I picked this up because one of my A2 English Literature students has selected it for her coursework partner text, to accompany our class discussions of Hardy and Player One. Ian McEwan is an author I’ve been meaning to read more but never really made a priority, so it’s nice to have a reason to jump him up in the queue.

I really do love the ghetto of genre fiction, but sometimes the overabundance of series of books can leave me in a state of semi-permanent sequel burnout. (This has particularly been the case after inhaling Karen Miller’s Godspeaker trilogy at my roommate’s behest before she gives the books away as a Christmas present.) It’s so nice to settle into a standalone novel, particularly one that is fairly conservative in its plot structure. Enduring Love is an exemplary specimen of a story: it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. It has compelling protagonists and antagonists who square off in an intense conflict of psychology and emotions.

Joe Rose begins as a fairly bland narrator, despite the predicament McEwan thrusts upon him. Happily puttering through a childless marriage with Clarissa, Joe becomes a participant in a helium ballooning disaster. Though he tries to help, his actions and the actions of other men involved result in loss of life, a burden he and Clarissa must carry forward from that day. More bizarrely, one of the other men involved, Jed Parry, decides that Joe is in love with him—and that he should return Joe’s affections. In this way, Joe acquires a highly religious and very disturbing stalker, whose attentions alienate his wife and begin to unhinge our thoroughly rational narrator.

Joe’s rational nature is one of the cornerstones of the story. It’s what attracted Clarissa to him, and it has served him well in his runner-up career as a science journalist. Yet when we meet Joe, he has entered a darker, more cynical stage of his life. He no longer writes about science with the same wide-eyed fervour that might have infected him as a youth: these days, he composes pieces he knows are facetious or at the very least inaccurate, just because he can spin together enough details to create something he can sell. Joe has, if not exactly sold-out, then abandoned whatever mission he first had as a science writer. It is a crisis of faith of a kind.

As a result of this crisis, Joe is vulnerable. Parry steps into this void. He knows exactly how to needle Joe, how to provoke him into response rather than ignoring Parry’s advances. At first, Joe wants nothing more than for Parry to go away. Yet as he becomes more obsessed with Parry’s presence, the relationship becomes almost symbiotic; Joe spends more and more time focused on Parry, mirroring Parry’s fixation with him. When Clarissa levels the accusation that perhaps he’s misinterpreting Parry’s actions, that perhaps Joe has done something to lead him on, she’s not being entirely unreasonable. (As a side note, though, it’s also interesting to see McEwan invert the traditional gender roles in victim-blaming, thus requiring the male character to voice outrage and disbelief that his partner would think he “was asking for it”.)

And so we come to the masterstroke of Enduring Love: the unreliable narrator. I love this device; it can be used to stunningly good effect. Joe narrates the majority of the book; the exceptions are chapters comprising letters written from Parry to Joe. At first I thought this meant that Parry’s existence as Joe’s stalker must be fact. Then it dawned on me that Joe could be the one writing these letters—something McEwan later echoes in Clarissa’s observation that the handwriting resembles Joe’s own. Threads began to coalesce, and suddenly it made sense: maybe the entire book is Joe’s rambling hallucination.

This possibility peaks in events leading up to the climax. Joe and Clarissa join a friend for dinner at a restaurant. The witness a contract killer attempting to murder a family at the table next to them, only to be foiled at the last moment by an anonymous hero, whom Joe thinks he recognizes as Parry. From this experience, Joe believes that Parry’s obsession has escalated to a violent stage, and that the hit was meant for him. When the actual target turns out to be a public figure with a history of attempts on his life, Joe’s shoestring theory starts sounding even more paranoid. Suddenly, the possibility that McEwan is heavily manipulating our perception of events becomes ever stronger.

I don’t want to spoil the ending by examining the resolution. Suffice it to say, it does get resolved. Having spent a great deal of time enthusing about the narration, however, I’d like to comment on some of the themes McEwan explores throughout the book.

The balloon accident is more than an inciting force for Parry’s possible stalking. It is a touchstone for Joe and Clarissa, a moment when everything in their relationship changed. Later, Joe seeks out the widow of the man who died in the accident. She asks him to do some detective work and determine if he was cheating on her the day of the accident. For reasons he doesn’t entirely fathom himself, Joe accepts the assignment and succeeds. At the end of the novel, we learn more about what actually happened, and we see the widow forgive the ostensible other woman.

The need for forgiveness is a powerful drive, McEwan seems to be saying. So too is the need to forgive. As Joe and Clarissa’s relationship deteriorates in direct proportion to Joe’s obsession with Parry, one begins to wonder whether they can ever forgive each other, whether reconciliation might happen. By raising such possibilities, McEwan does much more than portray simple, shallow ideas of love. Love can be passion; love can be obsession; most of all, love is hard work. It is the triumph of faith and trust over doubt and deceit. We are all human; we all have weaknesses and make mistakes that test our ability to love and to be loved by others. Sometimes that love is strong—it endures. Sometimes it does not—it fades.

Enduring Love is a short but very complex novel. It is simple enough not to tax the mind while reading, but deep enough to swallow that same mind and envelop it in considerations of love, loss, and life. Through his narrative decisions and his careful, almost precise sketches of the characters, McEwan crafts something that is a joy to read: I don’t know how many times I had to put down the book for a moment, just so I could grin and reflect how much fun I was having. It’s that kind of book.

I read some series like River Song travels with the Doctor: out of order. I’ve dipped and dallied with various books in the Falco series, but most recently I read Venus in Copper before going back to the source, Falco #1: The Silver Pigs. Here we meet Lindsey Davis’ private eye: Marcus Didius Falco, an informer in the first-century Roman empire. Falco is constantly on the hunt for new clients and new income, lest his greedy landlord send some gladiators around to bust his kneecaps (and other, more precious body parts). In this case, Falco gets mixed up in the murder of a senator’s niece and finds himself travelling to Britain, where he meets the same senator’s daughter as he races to uncover a silver theft conspiracy that could topple the emperor.

