It was a Friday; I wasn’t working, I’m a little behind on my read count, so I took this off the stack. It looked short and light enough to finish in an afternoon. This need to achieve things rather than “living in the moment” of simply existing and enjoying the book goes against the principles of Taoism, of course. But I never claimed to be Pooh Bear.

The Tao of Pooh is a short book written before I was born that purports to elucidate certain concepts related to Taoism through the characters and story of A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh. According to Benjamin Hoff (who, incidentally, has the best first name ever), Pooh is a textbook Taoist. Pooh is the “Uncarved Block” who simply takes life as it is and learns to enjoy the little things, whose simple-mindedness and child-like state of wonder and enjoyment means he is never far from a good day. Hoff examines how some of the other inhabitants of the Hundred Acre Wood embody competing schools of thought—Confucianism, Buddhism, etc.—or how their actions and statements are not compatible with a Taoist outlook. For people like me who aren’t familiar with Taoism, it’s an interesting and accessible primer. Yet it also possesses a bitter coating of irritating smugness that makes the primer hard to swallow.

A lot of Taoist thought appeals to me and agrees with how I try to lead my own life. I’m not so good at living in the moment—my mind tends to race ahead and dwell on potentialities more than is good for it. I know this is an issue, however, so it’s something I am actively working on. When I’m listening to friends speak, when I’m reading, when I’m knitting and watching TV, I make a conscious effort to inhabit that moment, to give it my full attention. I listen rather than simply wait for the silence that means I can say my piece. I think and relish and absorb the words rather than skim over them because I want to reach the end. I watch and see and think about what’s happening rather than absently check my phone to see if anyone has posted anything interesting on Twitter. “Living in a moment” is challenging in the age of distraction and definitely a goal worth having.

Beyond that, though, I just like the Taoist-compatible idea that we should strive for harmony and try to find the positives in situations that seem inherently negative. Shit happens, right? And stress is inevitable—but it’s also really bad for you. I try to minimize my stress by putting things in perspective. If something isn’t working on my computer, or if I’ve spilled tea, then hey, those are annoyances, but they aren’t a big deal. The more I can let little nuisances pass over me and through me like waves breaking against a rock, the better I’m able to save my time, energy, and emotions for things that really matter.

Hoff makes some very interesting observations, too, about the way Western thought privileges jargon over plain-spoken language:

The Confusionist, Dessicated Scholar is one who studies Knowledge for the sake of Knowledge, and who keeps what he learns to himself or his own small group, writing pompous and pretentious papers that no one else can understand, rather than working for the enlightenment of others.

And a few pages later, Hoff questions the value of received or academic knowledge compared to experiential knowledge:

… and one sometimes gets the impression that those intimidating words are there to keep us from understanding. That way, the scholars can appear Superior, and will not likely be suspected of Not Knowing Something. After all, from the scholarly point of view, it’s practically a crime not to know everything.

But sometimes the knowledge of the scholar is a bit hard to understand because it doesn’t seem to match up with our own experience of things. In other words, Knowledge and Experience do not necessarily speak the same language. But isn’t the knowledge that comes from experience more valuable than the knowledge that doesn’t?

This resonates with my personal arc of epistemological self-awareness. I tend to remark these days how much I miss university—I miss the classes, and the peers and friends I had who shared my love of learning math and English and philosophy—my last three years of university were among the best and most fulfilling I’ve had so far. Yet I am glad I did not take some professors’ advice to apply to grad school right out of the education program. Setting aside the absurd idea that I could tell teachers how they could teach without getting experience in a classroom myself first, I knew that I needed to leave the ivory tower for a little while. I am such an intellectual; I am just so well suited to the way the game is played in university. That means I was lucky and did well, and doubtlessly I could have continued doing well—but it would be hollow, really.

Now that I’m outside looking in, I can see how, as wonderful as university was, it has a lot of flaws. In particular, Hoff is right: it privileges certain types of knowledge and gatekeeps to make sure only those who play the game get to share in the discussion. The past few years that I’ve spent examining my own privilege as a white male and watching feminist discourse on spaces like Twitter have shown me that there is a lot of valuable and even intellectual knowledge exchange happening outside the regular channels of academe. But it’s ignored at best or appropriated at worst. You’ve got so many women and people of colour talking about their lived experiences, and then so-called “experts” on these issues ignore them or shout over them and say, “Actually, you have it wrong.” Your personal experience is somehow wrong. That’s bizarre. But, for a long time, I was that kind of person—I spent a long time drinking the Western rationalist kool-aid without really understanding that there’s more to intellectual discussion than the Enlightenment can provide.

