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tachyondecay
I love Agatha Christie mysteries. After mastering the adventurous Hardy Boys and the magical Holmes, I fell in love as a child with the cool, considering Poirot and the keen, canny Miss Marple. As an adult, I love Christie’s mysteries not only for their entertainment but for how she writes about class and English society. Her novels are little slices of a time that no longer (if ever it did) exist, one populated by quaint country houses that host massive parties culminating, alas, in murder.
I mention Christie because one of the simplest ways to approach Dark Angel is to think of it as a mystery quite similar to Christie’s fare. Sally Beauman challenges the reader to consider an incident in 1910, at a party to watch Halley’s Comet. Eddie Shawcross, lover the mistress of Winterscombe, meets an untimely end in a man-trap while walking through the forest in the dark. Was it really all an accident? Or did someone set the trap and lead him into it from some dark motive of hatred and revenge?
Dark Angel is much like Winterscombe, the English estate where much of the book takes place: it’s a big, sprawling, somewhat ramshackle tale of interconnected spaces and dark, dimly-lit rooms. Beauman is ambitious in the scope and purpose of her narrative, for she aims not just to tell a single story but really chronicle the tangled web of multiple lifetimes across the two World Wars, from England to North America.
Ostensibly, the main narrative is Victoria’s recreation of the past based on her godmother’s journals and conversations with people who were actually there. Her godmother is Constance, Eddie’s daughter, who was ten years old at the time of Eddie’s death. Victoria is the granddaughter of Eddie’s lover and thus heir to Winterscombe, but by now it is far past its prime. Having been raised by Constance in the United States following her parents’ death, Victoria is looking for answers. Constance prevented her marriage to the man she thought she loved, and after a silence of eight years, the only thing Constance offers are these journals.
With this Beauman begins to show us what kind of person Constance is. It’s not just that she is manipulative, mercurial, capricious. She is a dangerous mixture of self-absorption, selfishness, and guilt. She can’t stand to be loved, but wants to be loved. She wants order from her life—as shown by her choice of career of interior decorator—but she feels uncomfortable with happiness, hers or others. Constance thrives on strife and scandal, because she feels it is what she deserves.
So it behoves both Victoria and the reader to take Constance’s journals with a healthy side of salt. Yes, the unreliable narrator is one of Dark Angel’s most attractive conceits. Multiple murderers surface with plausible motives and opportunities, creating a postmodern sensibility that any or all of these people could have been responsible. In the end, Beauman offers a resolution that is simple, shocking, and sad … yet, owing to Constance’s unreliability, it’s still possibly untrue. And perhaps that would be even sadder.
Beauman’s storytelling is second to none as Victoria unspools the lives of her grandparents, her uncles and aunts, and her own father and mother (whose identities are not revealed right away but instead hinted and gradually made clear). It’s the perfect kind of story for a long weekend or a rainy afternoon when you want to become involved, to start guessing and thinking about the clues the author offers up. Though the mystery is the hook, there is far more to this book than a simple whodunnit. The psychology of Beauman’s characters is complex and fascinating, with their thoughts and desires exposed to us for comment and, ultimately, even judgement.
Dark Angel is a rich and deep mystery. Like all good mysteries, it explores the dark drives that lurk within us, the desires and needs that can cause us to hurt ourselves or those around us. In this respect, murder is simply a symptom rather than the problem itself. By branching out beyond the mystery to chronicle a generation of characters, Beauman manages to tell a story far more interesting and complex.
I mention Christie because one of the simplest ways to approach Dark Angel is to think of it as a mystery quite similar to Christie’s fare. Sally Beauman challenges the reader to consider an incident in 1910, at a party to watch Halley’s Comet. Eddie Shawcross, lover the mistress of Winterscombe, meets an untimely end in a man-trap while walking through the forest in the dark. Was it really all an accident? Or did someone set the trap and lead him into it from some dark motive of hatred and revenge?
Dark Angel is much like Winterscombe, the English estate where much of the book takes place: it’s a big, sprawling, somewhat ramshackle tale of interconnected spaces and dark, dimly-lit rooms. Beauman is ambitious in the scope and purpose of her narrative, for she aims not just to tell a single story but really chronicle the tangled web of multiple lifetimes across the two World Wars, from England to North America.
Ostensibly, the main narrative is Victoria’s recreation of the past based on her godmother’s journals and conversations with people who were actually there. Her godmother is Constance, Eddie’s daughter, who was ten years old at the time of Eddie’s death. Victoria is the granddaughter of Eddie’s lover and thus heir to Winterscombe, but by now it is far past its prime. Having been raised by Constance in the United States following her parents’ death, Victoria is looking for answers. Constance prevented her marriage to the man she thought she loved, and after a silence of eight years, the only thing Constance offers are these journals.
With this Beauman begins to show us what kind of person Constance is. It’s not just that she is manipulative, mercurial, capricious. She is a dangerous mixture of self-absorption, selfishness, and guilt. She can’t stand to be loved, but wants to be loved. She wants order from her life—as shown by her choice of career of interior decorator—but she feels uncomfortable with happiness, hers or others. Constance thrives on strife and scandal, because she feels it is what she deserves.
So it behoves both Victoria and the reader to take Constance’s journals with a healthy side of salt. Yes, the unreliable narrator is one of Dark Angel’s most attractive conceits. Multiple murderers surface with plausible motives and opportunities, creating a postmodern sensibility that any or all of these people could have been responsible. In the end, Beauman offers a resolution that is simple, shocking, and sad … yet, owing to Constance’s unreliability, it’s still possibly untrue. And perhaps that would be even sadder.
Beauman’s storytelling is second to none as Victoria unspools the lives of her grandparents, her uncles and aunts, and her own father and mother (whose identities are not revealed right away but instead hinted and gradually made clear). It’s the perfect kind of story for a long weekend or a rainy afternoon when you want to become involved, to start guessing and thinking about the clues the author offers up. Though the mystery is the hook, there is far more to this book than a simple whodunnit. The psychology of Beauman’s characters is complex and fascinating, with their thoughts and desires exposed to us for comment and, ultimately, even judgement.
Dark Angel is a rich and deep mystery. Like all good mysteries, it explores the dark drives that lurk within us, the desires and needs that can cause us to hurt ourselves or those around us. In this respect, murder is simply a symptom rather than the problem itself. By branching out beyond the mystery to chronicle a generation of characters, Beauman manages to tell a story far more interesting and complex.
Rick Mercer is a national treasure, and if his show hasn’t convinced you of this, then you need to get this book and re-read some of his rants from years gone by. Having been living in the UK for the past year and a half, my opportunities to watch The Rick Mercer Report have been reduced (I could probably get it, but it would require time and effort I don’t really have right now). I bought this book at the airport on my way back to the UK in the new year, because I was worried I would finish the book I was currently reading. That didn’t happen, but now I’m glad I have this little slice of Canada with me in Britain.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with The Rick Mercer Report, it’s like a little window into life in Canada. There are two major highlights to the show: the Rant, and Mercer’s visit to some place across Canada.
In the Rant, Mercer delivers a minute or minute-and-a-half satirical speech about some topic in current events, usually politics. He speaks directly into the camera while he and a very skilled cameraperson navigate the aggressively urban backdrop of an alley with heavy graffiti. As the name implies, the Rant is an emotionally, if finally honed, invective and invocation. Mercer scathingly criticizes and calls out behaviour he doesn’t like, whether it’s by politicians of any party or just people on the street, and he implores the audience or members of the public to do something about it. The result are often bitingly hilarious, but they can also come off as very pessimistic or cynical.
Reading these rants is a slightly different experience from watching them on TV. Mercer’s choice of words becomes more important, and of course you have to imagine the tone instead of hear it. For me, although I was entertained, I also felt a little ashamed of my country. The book has a selection of rants from September 2008 to March 2013. It was interesting to revisit the politics of my country through Mercer’s eyes. I once again experienced the rise of the Harper Conservative majority. I shared in Mercer’s cynicism regarding the leadership races of the Liberals and the NDP—demonstrating that, when it comes to calling out the bullshit, he is quite happy to take aim at the left as well as the right. And, as the years go by and Harper’s mark on Canada becomes more visible, the rants seem to become increasingly critical. Sometimes it seems like things are going from bad to worse.
But then you have the other half of the show, in which Mercer visits somewhere in Canada—and it could be literally anywhere, with any one. He has been to the Royal Canadian Mint (and tried to "steal" some gold bars). He has bungee-jumped off a bridge with wheelchair-using Rick Hansen. He visits university campuses across the country, parks, restaurants, etc., often accompanied by a politician, athlete, or some other celebrity. These segments are always fun: Mercer is like a kid in a candy shop; it’s as if every day is his first day on the job after being handed a TV show and told to "go do it". At the same time, Mercer graciously and infectiously highlights everything great about our country. He compliments the pancakes at the Hoito (which are great, but, you know, I’ve had better) and gets into all sorts of shenanigans with some of the least likely accomplices. It seems like Mercer will go anywhere and try anything, and the result is great TV and great moments where he shows the audience the diversity of our country.