As I pointed out in my review of Venus in Copper, this series has two notable strengths. Firstly, Falco is a great protagonist. Secondly, Davis is great at reifying ancient Rome, describing it in all its glory. She does this in Falco’s voice, making him sound like the native of the city that he is, as he nonchalantly tosses out names and routes from one part of the city to the other. These two strengths more than make up for weaknesses in the plot or mystery, though I think I preferred this mystery over that of Venus’.

Falco embodies a lot of the typical private investigator traits, complete with the run-down office/apartment that is somewhat behind on the rent. He gleefully spars verbally with everyone from his mother to potential clients to emperor’s sons, only to become tongue-tied when he meets the one woman he can’t just seduce and then cast away. In this way, Davis also subverts some of the tropes of the private investigator. She establishes Helena Justina as a permanent love interest for Falco. In The Silver Pigs, we get to see their first meeting and the way their relationship begins from mutual animosity towards something approaching amity, and then finally to love. Falco and Helena are a good match for each other: stubborn, clever, and passionate; I wish them well.

The other strength of this series lies in Davis’ knowledge of Rome, particularly Roman geography. I don’t spend too much time with the maps at the beginning of historical fiction books. If I need to, I might refer back to them while I read. I like it when I don’t even have to do that. Davis smoothly describes how Falco might be running from one end of Rome to the other, and her easy patter means I don’t have to worry about mapping out the route. Falco should sound like he knows what he’s doing, and Davis makes sure he sounds that way. She creates a consistent voice for him as narrator, expertly balancing between exposition that her modern readers need to know and inferences about would be apparent to someone living in ancient Rome.

So many books set in this time period focus on the dynastic struggles. Many take a very wide view of history, with their stories set across decades and dynasties. It is refreshing, then, to have a book like The Silver Pigs. It takes place over the course of about a year, as Falco travels from Rome to Britain and back, with a stint in the lead/silver mines for a few months. In the backdrop of the book, Vespasian is securing his grasp on the throne by celebrating his and his son’s Triumph over Jerusalem. However, this is never more than a side element; the main story is undoubtedly the mystery that Falco decides he must solve.

I admit that Davis’ penchant for describing the political ramifications of her villains’ machinations is not at the same level as her geography. She does her best to explain how bribing the Praetorian Guard could lead to Vespasian’s downfall; however, this never demonstrates much suspense. The most realistic and compelling part of the mystery is Falco’s drive to avenge the death of Sofia. It’s easy to believe in that, regardless of the time period one might be from. So, while this isn’t one of the book’s strengths, there are plenty of books about ancient Rome that do have cutting political philosophy.

The mystery itself burgeons with suspects and villains, though we don’t actually meet many of them, and some of the ones we do meet turn up dead or missing. What drives Falco is the constant sense of danger as the ground shifts beneath his feet. I don’t have a lot of experience with pulp detective fiction, but I’m given to understand that often the protagonist can’t even trust the people he works for—they can have shady agendas as well. This is certainly the case here, where Falco manages to pick up not one but three employers: Helena Justina’s father, Helena herself, and the Emperor (in the form of his son, Titus). Watching Falco deal with the people who are supposed to be helping him is probably as much, if not more, fun as watching him deal with the people who want to hurt him.

The Silver Pigs is a promising start to the Falco series. I think it would probably give a first-time reader a good indication of whether they can expect to like the rest of the books. I certainly intend to continue dipping into this series at a leisurely pace. These books are excellent works of historical fiction when it comes to setting and character. Davis set out to write mystery in ancient Rome … and she has certainly succeeded.

This is not an easy story for me to love, and maybe even like is not the appropriate word. I can appreciate it, as literature. That being said, unlike much of the so-called “great” or “classic” literature I have read to date, I do not feel immeasurably enriched by Things Fall Apart. Although at times moving and disturbing, Chinua Achebe’s account of how Europeans stripped Nigeria of its cultural and tribal identity lacks a certain resonance for me, something I put down to a lack of sympathy towards the main character.

Achebe presents Igbo culture plainly and unapologetically. There is no hedging and no excuses made for the poor treatment of women or the cruel attitudes towards twins (kill them!) or the warrior cults of masculinity that perpetuate endless cycles of violence among tribes. It’s easy for me, as an heir of the same white, European culture that colonized Nigeria, to condemn these aspects of Igbo culture. At the same time, there has to be some kind of line between cultural relativism and moral relativism. I think it’s to be found in the way in which one speaks of a culture’s less savoury elements. It’s possible to condemn the structural misogyny in Igbo culture without condemning all of Igbo society and its people (much in the same way we today should condemn our own society’s structural misogyny). By the same token, Achebe’s naked portrayal of this culture means that he is not setting up a straw man that the Europeans knock down. This is not the story of "noble savages" succumbing to imperialist aggressors. It’s far more nuanced than that, but it benefits from Achebe’s perspective as an indigenous Nigerian who has also been exposed to colonial education and perspectives.

I found most of Things Fall Apart fascinating simply as a result of this portrayal of Igbo society. The title is apt, in that the pace of the book’s plot moves with the gentle transition of seasons rather than the frenetic beat of a narrative drum. Achebe is more concerned with touring and exploring the various facets of life, particularly as he unravels Okonkwo’s complicated relationship with the rest of the tribe and with the Europeans. Each chapter is essentially an episode in which Okonkwo or his kin face a new challenge or experience that prompts them to question or redefine their goals and motivations. Here Okonkwo’s own obstinacy proves to be his undoing, first with the accidental discharge of a gun that has him exiled for seven years, and then later when he attempts to stir the village to war. In both cases, Okonkwo’s restlessness, symptom of a far more complex issue in the village, undermines the stable life he has managed to construct through his skill and perseverance.

So Okonkwo is not all bad. He’s a jerk to a lot of people, and he does not suffer fools gladly. But he is, at his core, fair in the eyes of his culture. We might not agree with his code, but one must recognize that he has one: he acts in accordance with a rigidly defined code of behaviour by which he understands what it means to be "a man" in his society. When his eldest son fails to live up to these expectations by converting to Christianity, Okonkwo declares him a "woman" and disowns him. This is not just the petty action of the older generation failing to understand the younger; it’s the logical consequence of Okonkwo’s code of behaviour conflicting with his son’s own understanding of maleness in the new Igbo society subject to colonial rule. This is what critics mean when they refer to the clash of cultures present in the book; though physical confrontation happens as well, there are far more nuanced examples of how European culture begins to dismantle or otherwise set aside the existing ideologies.

