I love to sleep. I prefer at least eight, preferably nine hours of sleep each night. Going to bed at midnight and waking up at nine in the morning is a perk of my madcap, Bohemian university student lifestyle that I will have to abandon once I become a stern, starched-collar high school teacher. For now, however, I like my sleep, and I will defend to the death my right to snore it. But if I did not need to sleep—had, in fact, grown up without ever knowing sleep—would I miss it? How would I be different? What if I weren't alone?

Beggars in Spain has a simple premise—that certain children have been genetically-engineered so that they do not sleep—with enormous implications (such as the Sleepless not aging). Once again, Nancy Kress uses genetic engineering to explore what it means to be human and how our society treats those who are different. I recognize her familiar themes from Nothing Human and "Act One". Kress is an awesome author of serious gene-manipulation fiction, by which I mean she doesn't use genetic engineering just as a science-fiction plot device or a background phenomenon, as one might see in other books where other motifs are more important. Whether she is altering the entire human genome, as in Nothing Human, or tweaking just a single trait, as she did here and in "Act One," Kress considers the implications of her changes in how these altered humans think and behave. More importantly, she considers how the un-altered will react. And Kress is writing posthuman fiction set not in the far-off future but in the present and in the near-future; she is writing about what our lives might be like in a decade or three.

So why did I have so much trouble with Beggars in Spain? I was constantly aware of how far through the book I was, and I never had that urge to continue reading like I do with books that really grip me. To be fair, I think I had a similar reaction to Nothing Human. Kress' writing style and my reading habits do not exist in perfect harmony, and sometimes that happens, even with authors whose work I admire on an intellectual or literary level. There must be more to it than that. Otherwise, I would feel comfortable giving this book five stars.

Beggars in Spain has an excellent premise, but its plot is unsustainable. The tragedy is that the overall story makes a lot of sense, and it should work: the Sleepless outperform the Sleepers, who channel their fear of difference into hatred and bigotry. So far, so good: none of this requires suspension of disbelief, at all, because it's a true story that has been repeated far too often in our history. It's still happening today. Groups fear those who are different, and then the fear turns to hate, people get stupid, and individuals die. I don't begrudge Kress the parallels. Intention is one thing, however, and execution is quite another.

The first part of the book, essentially what got published as a novella (and won both the Hugo and Nebula for it!), is great. I have few complaints about it. The supporting characters are somewhat thin, and the family situation is somewhat clichéd. Aside from that, however, Kress nicely portrays an American society struggling to deal with the rising population of Sleepless among them. The nascent internal divisions among the network of Sleepless is intriguing, and Kress follows up on this in the rest of the book.

There are two problems with the rest of the book, and their names are Leisha Cambden and Jennifer Sharifi. Leisha is the main character, theoretically the protagonist, though she does not do much protagonizing. Although seeing the world through Leisha's Sleepless yet compassionate eyes is interesting, Leisha as a person is rather dull and credulous. She talks a lot about Yagaiism and contracts and eponymous Spanish beggars, and once in a while she kidnaps abused Sleepless children. Most of her actions, however, like the creation of the Susan Bell Foundation, take place offstage. Plenty of characters around Leisha—Richard, Alice, Jordan, Drew—are doing things; Leisha just seems to sit around lamenting the fact that people are short-sighted and judgemental. She's a bit of a downer.

Jennifer Sharifi, on the other hand, is much more interesting but, again, doesn't quite work as a character. One of the two characters who come as close to antagonists as this book has, Jennifer is an ultra-cool Sleepless who pursues rationality and pragmatism to the point of irrationality. She is convinced the only route for Sleepless survival is voluntary exile: first to an orbital habitat, then out into space completely. All her energy is directed toward these efforts, laying the groundwork for the secession of the Sleepless Sanctuary from the United States. She continues to tinker with the genes of Sanctuary's children, creating a new generation of "Supers," Sleepless whose neurological functions are hyper-accelerated—at the price of a loss of motor control that manifests as twitches and stuttering. Oh, and she stacks Sanctuary's ruling council with her own family members and viciously suppresses any dissent.

Jennifer is a caricature of an ultra-reactionary leader of the persecuted. She's too bad, closer to a moustached villain than a devious leader fighting for the survival of the Sleepless. There's never a question of whether she has crossed a line; she has crossed it, and for that she receives no sympathy for me. I don't view her as a credible threat or challenge, because the other characters will always have the moral high ground over her. If she had been more ambiguous, or at least more formidable, I might have enjoyed her role as an antagonist more.

The other antagonist comes rather late to the party. He frames Sleepless for attacks on Sleepers, including a Sleeper scientist who approaches Leisha to have develop a way of turning Sleepers into Sleepless. He's a much less important figure than Jennifer, of course, so accordingly he has less depth. Still, his involvement in the scientist's murder wasn't exactly my favourite revelation of the book. I don't really hold it against him, but he does highlight a vacancy in the roster: Leisha et al needed a true ally, a powerful Sleeper who nevertheless championed the cause of the Sleepless.

I quite liked the Supers, and Miri, and their struggle as a faction within the Sanctuary faction. The whole Other-within-the-Other motif is appealing, and Miri is one of the easiest characters with whom I could sympathize. Watching her struggle with her feelings for Tony, her own brother, and reconcile the knowledge that her mother could not look upon her with love, was close to heartbreaking. And of course, Miri and the Supers are exactly Jennifer's mistake: she tries to create an ultra-superhuman being, something beyond even her own generation of Sleepless, but she haughtily thinks she can somehow control them. While the Supers' sundering of their Sanctuary shackles was predictable, it was also the most entertaining and riveting part of the book.

Beggars in Spain isn't bad, but it is heavyhanded almost across the board: characters, philosophy, and plot could all have done with a much lighter touch. Just thinking of all the times the characters referred to "beggars" or "beggars in Spain," as if Kress was not confident we would make the connection between the philosophy and the book's title, makes me wince. I appreciate subtlety, and I notice its absence. While seldom enough to ruin a book for me—especially one as admittedly thoughtful and intriguing as this—it does detract from my enjoyment. Books are my drug of choice, and Beggars in Spain left me unsatisfied.

