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tachyondecay
This might not have been the best time for me to read The Holders. The first (and only) season of The Tomorrow People just finished broadcasting here in the UK, and I’m sad it’s over, because my landlady and I were having so much fun heckling its ridiculous characters and plot twists. Seriously, Stephen is supposed to be a high school student but has the ripped body of a mid-twenties man and never gets IDed at a bar (Robbie Amell is older than I am)? Anyway, The Tomorrow People seems to be the CW’s latest attempt to catch the YA/fantasy bloc with its own little take on mutants, and it’s predictably terrible. It did not leave me well-disposed to a book like The Holders, which seems to promise much the same.
It’s like X-Men set in Ireland: people with special powers come to take away Becca’s younger brother, Ryland, because he can hear people’s thoughts. They want him to go to a school for special people (sound familiar?) and Becca comes along to make sure he settles in all right and isn’t tortured or experimented on. She’s a good sister that way. Except as the novel develops, we learn that there’s more to being a Holder than learning how to master one’s mutant power. There are enemies, and apparently Ryland has a destiny.
So I really didn’t want to like this novel. It’s a testament to its quality, then, that despite such determination on my part, I ended up liking it anyway. Between Becca’s frank and honest voice, a decent plot, and a good twist halfway through to shake up the status quo, Julianna Scott manages to win me over. It hasn’t quite wowed its way among my favourite books of the year, and I’m hard pressed to really identify something that stands out about the book as special … but it is a strong use of all its ingredients, and that alone is worth some praise.
For The Holders to work, you have to be invested in Becca. At first she seems like the stereotypical 17-year-old girl who has had to hold her family together in the years since her father’s departure and her mother going to pieces. She has graduated high school early but deferred college to instead work some jobs and stay near home and Ryland. This has all come at the expense of any kind of life for herself, and most of the book—particularly the oh-so-predictable romance between her and Alex—is about Becca starting to realize that she has to let Ryland find his own way and start looking out for herself.
Fortunately, Becca’s refreshing frankness elevates her above the stereotypical. She is honest with herself. She doesn’t mope or swoon like some of the more egregious heroines that grace the pages of YA fiction these days. When she realizes she has fallen for Alex—first as a crush, then as something more series—she is pragmatic. She recognizes she can’t change that feeling, but she’s damned if she will let it interfere with everything else in her life. I like this attitude, because it acknowledges her feelings and simultaneously moves them to the backburner without invalidating them.
I say that the romance is predictable, but to be fair, it’s also not over-the-top and melodramatic. There is a notable absence of a rival—either for Becca or for Alex’s affections—which precludes that most annoying of romantic tropes, the unnecessary love triangle. The angst is more organic and also related to the plot. And most importantly, Scott takes the time to explore other relationships. Becca has her first female “bestie” in the form of Chloe; and she also makes some progress repairing the relationship between her and her father. In all of these ways, Scott manages to make these characters feel like real people, rather than simply having a heroine and a love interest who come together amidst a story about mutant schoolchildren.
As far as the powers thing goes, it’s all actually a little tame, and I think that’s one reason I expected The Holders to underwhelm me. Without the flashiness of television special effects, even the most flamboyant scenes of action don’t exactly leap off the page. Holder competently executes the dynamics of having a power, the strengths and weaknesses and the types of personalities that often result (I thought that Taron’s understated brusqueness was a very subtle way to point out how telling if people are lying would definitely make someone more tight-lipped and asocial). The patterns and conventions are thus familiar to anyone who has read a comic book or been exposed to popular culture any time in the past half-century, and I think they would certainly appeal.
Alas, that’s all it is: a kind of general rehash of the typical mutant power plot. There’s even a Big Bad nemesis mutant, who used to work with Joceyln (our Charles Xavier to this Magneto), who now views Holders/mutants as superior to humanity and wants them to assume their rightful place. Sound familiar? Again, Scott pulls it off well, but she doesn’t bring much new to the table. One of the boons of the past decade in speculative fiction has been the willingness to deconstruct the motif of the superhero, to pull apart the idea of what superpowers would actually do to someone. And while this approach is not necessary to writing original superhero stories, it’s an example of how one needs to go beyond the basic idea that “some people have a power.”
The Holders ticks a lot of the right boxes. It has a protagonist with a good head on her shoulders who also manages to nurture an unannoying romance. It has a small but diverse cast of characters. And its plot, though somewhat slow at times, eventually builds to a twist I, for one, didn’t anticipate, which changes the dynamics of the story and propels it in interesting new directions. I will happily dive into the sequel at some point, but probably not right away. For people who like superhero stories told from the perspective of someone mostly on the sidelines, however, this is worth checking out.
It’s like X-Men set in Ireland: people with special powers come to take away Becca’s younger brother, Ryland, because he can hear people’s thoughts. They want him to go to a school for special people (sound familiar?) and Becca comes along to make sure he settles in all right and isn’t tortured or experimented on. She’s a good sister that way. Except as the novel develops, we learn that there’s more to being a Holder than learning how to master one’s mutant power. There are enemies, and apparently Ryland has a destiny.
So I really didn’t want to like this novel. It’s a testament to its quality, then, that despite such determination on my part, I ended up liking it anyway. Between Becca’s frank and honest voice, a decent plot, and a good twist halfway through to shake up the status quo, Julianna Scott manages to win me over. It hasn’t quite wowed its way among my favourite books of the year, and I’m hard pressed to really identify something that stands out about the book as special … but it is a strong use of all its ingredients, and that alone is worth some praise.
For The Holders to work, you have to be invested in Becca. At first she seems like the stereotypical 17-year-old girl who has had to hold her family together in the years since her father’s departure and her mother going to pieces. She has graduated high school early but deferred college to instead work some jobs and stay near home and Ryland. This has all come at the expense of any kind of life for herself, and most of the book—particularly the oh-so-predictable romance between her and Alex—is about Becca starting to realize that she has to let Ryland find his own way and start looking out for herself.
Fortunately, Becca’s refreshing frankness elevates her above the stereotypical. She is honest with herself. She doesn’t mope or swoon like some of the more egregious heroines that grace the pages of YA fiction these days. When she realizes she has fallen for Alex—first as a crush, then as something more series—she is pragmatic. She recognizes she can’t change that feeling, but she’s damned if she will let it interfere with everything else in her life. I like this attitude, because it acknowledges her feelings and simultaneously moves them to the backburner without invalidating them.
I say that the romance is predictable, but to be fair, it’s also not over-the-top and melodramatic. There is a notable absence of a rival—either for Becca or for Alex’s affections—which precludes that most annoying of romantic tropes, the unnecessary love triangle. The angst is more organic and also related to the plot. And most importantly, Scott takes the time to explore other relationships. Becca has her first female “bestie” in the form of Chloe; and she also makes some progress repairing the relationship between her and her father. In all of these ways, Scott manages to make these characters feel like real people, rather than simply having a heroine and a love interest who come together amidst a story about mutant schoolchildren.
As far as the powers thing goes, it’s all actually a little tame, and I think that’s one reason I expected The Holders to underwhelm me. Without the flashiness of television special effects, even the most flamboyant scenes of action don’t exactly leap off the page. Holder competently executes the dynamics of having a power, the strengths and weaknesses and the types of personalities that often result (I thought that Taron’s understated brusqueness was a very subtle way to point out how telling if people are lying would definitely make someone more tight-lipped and asocial). The patterns and conventions are thus familiar to anyone who has read a comic book or been exposed to popular culture any time in the past half-century, and I think they would certainly appeal.
Alas, that’s all it is: a kind of general rehash of the typical mutant power plot. There’s even a Big Bad nemesis mutant, who used to work with Joceyln (our Charles Xavier to this Magneto), who now views Holders/mutants as superior to humanity and wants them to assume their rightful place. Sound familiar? Again, Scott pulls it off well, but she doesn’t bring much new to the table. One of the boons of the past decade in speculative fiction has been the willingness to deconstruct the motif of the superhero, to pull apart the idea of what superpowers would actually do to someone. And while this approach is not necessary to writing original superhero stories, it’s an example of how one needs to go beyond the basic idea that “some people have a power.”