In this light, I see Okonkwo’s suicide as an allegory for the Igbo people’s choices when faced with the suppression and assimilation of their culture and society by Europeans. Unlike his son, Okonkwo could not accept the new rules and mores imported into Nigeria by Europeans. He must have been aware of the high cost of suicide: never to be buried on sacred ground, name besmirched in the eyes of the tribe forevermore … for someone like Okonkwo, for whom status and prestige were his life’s work, this was not a fate he would have chosen lightly. In this context it’s clear that his suicide is, therefore, an act of a man who thinks he is out of other options. He cannot fight—he does not have the support of the village—yet he cannot surrender either; he is not a "woman" to so peaceably turn his back on his beliefs. Okonkwo’s rigid code runs up against the implacable force of colonial assimilation, and he faces an impossible dilemma.

Things Fall Apart, then, is a tragedy of Shakespearean dimensions. Okonkwo is a tragic figure trying to keep his family and people together. He is not a hero fighting valiantly against a clear enemy, because Achebe mentions forces other the colonialism at work in the tribe. Even had the Europeans not invaded, there were signs that the Igbo youth were already leaving certain old ways behind them. But the Europeans’ arrival hastens these changes and augments them with strange new ones. That Okonkwo is doomed to failure seems obvious early on, probably even to himself (I suspect that his eagerness to engage the Europeans in battle has nothing to do with optimism for victory and everything to do with his expectations for himself to behave like a warrior). What matters, though, is that he must act in this way because to do otherwise would be to betray himself, to be like his father, and that is the one thing Okonkwo refuses to do.

I can appreciate Okonkwo’s struggle, even if I don’t particularly like him as a person. Achebe has crafted an intricate but simple story of entropy in the face of colonial expansion. He captures the way in which Europeans dismantle or replace the order and structure of Igbo life with an order and structure more to their liking. And he manages to do so while giving us a taste of what that pre-colonial structure was like, of how their people married and celebrated and feasted and died and held court. Things Fall Apart is equal parts tragic, fascinating, and frustrating. Despite its slimness, it is neither a light read nor a quick one. While I’m not going to place it near the top of my list of postcolonial literature, I’m still glad I’ve read it and had the opportunity to consider a chapter in colonial history that I haven’t otherwise paid much attention to.

I came to Doctor Who solely through the revived series. Christopher Eccleston was my first doctor, and it’s true that I’ll never forget him. I was gutted to learn that he was leaving after only the first season and convinced that this new fellow, “David Tennant” (if that’s even his real name) could never live up to the Ninth Doctor’s brusque charisma. The rest is history, of course—the Tenth Doctor stole my heart, along with the hearts of many other Whovians, and then he left and the world would never be the same. Again. The story of new Who fans mirrors the story of generations’ coming-of-age: we forget those who came before already had to go through this. We feel like we’re the first ones to experience these anguishes. But no, fans who had been watching since the black-and-white era had been through this seven times before. It’s special, but it’s not the end of the world.

My experience with older episodes of Doctor Who has only picked up recently. My roommate showed me Tom Baker’s E-space Trilogy, introducing me (and bidding farewell to) Romana II, Adric, and K-9. Prior to that, I had only seen one or two episodes (I can’t even remember which Doctor, let alone the plot of the episodes) in bits and pieces. Reading Chicks Unravel Time has made me hungry to see more. The specificity with which each of these authors discuss the various seasons of Doctor Who made me yearn to be as familiar with the show as they are. I wanted to meet Barbara and Ian, Liz and Jo, Sarah Jane, Leela, Tegan, et al. Prior to this, I’d been aware of how much of the show’s rich history I’ve been missing out on—but this made it more tangible, less mysterious. Reading Wikipedia articles just isn’t the same, because they lack the deep emotional connections that these essays invoke.

The book weaves through the history of Doctor Who in an appropriately non-chronological fashion. Each essay loosely examines a specific season, but each writer approaches the concept of a season-spanning essay slightly differently. Some examine the impact of certain Doctors or their companions on their experience as fans, such as in the exquisitely-titled essays “The Doctor’s Balls” and “David Tennant’s Bum”, by Diana Gabaldon and Laura Mead, respectively. Others look at how that Doctor’s contributions over their particular season affected the course of the show, as in the case of “The Ultimate Sixth”, by Tansy Rayner Roberts, or “How the Cold War Killed the Fifth Doctor”, by Erica McGillivray. I really enjoyed both of these approaches. They exposed me to different fans’ interpretations of seasons I had never seen, heightening that eagerness to discover these Doctors and companions for myself.

Many of the other essays touched on the portrayal of race and gender in Doctor Who. Plenty of the essays extol the various companions, and in so doing offer different ways of looking at Doctor Who’s treatment of women and people of colour. Some compare Liz Shaw to Jo Grant and find the latter wanting, expressing disappointment over her seemingly-shallow characterization in contrast to Shaw’s doctorates and expertise. Others draw the opposite conclusion, finding Jo a realistic depiction of someone who is constantly underestimated because of her appearance but much more capable than she might appear. Having never seen these companions, I’ll have to wait until I can draw my own conclusions. Similarly, some of the essays examine the colonialist tones to the show—once again, trying to find that balance between dismissing the show as a product of its time and excoriating it for its missteps. Again, difficult for me to agree or disagree with the specific comments, but it’s fascinating to see all the different perspectives and analyses.

Though I understand the attraction of the season-based premise, I almost wish the essays hadn’t been constricted in that way. I’d be really fascinated to read broader essays that analyze the show from the same perspectives across the years. (The authors do this to some extent, naturally. I’m talking about far more ambitious analysis that really doesn’t focus on a particular season.) And with Matt Smith leaving and the fiftieth anniversary special soon upon us, I smell a sequel brewing with some updated content (in my dreams!).