So understand that I am somewhat sympathetic to what Hoff describes in this book, especially with regards to the shortcomings of being “clever.” And it’s clever of him to use Pooh as a vehicle for explaining Taoism. There’s just one problem.

I’m an Eeyore person.

My dad gave this to me for my birthday, probably because he knows I like Eeyore. I have multiple Eeyore stuffed animals, multiple Eeyore mugs … I’m all about the Eeyore, man. And he doesn’t come off well in The Tao of Pooh. Apparently, Eeyore is a pessimist and a downer who constantly worries. Maybe so. Yet I see the optimism in Eeyore that others don’t: his house of sticks keeps falling down, and he keeps building it! A true pessimist would say, “What’s the use?” and just give up. No, I am Team Eeyore all the way.

Hoff’s use of Pooh as the allegorical Uncarved Block and simpleminded apotheosis of Taoist thought is strangely and, hopefully, uncharacteristically insular. I agree wholeheartedly that maintaining the sense of wonder we have about the world as children is important, especially now that we have so many claims on our valuable free time. I liked Hoff’s observation that it is impossible to save time, only to spend it, and so we need to stop thinking about how we can save time and instead spend it wisely. That’s true. Yet he is so critical of so-called “clever” people, of anyone who wants to know more than what is on the surface of things. And I find that so unfortunate.

Furthermore, there is a smug tone to his critique of clever people. It’s one thing to promulgate your alternative philosophy and another to look down on people because you think your philosophy makes you superior. I know people who I wish wouldn’t stress out over things in their life they can’t change—but I also try hard not to judge them, because sometimes those things make their life hard. Somewhere along the way, between his descriptions of Tao and Te and pu and wei wu wei, Hoff seems to lose the value of empathy. In what is probably my least favourite chapter, “Bisy Backson,” Hoff rails against education and awareness of the outside world:

“Well, you could be spending your time getting Educated by listening to the Radio, instead,” I said.

“That thing?”

“Certainly. How else will you know what’s going on in the world?” I said.

“By going outside,” said Pooh.

“Er … well….” (Click.) “Now just listen to this, Pooh.”

“Thirty thousand people were killed today when five jumbo airliners collided over downtown Los Angeles…,” the Radio announced.

“What does that tell you about the world?” asked Pooh.

“Hmm. You’re right.” (Click.)

“What are the birds saying now?” I asked.

“That it’s a nice day,” said Pooh.

Look, I get what Hoff is probably intending with this exchange: he’s saying that if the news is going to depress you, stop listening to the news, and you won’t be as depressed. It’s true that media can be very depressing at times, because sensationalism and violence and tragedy sells. Nevertheless, the flippant way in which Hoff dismisses the idea that we should care about what’s happening to other people is disappointing. It’s a false dilemma: it is possible both to stop and enjoy the birdsong and the nice day and to spend a little time contemplating the tragedy of a five-airplane mid-air collision and how it is affecting so many people. The human mind is a wonderful thing and is capable of entertaining more than one thought per day.

This is why The Tao of Pooh is more frustrating than it should be: there is little middle ground here. Hoff makes so many valid critiques about our Western society and its overemphasis on being busy, being industrious, being clever. He presents a great overview of some of the key tenets of Taoism. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to do this without communicating how very pleased he is with himself and with Taoism that it appears to offer all the solutions to life, the universe, and everything. Just be more like Pooh Bear, and you’ll be OK! Nothing could possibly go wrong….

This message, while vapidly reassuring, is not helpful. In reality, we are flawed creatures. No single philosophy can ever offer the perfect solace or the best way to live. Hoff is right that there is a little Pooh, Eeyore, Piglet, Rabbit, Owl, etc., in all of us. Unlike him, however, I’m not so sure the solution is to choose the Way of Pooh. We should instead be aware of when we are Eeyoring and when we are Pigleting, examine why we do those things, and see if that causes problems for us. But stumbling through life without any awareness of history, underlying knowledge of the world around us, or ability analyze and think critically, is not the solution.