My Reviews of the Sleepless trilogy:
Beggars and Choosers →

This is the second work of historical fiction I’ve read in a month that has a colour in its title and features art as a significant component of its story. The other, Sacré Bleu, was an irreverent “comedy d’art” by Christopher Moore. My Name is Red definitely isn’t that. Good thing I like to read widely!

My Name is Red opens with the voice of a dead man. Elegant Effendi describes the sensations of knowing he is dead, of his spirit decoupling from his body. He hopes his murderer will be found and brought to justice (the more creative the better). From there, Orhan Pamuk goes on to hop perspectives every chapter, weaving a story of magic and mystery in sixteenth-century Istanbul. Centred around a workshop of miniaturists who are working on a somewhat controversial book for the Sultan, My Name is Red dips into some of the questions raised in the sixteenth century as the Ottoman Empire continued to coexist uneasily next to the Christian nations of Western Europe. The time is the past and the setting is, as always, that battleground between change and tradition.

This book reminds me a lot of The Name of the Rose. Superficially they have so many similarities: both are translations, one from Turkish and one from Italian. Both are set in the past and involve a murder mystery. Both are written in a style that is, if not challenging, then definitely demanding of one’s full attention. Beyond the surface, though, the striking similarities continue: both of these novels are about the tension between different schools of thought. In The Name of the Rose it’s the growing chasm between science and religion, between the empirical principles of Bacon and Occam and the spiritual communion of the Franciscans and Dominicans. In My Name is Red it’s the clash between the older, traditional ways of depicting people in Islamic art and the new style imported from Venice—a style that, some worry, comes too close to the real thing. And in both these novels, the murders are inextricably linked to these questions of style, change, and tradition.

I can see why many people express frustration over this book’s narration. It’s not the easiest book to read. Translated from Turkish, My Name is Red doesn’t always have the same kind of unity and coherence that a novel originally written in English might have. Moreover, Pamuk has very little time for dialogue. Most of the book is either description or introspection from the narrator to the reader. My Name is Red reminds me of a stage play. In each scene, several actors would be in tableaux while the narrator of the scene delivers an extensive monologue. Then, with a flourish, he or she triggers the action, the other actors unfreeze, and the plot drags forward for a few minutes before the narrator re-assumes control. Although i understand why some people see the narrators as flat, I thought the moments when they comment on their actions, their drawings or letter-writing or courting, were quite confessional. Just the character and I in a musty, dark room, as the character hurriedly scribbles out the journal of their last days. One of them is a murderer ….

Thanks to the way Pamuk structures the novel, attempting to discover the identity of the murderer is half the fun. The murderer narrates both as himself and as his ordinary miniaturist alter ego, always careful never to reveal anything about his actions as a miniaturist that would shed light on his identity. So, for example, Pamuk has each of the three suspect miniaturists tell three parables labelled Aliph, Bet, Djim, allowing the murderer to refer to these stories without revealing which miniaturist he is. But the clues are there, getting louder as the novel approaches the climax and the identity of the murderer is revealed. I was sure it was one miniaturist pretty early on—and I was wrong. So it goes.

The miniaturists’ chapters are also very interesting looks at the ongoing debate regarding Islamic versus Western art. Is it sacrilege to paint in the Frankish style? What is style, anyway? Is it sacrilege to have one’s own style, rather than labouring to faithfully reproduce the old pieces as flawlessly as possible? True flawlessness, of course, just like true creativity, is the domain of Allah and not something a mere human artist could achieve. These questions spill over beyond the miniaturists’ chapters, however, and into the concurrent love story between Shekure and Black and the murder mystery itself. The ideas Pamuk juggles are particularly appropriate to the context of the story, but they are timeless and still relevant today.

Above all else, Pamuk manages to convey how personal the process of making and rendering art can be. Making art is a thoughtful, time-consuming activity that can be as emotionally draining as it is physically. The crises of faith experienced in My Name is Red are all too real. They happen as a result of the expression of self necessary for art to be possible: what you make, and how you make it, says something about yourself and your convictions, what you believe and the values you hold dear. To set that down on paper, in ink, in stone, on canvas, for others to view and discuss and rip apart … it’s a little terrifying. Worse still, in the act of such creation, you begin to think about these beliefs and sometimes even question them—or, through the influence of other creators, you realize that there are other sets of beliefs out there. Which ones are true, better, practical, enriching, etc.? Does it even matter?

So, you know, art is serious business. Serious enough in this case that someone was willing to kill Elegant Effendi for questioning if what they were doing was compatible with the wishes of Allah. On one hand, such actions seem like the same old, same old internecine and destructive effects of organized religion—but that would be a disingenuous and uncharitable evaluation. For on the other hand, the conflict in My Name is Red is less about religion and more about personal values that hinge upon the intersection of history, politics, faith, and art.

It took me a while to read My Name is Red, partly because I did so while moving to another country and partly because of its heavily stylized narration. But read it I did. While it did not necessarily excite me or enthrall me in the same way The Name of the Rose did, its meditations on the nature of art and artistry, style and sacrilege and sacrifice, are still interesting. It is a deep and thoughtful book; as long as you are willing to spend the time and effort on it, it is also a rewarding one.

This is probably the most depressing book I have ever read in my entire life. Not only is its chronicling of four lives bleak and without the slightest hint of hope or redemption, but it does this with a comprehensive scope and an unforgiving manner. Even re-reading it, knowing what was going to happen, did not mitigate my sadness. If anything, it amplified my emotions, because for all of the good things that happen in this book, the moments of joy, I knew how it was all going to go wrong. And this is not some adventure story or a romance where things get bad for a few hundred pages before the protagonists rise in the face of adversity. No, in A Fine Balance, everything goes to hell. And it doesn't get better.

I could spend several paragraphs discussing how this book is depressing. Suffice it to say, A Fine Balance is set in Mumbai, India. It covers over 30 years, from independence in 1947 to the Emergency of the 1970s. Rohinton Mistry follows four characters: two tailors, Ishvar and Omprakash; the widow, Dina Dalal, who employs them in her apartment; and the college student, Maneck, rooming with the widow. These characters endure poverty, oppression, and abuse by those in power and those with power. The tailors, their relatives victims of caste violence in their village back home, arrive in Mumbai only to live in a slum that gets demolished, its slum-lord now in the pay of the government. But living on the streets is not an option, for during the Emergency police have broad discretion when it comes to "beautifying" the streets of the overcrowded, overpopulated city, and losing their residence is by far one of the lesser misfortunes that Ishvar and Om experience.