So take it from me, fan of the new show but really uninitiated into the old, there’s still something here for any stripe of Doctor Who fan. Every one of these essays is good—which is what you would expect, considering the all-star cast that Stanish and Thomas have lined up. Every one offers a unique, insightful take on a particular season of Doctor Who, grappling with it on a much deeper level than simply listing the reasons they love it. To me, this is the ultimate act of love for a show: critiquing it. I can’t stand fans who get all touchy when you start poking holes in their favourite show. If you truly love something, you should still be able to love it in spite of its flaws. Discussing, examining, acknowledging, deconstructing those flaws are all important ways to be more involved. And, of course, there’s always the potential for change as a result of such discussions—who knows, maybe someone will listen. There’s no point in culture if we just sit by and consume it. We need to become participants. Chicks Unravel Time exemplifies this tradition of fan-led critique, and I highly recommend it.

I’m Canadian and a lover of fantasy but have somehow managed not to read any books by Charles de Lint, ever. I’m not sure if this represents great skill or just gobsmacking stupidity on my part. It’s probably some mixture of the two. My roommate lent me Moonheart, promising I would love it in tones that made me hope I would, lest awkward differences of critical opinion ensue. Fortunately, I do love this book. De Lint does an amazing job combining Celtic mythology and contemporary Canada to create a compelling urban fantasy.

Moonheart starts off slow. De Lint takes his time introducing the large cast of characters. We meet Sara Kendell and her uncle, Jamie Tamson (aka Tams). They are rich—and not just wealthy, but super-rich. (I assume that de Lint did this in order to justify why Jamie has such an awesome house, but it’s fun to watch him twist himself into knots justifying how Jamie and Sara can be such down-to-earth people despite their insane wealth.) We meet Kieran Foy and his mentor in all-things-magery, Tom Hengwr. We meet the honourable but hard Inspector Tucker, an RCMP officer.

Did I mention it’s set in Canada? Ottawa, to be precise. I’ve never actually been (I hear it’s nice, though), so de Lint’s descriptions of the streets and neighbourhoods didn’t jog any fond memories as I’m sure they would for some people. Nevertheless, there’s just something so … Canadian … about the way he describes our capital city. It’s nice to see it featured in so good a novel. And it’s nice to see the RCMP grappling with the possibilities of paranormal threats instead of leaving it to the FBI and the CIA.

Also, I wasn’t aware of how old the book was until the conspicuous lack of references to cell phones, the Internet, and the paucity of computers in general drove me to look at the copyright page: 1984! Moonheart holds up really well, though, because de Lint has crafted a story that’s perfect for its time. Although it is possible to write great urban fantasy set in a twenty-first century city, the motifs and tropes that one embraces will be different. I don’t think it would alter de Lint’s grand theme about the inevitable changes in human society, but the way he would deal with those changes would be different, and even perhaps more obvious. By dint of its time, Moonheart has more breathing room: the Cold War is over, but the frenetic digital era has yet to take off.

This is reflected in the pacing of the novel. As I mentioned above, it takes a while for Moonheart’s conflict to get going. This works, though, because de Lint’s writing is good enough to keep the reader interested. There are few outright boring scenes in this book; no matter which group of characters we’re with, something interesting is happening. Though there is a fair amount of dialogue, de Lint has the ability to seamlessly scatter exposition and description within a conversation. All in all, reading Moonheart is a pleasant and effortless experience that belies the complexity of what’s actually going on.

I mean, let’s step back for a moment: the “mundane” characters (for wont of a better term) in this novel stumble into the middle of a 1500-year-old feud between a Celtic bard (who is ostensibly dead) and a druid (who is now just a crabby old man, because that is the fate of all of us). It is actually more complicated than this, for reasons I can’t go into because SPOILERS. Along the way, the characters learn that magic is a) very real and b) not actually all that fun. In this universe, magic—at least for humans and certain types of creatures who seem to be related to or have human ancestors—is all about centering oneself and having inner calm. And then you can blast people with fire.

Kieran and Sara meet the aforementioned bard, Taleisin, and Sara falls in love. She engages in some time-travelling shenanigans that probably make things worse, before becoming relevant again just in time to participate in the climax of the novel. If I have to lob any criticism vaguely in Moonheart’s direction, it’s Sara’s role and development. Don’t get the wrong idea: like all of the main characters, Sara changes throughout this novel, and de Lint spends a good amount of time depicting it. Compared to the other characters, however, she seems to have the least amount of page-time where she actually does something—there is a lot of waiting and complaining going on. This is a shame, particularly since she’s the only major female character in the book, and her role is connected to the title.

Meanwhile, Jamie, Tucker, and a biker named Blue find themselves trapped in Tamson House with an assortment of other characters of various loyalties. Not only is the house under siege by mysterious, wolverine-like shadow creatures, but it has hopped its interior into an alternative dimension. (Yes, it’s the kind of magical, semi-sentient house that every fantasy book needs and most fantasy readers would want. It is awesome.) They have to fend off this assault, figure out how the house got into this dimension and how to get back, and deal with internal strife. Their only source of information is a comatose, healing Tom Hengwr, who certainly knows more than even he is able to say. As all this happens, an external enemy lies in wait, looking for a way into the house to kill Tom and everyone inside (but especially Tom).

In this way, Moonheart is both an intense action novel and a mystery as well. The characters (and to some extent the reader) have to piece together how these various, almost disparate myths and stories relate to what actually happened so many centuries ago. I know almost nothing about Celtic mythology, so I’m can’t speak to how accurately or well de Lint represents it here. But I think he uses it to good effect. He embraces the convention in fantasy that the old gods and old magic have faded in proportion to humanity’s belief in them fading; elves and manitou and related spirits have withdrawn from our world into the Otherworlds as humanity turns to science and technology and away from nature and mythology. Unlike some novels, though, Moonheart does not view this as depressing; it just is, and there is no point in complaining.