Of course, these segments aren’t present in this book. Which is why I’m glad that instead it offers "Encounters and Exploits", photos of Mercer’s adventures with his various guests. They are nice breaks between the rants and reminders of this other essential part of Mercer’s show.
Because that’s what makes Rick Mercer such a valuable national asset. He simultaneously manages to shame and reassure. His Rants remind us that we are flawed; we are a country of problems that need to be fixed, and they aren’t going to be fixed as long as we stay silent about them. His excursions, on the other hand, showcase the best this country has to offer on the grandest or most modest levels. They evince the title of this book: Canada is indeed A Nation Worth Ranting About, and Mercer is never going to let us forget it.
So thank you, Rick Mercer, for bringing a passion and joy to your job and doing it so well.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with The Rick Mercer Report, it’s like a little window into life in Canada. There are two major highlights to the show: the Rant, and Mercer’s visit to some place across Canada.
In the Rant, Mercer delivers a minute or minute-and-a-half satirical speech about some topic in current events, usually politics. He speaks directly into the camera while he and a very skilled cameraperson navigate the aggressively urban backdrop of an alley with heavy graffiti. As the name implies, the Rant is an emotionally, if finally honed, invective and invocation. Mercer scathingly criticizes and calls out behaviour he doesn’t like, whether it’s by politicians of any party or just people on the street, and he implores the audience or members of the public to do something about it. The result are often bitingly hilarious, but they can also come off as very pessimistic or cynical.
Reading these rants is a slightly different experience from watching them on TV. Mercer’s choice of words becomes more important, and of course you have to imagine the tone instead of hear it. For me, although I was entertained, I also felt a little ashamed of my country. The book has a selection of rants from September 2008 to March 2013. It was interesting to revisit the politics of my country through Mercer’s eyes. I once again experienced the rise of the Harper Conservative majority. I shared in Mercer’s cynicism regarding the leadership races of the Liberals and the NDP—demonstrating that, when it comes to calling out the bullshit, he is quite happy to take aim at the left as well as the right. And, as the years go by and Harper’s mark on Canada becomes more visible, the rants seem to become increasingly critical. Sometimes it seems like things are going from bad to worse.
But then you have the other half of the show, in which Mercer visits somewhere in Canada—and it could be literally anywhere, with any one. He has been to the Royal Canadian Mint (and tried to "steal" some gold bars). He has bungee-jumped off a bridge with wheelchair-using Rick Hansen. He visits university campuses across the country, parks, restaurants, etc., often accompanied by a politician, athlete, or some other celebrity. These segments are always fun: Mercer is like a kid in a candy shop; it’s as if every day is his first day on the job after being handed a TV show and told to "go do it". At the same time, Mercer graciously and infectiously highlights everything great about our country. He compliments the pancakes at the Hoito (which are great, but, you know, I’ve had better) and gets into all sorts of shenanigans with some of the least likely accomplices. It seems like Mercer will go anywhere and try anything, and the result is great TV and great moments where he shows the audience the diversity of our country.
Of course, these segments aren’t present in this book. Which is why I’m glad that instead it offers "Encounters and Exploits", photos of Mercer’s adventures with his various guests. They are nice breaks between the rants and reminders of this other essential part of Mercer’s show.
Because that’s what makes Rick Mercer such a valuable national asset. He simultaneously manages to shame and reassure. His Rants remind us that we are flawed; we are a country of problems that need to be fixed, and they aren’t going to be fixed as long as we stay silent about them. His excursions, on the other hand, showcase the best this country has to offer on the grandest or most modest levels. They evince the title of this book: Canada is indeed A Nation Worth Ranting About, and Mercer is never going to let us forget it.
So thank you, Rick Mercer, for bringing a passion and joy to your job and doing it so well.
This is one of those books where the description is of no help whatsoever, and in fact reading the description is more confusing than just reading the book. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, although it would probably make me less likely to take a chance on reading this had I just randomly encountered it. Instead, a group I’m a member of chose this for February’s read, and my library had a copy. I’m glad the group made this choice, because Tender Morsels is a pleasant surprise of a novel. It’s an articulate, sensitive, and potent story of the intersection of fantasy and reality. Margo Lanagan delivers quite literally an escapist tale where the moral of the story is that reality, however, unappealing, is ultimately the best destination for thinking, living beings.
Liga is a fourteen-year-old girl in a typical fairy-talesque village. She lives with her father in a cottage on the outskirts of town. Since her mother’s death, her father has been sleeping with her. Eventually she manages to hide one of her pregnancies from him until it’s almost too late for him to abort it. When he meets an untimely death in a carriage accident, Liga is left to fend for herself. She gives birth and continues living in the cottage, remaining largely uninvolved in village life. But when a group of young men comes upon her cottage, that changes. They rape Liga, who flees into the woods. She is so distraught by her circumstances that she very nearly throws her baby, and perhaps herself, over a cliff. But a mysterious being Liga only refers to as the "moon-babby" instead transports her to a new world that looks exactly like her own, except everyone is strangely nice, albeit a bit absent. Liga raises her two daughters here until adolescence, when events conspire to bring them back to the real world.
If it seems like a story about a world where everyone is nice to the protagonists would be boring, then you’d be right. Tender Morsels builds slowly, and it’s not entirely clear from the beginning what is happening or what the main thrust of the plot will be. Indeed, were it not for the fact that the narrative returns to Liga and her daughters, Branza and Urdda, after following other characters, I might be tempted to think this was another case of me mistaking an anthology for a novel.
Lanagan uses the slow build to good effect. Those other characters are interlopers on Liga’s fantasy world. Branza and Urdda’s encounters with Collaby Dought provoke feelings of anticipation and heighten the tension as we wonder what the fallout could possibly be.
Davit’s presence as "Bear" in the lives of these women is interesting. This is yet another book that perpetuates the dangerous myth that bears are cuddly creatures (though, to be fair, this book has more bear sex). Davit upsets the dynamic that exists among the three women, but they soon adjust to his presence. For Branza and Urdda he is something they can dote upon, slightly more than a pet—more like a friend. For Liga he is a companionable distraction. But mostly, he is something new, a break from the monotony enforced by the boring sameness of the fantasy village.
If there’s one point Lanagan hammers home, it’s that as people change, their "heart’s desire" changes with them. Liga’s heart’s desire as fifteen-year-old single-and-pregnant girl is different from her desires as a grown woman. She didn’t realize how living in such a cocoon would affect her daughters’ development; it’s not until their return to the real world that it becomes apparent that they lack certain awareness of social norms and folkways.
All three women have a difficult time adjusting but for different reasons. Urdda and Branza, of course, have never experienced the "real world". Urdda has had a year to adapt before her mother and sister arrive, while they have aged ten years in the same time. In some ways, Branza seems to have it the hardest, even seeking to return to the world she considers home. But on this point Miss Dance, the voice of wisdom, is firm: eventually, you have to face the real world, even if you don’t like it. We’re not asked to like it; we’re just asked to live in it.
This is an interesting take on the oft-used idea that magic can seldom fix everything. Liga’s seclusion unquestionably does her and her daughters good, but it isn’t a permanent solution. It’s a fairytale more than it is life—can a fairytale be a life? Apparently Lanagan doesn’t think so. But for all the hardship and endorsement of reality in Tender Morsels, this is actually an uplifting book.
It’s a slow burn at the start, but it picks up when they return to the real world. And I absolutely loved the ending. The romantic resolution could have been so contrived and twee, except that Lanagan subverts it. Davit marries Branza rather than Liga, who returned the attraction and affection he first felt as Bear but is now much older than him as a result of the unsynchronized passage of time. Once again, it seems like Liga is fated to be unhappy, for things in the real world never to go her way. Yet she has other forms of happiness: she has two amazing daughters; she has more friends now than she ever did in the fantasy world; she has a place in the community. So, in the end, Tender Morsels is reassuring: terrible things happen, but they aren’t the only things that happen.
It’s like the Doctor said:
Liga is a fourteen-year-old girl in a typical fairy-talesque village. She lives with her father in a cottage on the outskirts of town. Since her mother’s death, her father has been sleeping with her. Eventually she manages to hide one of her pregnancies from him until it’s almost too late for him to abort it. When he meets an untimely death in a carriage accident, Liga is left to fend for herself. She gives birth and continues living in the cottage, remaining largely uninvolved in village life. But when a group of young men comes upon her cottage, that changes. They rape Liga, who flees into the woods. She is so distraught by her circumstances that she very nearly throws her baby, and perhaps herself, over a cliff. But a mysterious being Liga only refers to as the "moon-babby" instead transports her to a new world that looks exactly like her own, except everyone is strangely nice, albeit a bit absent. Liga raises her two daughters here until adolescence, when events conspire to bring them back to the real world.
If it seems like a story about a world where everyone is nice to the protagonists would be boring, then you’d be right. Tender Morsels builds slowly, and it’s not entirely clear from the beginning what is happening or what the main thrust of the plot will be. Indeed, were it not for the fact that the narrative returns to Liga and her daughters, Branza and Urdda, after following other characters, I might be tempted to think this was another case of me mistaking an anthology for a novel.