The Holders ticks a lot of the right boxes. It has a protagonist with a good head on her shoulders who also manages to nurture an unannoying romance. It has a small but diverse cast of characters. And its plot, though somewhat slow at times, eventually builds to a twist I, for one, didn’t anticipate, which changes the dynamics of the story and propels it in interesting new directions. I will happily dive into the sequel at some point, but probably not right away. For people who like superhero stories told from the perspective of someone mostly on the sidelines, however, this is worth checking out.
The Pillars of the Earth is packed with dynamic characters who evolve over the course of fifty years during the civil war between King Stephen and Empress Matilda (Maud). Follett expertly weaves the historical facts into the narrative of the story, often including his characters in pivotal moments--such as Philip's role in the aftermath of the assassination of Thomas Becket.
This story is one of raw determination. All of the characters' motivations become apparent as the story progresses, and we see that they are utterly determined to achieve their goals. The protagonists succeed largely through wit and the innate distrust that the antagonists have for each other (the problem with being a traitor once is that you'll always be suspected of betrayal ever after). The shifting allegiances and characters' opinions of each other are quite realistic; the lifetime that the book covers allows Follett considerable character development. Not all of the protagonists like each other throughout the course of the story; their feelings change as the situation develops.
It really gets good after Part Two (these are long chapters and even longer parts--not that I'm complaining). With Bishop Waleran and William of Hamleigh set up as the main antagonists, it becomes a tug o' war game between the two sides, each wanting a cathedral and the prestige that comes with it. Follett portrays the antagonists as terrible men, with Waleran a self-serving servant of God and William an irredeemable sociopath. In contrast, the myriad protagonists are more dynamic in their actions. Everyone, from Prior Philip to Jack to Aliena, has flaws and makes mistakes that allow the antagonists temporary victories.
I found the rhythm of the book somewhat predictable; the pacing is probably the most ordinary thing about this story. Every so often, the antagonists would implement a scheme that causes a setback for the protagonists, who would have to find a clever way to succeed in the face of adversity. Rinse and repeat. This doesn't change, so I just ignored it and instead focused on the characters and relationships.
The relationship between Jack and Aliena annoys me, mostly because of Follett's portrayal. Their love develops very well, but then toward the end of the book, Aliena temporarily considers leaving Jack, because they are forced to live apart until the Church annuls her marriage to Alfred. At this point, I found Aliena's behaviour unrealistic. However, that may just be because I didn't live through the last fifteen years like she did. One of the disadvantages of the scope of the story is that the time jumps cause a bit of disorientation for the reader: the characters will have developed, sometimes in unanticipated ways, and we'll have to adjust before we feel comfortable again.
I could have done with a little less description of architecture, but I gather that this was one of Follett's primary motivations for writing the book. In that case, I suppose it was a good thing. The Pillars of the Earth is a worthy book to read with exactly the elements required for a great story. At times it can be slow or predictable, but in general I would recommend it to anyone with interest in historical fiction.
This story is one of raw determination. All of the characters' motivations become apparent as the story progresses, and we see that they are utterly determined to achieve their goals. The protagonists succeed largely through wit and the innate distrust that the antagonists have for each other (the problem with being a traitor once is that you'll always be suspected of betrayal ever after). The shifting allegiances and characters' opinions of each other are quite realistic; the lifetime that the book covers allows Follett considerable character development. Not all of the protagonists like each other throughout the course of the story; their feelings change as the situation develops.
It really gets good after Part Two (these are long chapters and even longer parts--not that I'm complaining). With Bishop Waleran and William of Hamleigh set up as the main antagonists, it becomes a tug o' war game between the two sides, each wanting a cathedral and the prestige that comes with it. Follett portrays the antagonists as terrible men, with Waleran a self-serving servant of God and William an irredeemable sociopath. In contrast, the myriad protagonists are more dynamic in their actions. Everyone, from Prior Philip to Jack to Aliena, has flaws and makes mistakes that allow the antagonists temporary victories.
I found the rhythm of the book somewhat predictable; the pacing is probably the most ordinary thing about this story. Every so often, the antagonists would implement a scheme that causes a setback for the protagonists, who would have to find a clever way to succeed in the face of adversity. Rinse and repeat. This doesn't change, so I just ignored it and instead focused on the characters and relationships.
The relationship between Jack and Aliena annoys me, mostly because of Follett's portrayal. Their love develops very well, but then toward the end of the book, Aliena temporarily considers leaving Jack, because they are forced to live apart until the Church annuls her marriage to Alfred. At this point, I found Aliena's behaviour unrealistic. However, that may just be because I didn't live through the last fifteen years like she did. One of the disadvantages of the scope of the story is that the time jumps cause a bit of disorientation for the reader: the characters will have developed, sometimes in unanticipated ways, and we'll have to adjust before we feel comfortable again.
I could have done with a little less description of architecture, but I gather that this was one of Follett's primary motivations for writing the book. In that case, I suppose it was a good thing. The Pillars of the Earth is a worthy book to read with exactly the elements required for a great story. At times it can be slow or predictable, but in general I would recommend it to anyone with interest in historical fiction.
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Could not deal.
I looked at my progress today and realized I was only slightly more than halfway through. Every time I go to read it, my eyes feel heavy. Enormous paragraphs of description and narration make for a style of story that just does not work for me at the moment. I need something more quickly-paced, something that grabs and takes me along for the ride.
This is not a bad book. But it’s not interesting me right now. It’s not entertaining me. While I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, if I did, letting go of books that fail to do these things would be one of them. So that’s what I’m doing: I’m not giving up; I’m letting go. Also I kind of forgot about reading the Hugo nominees until a week ago and have so much to get through before the voting deadline.
I might come back to this. I might not. But I know that if I were to continue with it right now, I’d just end up being disappointed with it and giving it a poorer review than it probably deserves. I really like the setting, but the slow pace and embroidered narration make it difficult for me to enjoy in my mood this week.
I looked at my progress today and realized I was only slightly more than halfway through. Every time I go to read it, my eyes feel heavy. Enormous paragraphs of description and narration make for a style of story that just does not work for me at the moment. I need something more quickly-paced, something that grabs and takes me along for the ride.
This is not a bad book. But it’s not interesting me right now. It’s not entertaining me. While I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, if I did, letting go of books that fail to do these things would be one of them. So that’s what I’m doing: I’m not giving up; I’m letting go. Also I kind of forgot about reading the Hugo nominees until a week ago and have so much to get through before the voting deadline.
I might come back to this. I might not. But I know that if I were to continue with it right now, I’d just end up being disappointed with it and giving it a poorer review than it probably deserves. I really like the setting, but the slow pace and embroidered narration make it difficult for me to enjoy in my mood this week.
I’ve mentioned, once in a while, how David Eddings’ Belgariad was my gateway into fantasy. I read Papa Tolkien first, but it was the impressive heft of the first three Belgariad books in a single omnibus that ignited my Grade 7 mind with a thirst for more tales of wizards and magic and intrigue. I soon after started reading A Song of Ice and Fire. (I developed some nice upper body strength from lifting those tomes.)
The thing is, it’s marvellous that fantasy like Eddings’ books exists, because it’s exactly the sort of thing that switched on my pre-adolescent brain. But as I read more fantasy and start to become more familiar with its tropes, I look back and realize that his novels aren’t exactly the best that fantasy has to offer. Indeed, he admits it: he writes to a formula. And there’s nothing wrong with that, just as there’s nothing wrong with enjoying his novels. The same goes for L.E. Modesitt, Jr., whose Recluce novels kept me company on many a rainy day as a teen, but now that I’m re-reading them, I’m finding more to criticize. The books haven’t changed. I have.
It’s difficult if nigh impossible to read books in isolation from other texts. Indeed, I wouldn’t recommend it—we’ve cultivated a careful shorthand of allusions, Biblical and Shakespearean and otherwise, that to attempt to sever a book from other texts would leave it a mangled mess. So when I read a book, I’m reading it in the context of a journey—in this case, a journey in my understanding of fantasy as genre and what I, personally, want from fantasy novels. When I was younger, what I wanted was the adventure and the conflict: the terrible stakes in which a hero (who tended be a simple farm boy, or, you know, a fisherman), was forced to confront the forces of evil, who kind of wanted to take over the world.
