slim volume, the depth of the plot remains pretty shallow. I’ve read other books that have done much more with their characters in a first novel in the series. Rachel spends this entire novel spying on and trying to catch Trent Kalamack. I just find myself wishing Harrison had managed to accomplish more in the same number of pages.
The way Harrison ends the story leaves me wanting more, for sure. But it also doesn’t leave me wanting to rush out and buy the sequel, like some first books do. That pretty well describes my feelings about Dead Witch Walking: it’s fun, entertaining, and definitely not forgettable—but it didn’t quite excite or dazzle. (No jazz hands to be hand while reading here.)