Us Conductors notably plays fast and loose with its label as historical fiction. Michaels freely admits in his Author’s Note that the Termen he depicts is highly fictionalized—no kung fu or murder is on record, as far as we know—and points the reader in the direction of a more vanilla accounting of Termen’s real life. It seems, sometimes, like authors of historical fiction can’t win. No matter how close one adheres to historical fact, one invariably becomes the target of a pedant who wants to note how inaccurate one’s story is. Conversely, admitting to inaccuracies only seems to drive the sticklers ever more wild. I personally don’t mind either way, as long as you’re honest—it’s when you pull a Dan Brown and claim everything in your book is 100% researched and factual that I’m liable to get bloodthirsty.

The Termen of Us Conductors is a lonely, bold sort of man. Thanks to the first-person narration, we get precious few observations about Termen that don’t come from Termen himself. It’s easy at times to forget that this story is entirely a letter, even when Termen slips into using the second person to address Clara. Yet if you step back from the story and look only at its brushstrokes, its epistolary undertones are evident in the way Termen elides certain events and delves deeply into others. This creates a kind of pseudo-meditative tone to the entire piece that makes it classic Giller Prize nominee material.

Though capitulating to such conventions of literary fiction, the book is not actually as dull as I feared. I hadn’t heard of it prior to its Giller win, and even then I wasn’t all that interested in reading it (quite frankly, Heather O’Neill’s latest excited me more, because I loved Lullabies for Little Criminals). But I admit I was intrigued by a story about the inventor of the theremin, an instrument that has an almost “cult” status when it comes to music. Michaels tries to describe how amazing this invention must have seemed, both to its inventor and his contemporary audience: a musical instrument that makes sound from electricity, modulated by the body’s own electric field. It is magic through science. The title itself is a play on words, “conductors” having so many connotations in this story.

Beyond Termen’s invention, though, is the matter of his loyalty to Mother Russia and his presence in the US as a spy. Michaels captures the fragmented political state of Russia both before and after World War II: Termen’s handlers change inexplicably, as if he is just a pawn in a larger power struggle within the spy apparatus back home. After he returns to Russia, the NKVD arrests him and tortures him until he “confesses” to being an American spy. I appreciate that Michaels restricts himself to using such situations for his social commentary. He could have included numerous fictional conversations between Termen and others if he wanted to conduct an ideological debate within the pages of this book, but that’s not what happens. Us Conductors isn’t about the failure of communism, or its rise or its fall. It presents the distinctiveness of communism in contrast to America’s rampant and illusory capitalist dream through the eyes of a Termen simultaneously bitter about and resigned to returning to Russia.

His problem, of course, is this: he claims to love Russia, and he claims to love Clara. How, then, can he balance their reciprocal claims to his heart, body, time? Clara seems to have taken herself out of the equation, for she marries another. Yet Termen’s ”love” for her borders on a kind of transference of his fascination with the theremin. I think, deep down, he secretly views the theremin as an apotheosis of musical instruments. (I get this from the excitement he feels when talking about the theremin’s prospects for bringing equality in music to the worker. Termen might have enjoyed the lifestyle of America, but he seems pretty straightforward in his support of communist ethics.) So Termen is disappointed by the lacklustre uptake in the theremin. Everyone’s initial reaction is gratifying, and certainly at one point there are numerous companies courting him for contracts. Yet, somehow, it all fizzles out. And even though there are a few thereminists like Clara still making it, they and the theremin eclipse the inventor (as most creations inevitably do).

Maybe I’m wrong and my scepticism over his love for Clara is unfounded. It just seems dubious, considering he marries two other women and still carries the torch for her as “the one who got away.” At the very least, it speaks to the gradations and diversity of love as a concept that most romantic comedies and a lot of literature fail to honour: there is more than the most straightforward type of romantic love or the safest type of platonic love out there, and the shades between them are usually more interesting anyway.