As I’ve changed as a person, what I want from fantasy has changed as well. I’m not looking so much any more for megalomaniacal bad guys versus simple protagonists. I want fantasy that blurs the lines a bit more. In my review of The Mammoth Book of Short Science Fiction Novels, I wrote about how “this is an exciting time for science fiction and fantasy” with the diversity of new types of stories coming from a wider range of writers and voices. I’m really excited to dive into these diverse representations and discover aspects to fantasy that I heretofore couldn’t have conceived of as existing, let alone thought I would have enjoyed.
I’m blathering on like this instead of talking about The Awakened Mage for two reasons. Firstly, most of what I have to say about this would echo what I said of The Innocent Mage, and my first draft of this review was a sad set of disconnected ideas. Secondly, I feel like Karen Miller falls into the Eddings/Modesitt camp of fantasy. Again, I’m not trying to set up a false dilemma between that camp and the new wave fantasy … I’m just trying to explore why one used to satisfy and now I find myself drawn more towards the other.
I don’t know why this is split into two books. The obvious answer is that each book, individually, is too long—but as a story, it doesn’t need to be that long. I didn’t like how The Innocent Mage was long for how much seems to happen (or not happen) in it. These could easily have been condensed in a single, intense 600-page story about Asher’s awakening. Indeed, I’m having trouble regarding this as distinct from the first book, hence my difficulty compiling cogent thoughts on just this volume.
So let’s try to focus on differences. The Awakened Mage is definitely an improvement over The Innocent Mage. It’s snappier, with higher stakes and far more believable plotting. Miller’s characters finally know they have an antagonist to fight, and Morg manages to get them right up against the ropes before they are in a position to bring him down. Asher and Gar end up in a situation where they quite literally have nothing to lose and the kingdom’s survival depends on their willingness to fight to the bitter end. I’m somewhat disappointed we didn’t see Barl in the end. After Gar reads of her intention to transmute herself to immortality so that she could be around when Morg does return, I was sure that Miller was foreshadowing her presence at the climax. Nevertheless, she gives Asher and Gar plenty of things to do.
In the end, it is a little underwhelming how the confrontation between Asher and Morg plays out. Miller makes sure his role as the innocent mage is deserved. The people of Lur need someone who is not a part of the Doranen magical hierarchy, who is not blinded by its limitations and biases, to take on this impressive foe. Nevertheless, after spending some thousand pages all told on getting Asher into this position, she spends little enough time on the sorts of training montages that are customary at this point. As with the first book, the actual mechanics of the magic are far less specific than their presentation in A Blight of Mages. This is regrettable, since the system of magic that Miller has created for this world is among one of the best things about this series.
I like the continuing evolution of Darran. Asher and Gar’s hysterics continue to rankle, but Darran’s depiction deepens as he comes to appreciate the role that Asher plays as a trusted advisor. Similarly, Conroyd Jarralt is a little bit over-the-top as a villain, but he’s a good complement to Morg. I think to get the most out of Miller’s writing, you need to be willing to ignore the spikes of melodrama scattered throughout the story and simply enjoy the emotional highs that they leave behind.
I wish I could be more enthusiastic about these books. It’s always regretful when one doesn’t share in the enthusiasm for a series a friend recommends. But as much as Miller seems intent on employing some interesting types of magic and several useful fantasy tropes, The Awakened Mage doesn’t quite manage to awe me. Her stories can be enjoyable, but they lack that certain spark to intrigue or entrance. And this is very much a personal judgement on my part, based on where I am in my journey through the vast and winding landscape of fantasy. For others, this series might satisfy, but for me it echoes of stories gone by, and it leaves me wanting more beyond what it can offer.
My reviews of the Kingmaker, Kingbreaker series:
← The Innocent Mage
The thing is, it’s marvellous that fantasy like Eddings’ books exists, because it’s exactly the sort of thing that switched on my pre-adolescent brain. But as I read more fantasy and start to become more familiar with its tropes, I look back and realize that his novels aren’t exactly the best that fantasy has to offer. Indeed, he admits it: he writes to a formula. And there’s nothing wrong with that, just as there’s nothing wrong with enjoying his novels. The same goes for L.E. Modesitt, Jr., whose Recluce novels kept me company on many a rainy day as a teen, but now that I’m re-reading them, I’m finding more to criticize. The books haven’t changed. I have.
It’s difficult if nigh impossible to read books in isolation from other texts. Indeed, I wouldn’t recommend it—we’ve cultivated a careful shorthand of allusions, Biblical and Shakespearean and otherwise, that to attempt to sever a book from other texts would leave it a mangled mess. So when I read a book, I’m reading it in the context of a journey—in this case, a journey in my understanding of fantasy as genre and what I, personally, want from fantasy novels. When I was younger, what I wanted was the adventure and the conflict: the terrible stakes in which a hero (who tended be a simple farm boy, or, you know, a fisherman), was forced to confront the forces of evil, who kind of wanted to take over the world.
As I’ve changed as a person, what I want from fantasy has changed as well. I’m not looking so much any more for megalomaniacal bad guys versus simple protagonists. I want fantasy that blurs the lines a bit more. In my review of The Mammoth Book of Short Science Fiction Novels, I wrote about how “this is an exciting time for science fiction and fantasy” with the diversity of new types of stories coming from a wider range of writers and voices. I’m really excited to dive into these diverse representations and discover aspects to fantasy that I heretofore couldn’t have conceived of as existing, let alone thought I would have enjoyed.
I’m blathering on like this instead of talking about The Awakened Mage for two reasons. Firstly, most of what I have to say about this would echo what I said of The Innocent Mage, and my first draft of this review was a sad set of disconnected ideas. Secondly, I feel like Karen Miller falls into the Eddings/Modesitt camp of fantasy. Again, I’m not trying to set up a false dilemma between that camp and the new wave fantasy … I’m just trying to explore why one used to satisfy and now I find myself drawn more towards the other.
I don’t know why this is split into two books. The obvious answer is that each book, individually, is too long—but as a story, it doesn’t need to be that long. I didn’t like how The Innocent Mage was long for how much seems to happen (or not happen) in it. These could easily have been condensed in a single, intense 600-page story about Asher’s awakening. Indeed, I’m having trouble regarding this as distinct from the first book, hence my difficulty compiling cogent thoughts on just this volume.
So let’s try to focus on differences. The Awakened Mage is definitely an improvement over The Innocent Mage. It’s snappier, with higher stakes and far more believable plotting. Miller’s characters finally know they have an antagonist to fight, and Morg manages to get them right up against the ropes before they are in a position to bring him down. Asher and Gar end up in a situation where they quite literally have nothing to lose and the kingdom’s survival depends on their willingness to fight to the bitter end. I’m somewhat disappointed we didn’t see Barl in the end. After Gar reads of her intention to transmute herself to immortality so that she could be around when Morg does return, I was sure that Miller was foreshadowing her presence at the climax. Nevertheless, she gives Asher and Gar plenty of things to do.
In the end, it is a little underwhelming how the confrontation between Asher and Morg plays out. Miller makes sure his role as the innocent mage is deserved. The people of Lur need someone who is not a part of the Doranen magical hierarchy, who is not blinded by its limitations and biases, to take on this impressive foe. Nevertheless, after spending some thousand pages all told on getting Asher into this position, she spends little enough time on the sorts of training montages that are customary at this point. As with the first book, the actual mechanics of the magic are far less specific than their presentation in A Blight of Mages. This is regrettable, since the system of magic that Miller has created for this world is among one of the best things about this series.
I like the continuing evolution of Darran. Asher and Gar’s hysterics continue to rankle, but Darran’s depiction deepens as he comes to appreciate the role that Asher plays as a trusted advisor. Similarly, Conroyd Jarralt is a little bit over-the-top as a villain, but he’s a good complement to Morg. I think to get the most out of Miller’s writing, you need to be willing to ignore the spikes of melodrama scattered throughout the story and simply enjoy the emotional highs that they leave behind.
I wish I could be more enthusiastic about these books. It’s always regretful when one doesn’t share in the enthusiasm for a series a friend recommends. But as much as Miller seems intent on employing some interesting types of magic and several useful fantasy tropes, The Awakened Mage doesn’t quite manage to awe me. Her stories can be enjoyable, but they lack that certain spark to intrigue or entrance. And this is very much a personal judgement on my part, based on where I am in my journey through the vast and winding landscape of fantasy. For others, this series might satisfy, but for me it echoes of stories gone by, and it leaves me wanting more beyond what it can offer.