De Lint hints that the time of even wizards is drawing to a close, that soon magic in general will be gone from our world. He doesn’t explore this as fully as he might; Moonheart ends with the surviving characters changed irrecovably, but the extent of how those changes affect what they do with the rest of their lives is an open question. I definitely get the sense, however, a major point de Lint makes here is how the battles one fights always change one, and those changes are usually unforeseen. None of the major characters is the same by the end of the book. Some of them have undergone major transformations, while others have merely (merely) had their world-views altered. Regardless, Moonheart emphasizes how life is never static; by definition, experiences—and particularly conflict—force us to make choices about who we will be. Will we fight with honour? Will we let pride be our undoing? Will we embrace what we see or deny that it is happening?

So, in addition to its action aspects, Moonheart is an excellent fantasy novel. De Lint balances mythology and magic with the novel’s modern-day setting. It’s been a long time since I have read such a nice, original urban fantasy story. It reminds me a little of Faerie Tale, but it’s never quite as dark. The two books are similar in that both are set strongly in this world but also have links to other, more fey worlds, and the characters’ discovery of the reality of magic and magical creatures gets them into deep trouble.

If you like fantasy, read Moonheart. It’s as simple as that. I can’t guarantee you’ll like the characters, the plot, or the story quite as much as me. But de Lint’s skill as a writer, combined with this story, are more than enough to make me sing this novel’s praises.

Wait, Queers Dig Time Lords? But I thought Chicks Dig Time Lords! Who else digs time lords—small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri? Soon there won’t be any time lord left for straight, white men! Think of the menz!

Seriously though, having read three of these fandom-celebration books from Mad Norwegian Press already, I was looking forward to Queers Dig Time Lords. I should note that since reading Chicks Dig Time Lords three years ago, I’ve watched a lot of the old Doctor Who. I’m much more familiar with the previous Doctors and many of their companions. Although I didn’t feel lost at sea with the previous volume, I think this familiarity helped a great deal in this book. Many of the authors discuss the developments in their sexualities in reference to the on-screen relationships among the Doctor and his companions at those times, and it helps to know who Adric or Romana are.

The majority of these essays are very personal accounts of how Doctor Who has helped, influenced, or inspired the authors. Some address queer subtext in the show; others merely use the episodes in the show’s history or the show itself to parallel their own realization about their sexuality or their coming out. (It’s interesting to note how many found themselves more comfortable with being labelled a nerd/geek for liking Doctor Who than gay, and how their fandom/nerdiness became a convenient excuse, in the heteronormative context of society, for their lack of interest in women.) Some heap praise on the show for its portrayal of a sometimes-asexual hero and the absence, largely, of romance between the main characters. Some criticize the shallowness of the queer relationships onscreen, particularly in Nu Who. This is encouraging; as with the previous fandom books, this is not merely one big fangasm about Doctor Who. Largely, Sigrid Ellis and Michael Damian Thomas have succeeded in canvassing a variety of opinions among queer writers about their relationship with the show.

Because, let’s face it: Doctor Who can be terrible sometimes, to an embarrassing extent (even if we agree from the first to ignore the 1996 movie). Paul Magrs acknowledges this in the first essay, “The Monster Queer is Camp” when he says:

I think that the great romance in Doctoroo is between the fans and The Show itself. They want to love it. They want to love all of it, unreservedly. They want it to be a good science-fiction TV show. And they know some of it is embarrassing.

This is so, so true. Doctor Who has been one of my favourite shows since I discovered it in its latest incarnation, and I love it so much. Yet I’m also embarrassed by it, to an extent I’m not embarrassed by the campiness of original Star Trek or the early seasons of Stargate SG-1. To this day I have a hard time thinking of a platonic, ideal “favourite” episode of Doctor Who. I have favourite moments, favourite lines and scenes and even maybe story elements. But every episode seems lacking in some way. (I suspect this is because, at the end of the day, I am fascinated as a writer/reader by the character of the Doctor rather than the adventures of the show.)

Magrs makes this observation in the course of a larger discussion of camp in Doctor Who and the way fans shy away from it, or try to ignore the most egregious elements of it. And his point is that these very elements that many fans want to ignore and hide away appeal to him, as a gay man who loves camp. Moreover, the campiness isn’t going to go away, ever. Because at its core, Doctor Who is queer.

Some of the authors in this book are reluctant to make this proposition, preferring instead to talk about “queering Doctor Who” or a “queer reading” of the show. And that’s a valid critical decision. When I claim the show is queer, I don’t mean that it has a hidden gay agenda. Queerness is more than that, as this book shows: it’s gay, transgender, asexual—everything that doesn’t, in other words, conform to the boring binaries of heteronormative discourse about sexuality. And how can a show about a mad man travelling through time in a police box be anything but queer? Yes, as many of these essays point out, at times Doctor Who is frustratingly hidebound in its compliance with traditional depictions of relationships, gender, and sexuality. But more often than not, the show is fraught with an obliviousness. And I come down on the side of those fans who view the show as one that promotes and encourages a type of nonchalant, unremarkable tolerance that even the optimistic Star Trek has trouble portraying at times.

As someone who tends to play on the lowest difficulty setting in life, it was fascinating to see how people who identify as queer perceive the show’s handling of queer themes and subtext. This is a valuable discussion to have, because everyone deserves to see themselves in our media and culture and entertainment, to identify with the characters we put on TV and in books and movies. It bothers me a lot when others want to shut down discussion of diversity simply because they’re uncomfortable with admitting that they are part of a system of oppression, even if as individuals they are perfectly nice people.

Martin Warren addresses this in his essay “Bothersome Otherness”:

If we accept that Doctor Who is a text to be enjoyed and “read” by everyone, then the answer is “yes.” Yes, it does matter. The views and relationships of its gay fans are as important (or not) as anyone else’s. There is room for all; another point of view isn’t going to diminish others.

And if you don’t accept that premise, then you might as well go and make a cup of tea and return this book from whence it came, because you’re not going to have a very happy time reading it.

The last sentence of that first paragraph, for me, is key. There is plenty of room in this world for everyone to be happy. Gay people marrying doesn’t somehow steal happiness from straight couples. Gay perspectives of Doctor Who neither invalidate nor diminish the perspectives and enjoyment of the show through other lenses. Rather, such critiques enrich the show. And if you love something, you should criticize it, and make it even better.