Lanagan uses the slow build to good effect. Those other characters are interlopers on Liga’s fantasy world. Branza and Urdda’s encounters with Collaby Dought provoke feelings of anticipation and heighten the tension as we wonder what the fallout could possibly be.
Davit’s presence as "Bear" in the lives of these women is interesting. This is yet another book that perpetuates the dangerous myth that bears are cuddly creatures (though, to be fair, this book has more bear sex). Davit upsets the dynamic that exists among the three women, but they soon adjust to his presence. For Branza and Urdda he is something they can dote upon, slightly more than a pet—more like a friend. For Liga he is a companionable distraction. But mostly, he is something new, a break from the monotony enforced by the boring sameness of the fantasy village.
If there’s one point Lanagan hammers home, it’s that as people change, their "heart’s desire" changes with them. Liga’s heart’s desire as fifteen-year-old single-and-pregnant girl is different from her desires as a grown woman. She didn’t realize how living in such a cocoon would affect her daughters’ development; it’s not until their return to the real world that it becomes apparent that they lack certain awareness of social norms and folkways.
All three women have a difficult time adjusting but for different reasons. Urdda and Branza, of course, have never experienced the "real world". Urdda has had a year to adapt before her mother and sister arrive, while they have aged ten years in the same time. In some ways, Branza seems to have it the hardest, even seeking to return to the world she considers home. But on this point Miss Dance, the voice of wisdom, is firm: eventually, you have to face the real world, even if you don’t like it. We’re not asked to like it; we’re just asked to live in it.
This is an interesting take on the oft-used idea that magic can seldom fix everything. Liga’s seclusion unquestionably does her and her daughters good, but it isn’t a permanent solution. It’s a fairytale more than it is life—can a fairytale be a life? Apparently Lanagan doesn’t think so. But for all the hardship and endorsement of reality in Tender Morsels, this is actually an uplifting book.
It’s a slow burn at the start, but it picks up when they return to the real world. And I absolutely loved the ending. The romantic resolution could have been so contrived and twee, except that Lanagan subverts it. Davit marries Branza rather than Liga, who returned the attraction and affection he first felt as Bear but is now much older than him as a result of the unsynchronized passage of time. Once again, it seems like Liga is fated to be unhappy, for things in the real world never to go her way. Yet she has other forms of happiness: she has two amazing daughters; she has more friends now than she ever did in the fantasy world; she has a place in the community. So, in the end, Tender Morsels is reassuring: terrible things happen, but they aren’t the only things that happen.
It’s like the Doctor said:
The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and… bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant.
Sometimes I wish I had the power to checkpoint my life, much like one can in many video games. I’d like to index certain times and be able to rewind to them and then make a different decision. For example, this morning I noticed that I was running low on brown sugar, and I hadn’t bought any more last time I bought groceries. It made me wish I could go back to the point where I was ordering groceries and have ordered brown sugar, just so I don’t have to buy any during the week. It’s time travel, but on a very mundane scale.
But those sorts of ideas—transforming the mundane into the extraordinary—often make for the best fiction. What I’m describing is very similar to Shifting, the central conceit of Shift. Shifters, however, don’t consciously relive the moments between the decision they change and the present. Reality itself just changes, and their memories of the old reality fade.
Despite my enthusiasm for the idea, I have to admit, this book didn’t excite me for the first little while. It’s probably Kim Curran’s writing style, or at the very least the voice of Scott Tyler, the protagonist. In the beginning he has very little to define him. He is, to put it mildly, the perfect candidate for a CW-sponsored television adaptation of the book: bland, white, slightly dumb white dude with a superpower being supported by a variety of more intelligent-yet-sidelined diverse minor characters.
Fortunately, the plot makes up for the protagonist’s shortcomings. See, Shift is also a murder mystery. A Shifter is killing former Shifters (for the power disappears as one ages into adulthood in a process known as entropy), and then Shifting reality to make the murders look like suicides. Scott, who has only recently discovered his powers and seems to be able to hold on to past realities more clearly than most, stumbles on to this mystery and the requisite conspiracy that any good secret government organization must have.
Curran delivers essentially another take on the “empower the adolescent through superpowers” theme. Scott feels like he has no voice, even in his own life. His younger sister’s achievements overshadows his own; his parents’ bickering blinds them to their son’s approach to adulthood and independence. Suddenly, he gets this power that literally lets him shape reality.
And then a government organization tells him he can’t use it unless he comes to work for them!
What sets Shift apart from many similar novels is how quickly Curran develops Scott’s story within the organization of ARES. He doesn’t spend much time in training. He doesn’t spend much time on the job before disasters strike and he finds himself in the thick of a fight for his life. Curran clearly has a story that she wants to tell and gets on with it, and the result is a lean, mean novel that doesn’t fail to entertain.
I’m not entirely convinced that adolescents would function in the bureaucratic cubicle farm that Curran portrays as Scott’s world when he’s stuck in the office. It seems a little far-fetched to me that even Shifter children could muster the maturity to work in such an environment (though, that’s overestimating the average maturity of a cubicle farmer). In general, it was difficult to remember that the majority of the characters in these novels are adolescents—Aubrey is only fourteen or fifteen. They’re hanging out in a night club, gambling and whatnot, and basically acting ten years older than they are.
In addition to these issues of characterization, the concept of Shifting itself could have been better-defined. Curran lays out the basic premise, cloaked in pseudo–quantum mechanics technobabble, well enough. The consequences, however, seem less certain. The actual mechanics are typically chalked up to “instinct”.
That being said, I have to praise the many and sundry inventive ways Curran works Shifting into Scott’s adventures. It’s more than just, “I regret action x, so let me fix it!” He figures out how to use Shifting to fight, to run, etc. The threat of entropy proves to be a major plot point and helps add to the sinister aura of ARES.
So Shift is far from perfect, but it hits enough of the targets to be worth a look if the main idea interests you. Neither the characters nor the plot are particularly special. As first novels go, though, it’s entertaining enough to show promise.
But those sorts of ideas—transforming the mundane into the extraordinary—often make for the best fiction. What I’m describing is very similar to Shifting, the central conceit of Shift. Shifters, however, don’t consciously relive the moments between the decision they change and the present. Reality itself just changes, and their memories of the old reality fade.
Despite my enthusiasm for the idea, I have to admit, this book didn’t excite me for the first little while. It’s probably Kim Curran’s writing style, or at the very least the voice of Scott Tyler, the protagonist. In the beginning he has very little to define him. He is, to put it mildly, the perfect candidate for a CW-sponsored television adaptation of the book: bland, white, slightly dumb white dude with a superpower being supported by a variety of more intelligent-yet-sidelined diverse minor characters.
Fortunately, the plot makes up for the protagonist’s shortcomings. See, Shift is also a murder mystery. A Shifter is killing former Shifters (for the power disappears as one ages into adulthood in a process known as entropy), and then Shifting reality to make the murders look like suicides. Scott, who has only recently discovered his powers and seems to be able to hold on to past realities more clearly than most, stumbles on to this mystery and the requisite conspiracy that any good secret government organization must have.
Curran delivers essentially another take on the “empower the adolescent through superpowers” theme. Scott feels like he has no voice, even in his own life. His younger sister’s achievements overshadows his own; his parents’ bickering blinds them to their son’s approach to adulthood and independence. Suddenly, he gets this power that literally lets him shape reality.
And then a government organization tells him he can’t use it unless he comes to work for them!
What sets Shift apart from many similar novels is how quickly Curran develops Scott’s story within the organization of ARES. He doesn’t spend much time in training. He doesn’t spend much time on the job before disasters strike and he finds himself in the thick of a fight for his life. Curran clearly has a story that she wants to tell and gets on with it, and the result is a lean, mean novel that doesn’t fail to entertain.
I’m not entirely convinced that adolescents would function in the bureaucratic cubicle farm that Curran portrays as Scott’s world when he’s stuck in the office. It seems a little far-fetched to me that even Shifter children could muster the maturity to work in such an environment (though, that’s overestimating the average maturity of a cubicle farmer). In general, it was difficult to remember that the majority of the characters in these novels are adolescents—Aubrey is only fourteen or fifteen. They’re hanging out in a night club, gambling and whatnot, and basically acting ten years older than they are.
In addition to these issues of characterization, the concept of Shifting itself could have been better-defined. Curran lays out the basic premise, cloaked in pseudo–quantum mechanics technobabble, well enough. The consequences, however, seem less certain. The actual mechanics are typically chalked up to “instinct”.
That being said, I have to praise the many and sundry inventive ways Curran works Shifting into Scott’s adventures. It’s more than just, “I regret action x, so let me fix it!” He figures out how to use Shifting to fight, to run, etc. The threat of entropy proves to be a major plot point and helps add to the sinister aura of ARES.
So Shift is far from perfect, but it hits enough of the targets to be worth a look if the main idea interests you. Neither the characters nor the plot are particularly special. As first novels go, though, it’s entertaining enough to show promise.