My reviews of the Kingmaker, Kingbreaker series:
← The Innocent Mage
For a book called The Innocent Mage, set in a land protected by a magical barrier, where the practising of magic is a capital offense for the Olken and a birthright for the Doranen, not a lot of magic actually happens in this book. Karen Miller dangles the potential for magic like a carrot before whacking the reader with the stick of scenery-chewing dialogue. While there is plenty to enjoy about the slow-simmer of worldbuilding in which Miller engages here, some of the same decisions that make Miller’s world of Lur so interesting also make for a duller read.
Asher, a lowly fisherman, stumbles his way into the employ of Prince Gar (whose name either sounds like a Klingon or someone trying to clear their throat of phlegm—take your pick). Turns out this is part of a prophecy, though (not a spoiler, it’s like in the second chapter) in which Asher is going to save Lur from the destruction of its magical barrier, but probably at the cost of his life. Good for the kingdom, not so much for him. Then again, Miller goes out of the way to make Asher into an arrogant prickly pear of a jumped-up peasant, so why should we care about what happens to him?
It’s actually remarkable, this penchant Miller has for unlikable main characters. First Hekat (who, really, is a type of distilled evil) from Hammer of God, then Barl (who is more annoying than evil), and now Asher. I applaud her willingness to write characters that readers have little choice but to dislike. And it’s nice to watch Asher mellow (a little) over the course of the book. However, reaching that stage requires one first not to roll one’s eyes too much at the cliched crutch of prophecy jumping up Asher from fisherman to prince’s assistant. I kept waiting for Asher’s fairy godmother to remind him that he has to leave the ball before the stroke of midnight.
Before I talk about problems with prophecy, however, I’d like to continue talking about character. There is something about Miller’s characterization that distracts me. At first I wanted to call it "one-note", but that isn’t accurate. Plenty of her characters change and reveal different sides throughout the book—Asher and Gar are the two most notable examples, but even the minor characters like Darran get moments of lucid two-dimensionality. No, I think my issue is with the portrayal of the antagonists, from Morg/Durm to the pint-sized pest in Fane to the blithering Jarralt. Miller’s villains tend to be over-the-top and moustache twirling. There is nothing subtle about them, and their performances tend to be repetitive. Morg’s refrain of "bitch, slut, treacherous whore," as he continues to obsess over Barl, definitely reminds us of how twisted he has become, but it also gets old after the tenth time. Similarly, while I find Fane’s personality plenty believable, she also tends to be melodramatic at the best of times.
This melodrama extends to the plot and dialogue as well. The Innocent Mage is a long book, and it seems unnecessarily so considering how little actually happens. Rather, Miller fills pages with repetitive dialogue. Characters spend a lot of time talking about the same things over and over. They discuss, then remind each other of these discussions, then maybe revisit the discussions. There are lots of hypotheticals. Some of it is interesting, most of it isn’t, and little enough of it actually involves the cool sigil magic Miller uses in A Blight of Mages. And, as with the character issue, it puzzles me, because when Miller takes off the brakes and actually makes things happen, the book jumps into a pleasant gear that both entertains as it passes the time in a way that her dialogue just can’t match.
The more I read of her work—and I’ve read a lot more of Miller’s novels in a shorter span of time than I have many other, probably better writers—the more it seems like she favours structure and story over specifics. There’s no denying that she has a rich imagination as well as the ability to put that imagination on paper. Lur, the Olken, the Doranen, and their curious society are all interesting set pieces in an original fantasy world. I like how Miller portrays the uneasy dynamic between the mundane Olken, who are usually servants and merchants, and the arcane Doranen, who are the ruling class. And this is where her pairing of Asher and Gar gets interesting. Similarly, while Morg’s takeover of Durm is a predictable outcome of his poking his head beyond the Wall, it’s also deliciously well done and leads to a climactic twist that I really didn’t see coming (because I wanted a slightly different setup for the second book, but oh well).
Morg’s involvement is interesting in light of the prophecy that casts Asher as the Innocent Mage. To what extent does the prophecy anticipate Morg’s return? I assume it does, in the same way that Barl anticipated the possibility of Morg gaining access to the Weather Orb. I’m a bit wary of prophecy as a plot device these days. Played straight it robs much of the meaning from a character’s actions; subverted, it’s equally predictable as a rejection of the notion of fate and destiny. Playing with prophecy is like playing with fire (for both writer and characters). And I’m not really inclined to be charitable in this particular case, because Dathne the prophet is pretty useless. She exists solely to worry and remind us that the prophecy exists. Maybe Miller puts her to better use in the second book (in fact, I’d bet on it), but for The Innocent Mage she is essentially a plot device.
The Innocent Mage reminds me a lot of The Riven Kingdom. It shares the same slow pacing and tendency for redundant dialogue. It also has an interesting society and a clear conflict. I can’t help but be harsh in my critique here, because this is a book that lacks polish—at the same time, I should also point out that I read this long book fairly quickly, during a busy work week, because I couldn’t put it down. So despite my criticisms, this remains an intensely involved book. It is a reminder that there is a difference between quality and enjoyment. I don’t think The Innocent Mage stands out for me as a fantasy book of especial quality or imagination. But it was certainly a fantasy book that I enjoyed. Miller’s style might not always appeal to my particular sensibilities, but her story remains, at is core, interesting and powerful. Good storytelling always wins out in the end.
My reviews of the Kingmaker, Kingbreaker series:
← A Blight of Mages | The Awakened Mage →
Asher, a lowly fisherman, stumbles his way into the employ of Prince Gar (whose name either sounds like a Klingon or someone trying to clear their throat of phlegm—take your pick). Turns out this is part of a prophecy, though (not a spoiler, it’s like in the second chapter) in which Asher is going to save Lur from the destruction of its magical barrier, but probably at the cost of his life. Good for the kingdom, not so much for him. Then again, Miller goes out of the way to make Asher into an arrogant prickly pear of a jumped-up peasant, so why should we care about what happens to him?
It’s actually remarkable, this penchant Miller has for unlikable main characters. First Hekat (who, really, is a type of distilled evil) from Hammer of God, then Barl (who is more annoying than evil), and now Asher. I applaud her willingness to write characters that readers have little choice but to dislike. And it’s nice to watch Asher mellow (a little) over the course of the book. However, reaching that stage requires one first not to roll one’s eyes too much at the cliched crutch of prophecy jumping up Asher from fisherman to prince’s assistant. I kept waiting for Asher’s fairy godmother to remind him that he has to leave the ball before the stroke of midnight.
Before I talk about problems with prophecy, however, I’d like to continue talking about character. There is something about Miller’s characterization that distracts me. At first I wanted to call it "one-note", but that isn’t accurate. Plenty of her characters change and reveal different sides throughout the book—Asher and Gar are the two most notable examples, but even the minor characters like Darran get moments of lucid two-dimensionality. No, I think my issue is with the portrayal of the antagonists, from Morg/Durm to the pint-sized pest in Fane to the blithering Jarralt. Miller’s villains tend to be over-the-top and moustache twirling. There is nothing subtle about them, and their performances tend to be repetitive. Morg’s refrain of "bitch, slut, treacherous whore," as he continues to obsess over Barl, definitely reminds us of how twisted he has become, but it also gets old after the tenth time. Similarly, while I find Fane’s personality plenty believable, she also tends to be melodramatic at the best of times.
This melodrama extends to the plot and dialogue as well. The Innocent Mage is a long book, and it seems unnecessarily so considering how little actually happens. Rather, Miller fills pages with repetitive dialogue. Characters spend a lot of time talking about the same things over and over. They discuss, then remind each other of these discussions, then maybe revisit the discussions. There are lots of hypotheticals. Some of it is interesting, most of it isn’t, and little enough of it actually involves the cool sigil magic Miller uses in A Blight of Mages. And, as with the character issue, it puzzles me, because when Miller takes off the brakes and actually makes things happen, the book jumps into a pleasant gear that both entertains as it passes the time in a way that her dialogue just can’t match.