The Emergency happened before I was born, in a land far removed from me. It is nothing more than a name to me, a period in the recent history of a country related to mine by imperial ties and immigrant exchanges. So this book lacks the personal resonance it has for those who did live through this period, whether in India or abroad. And I haven't really ever experienced any of the hardships Mistry depicts here. Nevertheless, I can still appreciate A Fine Balance as a depiction of suffering during a time of turmoil and tyranny. And yeah, it is depressing, but I do not agree with those reviewers who find this a valid reason for panning the book. Mistry makes you feel sad for a reason.

While not perfect, Mistry's four protagonists are all good people. We learn this early in the book, for he recounts their past to us in a series of flashbacks so verbose as to transcend mere exposition and become true parts of the plot and narrative. Dina grows up under the thumb of her older brother, her dreams of becoming a doctor squashed by a patriarchal society. Instead she resorts to marriage as an escape, enjoys a happiness too rich to last long, and becomes a widow. For her, as with everyone, the question is how to make enough money to get by. Ishvar and Om come from a caste of tanners; their father made the defiant transition to tailoring and paid for the insolence with his life. They carry on in his tradition, but they have come to the city seeking work. Maneck has come to the city also looking for escape and edification; he is enrolled in a one-year college certification on air conditioners. He's not a very good student, but he is happy he has left his hometown, and with it his unsatisfying relationship with his father.

These are ordinary, everyday people. They do not invite the misfortune that befalls them. Why do bad things happen to good people? A Fine Balance is many things, but it is not theodicy. It is instead a look at the consequences of a certain zeitgeist present in India at the time of the emergency. We see it in the way that Ishvar, Om, Dina, and Maneck all become victims, yes, but this zeitgeist pervades the novel on every level. It is present in the attitudes of Mistry's minor characters, in the exclamations of approval from Mrs. Gupta and Nusswan regarding the Emergency and its effect on trade unions, in the derision of Beggarmaster and the guilty conscience of Sergeant Kesar. Just as ordinary people ignored the obvious injustices happening during the Holocaust, so too did ordinary people rationalize and justify the brutality and the injustices that occurred during the Emergency. Some, like Mrs. Gupta or Nusswan, do it for economic reasons, whether or not they believe such actions are truly justified—scarily enough, some do. Others, like Sergeant Kesar, care less about the political significance of their actions and more about the moral significance.

I like Sergeant Kesar. He is a very minor character, but he is an example of how Mistry manages to make the scope of his political themes so broad. There are plenty of stock characters in A Fine Balance, but for every goonda mindlessly enforcing the will of a landlord or minister, there is a Sergeant Kesar or an Ibrahim, an authority figure with a name and a face. These are antagonists or sometime-allies who, for one reason or another, are probably good people but have managed to end up in the wrong line of work at the wrong time. They struggle with their jobs, with the way they interact with people like Dina Dalal. This struggle is a poignant counterpoint to the innocent suffering of our four protagonists. The Emergency is not a monolithic movement of one group oppressing another. It is, Mistry shows us, a tumultuous period of conflict as one government tries to stay in power while elements subvert it for their own purposes.

That seems to fit with India, a country always in flux as a result of its vast population and rich history. Indira Gandhi's desecration of democracy destabilizes the country, but it is just another straw on the back of an already over-laden camel. From Ishvar and Om's backstory we learn of the deterioration of the caste system, and the resulting resistance from those, like the Thakur, who have power in the villages. From Maneck's childhood we see how urban development and expansion, commercialism and competition, are changing India's rural landscape and endangering some enterprises, like his father's general store. Dina's tale is more personal and more gendered, but it is also a story about family and independence. As she points out, independence is an illusion. We are all dependent on each other, especially in a city as big as Mumbai, and the culmination of the relationships of these four characters is an illustration of their interdependence. Ishvar and Om's detainment and disappearance profoundly affects Dina and Maneck, both personally and professionally; likewise, Dina's troubles with the landlord threaten Ishvar and Om's livelihood.

But I digress. In A Fine Balance, Mistry juxtaposes the turmoil of the Emergency with many other events occurring simultaneously to alter India's zeitgeist. The result is a snapshot of a country that has always fascinated me for its conflict and its contradictions. Mistry's descriptions of life in Mumbai, especially for the impoverished, are almost beyond my ability to grasp, so different are they from what I know. India is in that interesting zone between developing and developed nation (though I am aware such terminology is, as ever, controversial). Its economy is so huge, so rich, both real and with potential, yet its massive population faces problems of education, poverty, and health. It is a fascinating country with very real challenges, both now and in the 1970s when this novel takes place.

All this, of course, does not really address that central question: why so depressing? Why couldn't Mistry weave a thread of hope through his quilt of a story? In my opinion, Maneck's ultimate fate obviates any possible solace one might find in the tenuous equilibrium achieved by Dina, Ishvar, and Om. It is a grace note that manages to overpower the end of the book, cause shock and dismay, and colours anything that follows. I don't want to spoil it if you haven't read the book, but it is an action of such implicit nihilism that it is emblematic of the tone of A Fine Balance.

Simply put, if this book ended on a "happy" note, if Ishvar, Om, Dina, and Maneck emerged with little in way of complaint, then their suffering would have been meaningless. That is a major claim to make, I know. Other books involve characters who suffer greatly only to emerge triumphant and all the better for it, so what makes these ones different? It is both the nature and the degree of their suffering. Their experiences are so brutal, so dehumanizing, that any serious redemption would minimize them too much for the reader. In order to emerge from such experiences triumphantly, it would have to be through actions of their own doing, through some form of resistance that overcomes the adversity. This would contradict the sense of powerlessness that Mistry wants to communicate, the utter helplessness in the face of an implacable political climate created by corrupt politicians and police. Ishvar and Om are not, cannot be revolutionaries. Dina and Maneck cannot be subversives. So when they suffer and submit and then it is over … well, it cannot really be over, not until they are devastated. Mistry must administer a coup de grâce that finalizes the destruction he has plotted since page one.