In many ways, one can consider Assassin's Apprentice a "standard epic medieval fantasy" and take it or leave it on those terms. The setting consists of six duchies united as a kingdom, which now faces a new threat from an old enemy: the Red Ship Raiders of the Outislands, who have the ability to "Forge" captives, removing any sense of humanity or even animal nature from them. There are soldiers, princes, lords and ladies, and not one but two flavours of magic: the praised Skill and the despised Wit. At the nexus of these social and magical layers is the main character, FitzChivalry Farseer, bastard son of Prince Chivalry.
It's precisely its status as a "standard fantasy" that makes Assassin's Apprentice a testament to Hobb's skill. With similar ingredients, Hobb manages to create a story that's enthralling and characters who are enduring. As Fitz slowly matures, we become interested in what will become of him. Yet he isn't perfect. He's fallible, and he's still too young to comprehend the significance of some of the events in which he's involved.
Through Fitz's eyes, Hobb shows us a world populated by interesting if not dynamic characters: Lady Patience, Burrich, Prince Verity, Chade, the Fool, etc. I didn't much care for Burrich. I realize he's supposed to be a father figure for Fitz, but his unwillingness to explain his disgust for the Wit only endangers Fitz more. On the other hand, I found Lady Patience quite entertaining. I suspect others have reversed opinions of these characters, for there's no one correct way to evaluate the cast of Assassin's Apprentice. Hobb's world is a complicated organism from which you can pick and choose your favourite parts.
The antagonists were considerably weaker in their characterization. It seems as though all villains are really just spoiled brats misled by people into wanting power. Both Regal and Galen share this attitude, and though Regal is delightfully slimy, he's never a serious threat. Likewise, Galen is a much darker figure with control over a vast reserve of power . . . but he's too sadistic to ever be threatening, and he gets beaten up by Burrich. The antagonists are defeated as much by their own childish plans and stupidity as they are by Fitz's skills and virtues.
In that respect, Assassin's Apprentice is one-sided in its richness. We get to watch the maturation of a wonderful protagonist, but he's never pitted against an antagonist of equal worth. The closest we get are Prince Rurisk and Princess Kettricken. Their brief relationship with Fitz is affable, hilarious, and tragic; my only wish is that there was more of it! I liked watching Fitz grow from uncertain boy into determined assassin, but I wanted more challenges for him along the way. Ultimately, like any good start to a trilogy, Assassin's Apprentice leaves me wanting to know more.
My reviews of the Farseer trilogy:
Royal Assassin →
It's precisely its status as a "standard fantasy" that makes Assassin's Apprentice a testament to Hobb's skill. With similar ingredients, Hobb manages to create a story that's enthralling and characters who are enduring. As Fitz slowly matures, we become interested in what will become of him. Yet he isn't perfect. He's fallible, and he's still too young to comprehend the significance of some of the events in which he's involved.
Through Fitz's eyes, Hobb shows us a world populated by interesting if not dynamic characters: Lady Patience, Burrich, Prince Verity, Chade, the Fool, etc. I didn't much care for Burrich. I realize he's supposed to be a father figure for Fitz, but his unwillingness to explain his disgust for the Wit only endangers Fitz more. On the other hand, I found Lady Patience quite entertaining. I suspect others have reversed opinions of these characters, for there's no one correct way to evaluate the cast of Assassin's Apprentice. Hobb's world is a complicated organism from which you can pick and choose your favourite parts.
The antagonists were considerably weaker in their characterization. It seems as though all villains are really just spoiled brats misled by people into wanting power. Both Regal and Galen share this attitude, and though Regal is delightfully slimy, he's never a serious threat. Likewise, Galen is a much darker figure with control over a vast reserve of power . . . but he's too sadistic to ever be threatening, and he gets beaten up by Burrich. The antagonists are defeated as much by their own childish plans and stupidity as they are by Fitz's skills and virtues.
In that respect, Assassin's Apprentice is one-sided in its richness. We get to watch the maturation of a wonderful protagonist, but he's never pitted against an antagonist of equal worth. The closest we get are Prince Rurisk and Princess Kettricken. Their brief relationship with Fitz is affable, hilarious, and tragic; my only wish is that there was more of it! I liked watching Fitz grow from uncertain boy into determined assassin, but I wanted more challenges for him along the way. Ultimately, like any good start to a trilogy, Assassin's Apprentice leaves me wanting to know more.
My reviews of the Farseer trilogy:
Royal Assassin →
I didn’t expect to be reading another one after the last one, but I guess what they say about vampire romance novels is true: it never rains but it pours.
Actually, The Rest Falls Away has been on my to-read list since 2009, long before Dracula, My Love waltzed its way into my life. The tagline everyone uses to describe this book is “Buffy the Vampire Slayer in Regency England”, and I’m unoriginally repeating it because it’s so damn accurate.
Trigger warning in this review for romance nerds, because of course romance is one of these genres where my hypocritical genre snobbery becomes evident.
As far as romance novels go (I did warn you, romance nerds), The Rest Falls Away is impressive. Colleen Gleason balances the necessary relationships and love polygons with an intense, action-packed plot with a kickass but fallible protagonist. It is, in many ways, more interesting and more satisfying than many of its urban fantasy ilk to which I’ve subjected myself. Gleason enjoys coming up with new and inventive ways to kit out Victoria despite the restrictions of her Regency garb, not to mention all those excuses she needs for running out of parties to dust vamps.
The keyword from the last sentence, even though I didn’t actually use it in the sentence, was fun. The critical third ingredient to this book, in addition to its romance and action, is a thread of dark humour. This undercuts Max’s unctuous brooding concern over Victoria’s fragility and Rockley’s boring, bland declarations of love. Driven by the stark contrast between Victoria’s obligations in her respective lives as society debutante and vampire slayer, this humour is the same element that made Buffy work so well.
Like Buffy, Victoria finds herself with some new love interests following her induction into the world of the supernatural. In addition to Rockley she finds herself inexplicably attracted to Sebastian Vioget, owner of a nightclub where vampires and humans drink together in an uneasy truce. Though not a vampire, Vioget is far more powerful than an ordinary human, and he gets Victoria all hot and bothered. Then here’s Max, protégé of Victoria’s Aunt Eustacia; though he is old enough to be her father and unfailingly rude towards her, there’s still sexual tension that never seems to go away.
The romance part of this book is fairly tame, at least as I understand these things from my limited experience. Victoria gets engaged to Rockley without much fuss, and they fight a bit when he discovers she isn’t being truthful with him. But there seem to be few obstacles, at least until the climax—which really is a gamechanger—to their happiness. For this I’m personally grateful, although I wonder if it’s more of a consequence of one of my major criticisms about the characters.
Victoria is a wonderfully-developed protagonist. Her heritage provides many perks and powers, but Gleason balances this with Victoria’s inexperience. Victoria makes several unwise decisions over the course of the book as a result of ignorance, overconfidence, or pique—but these bad decisions are realistic given the circumstances, rather than contrived for reasons of plot-induced stupidity. She genuinely agonizes over whether to reveal her secret identity to Rockley, and we share in her unease over leading this double life.
I wish all the other characters were so interesting! Instead, everyone else seems to be flat, stock characters torn from the pages of other romance novels. Verbena is the stalwart, trustworthy maid—an Alfred to Victoria’s Batman. Rockley is the Standard Rich Love Interest; there is literally nothing memorable or unique about him. Victoria’s mother and her entourage are standard society women, hellbent on matchmaking because they are too old to have any fun themselves. Aunt Eustacia receives slightly better treatment, but she is still mostly there to serve the role of wise, old mentor.
The other thing holding The Rest Falls Away back is its lack of a strong central antagonist. Nominally this is Lilith, oldest of the vampires and lover of Judas Iscariot, the first vampire. She is supposed to be the Big Bad pulling the strings for the entire book, and we meet her at the very end. I understand that in not disposing of her Gleason is setting her up as a serial antagonist, and that’s fine. As an antagonist, however, she has many of the same flaws as the other characters: a swaggering, moustache-twirling characterization that makes her completely uninteresting. I enjoyed this book enough that I wonder how much more I would have enjoyed it with a truly terrifying antagonist to balance out Victoria’s protagonist.
With room enough for improvement, then, The Rest Falls Away hasn’t left me in a rush to read the next book in the series. But it’s a possibility. This is another book that belies genre snobs’ claims that romance, much like science fiction, belongs in a literary ghetto. Gleason demonstrates a talent for balancing the relationships of her protagonist with an action-filled story. If “vampires in Regency England” is what you want, then you should stop looking here.
Actually, The Rest Falls Away has been on my to-read list since 2009, long before Dracula, My Love waltzed its way into my life. The tagline everyone uses to describe this book is “Buffy the Vampire Slayer in Regency England”, and I’m unoriginally repeating it because it’s so damn accurate.
Trigger warning in this review for romance nerds, because of course romance is one of these genres where my hypocritical genre snobbery becomes evident.