In his essay Warren addresses the Otherness of the Doctor as a character. He begins by acknowledging the Doctor’s historical presentation as asexual, or at least, as largely clueless about sexual relationships. Indeed, this is an aspect of the Doctor that has always appealed to me, for although I identify as straight, I am not all that interested in sex or a heteroromantic relationships. The Doctor’s rejection of these qualities as an essential component of “the hero” is heartening, and like Warren, I can identify with that more easily than the aggressive heterosexuality of action heroes like Kirk. With regards to the Doctor’s more recent instances of romance, Warren adds, “the fact that he’s now had a few lady kisses and been demonstrably in love with a woman doesn’t repel me, it’s not his sexuality that appeals to me—it’s his character, his intelligence, his difference [emphasis original].” He makes an important point. It’s not just a matter of having more openly queer leads (though that helps—see the outpouring of admiration for Captain Jack!). It is also necessary to deconstruct the traditional notion of the male hero as an imposing, masculine figure who pursues women for sex and romance in addition to saving the world/galaxy/universe. You’ll get no argument from me that love is an important part of storytelling and characterization—but it should be love in all forms, warts and all, rather than the narrow, hetero -normative and -romantic depictions that continue to dominate most media.

There were times when I wished Queers Dig Time Lords was a little more critical than personal. Then again, that’s personal preference on my part rather than something that objectively detracts from the book. If what you want are a series of very personal essays, then this is going to be very fulfilling. I found it slightly less satisfying than the other fandom books in this series, though. The perspectives on Doctor Who and its queerness were interesting. After a while, however, the various essays began to blur together. It’s hard to pick out any as stand-out highlights. I’d still recommend the book to Doctor Who fans—as you can tell from the review above, there were enough points that resonated with me to make reading it worthwhile—but I can’t gush about it as much as I would like to.

I was under the impression that this was a science fiction book set in the far future, with a family that controlled merchant interests across a far-flung, loosely-connected human civilization. I was completely off the mark on that … and I couldn’t be happier. The word for this book, I think, is romp. Specifically, it’s a low-tech/hi-fi political and corporate intrigue and espionage romp. I love heist movies. I live for that moment where the protagonist gets a bunch of people together and says, “Let’s rob a bank.” The Family Trade isń’t a heist novel, but it has that same vibe. The protagonist, Miriam Beckstein, gets sick of being a pawn in other people’s plans—so she forms an alliance of her own and decides to upset every other gambit in play. My kind of heroine.

I suppose I should backtrack and explain one essential plot point. Miriam is adopted. It thus follows, by the laws of Fictional Universes, that she is the Long Lost Something-or-other (TVTropes)—the last of her kind, or in this case, long lost daughter of an inter-universal mob. She’s a high-ranking heir in one of the six families of a Clan from a parallel dimension, and believe me, the bizarre starts there. With a medieval, pre-industrial culture rooted in Scandinavian-style language and mythology, the Clan and its world is backwards compared to our Earth. Members of Clan families have the intrinsic ability to walk between the two worlds, and bring anything they can carry along with them. This allows the Clan to operate a very limited import/export trade. And now that everyone knows Miriam exists, she is a rogue chess piece on the playing board. No one wants that.

Charles Stross doesn’t always wow me. I’ve liked almost all of his books so far, but it’s safe to say that only Palimpsest looms large in my mind (though I have a soft spot for Singularity Sky as well). As a thinker, he gets it when it comes to theorizing and philosophizing about humanity’s futures. And as a tech guy, he knows how to make with the sexy science talk. But his narratives have seldom managed to grab me and make me go whoa.

The Family Trade changes that for me. As I’ve read more of Stross’ work, particularly Rule 34, his skill at planning the arc of a story has become increasingly apparent. It’s even more visible here, where there are tantalizing hints at this vast new parallel world and society—as well as dark secrets even the Clan doesn’t know. Discovering all this along with Miriam is great fun, and the fact that she refuses to submit and just play along makes it all the more entertaining. Stross knows where subterfuge and subtlety is necessary and when the shit should hit the fan.

Miriam’s problems start almost immediately. She works for a magazine, and she discovers a criminal conspiracy of which the magazine’s parent company is a part. She realizes this too late and gets fired (and threatened). And if her day had stopped there, it would have sucked, but she could have moved on. Instead she pays a visit to her mother, retrieves a locket that was found on the body of her biological mother, and ends up sitting in her desk chair in the middle of a forest. Welcome to a parallel universe, Miriam. You just got more problems.

And her reaction is the reaction of a normal human being: she freaks out. Then her journalist instincts and training kick in, and she starts to think about how to document. She tries to replicate her results. She brings in outside help—a friend—and tries it again. Miriam’s methodical approach lands her in more trouble, yes, but it keeps an otherwise slow start to this story from feeling dull and lackadaisical. Instead, we’re treated to watching Miriam try to figure it out before the other shoe—which we know is there—drops.

What really surprised me, however, is how much I liked Roland and Olga. Stross really pulled a fast bait-and-switch, because our first glimpses of them are not in favourable lights. Roland shows up and sounds like a whiney brat who doesn’t get to play with the best toys. Olga sounds like, as Miriam herself describes her, an airhead ditz. Eventually we get to know them better, and while Roland is still a bit of an oaf, he has a three-dimensional personality and a good brain of his own. (I just wish the whole romance aspect didn’t feel so forced!) But Olga … I love Olga. She is a total paradox: raised in this backward world and never allowed to visit ours, she has very strict ideas about station and etiquette and comportment. She does seem like an airhead—harmless 15th-century nobility. And then she turns, and you can see the steel in her. She’s not quite a spymistress yet, but with a few more decades of practice … I have high hopes for her.

The other side of The Family Trade is the fusion of corporate espionage with royal backstabbing politics—a match made in some kind of writer heaven. As with Rule 34, much of the jargon Stross employs here goes over my head—I can grok “hostile takeover” and not much more. I’m a mathematician, but the moment financies or economics get involved, I start looking for the exit sign. My inability to understand the intricacies of these plots, however, didn’t much reduce my enjoyment of watching Miriam, Roland, Angbard, et al do their plotting. I just went along for the ride, and I’m glad I did.