If you step back and regard Us Conductors in this light, as the story of a particularly unique Russian emigre who just happens to have sidelines of spying and later gets imprisoned back home under Stalin’s regime … then that’s where this book succeeds. As a story of Termen, it cannot ever be great—it’s too fictionalized, after all. As a love story, it has none of the arc or resolution that one would want. As a tragedy, it is hopelessly uplifting. Only as a snapshot of the curious confluences of history and society that made Termen’s type of immigration possible does Us Conductors approach the type of greatness deserving of a literary prize. Do I think it should have won? I don’t know. Nor do I particularly care. What matters is that it’s a good, pretty solid work of character-driven fiction. It’s the kind of book you want to pass with a dreary Sunday afternoon with while you put on a classical album (maybe Rachmaninoff?) and sip a cup of tea.

Or that just might be me. That’s probably just me.

I learned I’d prefer to save my Hardy reading for the summer. There is nothing better than being able to read Hardy outside in summer, when the warmth and greenery makes it easier to imagine the bucolic setting of the Wessex novels. Plus, having the day available for reading allows me to sink my teeth into novels like Far from the Madding Crowd, which are meant to be read in big gulps rather than sipped here and there as free time allows. I’ll re-read this one day, in a summer, and I know I will like it even better then.

For now, though, I’m content to say that I liked it—as I was bound to do, with Hardy being one of my favourites—but it doesn’t have that weight of his later works. I know some view that as a positive: this is Hardy at his most upbeat. I could totally see Hollywood doing an adaptation of this in the style of 10 Things I Hate About You’s adaptation of Shakespeare—this is an almost-textbook romantic comedy that happens to have been written in the Victorian era. Even this early in Hardy’s career as an author there are hints of his iconoclastic willingness to skirt the bounds of propriety. At the same time, there are conventions—Oak’s bald-faced proposal to Bathsheba not weeks after meeting her for the first time is one—that are more than comical by our standards.

Now, I bought this copy used, as I like to do with classics. (There’s just something that feels right about reading a classic that has been read before.) And this copy comes with a bonus: reader annotations! It bears the price tag of Mount Allison University’s bookstore, and as far as I can tell, it once belonged to a student in a Victorian literature class. I assume the student is male, because of the messiness of the writing and the way the notes are … phrased. Every chapter has two or three thoughts jotted at the end to summarize the key events, and passages here or there throughout are marked up with choice commentary on the part of this reader.

I love annotating books. I don’t do it often enough, even with books I own, because I am lazy. (And I don’t do it with books other people own, unless they give me express permission. And I don’t do it with library books, because the library would frown at me and kindly ask me to refrain from ever patronizing it again, which would make me sad.) Discovering the comments of a previous owner in the margins of a book is one of the benefits of buying used. I feel like I’m part of a long-delayed conversation, and I’m always keen to discover if the past reader and I share sensibilities and reactions to the story—or if we differ and diverge along the way.

These notes, though … these are fascinating, in an anthropological kind of way. So rather than review Far from the Madding Crowd directly, I instead present to you Review of Select Commentary on Far from the Madding Crowd.

The first few chapters suffer from a dearth of commentary. In Chapter 3, we get a few passages underlined; the sole note at the end of this chapter is “cool” in reference to the chapter’s closing remark: “‘Now find out my name,’ she said teasingly; and withdrew.” Clearly this person is getting sucked into the plot!

We do just that—find out her name—on the next page. It’s Bathsheba Everdene. Either this student is a stone wall, or he’s reading this prior to The Hunger Games, because there is no comment on how much that sounds like “Everdeen.” May the odds be ever in Bathsheba’s favour—she’s going to need it.

The notes don’t really pick up until Chapter 10, when the student correctly picks up on the importance of Bathsheba’s interaction with the people who work her land. The student has some interesting comments on Hardy’s dry observations about marriage. In this quotation, about one of the wives of Bathsheba’s farm workers, the student underlines the sentence I’ve emphasized:

She was a woman who never, like some newly married, showed conjugal tenderness in public, perhapbe because she had none to show.

He marked this up with an arrow and “PDA.” Actually, I thought it said “POA” and struggled with it, until a coworker quite rightly corrected me: it’s public display of affection, anachronistic but nonetheless accurate.

The passage and commentary continues:

“Oh, you are,” said Bathsheba. “Well, Laban, will you stay on?”