As far as romance novels go (I did warn you, romance nerds), The Rest Falls Away is impressive. Colleen Gleason balances the necessary relationships and love polygons with an intense, action-packed plot with a kickass but fallible protagonist. It is, in many ways, more interesting and more satisfying than many of its urban fantasy ilk to which I’ve subjected myself. Gleason enjoys coming up with new and inventive ways to kit out Victoria despite the restrictions of her Regency garb, not to mention all those excuses she needs for running out of parties to dust vamps.
The keyword from the last sentence, even though I didn’t actually use it in the sentence, was fun. The critical third ingredient to this book, in addition to its romance and action, is a thread of dark humour. This undercuts Max’s unctuous brooding concern over Victoria’s fragility and Rockley’s boring, bland declarations of love. Driven by the stark contrast between Victoria’s obligations in her respective lives as society debutante and vampire slayer, this humour is the same element that made Buffy work so well.
Like Buffy, Victoria finds herself with some new love interests following her induction into the world of the supernatural. In addition to Rockley she finds herself inexplicably attracted to Sebastian Vioget, owner of a nightclub where vampires and humans drink together in an uneasy truce. Though not a vampire, Vioget is far more powerful than an ordinary human, and he gets Victoria all hot and bothered. Then here’s Max, protégé of Victoria’s Aunt Eustacia; though he is old enough to be her father and unfailingly rude towards her, there’s still sexual tension that never seems to go away.
The romance part of this book is fairly tame, at least as I understand these things from my limited experience. Victoria gets engaged to Rockley without much fuss, and they fight a bit when he discovers she isn’t being truthful with him. But there seem to be few obstacles, at least until the climax—which really is a gamechanger—to their happiness. For this I’m personally grateful, although I wonder if it’s more of a consequence of one of my major criticisms about the characters.
Victoria is a wonderfully-developed protagonist. Her heritage provides many perks and powers, but Gleason balances this with Victoria’s inexperience. Victoria makes several unwise decisions over the course of the book as a result of ignorance, overconfidence, or pique—but these bad decisions are realistic given the circumstances, rather than contrived for reasons of plot-induced stupidity. She genuinely agonizes over whether to reveal her secret identity to Rockley, and we share in her unease over leading this double life.
I wish all the other characters were so interesting! Instead, everyone else seems to be flat, stock characters torn from the pages of other romance novels. Verbena is the stalwart, trustworthy maid—an Alfred to Victoria’s Batman. Rockley is the Standard Rich Love Interest; there is literally nothing memorable or unique about him. Victoria’s mother and her entourage are standard society women, hellbent on matchmaking because they are too old to have any fun themselves. Aunt Eustacia receives slightly better treatment, but she is still mostly there to serve the role of wise, old mentor.
The other thing holding The Rest Falls Away back is its lack of a strong central antagonist. Nominally this is Lilith, oldest of the vampires and lover of Judas Iscariot, the first vampire. She is supposed to be the Big Bad pulling the strings for the entire book, and we meet her at the very end. I understand that in not disposing of her Gleason is setting her up as a serial antagonist, and that’s fine. As an antagonist, however, she has many of the same flaws as the other characters: a swaggering, moustache-twirling characterization that makes her completely uninteresting. I enjoyed this book enough that I wonder how much more I would have enjoyed it with a truly terrifying antagonist to balance out Victoria’s protagonist.
With room enough for improvement, then, The Rest Falls Away hasn’t left me in a rush to read the next book in the series. But it’s a possibility. This is another book that belies genre snobs’ claims that romance, much like science fiction, belongs in a literary ghetto. Gleason demonstrates a talent for balancing the relationships of her protagonist with an action-filled story. If “vampires in Regency England” is what you want, then you should stop looking here.
Speculation about the future is often a problem of calibration. It’s difficult to dial in our predictions. Sometimes we are too optimistic, too expansive, allowing our imaginations to run away with the plot. Sometimes we are too cynical, too cautious, and end up failing to see what was so obvious in hindsight. Whatever the mode of the day, however, as a species we remain pretty bad at predicting the future. Where’s my flying car?
Indeed, how often do we see the future coming? Yet we insist on prognosticating. No one is more obnoxious in this regard than the Singularity movement, which believes that we will eventually develop an artificial intelligence of high enough calibre that it will be able to begin improving itself exponentially. At that point, we can no longer predict the future in any meaningful way, because the AI will completely alter human existence. Or so the thinking goes.
As its name implies, Postsingular is Rudy Rucker’s attempt to peer beyond the veil of the Singularity. It’s not so much a straight-up meditation upon a possible postsingular society so much as a bizarre, metaphorical look at the implications of mastering quantum mechanics once and for all. This novel is weird. From the first chapter, with the antagonistic “nants” that threaten the Earth and humanity, Rucker establishes a vocabulary and atmosphere all his own. The next chapter brings in the “orphids”, nanomachines similar to but somewhat more benevolent than the nants. From there, Rucker draws the reader down an infinitely-long, ever narrowing rabbit hole.
The orphids blanket the world in a network of tiny quantum computers, connecting humanity like they’ve never been connected before. It’s fun to watch Rucker explore the implications of this development, from the destruction of privacy and traditional notions of economy and employment to the evolution of literature, entertainment, and reputation. One can watch anyone else by experiencing what the orphids on that person’s body are experiencing. It’s a creepy, voyeuristic consequence of using self-replicating machines to network the world.
It’s also worth noting that the creation of the orphidnet isn’t something initiated by governments or even any one organization. A company develops the orphids, but they get released by one man in a moment of rash optimism—and they change everything. In this respect, Rucker captures the often overlooked fact that critical change can come from the choices an individual makes. New technologies and services spring up from contributions of people who have very little power or influence in the more conventional sense—but because of their pervasive nature and usefulness, they hang on, grow, and soon become essential.
Postsingular runs into problems mostly because, despite all these fascinating ideas, its characters are thinner than the density of orphids in one square millimetre. From the laughably moustache-twirling Jeff Luty to the unsympathetic Ond Lundquist and the rather unimpressive Jayjay and Thuy, Rucker manages to create characters who have very little going for them. I wish I could say that I admired Thuy’s self-possession and determination—for she does possess them—but I was mostly annoyed by the way Rucker kept moving the goal post of the plot in a mistaken attempt at revelation. Foreshadowing was present but patchy at best.
I kept thinking I had figured out what was going on. But Postsingular runs into the problem that Charles Stross, another big name in the Singularity circle, has written about at some length (though I can’t quite find a link at the moment). Basically, when a writer extrapolates nanotechnology and mastery of quantum mechanics to the point where it is sufficiently advanced to be magic, they stop writing science fiction and have instead entered the realm of fantasy, albeit with futuristic trappings. Note that there is nothing wrong with this per se. But for addicts of so-called “hard” science fiction like myself, there is something so disappointing about being lured in by the promise of artificial intelligence only to discover a gooier, softer science fiction than one was expecting.
Postsingular is clever and creative and, yeah, quite original. Its writing isn’t great, though, and it suffers from an exhaustion of genre. Just as dystopia has oversaturated the young adult market, the Singularity’s shadow has dominated science fiction for some time now, nudging aside cyberpunk. Although the occasional writer can shine the occasional dim light on a new corner, most of what made the Singularity so fascinating and unique has already been explored (I just haven’t read it all yet!). I confess that I’m a little tapped out. And this book doesn’t do much to get me excited about our machine overlords again.
Indeed, how often do we see the future coming? Yet we insist on prognosticating. No one is more obnoxious in this regard than the Singularity movement, which believes that we will eventually develop an artificial intelligence of high enough calibre that it will be able to begin improving itself exponentially. At that point, we can no longer predict the future in any meaningful way, because the AI will completely alter human existence. Or so the thinking goes.
As its name implies, Postsingular is Rudy Rucker’s attempt to peer beyond the veil of the Singularity. It’s not so much a straight-up meditation upon a possible postsingular society so much as a bizarre, metaphorical look at the implications of mastering quantum mechanics once and for all. This novel is weird. From the first chapter, with the antagonistic “nants” that threaten the Earth and humanity, Rucker establishes a vocabulary and atmosphere all his own. The next chapter brings in the “orphids”, nanomachines similar to but somewhat more benevolent than the nants. From there, Rucker draws the reader down an infinitely-long, ever narrowing rabbit hole.
The orphids blanket the world in a network of tiny quantum computers, connecting humanity like they’ve never been connected before. It’s fun to watch Rucker explore the implications of this development, from the destruction of privacy and traditional notions of economy and employment to the evolution of literature, entertainment, and reputation. One can watch anyone else by experiencing what the orphids on that person’s body are experiencing. It’s a creepy, voyeuristic consequence of using self-replicating machines to network the world.
It’s also worth noting that the creation of the orphidnet isn’t something initiated by governments or even any one organization. A company develops the orphids, but they get released by one man in a moment of rash optimism—and they change everything. In this respect, Rucker captures the often overlooked fact that critical change can come from the choices an individual makes. New technologies and services spring up from contributions of people who have very little power or influence in the more conventional sense—but because of their pervasive nature and usefulness, they hang on, grow, and soon become essential.