These sort of parallel world, mixture of modern and medieval fantasy novels don’t always turn out well. (Case in point: The Fionavar Tapestry.) I was expecting something good from Stross, but instead I got something even better—probably the best Stross novel I’ve read since Palimpsest and Singularity Sky. Maybe it’s because it’s just so different from the science fiction I’m accustomed to seeing from him—the fantasy feels fresh but still very comfortable. If you were hoping for another nanotechnology-laden dream from a master of posthumanism, then this is not going to be it (I honestly don’t understand why I thought this was science fiction). But putting that expectation aside, The Family Trade is by all measures very satisfying.

My reviews of The Merchant Princes series:
The Hidden Family → (forthcoming)

I rediscovered this while sorting out my overflow bin of books to read. I hesitated, because since buying it years ago, I’ve learned that the series has been re-edited and republished in doorstopper form, apparently to its benefit as a story. Still, it was there, and I wanted something not too heavy to read.

The Hidden Family picks up right where The Family Trade left off (literally, because they used to be one book). Whereas I was impressed with The Family Trade, I’m less enamoured of The Hidden Family. In his quest to create an otherworldly economic thriller, Stross seems to let the details get the better of him (or at least, of us the readers). What should be a white-knuckled race against the clock to find evidence for a hidden family of world-walkers before they can make another attempt on Miriam’s life proves, instead, to be a tedious and not all that suspenseful chronicle of Miriam applying for patents in a new world.

I love the various economic and cultural musings that Stross injects into the book. Miriam brings Brilliana over to our world when she runs, and the two of them and Paulette form a fantastic trio. After Paulette initiates Brill into the way our world works, Miriam discusses with Brill the idea of bringing more than just resources from our world back to her world—she wants to actually improve the technology and landscape of Brill’s world. But then she expresses some angst over the spectre of colonialism—and Brill flips out, because she is tired of not having indoor plumbing and of watching women die in childbirth. This is a none-too-subtle dig at proliferation of feudal/medieval settings in fantasy despite the fact that such a setting was a shit place to live for the majority of the population. The idea that the past was better because it was “a simpler time” is nonsense. We might have a screwed up world now, but at least we have antibiotics (for now).

Similarly, Stross shows off a more nuanced understanding of mercantilism versus twentieth-century capitalism and import/export and patenting than most of us could shake a stick at. I certainly won’t pretend that I followed it all. But basically, somehow in the course of her career as a tech journalist, Miriam has learned all about economics, patent law, import and export, and how to design car brakes. Which is exactly what you need to know when you find yourself with the ability to travel to world that is similar to your own but stuck in a 1920s era of technology. Whereas the Clan is stuck in the mode of transporting raw materials between worlds, Miriam decides to go a step further, bringing ideas into world three and getting a return on her investment.

It’s an interesting evolutionary step. I don’t buy that Miriam would be the first one to come up with it. If the Clan has been operating for as long as it has in both worlds, surely someone would have seen the potential before now? Then again, maybe the very way in which the Clan has become a power in its own right in its world makes it harder for it to influence the development of that world through the introduction of new inventions.

At an intelluctual level, The Hidden Family is stimulating. Stross has set up a really cool political dynamic, with a missing/lost family operating in a heretofore unknown world. Miriam is an engaging protagonist, extremely capable and cool, but also prone to moments of self-doubt and introspection. So it’s all the more disappointing that Stross doesn’t back this up with a better plot.

All the building blocks are there. I’m fascinated my Miriam’s exploration of world three and the threat looming of its police apparatus cracking down on her new business. I just wanted more of a sense of urgency and danger than I got. This hidden family doesn’t seem like all that much of a threat now that we know about them, and Miriam deals with their goons like they are amateur burglars. Similarly, she cuts through the backstabbing boardroom intrigue of the Clan’s big summit without much difficulty. The only thing to really trip her up is what happens with Roland at the end, and that is a blink-and-you-missed-it thing—literally, I zoned out for half a page and then suddenly had to backtrack to see if it really happened.

I’ve got The Clan Corporate, but I don’t think I’ll bother. I’ll pick up the revised, recombined trilogy of the series at some point in the future, and hopefully I’ll have better luck with that.

Can you imagine being in two places at once? It’s a common image to conjure, but actually imagine it. Weird, huh?

Now try imagining being two people in two places at once. Or two people, in the same place. That’s even harder, and even weirder. But it’s exactly what Ann Leckie asks of us in Ancillary Justice, a book about a person who was once and is still but isn’t any more a ship, Justice of Toren. Reduced, through grave misfortune, to a single ancillary—a no-longer-human body, one of thousands, used an avatar for the ship’s AI—it takes on the name of Breq and sets off on a quest for revenge. Its target: no other than the most powerful person in the entire Radch, an interstellar empire Justice of Toren was once sworn to protect and expand.

For the majority of the book, Leckie alternates between Breq’s present-day adventure and a re-telling of the events leading up to the Justice of Toren’s destruction. In the latter events, Leckie undertakes the task of presenting the multiple, simultaneous viewpoints available to Justice of Toren. She switches between these viewpoints without any overt markers to signal the changes. At first, this can be confusing, even overwhelming. But it’s about as close to simultaneity as one can get in a linear medium like a novel. Slowly, it becomes possible to form at least an inkling of what it must be like to have access to so many different perspectives of the same event, all at once.

Breq’s adventure is easier to follow, because on the surface it feels like a traditional narrative. Almost immediately, however, there are some unique qualities that make it more interesting. Breq uses the feminine third-person gender pronouns exclusively when referring to other people. Regardless of actual sex or gender, everyone is "her" and "she". This is an artifact of the Rad’chaai language that Breq speaks, for it has eliminated the idea of gendered pronouns, and Breq in fact has trouble telling the difference between sexes during her travels. Additionally, Leckie doesn’t often deign to describe her characters in a way that makes their sex or gender clear. So it’s interesting to see my underlying gender biases take over and try to fill in the gaps. It’s amazing how much we depend on simple pronouns to form a mental idea not only of how someone looks but how they move, speak, act.