This book is fiction, so it must have a beginning, middle, and end. But it is as close to being true as fiction can get, both in verisimilitude and in attitude. It is neither uplifting nor endearing but wearing. Even the most optimistic person would feel besieged by Mistry's careful and persistent erosion of everything good from the universe of A Fine Balance. And this holds up to repeated readings, because his depictions of characters both major and minor are just so vivid, so believable, so tortuously touching, that you cannot help but care about what happens to them, even when you know it will be nothing good.

And so, I am not sure what to say, except that this is one of my favourite books, and in my opinion, one of the best books ever written, period. There will always be those who disagree, who pick it up, trudge through fifty or a hundred or two hundred pages, and then declare it a waste, a wash, unimpressive or boring at best. I don't know how to respond to those people, or even if I should respond. All I can say is that few books have ever affected me so much as A Fine Balance. Many books have moved me; many have entertained me and charmed me and made me laugh and cry. But A Fine Balance has left an indelible mark upon me. It is a work of consummate skill. This book is fiction, so it must be false. But it is a sad, depressing book, because somewhere out there in the past and the present and, yes, the future, every single bit of it is, in some form, true.

What images do the words "science fiction" conjure in your mind? Do you think of spaceships, lasers, phasers, light-sabres? Rockets, robots, and radon gas? Green chicks and blue boxes? Science fiction is a genre built upon difference. Science fiction stories are essentially thought experiments in which the author asks what would happen if the world were different in one or many ways.

We often (rightly) associate science fiction with fantastic technologies, but that kind of mental picture is a rather poor description of the entire genre. There's so much science fiction that emphasizes the psychological over the physical, taking us on a journey deep into our minds instead of out among the stars. I have to confess to having a bias toward the former type, even though I know that many examples of the latter type are truly outstanding. Perhaps that's the problem though. Perhaps the former type of science fiction, in emphasizing a technological apotheosis, permits us to marginalizing it as a form of acknowledged fantasy, whereas the latter is more "literary," more "mainstream," more "down-to-earth," if you will.

The Drowned World is rooted firmly in this camp. The technology seems little different from that of contemporary Earth. Rather, the change comes from the external environment, a result of massive global warming caused by solar radiation. Earth's equatorial regions are reverting to "Triassic age" climates, and the transformation has reached as far north as London. The main characters are at home among an alien landscape, but aside from this change of scenery, the people and their devices are much like that available in the present day, right down to .38 revolvers.

The scenery is merely a catalyst for the true source of the science fiction. The Drowned World chronicles three people's attempts to process the genetic memory of the Triassic age, passed down to them by their mammalian ancestors. The similarities in environment stimulate their brains, first causing intense dreams that soon transform into a sort of waking sleep. The minds of the characters are, in some ways, regressing back toward the Triassic, even while their physical forms remain human.

In that sense, The Drowned World raises the question—as much of its ilk in this type of science fiction do—of how much of the events in the story actually happen. How much is "real" and how much is a half-remembered, half-hallucinated waking dream of the protagonist? Ballard emphasizes the unreliable nature of the narrative by drawing attention to actions of Kerans' that he questions after the fact, concluding that he has no explanation for why he acted that way.

Particularly, in one of the most lugubrious and haunting scenes of the book, Kerans has dived to the bottom of a lagoon to explore a deserted planetarium. He secures his air line around a door handle to keep it from dragging in the silt, and when he goes too far, the line snags and chokes off his air, causing him to black out. After being rescued, Kerans realizes he doesn't know if the incident was an accident, foul play by the people on the surface, or a suicide attempt. Constantly questioning his motivations, Kerans always seems to be on the cusp of metamorphosis, striving constantly toward a transformation that eludes him. In contrast, Bodkin's emotional closeness to London, considering it home, seems to maroon him in the near past instead of allowing transcendence toward the Triassic; and Beatrice . . . well, I don't know what to make of Beatrice.

Although The Drowned World has much in the way of atmosphere, by its very nature it is somewhat inscrutable, and thus frustrating. It reminds me of the work of [a:H.G. Wells|880695|H.G. Wells|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1201281795p2/880695.jpg], particularly The Island of Dr. Moreau. Like Wells, Ballard's protagonist is a competent, well-educated male who engages in a struggle for survival in an isolated, technologically-limited setting. Along the way, the book explores environmental and social themes (more environmental in this case). Both books examine the nature of humanity through the nature of mind and memory. And The Drowned World has a similar narrative style—while not first person, it has that same mixture of factual, journalism-like tones and artistic, surrealist overtures.

Ballard's capacity for description, whether it is mood or setting, is by and large the strongest part of this book. Not only does he give a good account of the new, lagoon-filled London, but he simultaneously delves into the minds of his characters (or at least, Kerans) and scrutinizes their motivations. It is a good thing too, because the relative isolation of the characters means there is comparatively little dialogue. Ballard's description and narration keeps The Drowned World moving, even when he spends pages depicting the stillness of a scene.

Unfortunately, The Drowned World doesn't always sustain the tension it tries to build. Ballard raises intriguing questions, but he never seems to take them to a satisfactory concluding point—or at least, if he does, he does not convince me. At the end, I'm left questioning the point of the journey. How exactly has Kerans changed? What is the significance of this surrender to the pre-uterine memories? The psychology underlying the book is interesting but not as fleshed out as I would want.

Likewise, I found the conflicts between Kerans and Strangman lacklustre. Part of the reason I draw the comparison with Wells is because the conflict seems there because it's expected, like Ballard is following a well-tread plot and grafting his psychological themes to the existing structure. This unsuccessful melding is a crack that begins to undermine my confidence in the rest of the book. Suddenly I wonder about Kerans' indecisiveness—he doesn't want to leave, then he does want to leave, then he doesn't want to leave, then he leaves . . . like many stories, it is a difficult—and subjective—call: is this a brilliant illustration of learned helplessness or indicative of great writing married to a mediocre story?

Despite its environmental themes, The Drowned World is not post-apocalyptic, nor does it really look at how the rest of society has adapted to the mass exodus induced by global warming. It is, at its core, a look at the psyche of the individual, especially the isolated one. And that's cool. I was expecting something more, though. I was expecting profound—and I got profound. Yet I was expecting something moving, something that professed purpose . . . and that has eluded me here.

The Drowned World reads like a classic, channelling the style of H.G. Wells to conjure a different, somewhat eerie atmosphere of otherness. But the style lacks enough substance to support it; ultimately, the story falls flat.