Postsingular runs into problems mostly because, despite all these fascinating ideas, its characters are thinner than the density of orphids in one square millimetre. From the laughably moustache-twirling Jeff Luty to the unsympathetic Ond Lundquist and the rather unimpressive Jayjay and Thuy, Rucker manages to create characters who have very little going for them. I wish I could say that I admired Thuy’s self-possession and determination—for she does possess them—but I was mostly annoyed by the way Rucker kept moving the goal post of the plot in a mistaken attempt at revelation. Foreshadowing was present but patchy at best.
I kept thinking I had figured out what was going on. But Postsingular runs into the problem that Charles Stross, another big name in the Singularity circle, has written about at some length (though I can’t quite find a link at the moment). Basically, when a writer extrapolates nanotechnology and mastery of quantum mechanics to the point where it is sufficiently advanced to be magic, they stop writing science fiction and have instead entered the realm of fantasy, albeit with futuristic trappings. Note that there is nothing wrong with this per se. But for addicts of so-called “hard” science fiction like myself, there is something so disappointing about being lured in by the promise of artificial intelligence only to discover a gooier, softer science fiction than one was expecting.
Postsingular is clever and creative and, yeah, quite original. Its writing isn’t great, though, and it suffers from an exhaustion of genre. Just as dystopia has oversaturated the young adult market, the Singularity’s shadow has dominated science fiction for some time now, nudging aside cyberpunk. Although the occasional writer can shine the occasional dim light on a new corner, most of what made the Singularity so fascinating and unique has already been explored (I just haven’t read it all yet!). I confess that I’m a little tapped out. And this book doesn’t do much to get me excited about our machine overlords again.
For Valentine’s Day, my school library had a "Blind Date with a Book" event. They had wrapped books in wrapping paper festooned with hearts and put them on display. You could select any book at random and borrow it, keeping its identity under wraps until you get home. (We have this week off for a half-term break, so the students would have an entire week to read it.) The idea is to try a book that one might not have picked off the library shelves. It’s an interesting concept (although someone might have to explain to kids these days what a "date" is, let alone a "blind" one).
Flip was my blind date, and it worked out quite well. Alex Gray wakes up in the body of Philip "Flip" Garamond, halfway across England, six months after his last memory as Alex. Philip is the same age as Alex—born, in fact, on the same day—but the two boys are otherwise quite different. Alex is studious, musically-inclined, but somewhat introverted. Philip is gregarious, popular, athletic, and dating two girls at once. So it’s a struggle for Alex to adjust to this new life and to pretend to be Philip while he panics and tries to understand how they switched bodies, how he can switch back, and what actually happened to his own body.
As a Canadian teacher working in the UK and now somewhat familiar with the school system over here, I enjoyed Martyn Bedford’s portrayal of life in Year Nine. Some aspects of the system that I’ve seen at work in my own school appear familiar and universal, at least from Alex’s familiarity with them in both bodies. Though the basic premise could work anywhere, Flip benefits from its British setting because of the diversity in lifestyles in Britain, where accents, jobs, and geographic location all contribute heavily to people’s perceptions of each other. Alex’s new life as Philip is a microcosm of this, as Bedford explores what it is like for Alex to have to put up a good show of being good at cricket or interested in both of Philip’s girlfriends.
Alex’s struggle is twofold and fascinating. On the one hand, he has no idea how or why he is in Philip’s body. Philip himself is nowhere to be seen. As far as Alex knows, this switch is permanent, so he just has to get used to it. Yet he isn’t sure how to do that: should he assimilate completely into life as Philip, or should he adapt Philip’s life to suit his own interests? How far is too far, and what will happen if he and Philip switch back? On the other hand, Alex is desperate to reconnect with his old life, even if he has to do it while still in Philip’s body. This culminates quickly with a visit back to his family’s home in London and a desperate attempt to see if his mother can recognize him in someone else’s shape.
Bedford does not overplay the emotional distress that Alex must be feeling, and to good effect. Though his actions speak of desperation and depression, they occur in a logical, almost predictable sequence: I could see myself doing what Alex does, probably in the order he does these things, if I were in his situation. Waking up in someone else’s body is bad enough. Not having anyone believe you … not being able to get back and see your own family … that would be awful. But Bedford avoids any melodrama, which helps later in the book as the real drama develops naturally from Alex’s discoveries and decisions.
The message that Flip contains, if indeed it has one, is also subtle but well-received. Though I identify with Alex, as the somewhat more withdrawn and bookish of the two boys, Bedford makes it clear that neither boy’s life is perfect and neither’s is more desirable, natural, or right than the other’s. Sure, Philip seems like a bit of an irresponsible and discourteous player, but he’s also a skilled athlete; he’s involved in his school in more ways than Alex seems to be. And Alex learns from this experience. Hopefully, from the changes that he wrought to Philip’s life, Philip will learn too.
Philip kind of gets the short end of the stick despite the book’s happy ending. I like that Bedford doesn’t gloss over the difficulty of Alex’s recuperation following his return to his own body and his emergence from the vegetative state. This is an experience that is going to affect him for the rest of his life, physically as well as psychologically. Poor Philip though … he’s going to be lucky if he isn’t in counselling for the rest of his life, and it’s not his fault at all!
I’ve never been on a blind date, so I don’t know how these things work. Do I fill out a comment card? "Would date again?" Well, I wouldn’t necessarily read Flip again. But I’d recommend it to other people. I guess that means it’s a nice enough book, and we liked each other even if we didn’t hit it off? Hmm. Not exactly a whirlwind romance, but by no means a literary or romantic disaster. As far as young adult fiction goes, this is a solid entry.
Flip was my blind date, and it worked out quite well. Alex Gray wakes up in the body of Philip "Flip" Garamond, halfway across England, six months after his last memory as Alex. Philip is the same age as Alex—born, in fact, on the same day—but the two boys are otherwise quite different. Alex is studious, musically-inclined, but somewhat introverted. Philip is gregarious, popular, athletic, and dating two girls at once. So it’s a struggle for Alex to adjust to this new life and to pretend to be Philip while he panics and tries to understand how they switched bodies, how he can switch back, and what actually happened to his own body.
As a Canadian teacher working in the UK and now somewhat familiar with the school system over here, I enjoyed Martyn Bedford’s portrayal of life in Year Nine. Some aspects of the system that I’ve seen at work in my own school appear familiar and universal, at least from Alex’s familiarity with them in both bodies. Though the basic premise could work anywhere, Flip benefits from its British setting because of the diversity in lifestyles in Britain, where accents, jobs, and geographic location all contribute heavily to people’s perceptions of each other. Alex’s new life as Philip is a microcosm of this, as Bedford explores what it is like for Alex to have to put up a good show of being good at cricket or interested in both of Philip’s girlfriends.
Alex’s struggle is twofold and fascinating. On the one hand, he has no idea how or why he is in Philip’s body. Philip himself is nowhere to be seen. As far as Alex knows, this switch is permanent, so he just has to get used to it. Yet he isn’t sure how to do that: should he assimilate completely into life as Philip, or should he adapt Philip’s life to suit his own interests? How far is too far, and what will happen if he and Philip switch back? On the other hand, Alex is desperate to reconnect with his old life, even if he has to do it while still in Philip’s body. This culminates quickly with a visit back to his family’s home in London and a desperate attempt to see if his mother can recognize him in someone else’s shape.
Bedford does not overplay the emotional distress that Alex must be feeling, and to good effect. Though his actions speak of desperation and depression, they occur in a logical, almost predictable sequence: I could see myself doing what Alex does, probably in the order he does these things, if I were in his situation. Waking up in someone else’s body is bad enough. Not having anyone believe you … not being able to get back and see your own family … that would be awful. But Bedford avoids any melodrama, which helps later in the book as the real drama develops naturally from Alex’s discoveries and decisions.
The message that Flip contains, if indeed it has one, is also subtle but well-received. Though I identify with Alex, as the somewhat more withdrawn and bookish of the two boys, Bedford makes it clear that neither boy’s life is perfect and neither’s is more desirable, natural, or right than the other’s. Sure, Philip seems like a bit of an irresponsible and discourteous player, but he’s also a skilled athlete; he’s involved in his school in more ways than Alex seems to be. And Alex learns from this experience. Hopefully, from the changes that he wrought to Philip’s life, Philip will learn too.
Philip kind of gets the short end of the stick despite the book’s happy ending. I like that Bedford doesn’t gloss over the difficulty of Alex’s recuperation following his return to his own body and his emergence from the vegetative state. This is an experience that is going to affect him for the rest of his life, physically as well as psychologically. Poor Philip though … he’s going to be lucky if he isn’t in counselling for the rest of his life, and it’s not his fault at all!
I’ve never been on a blind date, so I don’t know how these things work. Do I fill out a comment card? "Would date again?" Well, I wouldn’t necessarily read Flip again. But I’d recommend it to other people. I guess that means it’s a nice enough book, and we liked each other even if we didn’t hit it off? Hmm. Not exactly a whirlwind romance, but by no means a literary or romantic disaster. As far as young adult fiction goes, this is a solid entry.