Rather than physical description, Leckie relies a great deal on what people do and how they speak to portray their personalities. The Radch is an empire in the classical sense; its culture is stable enough to last thousands of years and still be vaguely recognizable to Seivarden, who has spent most of that time in suspension. People are very aware of their social standing, tied inextricably to their House, and things like fashion and the sociable nature of tea-drinking have become essential parts of the daily posturing for standing. As a result, one can tell a great deal from a person by their type of accent, how they dress, who they take tea with, and of course, the House they’re from.

This is all well and good, but I still feel like Leckie could have spent more time creating a more nuanced picture of Rad’chaai society. I would like to know how the majority of Rad’chaai civilians make a living. What is the economy like? What is their art and culture like, beyond the same soap operas on television that are apparently so recognizable they haven’t changed in millennia? I have a good idea of what the military side of the Radch is like, but I wish I could understand its people better. And I would like to better understand the ways in which Anaander Mianaii has managed to keep the Radch intact over millennia of rule. That seems like a dicey proposition.

If space was a concern, I could think of some passages that could have been removed. Did Breq really have to spend so much time at that cabin? Many of those scenes seemed like they only existed as a buffer from one of the scenes set in the past until the next. Although the plot itself is gripping, the pace at which it unfolds varies from glacial to merely temperate. It isn’t until we get to the climax of the novel, as we approach Breq’s inevitable confrontation with Anaander Mianaai, that events start moving smoothly and seamlessly.

Ancillary Justice satisfies, but it doesn’t leave me with linger impressions and thought-provoking questions. The unique nature of the protagonist is a draw, and Leckie occasionally seems to come close to exploring the interesting ramifications of Breq’s existence as the fractured remnant of a ship AI. But this book feels more like a rough cut than a polished gem. And I’ll take that any day over something that instead aims for the derivative, or the popular, or the safe. Not everything that Leckie tries here succeeds with me, but the fact that she has tried is itself quite impressive. Perhaps the best thing I can say is that it reminds me a lot of the science fiction of Ursula K. Le Guin, enough that I’ll keep my eye on Leckie and on the next book in this series.

Last year I read Mistborn, my first and only experience with Brandon Sanderson, until now. I was happy to have a reason to read more of his work sooner rather than later. Sanderson is an author whose approach to fantasy is a happy blend of the traditional tropes of epic, adventure-based fantasy with the more modern need to question certain conventions. This is certainly the case in the Hugo-nominated The Emperor’s Soul. Sanderson conjures yet another compelling system of magic and another good protagonist to bear the burden of the physical and psychological conflicts he inflicts. As usual, with Sanderson magic is not just a means to an end or a set of flashy tricks but something verging on the philosophical and the artistic.

I didn’t disguise my disinterest in allomancy, the signature flavour of magic in Mistborn. Forging, on the other hand, seemed much more interesting. Forgers like Shai manipulate reality on a very deep level. Through symbols carved or stamped onto objects, Forgers can rewrite the history of an object—tweak it so that it literally becomes something different. A neglected table, for example, might have been a fabulous, ornate object had it not been forgotten by its owner. It’s all right there in the name, Forging. Simultaneously an action taken to create, through intense heat and pressure and strength, as well as an action to deceive, falsify. This type of magic is immensely powerful, but it requires knowledge, skill, and patience. Knowledge, because the Forger must know the history of the object in order to seize upon a plausible deviation, a convenient "what if". Skill, because each carving must be complete to the last detail. Patience, because the first two take time.

Forging is not well-regarded in The Emperor’s Soul. Caught attempting to steal the Moon Sceptre, Shai expects to be imprisoned and probably executed. Instead, the emperor’s advisers hire her to Forge a soul for the emperor. His own, or at least his mind, has been destroyed in a botched assassination attempt, and if this gets out, the emperor’s advisers lose their comfy positions of power. Shai has 100 days to recreate the emperor’s personality and memories from written accounts—that is, if one of the advisers doesn’t kill her before then and have their own pet Forger pick up the pieces.

Shai loves her craft and regards it as an art. She lives and breathes Forging, as demonstrated by her need to re-Forge the room in which she is imprisoned. She shores up a wall, redoes the floor, repairs the window, etc. For Shai, Forging is not just legitimate but joyous, a reification of what might-have-been and a rejection of the tyranny of what is. Sanderson juxtaposes this with Gaotona’s evident disdain and horror of Forging. He reluctantly participates in this charade only because he views the alternative—a power vacuum, struggle, and perhaps even civil war—with more horror. He submits as a test subject, someone close enough to the emperor for Shai to determine if her soulstamps will work properly, and he even takes up the study of Forgery from an academic perspective—the better to know one’s enemy and all that. Shai and Gaotona eventually develop an uneasy truce, a recognition between each of the other’s skill and strong sense of self. Shai pays Gaotona the compliment of considering him an honest politician, and hence the hardest to manipulate as she effects her escape. He, in turn, comes to regard her as more human, more deserving of sympathy.

In addition to these meditations on Forging and its role in society, Sanderson asks questions about the nature of power. Though, this being a novella, we get little sense of the world outside the room where Shai is being held, Sanderson provides a few sketchy details about Ashravan’s empire. We learn enough to know that he wasn’t the greatest emperor. And, of course, there is the question of whether Shai can approximate his personality enough, regardless of whether the stamping holds. To do this, Shai must read about the emperor’s life. She reads the official accounts, then those of palace servants and advisers, and finally Ashravan’s own personal journal. As she gets to know him, even becomes him, she starts wondering how people in power change. How does someone so idealistic like Ashravan become more interested in banquets than banking? Along the way, of course, she faces the temptation (both from within and without) to rewrite certain memories in a way that pushes Ashravan, that changes him for someone else’s ends. This is a lot of power for one person to have.

The Emperor’s Soul is a quick but captivating story. Sanderson manages to create an entirely new system of magic and explain it in pretty good detail. He has a strong protagonist and three-dimensional antagonists as well. Shai’s actions during the climax of the book bely her apparent powerlessness throughout most of it, a reminder that power is not easily defined or quantified, and sometimes misjudging the balance of power is even worse than being powerless. This is a fascinating novella and definitely a strong contender for this year’s Hugo Award, not to mention worth a read for Sanderson fans or newcomers alike.