So what if someone set us up the bomb, or several bombs, and instead of nuclear winter and all the survivors dying of cancer, they got fused to each other and bits of glass and animals and broken doll heads? Pure is a horror story about atomic detonations gone wrong. Yeah—if that isn’t a terrifying thought, I don’t know what is. Julianna Baggott postulates a post-apocalyptic world that is the fevered vision of a madman in a dome. And that’s where it all starts falling apart.

I’m so over dystopian fiction. On to the next semi-fantasy book bubble, please. Can we go back to vampires or something?

I don’t have anything against (u/dys)topian fiction, mind you. Done well, it illuminates darker aspects of society—the same aspects that often enough act to organize and drive the progress on which we survive—and the dangers of not standing up, speaking out, and acting for change. From Brave New World to The Handmaid’s Tale, dystopian fiction reminds us that the quest for a perfect world will always carry within it the seeds for that corrupted ideal of perfection, the dream hijacked in the name of personal power and “the greater good”.

I was also intrigued when Baggott deigned to explain the genesis behind her new world order. Most authors eschew this part of the narrative, and while I understand the allegorical imperative, it still annoys the part of me that is interested in the events that transform us from now to then. That being said, I don’t think I would have enjoyed Pure any more if Baggott had remained close-lipped on that subject. For me, the bottom line with dystopian fiction is easy: your world has to make sense. Yours is not a good dystopia if I don’t think it’s very plausible.

I’ll ignore, for the moment, the suspension of disbelief required for atomic bombs to cause the transformations they do. Kids, if you’re reading Pure, take a moment: radiation doesn’t give you superpowers, nor does it fuse you to other objects. You just get cancer and die. This has been a public service announcement. Don’t play near reactors.

So the Dome and the Detonations are all part of a mad scientist’s master plan that also includes turning the 99% into an underclass of mutants who serve the 1% in a “New Eden”. Uh-huh. Because I know the first thing I’ll want when I live in a perfect society is ugly servants! Brilliant idea. Even if I did want that, I still wouldn’t fund this mad scientist’s proposal. How does he get the codes required to launch the nuclear arsenal? Or if he builds his own bombs, where does he find the fissile material? Baggott alludes to a government that has nationalized Christianity and the fact that Willux has “no oversight”, but I still don’t see how he could have fooled all these world governments. Someone would have learned about his plan and sent in Seal Team Six.

I’d like to say that the backstory is Pure’s biggest flaw, but I’ve only scratched the surface. I didn’t hate this book by any means, but I certainly feel let down by Baggott’s plotting. Beyond what’s a fairly good story about the quest to reunite a son with his mother, there’s nothing very interesting happening here. If the plot of Pure were a universe, then Ω would equal 1.

The world and story reminds me a lot of Bioshock: the various mutated creatures like Dusts and Groupies are the Splicers; the Good Mother and her band of ragtag fused mothers/children are some helpful Little Sisters. Pressia, Partridge, and Bradwell stumble through this world like video game characters controlled by an awkward, probably intoxicated college kid—and like a video game, Baggott feels the need to put up some invisible walls and show us only as much of the world as we need to see. Pure has a little bit of an economy cast issue going on (TVTropes). For instance, the OSR (Operation Sacred Revolution) is supposed to be this hegemonic, imposing government/militia that controls everything outside the Dome. Turns out it’s just one crazy guy and his abused wife. Huh.

It’s this kind of logic that makes Pure difficult to love, at least for me. There’s no question that Baggott is a skilled writer. I was reading this at a baseball game and gloated a little to my dad when Partridge and Pressia learned that they’re half-siblings. “It was so obvious!” I chortled. But it was obvious in a good way. Baggott foreshadowed it in a way that allowed me to figure it out, and that takes skill. Even if her characters make sense, though, her world and her plot don’t, and that’s what gives me pause.

If Pure arrived at a different time in this dystopian fiction bubble, I might have received it differently. But it’s about on par with Mockingjay, which was itself a weak and watered-down version of The Hunger Games. There’s nothing here we haven’t seen before, and seen done better, elsewhere. By all means, bring on more dystopian fiction. But make it plausible, make it good, and make it count. Or else I will check out and go find myself another Umberto Eco book.

One of the difficulties of pledging allegiance to a sovereign monarch is that whole loss of individual volition. Most of the time you might hardly notice it—but when you fall in love with someone below your station, or when the monarch begins fading and his unscrupulous youngest son sets his eyes on the throne, suddenly this loss of volition is a big deal. FitzChivalry Farseer watches the Kingdom of the Six Duchies fall apart before his eyes—yet his field of possible actions is highly constrained. He yearns to take matters into his own hands, except that this would make him as bad as his enemies. So he waits, and bides his time, a strategy that seldom leads to good things.

Royal Assassin is very frustrating. The entire book is a chronicle of the decline of a kingdom under attack from both terrible external foes (the Redship Raiders) even as it is being consumed from within by an ambitious prince. Fitz really doesn’t have much going for him: his King-in-Waiting is becoming addicted to Skilling and then goes off on a mad quest for the mythical Elderlings, hoping they can help out against the Redships. He is hopelessly in love with Molly, once a chandler and now temporarily a maid in Buckkeep. Oh, and his King is feeble and bed-ridden, his mind a cloudy, fogged place and kept so by the drugs his manservant feeds him.

I am struggling, however, to find something to say that rises above such plot summary. If ever there were a book that actually suffered from that much-talked-about “middle book syndrome”, Royal Assassin would be a good candidate. Fitz spends very little time assassinating people. He gets into a few fights—particularly with Forged victims—but is dispatched on a mission by King Shrewd only once in the book. In general, Royal Assassin is a lot longer than it needs to be. Robin Hobb is reluctant to grant our protagonists many victories. We get no indication that the Elderlings might be any more than an ancient legend; we get very little information about the Redship Raiders or their shadowy leader. Indeed, most of the outcomes in this book are bad news for the good guys.

I could live with that. Unhappy endings and tragedy make for great story. Yet the opinion that I find myself forming centres mostly on a complaint about the characters—or lack thereof. This is your standard medieval fantasy set in a kingdom with a vast population—yet the cast list is scant. The same few characters continually reappear. And, while this partly a result of the book’s first-person narration, we get almost no exposure to any scenes with the book’s antagonists. Aside from the few battles that Fitz personally attends, we hear about raiding attacks after the fact. Likewise, we seldom get access to Regal’s plots or machinations, seeing only the effect as they unfold around Fitz and his allies. The result is a very one-sided story.