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Kate Mosse has been on the periphery of my literary radar for a while now. Hers were books that would show up on recommendation lists based on books I had like. They would appear at my friends’ houses, imposing yet reassuring with their bulk and sleek, simple cover art. I was vaguely aware that she wrote historical fiction, and that was it.
Citadel confronted me from the stack of just-returned books at the library one afternoon. It eyed me up, and finding me worthy, told me I was taking it out that very afternoon. I was somewhat taken aback by its forwardness, but I acquiesced. It was only later that I discovered it lied about its age—it’s actually the third book in a trilogy. Fortunately, age isn’t so much an issue for me, at least not with the type of trilogies where the books are loosely connected as they are with Languedoc.
Alas, it’s fair to say that Citadel and I did not hit it off. Ours was a date best described by words like “tepid” and “mediocre”. Citadel likes to talk about itself, and boy, it had certainly had its share of adventure sto relate. But I kept wondering when the real story would start and when I would actually learn something about what kind of book this was. Instead, it kept referencing new people and events in its life. And the worst, by far, was Arinius.
The Arinius storyline just never came together for me. Partly this is because his chapters are comparatively short and infrequent. I question whether their presence actually adds anything to the overall narrative. For the majority of the book, Arinius’ chapters are little more than descriptions of his travels through Gaul. It’s not until the very end that he experiences any sort of conflict, and as such, his story is quite boring.
The 1942 storyline at least presents its share of obstacles for its characters. Sandrine certainly grows and changes as she matures from an unsure, impulsive girl into a clever and courageous woman. Although I found the simplistic way in which Mosse presents their decisions somewhat irritating, I really enjoyed how various characters, like Luce, rationalized their collaboration. In this respect, Citadel allows the reader to sympathize with what the ordinary citizens of these villages and towns must have felt as the Nazi occupation deepened. It’s all well and good to say that one would stand and fight against such an invader in theory. When it’s actually happening, it is a different thing entirely, more pernicious and less overtly easy to throw off.
So for its depiction of the struggles of occupied Languedoc, Citadel earns some respect. Mosse evinces both passion and planning in her presentation of this story, enough that I can understand what makes her so beloved of some readers. Yet if the Languedoc people managed to rise up and drive out the Nazis anyway, why did they need ghost soldiers? For this reason, I found Citadel’s eleventh hour dip into the realm of fantasy perplexing more than anything else. Up until that point, the hunt for Arinius’ Codex had been pleasantly archaeological, reminding me of the conspiratorial tones of Eco and Ruiz Zafón. The actual resolution after all that feels more deflating than rewarding.
Mosse emphasizes dialogue over description, so despite Citadel’s generous endowments, I found myself speeding through it. But I just kept thinking, “When is the story going to begin?” I guess it happened somewhere along the way, but I’m not sure where. After slightly more than 900 pages, I emerge wondering what I have to show for my time and effort. I don’t feel particularly enlightened about that time period or place during the Second World War—I enjoyed the story and characters, yes, but Mosse leaves most of the context up to the reader’s devices. And I didn’t get much from the spiritual storyline that attempts to unite Arinius’ experience with that of Sandrine and her contemporaries.
Perhaps those who caught the first two instalments would find something of value here, but for newcomers like myself, Citadel is definitely not the place to begin with Mosse. We were not well matched to each other, and after I turned the last page, we parted amicably without so much as exchanging numbers. I’m optimistic that it might have a younger, more attractive sibling for me to meet a few months or years hence—perhaps over a good cup of tea somewhere. Until then, we’ll say hi at parties, but we’ll just stay friends.
Citadel confronted me from the stack of just-returned books at the library one afternoon. It eyed me up, and finding me worthy, told me I was taking it out that very afternoon. I was somewhat taken aback by its forwardness, but I acquiesced. It was only later that I discovered it lied about its age—it’s actually the third book in a trilogy. Fortunately, age isn’t so much an issue for me, at least not with the type of trilogies where the books are loosely connected as they are with Languedoc.
Alas, it’s fair to say that Citadel and I did not hit it off. Ours was a date best described by words like “tepid” and “mediocre”. Citadel likes to talk about itself, and boy, it had certainly had its share of adventure sto relate. But I kept wondering when the real story would start and when I would actually learn something about what kind of book this was. Instead, it kept referencing new people and events in its life. And the worst, by far, was Arinius.
The Arinius storyline just never came together for me. Partly this is because his chapters are comparatively short and infrequent. I question whether their presence actually adds anything to the overall narrative. For the majority of the book, Arinius’ chapters are little more than descriptions of his travels through Gaul. It’s not until the very end that he experiences any sort of conflict, and as such, his story is quite boring.
The 1942 storyline at least presents its share of obstacles for its characters. Sandrine certainly grows and changes as she matures from an unsure, impulsive girl into a clever and courageous woman. Although I found the simplistic way in which Mosse presents their decisions somewhat irritating, I really enjoyed how various characters, like Luce, rationalized their collaboration. In this respect, Citadel allows the reader to sympathize with what the ordinary citizens of these villages and towns must have felt as the Nazi occupation deepened. It’s all well and good to say that one would stand and fight against such an invader in theory. When it’s actually happening, it is a different thing entirely, more pernicious and less overtly easy to throw off.
So for its depiction of the struggles of occupied Languedoc, Citadel earns some respect. Mosse evinces both passion and planning in her presentation of this story, enough that I can understand what makes her so beloved of some readers. Yet if the Languedoc people managed to rise up and drive out the Nazis anyway, why did they need ghost soldiers? For this reason, I found Citadel’s eleventh hour dip into the realm of fantasy perplexing more than anything else. Up until that point, the hunt for Arinius’ Codex had been pleasantly archaeological, reminding me of the conspiratorial tones of Eco and Ruiz Zafón. The actual resolution after all that feels more deflating than rewarding.
Mosse emphasizes dialogue over description, so despite Citadel’s generous endowments, I found myself speeding through it. But I just kept thinking, “When is the story going to begin?” I guess it happened somewhere along the way, but I’m not sure where. After slightly more than 900 pages, I emerge wondering what I have to show for my time and effort. I don’t feel particularly enlightened about that time period or place during the Second World War—I enjoyed the story and characters, yes, but Mosse leaves most of the context up to the reader’s devices. And I didn’t get much from the spiritual storyline that attempts to unite Arinius’ experience with that of Sandrine and her contemporaries.
Perhaps those who caught the first two instalments would find something of value here, but for newcomers like myself, Citadel is definitely not the place to begin with Mosse. We were not well matched to each other, and after I turned the last page, we parted amicably without so much as exchanging numbers. I’m optimistic that it might have a younger, more attractive sibling for me to meet a few months or years hence—perhaps over a good cup of tea somewhere. Until then, we’ll say hi at parties, but we’ll just stay friends.
The Large Hadron Collider is doing pretty well this early into its life. It has already produced compelling evidence for the existence of a Higgs boson. And it hasn’t produced a microscopic black hole that would sink into the centre of the Earth and devour us all. Yet.
David Brin wrote Earth around the same time I was born, long before the LHC was being built and its doomsayers were crying disaster. Even then, however, the idea of experimental physics creating a world-swallowing black hole was a potent one. At first, it seems like the black hole present in Earth is a sign of the ultimate hubris of humanity … yet as the story develops, it becomes apparent that perhaps the black hole is an interloper sent by others who aren’t happy about having new neighbours.
This sense of layers of revelation is typical, both of Brin in general and Earth specifically. In style, Earth is quite similar to the other works of Brin’s that I’ve read, particularly the Uplift trilogy. Since it is set closer to the present day—2038, a mere fifty years in the future from the time Brin was writing—it also has much in common with the hard SF thrillers written by authors like Ben Bova and Greg Bear. The main characters are, by and large, scientists, intensely passionate about their work and dedicated to ideals like “scientific inquiry” and “truth”. The antagonists are authoritarian or anarchical in their allegiances, out to preserve the old order or tear it down at all costs, with both sides looking to the latest and greatest in scientific discoveries to give them the edge.
So to distinguish it from other such books, Brin sets Earth in a near future where global warming has occurred slightly faster than most scientists have predicted. In this version of 2038, humanity is still paralyzed by a dependence on fossil fuels. Coastal regions are losing ground to the ocean even as inland areas find desertification has become a pressing issue. Though information technology abounds, obsession with the role of secrecy in last century’s ecological disasters has reduced an individual’s privacy. And sometime in the first decade of the twenty-first century (i.e., five to ten years ago, for those of us in 2014), the world declares war against Switzerland in a bloody-almost-nuclear debacle.
There is a lot to process here. Certainly Brin deserves credit for such an intricate and detailled vision of the future. As he explains in his afterword, he isn’t going for accuracy—which would be foolish because it is almost impossible—just plausibility. Each of the attributes of his 2038 is a consequence of the trends he observed in 1989, coupled with some creative speculation about what kinds of surprises might happen along the way. It has been a while since I read a book that so confidently and cleverly lays out the near-future—Nexus tries very hard but doesn’t quite make me believe, and Rainbows End increasingly feels like allegory rather than an attempt at extrapolation. So, in this sense, Earth is a very interesting work of science fiction.