“Yes, he’ll stay, ma'am!” said again the shrill tongue of Laban’s lawful wife.

“Well, he can speak for himself, I suppose.”

“Oh Lord, not he, ma’am! A simple tool. Well enough, but a por gawkhammer mortal,” the wife replied.

The above highlighted passages are annoted, respectively, with “Ball n’ chain” and “Bitch.” Classy.

This is also the chapter with the first real summary note at the end—just quick observations on the important characters here.

Chapter 13 is interesting, though. When Bathsheba and Liddy unwisely cook up the prank valentine they send to Boldwood, our intrepid reader writes:

Flip the book.

Fucking with Boldwood cuz no look at her.

*slow clap*

Could not have said it better myself, really. But wait, what’s this on the next page, at the end of the chapter?

Did it cuz mad cuz he no look at her.

On some level, he’s correct—if not really willing to look much deeper into Bathsheba’s motivations. But I don’t get it. You’re a university student who clearly has enough intellect to pick up some of the subtext of this book. Why the hell are your abbreviating “because” as “cuz”?

In Chapter 14, we get to see how Gabriel Oak interacts with the other labourers on the farm. This portrayal, so essential to the Hardy vision of rural England, the student boils down to:

They admire Gaberial cuz he's “smart”

Gaberial, folks. Can’t even be bothered to spell the main character’s name right in your notes. It’s literally a few centimetres up the page.

By the end of Chapter 18, though, he has clued into the fact he can just abbreviate Gabriel’s onerously long name, and he does it correctly:

Gabe knows of letter
Basheba vows never to fuck with Boldwood’s mind again. Realized what she’s done = regrets it

Those mindfucking lady farmers, I tell you. Boldwood clearly can’t take it, because in Chapter 20 he breaks down and begs Bathsheba to marry him. Let’s look at how the student interprets this scene:

Boldwood “Begs” for marrige
Bathsheba sez sorry didn’t mean for vallantine
Boldwood Desperate [“Desperate” double-underlined]
Bath no want him sez was just a joke but genuinely sorry.
Boldwood can offer her a lot of $ and good life.

Hey, I know I’m being cheeky in my commentary on this commentary, but I’ll level: questionable syntax and spelling aside, that’s not a bad summary of what happens in this chapter.

The top of Chapter 20 shows the student took a break and also switched pens, because the formerly red ink is now blue. Squeezed above the chapter header, we have:

Should treat Farmer Boldwood fairly sez Oak
shows he knows can't win so will help Boldwood
-very decent man

The student picks up on all the hinky sexual and romantic symbolism in “The Great Barn and Sheep-Shearers,” noting (in red pen again) that it is “very imp chapter = read again, very symbolic,” and I hope they did. So far, his level of insight continues to bely his hopelessly crude notetaking skills.

I continue to vacillate in my opinion regarding whether the student is just lazy or genuinely has bad spelling. This is a pretty insightful summary for Chapter 26:

very imp
overflowed by enfatuation for this smooth talking Lothario
Sgt Troy gave her a valuable gold wach
Bathsheba doesn’t know why she feels so horny for Sgt. Troy

Really, if we all wrote our literary criticism like this student, wouldn’t the world be a better place?

Sometimes, as is the case at the end of Chapter 31, the student gets even more real:

Boldwood sez “Fuck you bitch for fucking with my mind” He stole yr heart with his lies I’ll kill him “you've hurt me bitch!!

And back in blue pen at the top of Chapter 32:

Troy must marry or else shell be thought a slut cuz everyone knowz about her woody fer Troy

OMG, did you hear about Miss Everdene’s woody? She’s, like a total slutbag! I know, right? Why can’t she just choose between Gale or Peeta already?!! Like, WTF? She certainly seems DTF with Troy.

Unfortunately, as we learn in Chapter 41, Troy is DTF with someone else and totally 3 Bathsheba’s heart:

Bash an Troy fight cuz Bash finds lock of other gurlz hair. Troy won’t burn it cuz loves other girl
Fanny dies of exhaustion
Basheba finds out “other girl” was Fanny

Oh no he didn’t.