The more I read of her work—and I’ve read a lot more of Miller’s novels in a shorter span of time than I have many other, probably better writers—the more it seems like she favours structure and story over specifics. There’s no denying that she has a rich imagination as well as the ability to put that imagination on paper. Lur, the Olken, the Doranen, and their curious society are all interesting set pieces in an original fantasy world. I like how Miller portrays the uneasy dynamic between the mundane Olken, who are usually servants and merchants, and the arcane Doranen, who are the ruling class. And this is where her pairing of Asher and Gar gets interesting. Similarly, while Morg’s takeover of Durm is a predictable outcome of his poking his head beyond the Wall, it’s also deliciously well done and leads to a climactic twist that I really didn’t see coming (because I wanted a slightly different setup for the second book, but oh well).
Morg’s involvement is interesting in light of the prophecy that casts Asher as the Innocent Mage. To what extent does the prophecy anticipate Morg’s return? I assume it does, in the same way that Barl anticipated the possibility of Morg gaining access to the Weather Orb. I’m a bit wary of prophecy as a plot device these days. Played straight it robs much of the meaning from a character’s actions; subverted, it’s equally predictable as a rejection of the notion of fate and destiny. Playing with prophecy is like playing with fire (for both writer and characters). And I’m not really inclined to be charitable in this particular case, because Dathne the prophet is pretty useless. She exists solely to worry and remind us that the prophecy exists. Maybe Miller puts her to better use in the second book (in fact, I’d bet on it), but for The Innocent Mage she is essentially a plot device.
The Innocent Mage reminds me a lot of The Riven Kingdom. It shares the same slow pacing and tendency for redundant dialogue. It also has an interesting society and a clear conflict. I can’t help but be harsh in my critique here, because this is a book that lacks polish—at the same time, I should also point out that I read this long book fairly quickly, during a busy work week, because I couldn’t put it down. So despite my criticisms, this remains an intensely involved book. It is a reminder that there is a difference between quality and enjoyment. I don’t think The Innocent Mage stands out for me as a fantasy book of especial quality or imagination. But it was certainly a fantasy book that I enjoyed. Miller’s style might not always appeal to my particular sensibilities, but her story remains, at is core, interesting and powerful. Good storytelling always wins out in the end.
My reviews of the Kingmaker, Kingbreaker series:
← A Blight of Mages | The Awakened Mage →
Here we are at the end of the To Hell and Back trilogy. As I said in my Dreams of Gods and Monsters review, a trilogy works best for me if each successive book raises the stakes and widens the scope of its world. By these criteria, Matthew Hughes has succeeded. The first book introduces Chesney Arnstruther, a high-functioning autistic man whose world is mostly numbers until he accidentally summons a demon, incites a strike in Hell, and becomes the Actionary, a superhero. The second book offers insights into the relationship between Heaven and Hell and hints that the universe is a book God is writing. The third book expands on these ideas, discarding some and fleshing out others. As Chesney adjusts to Joshua’s healing of his autism, Hell flounders about while Satan is AWOL, and it becomes apparent that something is going on.
Hell to Pay is a lot of fun for someone who has read the first two books. Those were entertaining but not great; in particular, they tended to suffer from flatter characters than I like. While the characterization hasn’t improved dramatically here, it has improved, which helps. Chesney and Melda’s relationship feels more like that of a real couple, with cracks and cuddles alike. Perhaps most surprisingly of all, Xaphan gets a more expanded viewpoint in this novel, something I really enjoyed.
But where this book excels as a conclusion to the series is the way that Hughes deploys a considerable amount of foreshadowing to build towards a final, moving climax. Using the plot device that demons and angels only know exactly what Satan or God needs them to know, Hughes starts to drop hints that something is happening—that God is pulling strings at a frightfully alarming rate. Billy Hardacre’s conjecture that the world is a book proves not to be entirely accurate; worse still, it appears that Chesney’s meddling from the very beginning of the series has done more serious damage than we initially thought. All of this is a bad thing for our heroes, who find themselves going the way of the Chikkichakk. What, you’ve never heard of the Chikkichakk? Hmm … maybe there’s a reason for that.
In short, I loved how we learn more about the mechanics of this universe in Hell to Pay. It’s just so fascinating. Hughes has clearly put thought into how this works, what angels and demons actually are as beings, and how they differ from regular old people. For those who have read the first two books in the series, then, this book provides a lot of answers. And while it’s a little heavy on the exposition, I wouldn’t say that Hughes gives these answers at the expense of a plot. This book is much more “big picture” than the first two, which a much-reduced emphasis on Chesney’s actions on Earth or his role as the Actionary. However, there is still plenty of conflict happening. Blowdell is back, raised by the Archduke Adramaleka, who is starting to entertain usurping notions during Satan’s extended absence.
Hughes manages all this with a kind of dry tone that others are comparing to Christopher Moore or Terry Pratchett, and I’d agree. Some authors are great and portraying demon stories as dark, gritty, horrific. Others tend towards a balance of light and dark, the humour offsetting the tragedy. Hughes’ take is almost entirely comic—and in this case, it works splendidly. It’s a Good Omens–like look at Heaven and Hell.
Chesney’s evolution as a character continues. He’s much less sure of himself in this book, now that his pools of light have been replaced by a wider understanding of human emotions and signals. I’m not all that satisfied by the ending—without going into spoilers, let’s just say that I’m sceptical Melda would find it an acceptable way to resolve their relationship troubles—but I can sympathize with the struggle Chesney undergoes. He’s starting to understand the profound consequences of being a hero, of attempting to fight the bad guys, and of the collateral damage that inevitably occurs. The underlying theme of morality, of what it means to strive towards being a moral person, is present mostly in Chesney’s self-examination. Should he kill? Is that justified? Should he help someone torture for revenge? It’s not all puppy dogs and rainbows.
After two books that steadily improved, Hell to Pay continues this trajectory. It’s a satisfying conclusion to the series, answering questions and offering a tense standoff to be resolved only through clever wrangling. Hughes has his characters face-off essentially against God and, if not exactly win, then draw. (I’m not sure what happens to Denby.) If you haven’t read the first two books, then I’d recommend them on the strength of this one. The Damned Busters is a lukewarm experience, but it’s still entertaining and well worth the read to what proves to be an original and enjoyable series.
My reviews of To Hell & Back:
← Costume Not Included
Hell to Pay is a lot of fun for someone who has read the first two books. Those were entertaining but not great; in particular, they tended to suffer from flatter characters than I like. While the characterization hasn’t improved dramatically here, it has improved, which helps. Chesney and Melda’s relationship feels more like that of a real couple, with cracks and cuddles alike. Perhaps most surprisingly of all, Xaphan gets a more expanded viewpoint in this novel, something I really enjoyed.
But where this book excels as a conclusion to the series is the way that Hughes deploys a considerable amount of foreshadowing to build towards a final, moving climax. Using the plot device that demons and angels only know exactly what Satan or God needs them to know, Hughes starts to drop hints that something is happening—that God is pulling strings at a frightfully alarming rate. Billy Hardacre’s conjecture that the world is a book proves not to be entirely accurate; worse still, it appears that Chesney’s meddling from the very beginning of the series has done more serious damage than we initially thought. All of this is a bad thing for our heroes, who find themselves going the way of the Chikkichakk. What, you’ve never heard of the Chikkichakk? Hmm … maybe there’s a reason for that.
In short, I loved how we learn more about the mechanics of this universe in Hell to Pay. It’s just so fascinating. Hughes has clearly put thought into how this works, what angels and demons actually are as beings, and how they differ from regular old people. For those who have read the first two books in the series, then, this book provides a lot of answers. And while it’s a little heavy on the exposition, I wouldn’t say that Hughes gives these answers at the expense of a plot. This book is much more “big picture” than the first two, which a much-reduced emphasis on Chesney’s actions on Earth or his role as the Actionary. However, there is still plenty of conflict happening. Blowdell is back, raised by the Archduke Adramaleka, who is starting to entertain usurping notions during Satan’s extended absence.
Hughes manages all this with a kind of dry tone that others are comparing to Christopher Moore or Terry Pratchett, and I’d agree. Some authors are great and portraying demon stories as dark, gritty, horrific. Others tend towards a balance of light and dark, the humour offsetting the tragedy. Hughes’ take is almost entirely comic—and in this case, it works splendidly. It’s a Good Omens–like look at Heaven and Hell.