It’s quite interesting to compare Brin’s vision of 2038 with our actual 2014, what with hindsight being what it is. Keeping in mind that he’s writing three years before the World Wide Web, but in 2038 the Net is ubiquitous and quite recognizable to readers in 2014. He predicts that we’ll have trouble advancing the space program beyond low-Earth orbit, despite the potential gains if we can tap asteroids for all their yummy resources. He speculates how the search for Earth-like planets will progress (or not).
The main plot, with a black hole threatening to devour the planet, seems like something out of the tabloids from a year or two ago. Again, Brin is slightly ahead of his time with this “prediction”. And if the LHC is any indication, then who knows? Perhaps by 2038 we will indeed be playing with black holes as a possible source of power. As far as black holes go as a threat in Earth, I like how Brin develops the tension very slowly. This is a planetary-scale disaster, but Alex and his companions manage to keep it under wraps for most of the book. They don’t go running to the media or initiate a full-scale panic. (Of course, when it does get out, the consequences are disastrous.)
Unfortunately, like much of the hard SF of that era, Earth spends a little too much time navel-gazing. Brin once again follows several different characters, many of whom never meet up yet whose experiences provide the reader with a slightly different perspective on the plot. They are also a way for Brin to explore his 2038 future, in addition to the somewhat random infodumps that he includes at the end of every chapter. Alas, I feel like some of these characters and story arcs could have been eliminated without adversely affecting the story too much.
Similarly, while Brin’s characters all come across as earnest, they can also be very flat. The antagonists are two-dimensional in their single-mindedness, and this effect is only amplified by Brin’s tendency to tell rather than show. This is particularly evident when it comes to the relationship between Daisy and her daughter, Claire. It’s not enough that we see the way Daisy neglects her daughter and her house. No, Brin has to remind us, and show us Daisy’s own thoughts, to emphasize that, yes, Daisy has lost the plot.
Sometimes I felt in danger of losing the plot myself a few times. Earth is just a little ponderous for what should be a sleek, high-stakes thriller. Brin spends the first three-quarters establishing the setting, characters, and stakes. And then in the last quarter, he introduces twists that seem to come from nowhere. Specifically, I’m ambivalent about Jen’s fate and Pedro’s possible true identity. In both cases, these twists make a certain amount of sense—and I hate admitting that, because they also feel like bad storytelling. Jen is literally a deus ex machina, while Pedro’s twist just seems like one more complication we don’t need if Brin isn’t going to explore it in more detail—and, this being the denouement, there is no time for such things.
As a result, the ending is somewhat messy and disorganized after a long, slow lead-in. Earth is a bundle of interesting ideas, clever predictions, and stock characters involved in a doomsday scenario. I’m surprised, in fact, that SyFy hasn’t optioned it for one of its awful TV movies yet. (The book isn’t as bad as a SyFy original movie, but it has all the ingredients to make such a movie.)
Reading Earth has been an interesting experience in an anthropological sense. It’s not what I would call essential Brin, though. I really enjoyed the Uplift series, in which Brin has the space to develop his ideas on a much grander scale. (Though, as with the conclusion here, the conclusion to that series seems to include one-too-many new ideas that weren’t really mentioned earlier.) If, like me, you come across Earth and are in need of a new book to read, then you could do much worse. I can’t muster too much enthusiasm, however, for books that are brimming with good ideas yet in need of so much refinement. Once again Brin demonstrates his strengths in big ideas and his weaknesses in creating connections in people to make those ideas matter.
David Brin wrote Earth around the same time I was born, long before the LHC was being built and its doomsayers were crying disaster. Even then, however, the idea of experimental physics creating a world-swallowing black hole was a potent one. At first, it seems like the black hole present in Earth is a sign of the ultimate hubris of humanity … yet as the story develops, it becomes apparent that perhaps the black hole is an interloper sent by others who aren’t happy about having new neighbours.
This sense of layers of revelation is typical, both of Brin in general and Earth specifically. In style, Earth is quite similar to the other works of Brin’s that I’ve read, particularly the Uplift trilogy. Since it is set closer to the present day—2038, a mere fifty years in the future from the time Brin was writing—it also has much in common with the hard SF thrillers written by authors like Ben Bova and Greg Bear. The main characters are, by and large, scientists, intensely passionate about their work and dedicated to ideals like “scientific inquiry” and “truth”. The antagonists are authoritarian or anarchical in their allegiances, out to preserve the old order or tear it down at all costs, with both sides looking to the latest and greatest in scientific discoveries to give them the edge.
So to distinguish it from other such books, Brin sets Earth in a near future where global warming has occurred slightly faster than most scientists have predicted. In this version of 2038, humanity is still paralyzed by a dependence on fossil fuels. Coastal regions are losing ground to the ocean even as inland areas find desertification has become a pressing issue. Though information technology abounds, obsession with the role of secrecy in last century’s ecological disasters has reduced an individual’s privacy. And sometime in the first decade of the twenty-first century (i.e., five to ten years ago, for those of us in 2014), the world declares war against Switzerland in a bloody-almost-nuclear debacle.
There is a lot to process here. Certainly Brin deserves credit for such an intricate and detailled vision of the future. As he explains in his afterword, he isn’t going for accuracy—which would be foolish because it is almost impossible—just plausibility. Each of the attributes of his 2038 is a consequence of the trends he observed in 1989, coupled with some creative speculation about what kinds of surprises might happen along the way. It has been a while since I read a book that so confidently and cleverly lays out the near-future—Nexus tries very hard but doesn’t quite make me believe, and Rainbows End increasingly feels like allegory rather than an attempt at extrapolation. So, in this sense, Earth is a very interesting work of science fiction.
It’s quite interesting to compare Brin’s vision of 2038 with our actual 2014, what with hindsight being what it is. Keeping in mind that he’s writing three years before the World Wide Web, but in 2038 the Net is ubiquitous and quite recognizable to readers in 2014. He predicts that we’ll have trouble advancing the space program beyond low-Earth orbit, despite the potential gains if we can tap asteroids for all their yummy resources. He speculates how the search for Earth-like planets will progress (or not).
The main plot, with a black hole threatening to devour the planet, seems like something out of the tabloids from a year or two ago. Again, Brin is slightly ahead of his time with this “prediction”. And if the LHC is any indication, then who knows? Perhaps by 2038 we will indeed be playing with black holes as a possible source of power. As far as black holes go as a threat in Earth, I like how Brin develops the tension very slowly. This is a planetary-scale disaster, but Alex and his companions manage to keep it under wraps for most of the book. They don’t go running to the media or initiate a full-scale panic. (Of course, when it does get out, the consequences are disastrous.)
Unfortunately, like much of the hard SF of that era, Earth spends a little too much time navel-gazing. Brin once again follows several different characters, many of whom never meet up yet whose experiences provide the reader with a slightly different perspective on the plot. They are also a way for Brin to explore his 2038 future, in addition to the somewhat random infodumps that he includes at the end of every chapter. Alas, I feel like some of these characters and story arcs could have been eliminated without adversely affecting the story too much.
Similarly, while Brin’s characters all come across as earnest, they can also be very flat. The antagonists are two-dimensional in their single-mindedness, and this effect is only amplified by Brin’s tendency to tell rather than show. This is particularly evident when it comes to the relationship between Daisy and her daughter, Claire. It’s not enough that we see the way Daisy neglects her daughter and her house. No, Brin has to remind us, and show us Daisy’s own thoughts, to emphasize that, yes, Daisy has lost the plot.
Sometimes I felt in danger of losing the plot myself a few times. Earth is just a little ponderous for what should be a sleek, high-stakes thriller. Brin spends the first three-quarters establishing the setting, characters, and stakes. And then in the last quarter, he introduces twists that seem to come from nowhere. Specifically, I’m ambivalent about Jen’s fate and Pedro’s possible true identity. In both cases, these twists make a certain amount of sense—and I hate admitting that, because they also feel like bad storytelling. Jen is literally a deus ex machina, while Pedro’s twist just seems like one more complication we don’t need if Brin isn’t going to explore it in more detail—and, this being the denouement, there is no time for such things.
As a result, the ending is somewhat messy and disorganized after a long, slow lead-in. Earth is a bundle of interesting ideas, clever predictions, and stock characters involved in a doomsday scenario. I’m surprised, in fact, that SyFy hasn’t optioned it for one of its awful TV movies yet. (The book isn’t as bad as a SyFy original movie, but it has all the ingredients to make such a movie.)
Reading Earth has been an interesting experience in an anthropological sense. It’s not what I would call essential Brin, though. I really enjoyed the Uplift series, in which Brin has the space to develop his ideas on a much grander scale. (Though, as with the conclusion here, the conclusion to that series seems to include one-too-many new ideas that weren’t really mentioned earlier.) If, like me, you come across Earth and are in need of a new book to read, then you could do much worse. I can’t muster too much enthusiasm, however, for books that are brimming with good ideas yet in need of so much refinement. Once again Brin demonstrates his strengths in big ideas and his weaknesses in creating connections in people to make those ideas matter.