Interestingly, the student is pretty quiet on “Fanny’s Revenge,” the pivotal chapter in which Bathsheba looks in the coffin—even though she shouldn’t—and discovers Fanny actually had Troy’s child. Oops. There’s a lacklustre summary at the end of the chapter but none of the inline commentary during the important scene.

There’s plenty of underlining but a dearth of commentary in the subsequent chapters, mostly very short summaries and little notes like “read again.” At this juncture, the student was probably reading the book at a healthy clip in order to meet some deadlines, and just absorbing the basic plot was good enough for him. Hopefully he clued into the foreshadowing that while Fanny’s fate is a tragedy in and of itself, it is merely the opening act in a much more involved tragedy that wrecks Bathsheba and Troy’s marriage not once but twice.

And yes, this is still one of Hardy’s lighter works.

The last two or three chapters are entirely devoid of notes or even underlining. And so I am left in suspense. Did he even finish the book? What did he think of it? There’s not even a “Nice” or “Cool” on the last page to let me know he is satisfied with the happy ending.

Did you read this book for a Mount Allison University Victorian lit course, only for it to somehow end up in a used bookstore in Thunder Bay? Did you annotate it in red and blue pen? Let me know what you thought of the end of the book.

There are some great moments in this book, moments worthy of quotation. There is tea; there are gods; there is Vogon bureaucracy and Vogon poetry. And Another Thing... sublimely embraces the h2g2 universe by grabbing hold of it by the scruff of its neck and shaking it vigorously until more characters and random plot events fall out.

And I didn't like it.

See, h2g2's humorous nexus of improbable events with zany characters is the icing on an already delicious cake. My attraction to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and its sequels revolves entirely around Arthur Dent and his plight as one of the last two surviving humans in the universe. The book is successful because Douglas Adams juxtaposes his profound, dry, British wit with the tragedy of Arthur's situation, both the loss of Earth and his doomed love story with Trillian, then Fenchurch. It makes you laugh, because if you do not, then you will cry.

And Another Thing... is not an anomaly among the other books in this regard. Though it has been years since I've read it, Mostly Harmless also has a problem balancing story with humour, which is why I like my omnibus of the first four books just the way it is. And Another Thing..., picking up as it does just after Mostly Harmless, emulates its immediate predecessor too much for my liking. It is, sadly, a shell of an h2g2 novel.

The personalities of most of the characters were grating. I did not like the appearance of Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged, nor did I particularly enjoy the animosity between Trillian and Random. Even Arthur, poor, lovable Arthur, can't manage to put much enthusiasm into being upset about the state of affairs. He is much too jaded now; no longer the uninitiated last man from Earth, Arthur has reached the same point I have in this series. We both just want it to stop, even though we know it won't.

As I mentioned above, there are some great moments. Some of them are funny, such as when Zaphod's second head—which now controls the Heart of Gold's computer in lieu of Eddie—chides Arthur's drinking habits:

"I don't suppose this computer has learned to make tea?"

A red light flashed on Left Brain's dome. "Stop talking now, Earthman. The word 'tea' has been flagged. The last time you asked for 'tea', you backed up the entire system during an alert."

This is a hilarious reference to the last time Arthur asked for a cup of tea from Eddie the computer and froze all of Eddie's logic circuits. Unfortunately, references to the halcyon days of h2g2 are about all this book can muster. And Another Thing... just tries too hard, something demonstrated aptly by the excerpts from the Guide.

I'm not about to accuse any part of this book of being particularly inspired, but the excerpts from the Guide are even more forced than the rest of the book. They attempt to replicate that atmosphere of randomness, that sense of tangents and digressions, that is characteristic of earlier h2g2 books. And they fail at that attempt, because the entries are often too unrelated to what's going on. They seem present only because they are an expected part of the h2g2 novel form, not because they actually work at that juncture. The beauty of h2g2 books is that, despite their disparate elements and interruptions, I always want to keep on reading. I had no such impetus here.

Hopefully you will have noticed that, until now, I have refrained from comparing Colfer to Adams. I have my reasons for this; while I'm ambivalent about this series being continued by another author, I'm not opposed to it in principle. Furthermore, h2g2 has always had a tradition of transformation. So I am willing to keep an open mind. Colfer's style is quite different from that of Adams, and I think that is part of the reason this book does not resonate as an "h2g2 book" like the others do. Nevertheless, I cannot blame solely Colfer for And Another Thing...'s problems. The series was in decline with Mostly Harmless, if not before that.