Chesney’s evolution as a character continues. He’s much less sure of himself in this book, now that his pools of light have been replaced by a wider understanding of human emotions and signals. I’m not all that satisfied by the ending—without going into spoilers, let’s just say that I’m sceptical Melda would find it an acceptable way to resolve their relationship troubles—but I can sympathize with the struggle Chesney undergoes. He’s starting to understand the profound consequences of being a hero, of attempting to fight the bad guys, and of the collateral damage that inevitably occurs. The underlying theme of morality, of what it means to strive towards being a moral person, is present mostly in Chesney’s self-examination. Should he kill? Is that justified? Should he help someone torture for revenge? It’s not all puppy dogs and rainbows.
After two books that steadily improved, Hell to Pay continues this trajectory. It’s a satisfying conclusion to the series, answering questions and offering a tense standoff to be resolved only through clever wrangling. Hughes has his characters face-off essentially against God and, if not exactly win, then draw. (I’m not sure what happens to Denby.) If you haven’t read the first two books, then I’d recommend them on the strength of this one. The Damned Busters is a lukewarm experience, but it’s still entertaining and well worth the read to what proves to be an original and enjoyable series.
My reviews of To Hell & Back:
← Costume Not Included
Kazuo Ishiguro's superlative skill lies in his ability to expose the introspection of his characters on the page. A Pale View of Hills is essentially Etsuko's somewhat jumbled reminiscences of her life in Japan, surrounded by some musings set in the present day following the suicide of her older daughter Keiko. Etsuko's memories of Sachiko offer a contrast to the younger Etsuko's insistence that she is happy as she is, where she is, a fact belied by the contemporary Etsuko's presence in England, with a half-English daughter, Niki, who has come to visit her for a few days. In many ways it isn't what Ishiguro reveals about Etsuko that matters so much as what he doesn't reveal.
As the narrative takes shape around the two time periods, it becomes clear that there are gaps and inconsistencies. Although it would be possible to read this as a straightforward tale of a homesick old woman thinking about one summer long ago in Japan, such a reading ignores the deeper subtext created by Etsuko's tale. Ishiguro is very selective about which scenes, which developments, he shows us. At home, Etsuko is a model wife: respectful and obedient to husband and father-in-law, dutiful and happy about her impending motherhood. Yet in her less guarded moments with Sachiko she betrays more personality. She clashes with Sachiko, who is defensive about her poor parenting. But are Sachiko and Mariko real? Or are they Etsuko attempting to explore her guilt over Keiko's unhappiness and suicide?
A Pale View of Hills thus has all the qualities of an Ishiguro novel. It has a narrator looking back at their life, wallowing in regrets, shading the corners of the tale with their own pattern of biases. Yet it lacks the polish of Ishiguro's later works. I found the characters, even Etsuko, very underwhelming and flat. The dialogue in particular feels stunted. I like imagining scores to a novel as I read them, but in my head while reading this there was only silence. The characters sound more like robots following a series of predetermined lines instead of living, breathing people reacting to each other. I'd like to think that this is intentional on Ishiguro's part, that it underscores the unreliability of Etsuko's narrative, but even the parts set in the present are like this. Niki and Etsuko talk like two people who have just met instead of a mother and daughter with years of arguments and antics shared between them.
Still, though the silence is rough around its edges, it is a palpable and believable manifestation of the hole left in Etsuko's life by Keiko's death. Ishiguro doesn't explain what happened to her husband (either of them), why she is alone, why she moves to England in the first place. Instead of a panoply of answers he offers merely a narrow window into a small part of Etsuko's life; it's up to us whether we declare ourselves satisfied with it.
For my part, A Pale View of Hills is diverting but not as memorable as the other Ishiguro novels I've read. It was a pleasant weekend read. And it has depths that deserve examination--but unlike some of his other works, they don't demand it. This is not as powerful a story as Ishiguro goes on to produce, and coming to it now, this leaves me disappointed. It's still a story that I can recommend, but it's not something I can hold up as Ishiguro's finest.
As the narrative takes shape around the two time periods, it becomes clear that there are gaps and inconsistencies. Although it would be possible to read this as a straightforward tale of a homesick old woman thinking about one summer long ago in Japan, such a reading ignores the deeper subtext created by Etsuko's tale. Ishiguro is very selective about which scenes, which developments, he shows us. At home, Etsuko is a model wife: respectful and obedient to husband and father-in-law, dutiful and happy about her impending motherhood. Yet in her less guarded moments with Sachiko she betrays more personality. She clashes with Sachiko, who is defensive about her poor parenting. But are Sachiko and Mariko real? Or are they Etsuko attempting to explore her guilt over Keiko's unhappiness and suicide?
A Pale View of Hills thus has all the qualities of an Ishiguro novel. It has a narrator looking back at their life, wallowing in regrets, shading the corners of the tale with their own pattern of biases. Yet it lacks the polish of Ishiguro's later works. I found the characters, even Etsuko, very underwhelming and flat. The dialogue in particular feels stunted. I like imagining scores to a novel as I read them, but in my head while reading this there was only silence. The characters sound more like robots following a series of predetermined lines instead of living, breathing people reacting to each other. I'd like to think that this is intentional on Ishiguro's part, that it underscores the unreliability of Etsuko's narrative, but even the parts set in the present are like this. Niki and Etsuko talk like two people who have just met instead of a mother and daughter with years of arguments and antics shared between them.
Still, though the silence is rough around its edges, it is a palpable and believable manifestation of the hole left in Etsuko's life by Keiko's death. Ishiguro doesn't explain what happened to her husband (either of them), why she is alone, why she moves to England in the first place. Instead of a panoply of answers he offers merely a narrow window into a small part of Etsuko's life; it's up to us whether we declare ourselves satisfied with it.
For my part, A Pale View of Hills is diverting but not as memorable as the other Ishiguro novels I've read. It was a pleasant weekend read. And it has depths that deserve examination--but unlike some of his other works, they don't demand it. This is not as powerful a story as Ishiguro goes on to produce, and coming to it now, this leaves me disappointed. It's still a story that I can recommend, but it's not something I can hold up as Ishiguro's finest.
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I read Max Gladstone’s Three Parts Dead last summer when he was first nominated for the John W. Campbell Award. I remember getting a good deal of enjoyment from it during a few sunny days reading outside. It was fantasy, but not as we’ve become accustomed to know it. Gladstone’s Alt Coulumb was a twisting maze of legal deals entwined with magical contracts. The worldbuilding was simply superb, and the plot had me hooked. So I was very happy to see Gladstone among the list of nominees and also get to read this loose sequel.
Dresediel Lex is a very different beast from Alt Coulomb. It too bears scars from the God Wars, but unlike the Iskari, the people of Dresediel Lex did not make peace with their gods. The King in Red killed the last of the powerful gods in the city, and now his corporation—or concern—Red King Consolidated administers many of the public utilities that have sprung up to replace the services once performed by prayer. The economy of the city is based not on money but on soulstuff, which is exactly what it sounds like. Caleb Altemoc used to be a gambler and now works for RKC as a "risk management consultant," and his soft spot for a cliff-runner who was in the wrong place at the wrong time lands him into a deep and dangerous attempt to destabilize RKC and the city itself.
Two Serpents Rise strikes me as a very appropriate way to follow on from Three Parts Dead. I would have welcomed a regular sequel that follows the same characters too, but here Gladstone manages to expand upon his world in a very organic and interesting way. We obtain a clear idea of how inhabitants of Dresediel Lex move around and interact. There’s a very urban, almost modern feel to parts of the city: numbered city blocks, taxis, and of course hostile corporate takeovers. This veneer of modernity elevates the book above some of the more staid fantasy fare that is trying to recall the high fantasy of old. On the other hand, it’s slightly less straightforward than modern urban fantasy, a fact no doubt helped by its otherworldly setting.
The conflict in this book also feels very topical. These first decades of the twenty-first century seem set to be one of debate over the role of the corporation (versus that of the nation-state) in our society. Here in the UK, there has been a lot of criticism over corporations (like Starbucks, Google) that have posted record profits while managing to avoid paying much in the way of taxes. And in the US, where people seem determined to assert their rights to be as offensive to one another as possible, corporations are exercising political and religious lobbying with alarming efficacy under the aegis of free speech through their dubious legal personhood.