I’m not sure how to fix this. The obvious answer, to use an ensemble cast, would destroy the narration of FitzChivalry, and that’s one of the best parts of this book. Hobb succeeds in creating a character who is believably flawed without being all that unlikeable. (Your mileage might vary here, because I could see some convincing arguments about Fitz’ indolence or indecisiveness.) He’s a good person caught up in terrible things, and he lacks the education or resources to combat the forces aligned against him. I was livid when Verity decided to go off on his quest and leave Fitz around to look after Verity’s foreign queen, Kettricken. Because as much as Fitz is a nice guy, it’s not like he has a lot of experience with political intrigue. There was no way this would end well.

Verity’s departure, and his quest, merely serve to highlight the lack of action happening at Buckkeep. In the previous book, it was Fitz who set off on a journey west, while Verity stayed back at Buckkeep to mind the store. Now we are stuck in the castle while another character searches for the beings that might save the kingdom—and frankly, that sounds like an adventure. I’d like to read that book.

I wish I could sound more excited about Royal Assassin, because I did enjoy it. But you can’t fake that enthusiasm (at least I can’t). It might be my mood, and the fact that my current schedule and workload meant it took me nearly a week to finish this. Whatever the reason, though, this book was good but never does anything remarkable. It’s solid fantasy, and it goes a long way to restoring my opinion of Hobb after the fiasco that was the Soldier Son trilogy. I can only hope that Assassin’s Quest delivers something more intense to bookend this series and make Royal Assassin cool by association.

My reviews of the Farseer trilogy:
← Assassin’s Apprentice | Assassin’s Quest →

I tend to forget that books can be works of art. This might seem like a strange statement, considering how seriously I seem to take reading. Don’t let my relentless criticism fool you, though: by and large, I read for pleasure. The act of thinking about and analysing the books I read just happens to form an integral part of that process. Yet, for all that analysis, the artistic nature of the work often eludes me.

Occasionally, though, a book reminds me of this aspect of literature. Worst. Person. Ever. is a recent example, because Coupland seems to have set out to offend in an age where offensiveness has sold itself out. The Luminaries is another, for altogether different reasons.

At first glance, this seems like a book easily described. Eleanor Catton seems just to tell a story of love, betrayal, murder, and intrigue in the golden days of 1860s New Zealand. Yet anyone who ventures into this novel armed with this basic understanding will soon find themselves surprised. The first third of the book is a series of nested narratives that furnish the setting and circumstances at the centre of this story. It’s not difficult reading, but at the same time there is a distinct lack of urgency to this unspooling of story. With each page, Catton sets up more questions, more complexity, but she moves in a very lateral way, branching out instead of building atop what she has already introduced.

Comparisons of The Luminaries to Victorian novels are apt. Catton’s sprawling and telescopic style emulates the storytelling that was in vogue at the time the novel is set. Her cast is Dickensian in its size and the detail with which she explores each member’s backstory. And, of course, there is the use of the series of incredible coincidences, which allow all these characters’ lives to intersect in exceedingly improbable yet interesting ways. All in all, the book definitely reminds me of Bleak House.

Whether such emulation is worthwhile, in this age of shorter and shorter attention spans, is up for debate. It’s worth noting that many Victorian novels, particularly Dickens, were originally published in serialized form. Hence, what seem like long, slow-burning stories to us were actually weekly instalments, complete with cliffhangers and the necessary explanation to help cement a character in the reader’s mind. Just as the style of writing has shifted over the centuries, so too has our methods of publishing and packaging. (Interesting, short fiction is enjoying a new renaissance with the increasing popularity of ebooks, and I wonder if serials—like The Human Division—will catch on again.) Hence, it isn’t a simple case of Catton emulating the Victorian style for an audience of modern readers; the way in which we read novels, Victorian or contemporary, has fundamentally changed over time.

I certainly wouldn’t advise reading The Luminaries over the course of four days like I did. Having received the book as a Christmas gift from my dad, I determined it is too large and heavy to bring to England with me—so it was either read it now, or read it in the summer when I return home. I chose to read it now, but because I was flying back on Friday, I had to read quickly. Huh. This was probably not the correct decision, for this is a book that demands careful reading and reflection. I followed the plot well enough, but I’m sure there are details I missed that would have enhanced my appreciation of the story.

Additionally, in comparing Catton to Dickens, we should consider the substance of the story, not just its structure. Dickens is a master of social commentary; his novels are not just intense stories but scathing indictments of Victorian society. Bleak House, for example, is a both a condemnation of English courts and a cautionary tale against obsession and avarice. I have a harder time characterizing the moral of The Luminaries. Indeed, as a result of Catton’s use of astrological symbolism in the structure—something never really explored or explained in much detail—I found this a difficult book to interrogate along thematic lines. In short, Catton replicates the dynamic characters that make Dickens so successful, but I'm less certain she has replicated the moral fibre that underlies those characters.

If we move beyond the consideration of The Luminaries as an homage to the Victorian novel, then, we could look at it as a mystery or a work of postcolonial fiction. As a mystery, it's the best kind: there's murder, and a prostitute, and shady characters of all description. The particulars are clouded by prejudice and racism and business interests. The connections among the sprawling cast of characters are organic only in the way they can be in fiction and in a settlement as small as Hokitika. Catton capitalizes on the frontier atmosphere of the town to heighten the sense of drama, most notably in the absence of organized law enforcement. Governor Shepard, head of the Hokitika Gaol, doubles as a kind of sheriff, and so Catton manages to inject a little of the Wild West into the proceedings.

I kept finding myself imagining what kind of accents these characters might have. It's interesting how quickly accents drift--most of these characters were immigrants and not, in fact, New Zealanders by birth--though some, like Anna, were originally from Australia. I wonder how long after the colonization of these areas it took for the accents to change noticeably. And I wonder how such accents are linked to the development of a national identity distinct from mother Britannia. Certainly the British characters in this book identify as British rather than as New Zealanders. Even Frobisher, who was born in New Zealand to immigrant parents, finds himself speaking about England as if he fondly remembers living there. So in this respect, Catton is very successful at capturing the spirit of these times, as the British attempt to replicate England through the construction of hotels and pubs and courthouses and the creation of newspapers, gaols, and clubs.