Gladstone replicates some of the moral and ethical quandaries surrounding these issues in his pitting of concerns against followers of the gods. The former rob people of little bits of their souls—pittances, perhaps, but together it can add up. The latter leave most people in peace but require the sacrifice of a few for the many. One of the overarching themes to emerge from the story is the claim that these are essentially rather similar ways to operate, merely different forms of oppression. Indeed, in today’s world we may not be subject to the feudal oversight of barons and monarchs, but we still mortgage ourselves to countless corporations, surrendering privacy (in the form of data about what and how we shop and consume) and agency (in the selection of said consumables, at times) for the sake of service and convenience. This is not in-and-of-itself a bad thing, as Caleb argues here. But it can be used and abused towards bad ends.
Caleb is an interesting and flawed protagonist. Burdened by being the sun of a high priest, he knows better than most the intricate horrors of the old religion. But he isn’t totally down with the King in Red either. Hence, I think it’s easy to identify with Caleb: he’s shrewd and cautious, and despite his fallibility (particularly when Mal is concerned, because oh my, isn’t it so obvious?) he’s really not on anyone’s side but his own. Even better, Gladstone offers Caleb a host of supporting cast members to help, hinder, or otherwise challenge and interact with him. His father, Temoc, is a straightforward brute of a priest who hungers for the good ol’ days of human sacrifice. Teo, on the other hand, is exactly what Caleb needs in a friend: someone who pushes him, calls him on his bullshit, and then doesn’t back out when it turns out that their lives are on the line.
Two Serpents Rise is every bit as good as Three Parts Dead, if not better. I can’t quite determine which one I like more—and maybe that’s a good thing. All I know is that Gladstone has cemented himself in my mind as a writer of smart, modern fantasy. His worlds are broad and creative, his characters dynamic and living all sorts of unconventional adventures. This is the sort of fantasy that gets me excited, the perfect summer reading for an inquisitive mind, or maybe a winter’s read curled up by the fire. Either way, it’s not quite swashbuckling, not quite corporate thriller—instead, Gladstone has somehow managed to find a happy medium between the two.
My reviews of the Craft Sequence:
← Three Parts Dead
Dresediel Lex is a very different beast from Alt Coulomb. It too bears scars from the God Wars, but unlike the Iskari, the people of Dresediel Lex did not make peace with their gods. The King in Red killed the last of the powerful gods in the city, and now his corporation—or concern—Red King Consolidated administers many of the public utilities that have sprung up to replace the services once performed by prayer. The economy of the city is based not on money but on soulstuff, which is exactly what it sounds like. Caleb Altemoc used to be a gambler and now works for RKC as a "risk management consultant," and his soft spot for a cliff-runner who was in the wrong place at the wrong time lands him into a deep and dangerous attempt to destabilize RKC and the city itself.
Two Serpents Rise strikes me as a very appropriate way to follow on from Three Parts Dead. I would have welcomed a regular sequel that follows the same characters too, but here Gladstone manages to expand upon his world in a very organic and interesting way. We obtain a clear idea of how inhabitants of Dresediel Lex move around and interact. There’s a very urban, almost modern feel to parts of the city: numbered city blocks, taxis, and of course hostile corporate takeovers. This veneer of modernity elevates the book above some of the more staid fantasy fare that is trying to recall the high fantasy of old. On the other hand, it’s slightly less straightforward than modern urban fantasy, a fact no doubt helped by its otherworldly setting.
The conflict in this book also feels very topical. These first decades of the twenty-first century seem set to be one of debate over the role of the corporation (versus that of the nation-state) in our society. Here in the UK, there has been a lot of criticism over corporations (like Starbucks, Google) that have posted record profits while managing to avoid paying much in the way of taxes. And in the US, where people seem determined to assert their rights to be as offensive to one another as possible, corporations are exercising political and religious lobbying with alarming efficacy under the aegis of free speech through their dubious legal personhood.
Gladstone replicates some of the moral and ethical quandaries surrounding these issues in his pitting of concerns against followers of the gods. The former rob people of little bits of their souls—pittances, perhaps, but together it can add up. The latter leave most people in peace but require the sacrifice of a few for the many. One of the overarching themes to emerge from the story is the claim that these are essentially rather similar ways to operate, merely different forms of oppression. Indeed, in today’s world we may not be subject to the feudal oversight of barons and monarchs, but we still mortgage ourselves to countless corporations, surrendering privacy (in the form of data about what and how we shop and consume) and agency (in the selection of said consumables, at times) for the sake of service and convenience. This is not in-and-of-itself a bad thing, as Caleb argues here. But it can be used and abused towards bad ends.
Caleb is an interesting and flawed protagonist. Burdened by being the sun of a high priest, he knows better than most the intricate horrors of the old religion. But he isn’t totally down with the King in Red either. Hence, I think it’s easy to identify with Caleb: he’s shrewd and cautious, and despite his fallibility (particularly when Mal is concerned, because oh my, isn’t it so obvious?) he’s really not on anyone’s side but his own. Even better, Gladstone offers Caleb a host of supporting cast members to help, hinder, or otherwise challenge and interact with him. His father, Temoc, is a straightforward brute of a priest who hungers for the good ol’ days of human sacrifice. Teo, on the other hand, is exactly what Caleb needs in a friend: someone who pushes him, calls him on his bullshit, and then doesn’t back out when it turns out that their lives are on the line.
Two Serpents Rise is every bit as good as Three Parts Dead, if not better. I can’t quite determine which one I like more—and maybe that’s a good thing. All I know is that Gladstone has cemented himself in my mind as a writer of smart, modern fantasy. His worlds are broad and creative, his characters dynamic and living all sorts of unconventional adventures. This is the sort of fantasy that gets me excited, the perfect summer reading for an inquisitive mind, or maybe a winter’s read curled up by the fire. Either way, it’s not quite swashbuckling, not quite corporate thriller—instead, Gladstone has somehow managed to find a happy medium between the two.
My reviews of the Craft Sequence:
← Three Parts Dead
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Living in the UK these past two years, I have of course taken the opportunity to avail myself of the choice historical programmes (mmm, double m and an e) on offer from the BBC. These include the innumerable and delectable documentary series from a seemingly standard rotation of telegenic academics whose knowledge is second only to their enthusiasm for the stretch and span of the history of the British Isles. And then there are the dramas. It’s hard to pin down a "most popular" era in British history—there is so much of it, all of it interesting—but it’s safe to say that medieval and Tudor England provide some of the most volatile, most turbulent, most romantic fare. The Plantagenets and their Wars of the Roses, in particular, offer up a far more intricate and twisted tale than the most well-scripted of modern reality TV. Last year I watched the BBC adaptation of The White Queen. And now I’ve read The Daughter of Time, which looks at the historicity of Richard III’s guilt through the lens of Josephine Tey’s fictional detective.
Disclaimer of a kind, I guess: I’ve not read any of the other Alan Grant novels. Indeed, I wasn’t really aware of this novel’s seminal status. It has been on my to-read list for years now, and I’ve finally managed to get around to it. I guess I can understand why some people are so fascinated by it, and I enjoyed the speculation … but it hasn’t quite stunned me as a genius work of creative historical re-interpretation.
The gimmick, if you will, is that Grant is flat on his back convalescing from an injury. To rescue himself from boredom, he takes up the suggestion to study some portraits of famous historical persons and try to solve a mystery associated with them. Eventually he decides to look into Richard III’s guilt for the murder of the princes in the Tower—because from the portrait of Richard III that he views, he concludes that Richard looks too good to be a criminal. Huh. First Grant tries to familiarize himself with the basic facts from around that time—Edward’s death, Richard’s accession, Elizabeth Woodville’s flight into sanctuary, Henry’s challenge, and the disappearance of the princes. Soon he discovers that the "facts" are harder to verify than he, as a police detective, would like. He is not actually that charitable towards historians, accusing them of abandoning rational thinking and not being familiar with how "real people" would act. Grant tries to build up a case for or against Richard, all the while aware that some historians (particularly those of the Tudor period that immediately followed) might have biases and blind spots that colour their judgments.
Tey succeeds brilliantly in exploring the concept of historicity and how one goes about learning history. In particular, Grant confronts the haphazard way in which people internalize a mythical version of history, particularly their nation’s history. History majors aside, most people learn about history from entertainment and the "history class" experience in high school. Neither of these sources of information are particularly reliable. The former is unreliable for obvious reasons of creative licence. The latter is open to a host of biases, from teachers to textbooks to the times in which we live, and further subject to revision and elision for the purposes of time and to fit your television screen. (My goto example is my relatively poor knowledge of the twentieth century following World War II, because my history class seemed to stop after World War II.) I really like how Grant begins his quest first by just asking the people around him what they know of Richard III and his presumed guilt. Their responses are interesting and informative and form a useful baseline for comparison with his more academic research.
Although Tey also succeeds in casting much doubt on Richard’s guilt, I’m not willing to say she won me over to her view. She relies on an argument based on Richard’s supposed character, backed up by Grant’s police detective instinct to "follow the motive." Essentially, Richard had less motive to want the princes out of the way than Henry VII did. It’s a fascinating thought experiment, but this construction of possibilities is simplistic: it makes for stimulating reading, no doubt, but is far from rigorous historical speculation. Grant blithely ignores the differences in society between fifteenth-century England and the modern day—which is to say, a man of Richard’s supposed character might still act differently today than he would five hundred years ago, simply owing to the different circumstances, pressures, and mores of the time. Grant also seems fairly committed to establishing Richard’s innocence, despite token attempts to construct a case for the prosecution. That’s no way to go about solving a mystery in a grand and just manner!
I find history fascinating from a lay perspective. I’m not going to get into a lengthy discussion of Tey’s source material and how much she hews to history. There are plenty of non-fiction books for that. What matters with The Daughter of Time is the way in which Tey combines an historical mystery with a detective novel. The combination is intriguing, and content aside, Tey does it well. I can see why it has acquired the reputation it has. I’m not captivated quite enough to look further into Grant’s adventures, but I can appreciation what Tey has done. This is a neat little book, and if it drags at times, it makes up for that with an interesting exploration of history and how we make it.
Disclaimer of a kind, I guess: I’ve not read any of the other Alan Grant novels. Indeed, I wasn’t really aware of this novel’s seminal status. It has been on my to-read list for years now, and I’ve finally managed to get around to it. I guess I can understand why some people are so fascinated by it, and I enjoyed the speculation … but it hasn’t quite stunned me as a genius work of creative historical re-interpretation.
The gimmick, if you will, is that Grant is flat on his back convalescing from an injury. To rescue himself from boredom, he takes up the suggestion to study some portraits of famous historical persons and try to solve a mystery associated with them. Eventually he decides to look into Richard III’s guilt for the murder of the princes in the Tower—because from the portrait of Richard III that he views, he concludes that Richard looks too good to be a criminal. Huh. First Grant tries to familiarize himself with the basic facts from around that time—Edward’s death, Richard’s accession, Elizabeth Woodville’s flight into sanctuary, Henry’s challenge, and the disappearance of the princes. Soon he discovers that the "facts" are harder to verify than he, as a police detective, would like. He is not actually that charitable towards historians, accusing them of abandoning rational thinking and not being familiar with how "real people" would act. Grant tries to build up a case for or against Richard, all the while aware that some historians (particularly those of the Tudor period that immediately followed) might have biases and blind spots that colour their judgments.
Tey succeeds brilliantly in exploring the concept of historicity and how one goes about learning history. In particular, Grant confronts the haphazard way in which people internalize a mythical version of history, particularly their nation’s history. History majors aside, most people learn about history from entertainment and the "history class" experience in high school. Neither of these sources of information are particularly reliable. The former is unreliable for obvious reasons of creative licence. The latter is open to a host of biases, from teachers to textbooks to the times in which we live, and further subject to revision and elision for the purposes of time and to fit your television screen. (My goto example is my relatively poor knowledge of the twentieth century following World War II, because my history class seemed to stop after World War II.) I really like how Grant begins his quest first by just asking the people around him what they know of Richard III and his presumed guilt. Their responses are interesting and informative and form a useful baseline for comparison with his more academic research.
Although Tey also succeeds in casting much doubt on Richard’s guilt, I’m not willing to say she won me over to her view. She relies on an argument based on Richard’s supposed character, backed up by Grant’s police detective instinct to "follow the motive." Essentially, Richard had less motive to want the princes out of the way than Henry VII did. It’s a fascinating thought experiment, but this construction of possibilities is simplistic: it makes for stimulating reading, no doubt, but is far from rigorous historical speculation. Grant blithely ignores the differences in society between fifteenth-century England and the modern day—which is to say, a man of Richard’s supposed character might still act differently today than he would five hundred years ago, simply owing to the different circumstances, pressures, and mores of the time. Grant also seems fairly committed to establishing Richard’s innocence, despite token attempts to construct a case for the prosecution. That’s no way to go about solving a mystery in a grand and just manner!
I find history fascinating from a lay perspective. I’m not going to get into a lengthy discussion of Tey’s source material and how much she hews to history. There are plenty of non-fiction books for that. What matters with The Daughter of Time is the way in which Tey combines an historical mystery with a detective novel. The combination is intriguing, and content aside, Tey does it well. I can see why it has acquired the reputation it has. I’m not captivated quite enough to look further into Grant’s adventures, but I can appreciation what Tey has done. This is a neat little book, and if it drags at times, it makes up for that with an interesting exploration of history and how we make it.
The liminal space between science fiction and fantasy is one of the most fertile confluences of genre. Hard science fiction kind of wraps around on itself; when your technology becomes indistinguishable from magic, suddenly you’ve entered a world of nanotechnological fantasy. “The Bees Her Heart, the Hive Her Belly” echoes these sentiments. Benjanun Sriduangkaew, a nominee for this year’s John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, plays in a world where technology has advanced to a point that metaphor has become reality. The end result is a story so surreal its meaning starts to blur against the grainy background of the writing.
This is a story about escape. Sennyi wants to get away, to find a sister that she has lost and that no one remembers because everyone these days is networked. So she accepts bees into her heart, into her body. The bees—are they real bees? Are they metaphorical? Are they digital? Is this entire world some kind of holographic, computational, simulated existence? Sriduangkew dangles such possibilities in front of our faces and declines to answer these questions … but it doesn’t really matter. Reading this story is like being perched on a lily pad floating down a river. It’s a complacent experience, with the occasional tug on one’s heartstrings.
I like this kind of mixture of metaphor and reality—in small doses. Were this a novel I’d probably become frustrated. With longer plots, I need solid ground, something firm from which I can build a greater understanding. But short stories and novelettes are the perfect forms for this kind of writing. Sriduangkaew definitely brings a unique and talented voice to the conversation. Her characters are intriguing sketches of people with furtive, ulterior motives, hiding from organizations and entities that have sinister or even merely amoral aims. The lack of detail might be frustrating to some, but these broad strokes allow Sriduangkaew to orchestrate a very fulfilling, almost fairytale-like sense of whimsy.
“The Bees Her Heart, the Hive Her Belly” was a good start to my reading for this year’s Hugo and Cambell Awards. I’m quite happy to have had the chance to encounter a new, good writer I haven’t heard of before.
This is a story about escape. Sennyi wants to get away, to find a sister that she has lost and that no one remembers because everyone these days is networked. So she accepts bees into her heart, into her body. The bees—are they real bees? Are they metaphorical? Are they digital? Is this entire world some kind of holographic, computational, simulated existence? Sriduangkew dangles such possibilities in front of our faces and declines to answer these questions … but it doesn’t really matter. Reading this story is like being perched on a lily pad floating down a river. It’s a complacent experience, with the occasional tug on one’s heartstrings.
I like this kind of mixture of metaphor and reality—in small doses. Were this a novel I’d probably become frustrated. With longer plots, I need solid ground, something firm from which I can build a greater understanding. But short stories and novelettes are the perfect forms for this kind of writing. Sriduangkaew definitely brings a unique and talented voice to the conversation. Her characters are intriguing sketches of people with furtive, ulterior motives, hiding from organizations and entities that have sinister or even merely amoral aims. The lack of detail might be frustrating to some, but these broad strokes allow Sriduangkaew to orchestrate a very fulfilling, almost fairytale-like sense of whimsy.
“The Bees Her Heart, the Hive Her Belly” was a good start to my reading for this year’s Hugo and Cambell Awards. I’m quite happy to have had the chance to encounter a new, good writer I haven’t heard of before.