All of these redeeming qualities are there to be found, if one has the patience and desire to find them. I can understand how, for some, that undertaking is too much. The Luminaries is a curiously weighted book. The first part is extremely long, with each subsequent part getting progressively shorter until, by the very end, the chapters dwindle to mere pages. Such deliberate artificiality is what makes the book so obviously art. Yet it also imposes constraints on the story that can make it harder to tell. For instance, the last two hundred or so pages of the book are flashbacks to the previous year, explaining how Anna met Lydia Wells and the animosity between Carver and Crosbie Wells developed. Some of this has already come out during the rest of the book. And while it's interesting to see it happening first hand, it's not really necessary, and so it feels as more of an appendix to the book than a part of the story. I would have been quite happy for the book to end on the chapter where Moody leaves town to walk north to where the gold deposits might prove more fruitful. That chapter has a nice tone of finality to it, and with the mystery resolved, there isn't any need to delve further into these characters' backstory.

The structure speaks to discipline on Catton's part, not to mention vision. But structure, discipline, and vision do not necessarily result in harmony or unity. The Luminaries is a novel of modest scope but breathtaking depth. As a work of historical fiction, and as a mystery, it delivers a satisfying story but at an uneven, sometimes torturous pace. As an example of the Victorian style of novel ported to the modern era, it is somewhat of an experiment, and not one that I'm entirely sure succeeds. Although I ended up enjoying this, it was an enjoyment that requires a level of effort and perseverance one isn't always willing to muster--in short, entirely appropriate for a Booker winner, but not always encouraging when all you want is a good yarn.

So, yeah, I don't really understand this book.

It is not often that I admit a book has defeated me intellectually; upon the rare occasion that it happens, however, I will admit it. This review is, like any review, a meditation on the unique experience I had reading the book, but it is also ruminations about why I feel that Kafka on the Shore is a mountain whose summit I never reached.

I'm starting to suspect that I have a penchant for magic realism. On one hand, the term smacks of genre-snobbery, a label that authors or critics use to avoid consigning a book to the ghettoized fantasy section of the bookstore. On the other hand, the term is seductive. It represents a flirtation with the fantastic that, when done well, forces the mind to reconcile contradictory realities. Think The Enchantress of Florence or The City & The City. Fantasy is the outright alteration of the laws of physics; magic realism is the collision of physics with the other, as well as the appropriation of the laws of narrative for the characters' own purposes. Kafka on the Shore exemplifies the headache-inducing experience of a well-executed piece of magic realism. It seems, unfortunately, that this was a little too much for my poor mind to handle.

Wired as it is to unravel fact and fiction, my mind constantly tugs me toward the question of, "How much of what happens in the book is meant to be considered 'real events' and how much is a delusion or metaphor?" But I don't think that question is correct—or at least, the way it is formulated seems to imply a separation of the real from the metaphorical is possible. Maybe it is not; therein lies the headache.

Example time. Late in the book, Kafka has a dream that might not be a dream in which he has sex with Sakura, a young woman who might or might not be his long-lost (adopted) sister. Kafka's search for his mother and sister, who left home when he was a child, is a major part of the book, one that deserves heavy discussion itself. This particular scene troubled me. It was more confusing than disturbing. While clearly starting as a dream, the language sometimes made it sound like it was a dream dialogue—Kafka and Sakura were sharing a dream, in which they had sex. I think it's possible to interpret it either way—nothing later in the book seems to contradict either interpretation. What I cannot place is the metaphorical significance of this scene, though I am certain one exists.

Central to the problem is the so-called "Oedipal prophecy" handed to Kafka by his estranged (or merely strange?) father, who may or may not be a cat-murdering flute-carver posing as a conceptual imitation of Johnnie Walker. When he leaves home, one of Kafka's objectives is to find his mother and sister, though he has no information about them, no names, just a photograph of the family at the beach. Now, Kafka is fifteen years old and makes it clear that his hormones are right on track for a boy his age. So when he starts entertaining sexual fantasies of Sakura, who is about the right age to be his sister, he has to wonder if she is his sister. Receiving an actual hand-job from Sakura later in the book does not simplify matters. Still, there are mitigating factors: despite his fantasies, we don't actually have confirmation that Kafka ever has intercourse with Sakura. And even if she is his sister, she was adopted, so the incest taboo's squick-factor is lessened.

No such comforts exist for Kafka's relationship with Miss. Saeki. Like Sakura, we never find out if Miss. Saeki truly is Kafka's mother (I would argue that the implication for the affirmative is stronger here than in Sakura's case, but I think Murakami deliberately left it ambiguous). Unlike Sakura, Kafka does have sex with Miss. Saeki—first in a dream-like but real episode which Miss. Saeki does not remember, then subsequently in a deliberate episode that they both, at least at first, regret. Although Kafka dreads his father's prophecy, and although his operating theory is that Miss. Saeki is his mother, he still decides to sleep with her.

I don't know; thanks to John Irving (particularly [b:A Widow for One Year|4659|A Widow for One Year|John Irving|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1165447937s/4659.jpg|3359767]), the whole motif of older women having sex with younger men disturbs me. By motif I mean that the actual idea of such of a relationship does not disturb me, but the use of it in literature, particularly as a device for ending a character's innocence, does disturb me. Kafka seems very nonchalant about his relationship with Miss. Saeki—not exactly resigned, but not reticent either. This analytical, calm aspect extends to his personality in general: aside from some notable exceptions, such as when he wakes up with blood on his shirt, Kafka is a mellow individual. He does not rage. He just accepts and thinks. It is fine for a character but odd for a fifteen-year-old boy, and it makes Kafka feel a bit less real. (There I go using those loaded terms again.)

Oh, and there is a whole other side to this book that I have yet to mention: Sakuro Nakata. I have to confess that I preferred much of Nakata's story over Kafka's (with the exception of the Johnnie Walker chapter). Nakata and Kafka both have a similar acceptance of events as they happen, but Nakata seems to have more will than Kafka, who spends most of his time moping around the library and listening to a record. Nakata takes up a traditional-style quest, leaves the only home he has ever known, falls in with a companion (some might say disciple) and experiences change. Conversely, Kafka strikes off on his own immediately, but he shies away—leaving the forest—from any final fate. Nakata gains peace; Kafka matures.

Nakata's encounter with Johnnie Walker causes me as many headaches as Kafka's dream about Sakura. Are we supposed to equate Johnnie Walker with Kafka's father? I don't know. Johnnie Walker and Colonel Sanders seem like two sides of the same coin, a self-identified concept that can assume forms but not manifest in any physical way. If that is the case, then Nakata could not possibly have killed Johnnie Walker—but perhaps Johnnie Walker is a concept connected somehow to Kafka's father, and killing the concept killed the man. See? Metaphysical dilemmas for which Murakami has no answers.

Not that I'm demanding answers. Books that seek to provide an answer to every little question end up laden with excess exposition. Moreover, Kafka on the Shore is not a straightforward narrative, and that is probably for the best. Murakami has taken a standard literary fiction plot, that of the adolescent runaway, but instead of exploring it on the standard plane, he takes it into higher dimensions. Still, there are some questions that really irk me. Exactly what does the "Crow" character represent? Part boy, part bird, all a figment of Kafka's imagination . . . there's probably an essay somewhere in here about "representations of anthropomorphic animals in Kafka on the Shore," if someone has not written one already . . . but I digress.

No, the reason I feel somewhat defeated is because I can't seem to settle on any consistent set of interpretations to the symbols Murakami has left in his wake. It is frustrating, because I can recognize the intensity of Kafka on the Shore, but I cannot celebrate it. The metaphors add depth to the story, yet my inability to parse them prevents them from turning the narrative into a coherent whole. In short, I read the book, but I did not really get the book. Nor is it that there is, in fact, nothing to get; Kafka on the Shore is not a con (well, no more than any fiction book is). I get just enough to glimpse enlightenment and know it exists, but I can't quite achieve it.

One day I hope I will find more in this book than the first time. I often find that, with difficult books, sometimes multiple readings are the only thing one needs—that and the time to grow, to change, to be a different person from the one who read the book the first time. Future Ben may see the subtleties of Kafka on the Shore with greater clarity than this version of me, and he might life at my incomprehension (or, hopefully, not).

So I cannot leave you with my impression of this book's literary merit (what does that even mean?). However, as the parenthetical question in my previous sentence indicates, I can say that, if it did not provide me with many answers, Kafka on the Shore did provoke me into asking more questions. This is not a book that fits into a comfortable niche, either for the purposes of comprehension or for criticism. We need books like that, even if we don't entirely know what to make of them.

I'm so thankful that I can read. I'm thankful that I happened to be born and grow up in circumstances that allowed me the luxury of literacy and the free time required to exercise and hone my reading skills. Books are a tool for education, a refuge and a means of escape, and a powerful drug that entertains and empowers. I can only imagine what people who grow up in circumstances more abject than mine think when they first behold a book, first understand the words on a page--what a feeling that must be.

In Black Mamba Boy, Jama's path to literacy is a slow and rocky one. As a boy in Aden in 1935, he struggles to find a place. Eventually, his mother's death forces him to leave home in search of his father, who has never returned from his own quest for fortune. Jama spends the next ten years travelling from one part of East Africa to another. Along the way he tries a myriad of jobs, from the most physical and menial to the terrifyingly militaristic. Throughout his travels, Jama is anchored at one end by his faith in his mother, who is watching over him from the afterlife, and his imagined conversations with his father, urging him to continue on this journey without an end.

The story can seem a bit aimless, at times. Though Jama is primarily motivated by the quest to find his father, he takes a slow, meandering path towards that goal. Just when it seems like he has found a stable job that will help him earn enough money to find his father, a twist enters the story and shakes up his life. Death, racial abuse, poverty, and even locusts dog Jama's heels. As he travels from community to community, he is forever at the mercy of his identity as a Somali, as a black African, as a young boy. Each encounter, for better or for worse, changes Jama and influences his growth. By the end of the book, he is no longer the naive boy who left Aden to find his father. He is an accomplished young man with a child and wife of his own waiting for him; he has seen the world, seen what it offers and the problems it creates. He is not infallible, not invincible, but he is not defeated either.

The narration in Black Mamba Boy can seem very distant. Some events happen very quickly, with weeks or months passing in the span of a paragraph and very little characterization of Jama to show for it. Even events that receive a slower, more detailed treatment seem to happen at a remove. The tense here is one of a definite, fixed path rather than a pregnant, possible past. There is little in the way of suspense. Near the end of the story, Jama is delighted with how much he has earned from his first voyage aboard a British ship out of Port Said. Then he squanders the money on women in London. This kind of reversal could have happened slowly and intimately, with the reader cringing as it becomes apparent what is happening. Instead, it happens quite quickly, and I never really felt connected to Jama as he was wasting his money. The same kind of distance is present for most of the book. I'm not a fan of this kind of narration and the barrier it creates between reader and protagonist.

That being said, the narration also clearly presents a world view of a young boy. It provides an interesting perspective of East Africa just before and during World War II. There is no intrusive injection of political concerns, no exposition about the disposition of British or Italian or German forces in Africa. The information, and its interpretation, in this book all comes to us the way a young man from Somalia might learn and interpret it as he travels across East Africa. His opinions of Italians, Britons, and other Europeans are formed from his close--and, sadly, colonial--interactions with individuals from these nations. There are ironic observations or misunderstandings that we, as readers from a different background, might be tempted to find laughable--for Jama, though, they are real and credible points of view.

This perspective was what originally drew me to Black Mamba Boy, so I'm glad that my expectations were not misplaced. This isn't just a novel set in Somalia but told from the point of view of a wise, educated person. It isn't about the struggles of Somalis filtered through the lens of someone who shares my upbringing. It's not even filtered through the lens of someone like Mohamed herself, or her father as he is now (upon whose life the story is loosely based). It's a raw portrayal of what the life of a young boy in Somalia at that age might have been like. There are cultural and social forces, such as the clan structure, that somewhat escaped my understanding--but I could see their presence. There is nothing wrong with a more polished presentation, such as in The In-Between World of Vikram Lall. But I really appreciated this type of perspective.

I picked up Black Mamba Boy on a whim, knowing nothing about the book or its author. I was pleased with the result. Though it lacks a single, defining characteristic that makes it awesome or intriguing, there is enough to this book to make it a worthwhile read.