And Another Thing... is probably described best by its title: this is a postscript, a footnote to the rest of the series, and something I will probably leave forgotten. When I need my h2g2 fix, I'll grab my omnibus from the shelf and read one of the first four books. For all you hoopy froods out there, my recommendation is to read this one—for you should form your own opinion—but do not expect greatness, or even adequacy. For the rest of you, don't bother with this book (at least not yet). Besides, you probably don't know where your towel is, do you? That's what I thought.

Seeing the future is still never a good idea.

Over two years after I read the first book, I finally read Mockingbird, the second in Chuck Wendig’s Miriam Black series. Miriam is trying to move on after the life-altering events of the first book, but she isn’t having much success. “Lying low” is a difficult concept for her, and soon enough she finds herself drawn back into the fine art of messing with destiny.

This book gets better and more interesting retroactively following the twist, so that’s why I marked this review as containing spoilers. I’ll talk about the twist in a few paragraphs, but the next paragraphs are still spoiler-free, just as a courtesy to those of you foolhardy enough to ignore the spoiler warning at the beginning of the review.

Wendig continues with the take-no-prisoners gritty diction and characterization he uses in Blackbirds and Bait Dog. I don’t like it. Yet this doesn’t diminish my enjoyment of the books. Why is that? I can only conjecture that Wendig’s skill as a storyteller allows him to sweep me up in the plot; I genuinely care about Miriam and her adventure even though I’m not all that enthusiastic by the deeply twisted type of world Wendig has going on here. Perhaps this is a good example of an author creating a character who is sympathetic even if she is not likable (or, for me in particular, an entire world that is sympathetic but unlikable!).

Mockingbird delivers on the potential to expand Miriam’s character and continue exploring how she deals with her psychic gift/curse. I wanted to read more about her as soon as I finished Blackbirds. However, I was also wondering where Wendig would go with the story. He has managed to find an interesting place to take it: now that Miriam knows the future can be changed, but only at great expense, she bends herself to accomplishing this to do something worthwhile. She wants to save the life of a teenage girl who will one day be murdered by a serial killer.

Spoilers start here.

Up until we learn about Eleanor Caldecott’s commensurate psychic power, this seems like another psychic twist on a murder mystery/thriller. I was pretty invested in watching Miriam track down the man with the swallow tattoo and kill him before he kills these girls. But my overall sentiments about Mockingbird would probably be described as “meh.”

Then we find out that Eleanor Caldecott has a power similar to Miriam’s own, only she sees the person’s entire trajectory (and not usually their death), and that’s just brilliant.

I find Caldecott’s role as a crusader quite believable. Wendig shows how this kind of premonition power twists one’s sense of morality and ethics. Caldecott wants to save people, and she has succumbed to a solipsistic idea that she can save many by eliminating a few “bad apples.” Her traumatic adolescence and emotional abuse at the hands of sexist and classist parents have weighed her down with all sorts of interesting baggage that makes her a far richer character than either of her sons. And as she explains, in brutal detail, why she plans to kill these girls, it starts to make twisted sense. Not sense, mind you—but twisted sense, the same sort of twisted logic that other psychopaths use to justify their world view.

Caldecott’s emergence as the true antagonist also puts Miriam into a new, even better light. She definitely sides with “good” here—and now she isn’t squaring off a single, deranged serial killer but what amounts to a small cult of deranged assassins and their psychic leader. This is an act of redemption for her, much as Louis’ actions are his attempts at redeeming himself. For this reason, Mockingbird ends a much stronger and more positive note than Blackbirds.

I have no idea what’s in store next for Miriam, but I will read the next book, I suppose. Part of me isn’t looking forward to Wendig’s style—but somehow I’m going back in anyway. Glutton for punishment? Or just stalwart fan who is invested in seeing Miriam’s arc continue? No idea. I guess we’ll see what happens when she arrives in Florida. At some point, I suppose, we’ll need to get a glimpse at Miriam’s death itself….

My reviews of the Miriam Black series:
← Blackbirds | The Cormorant → (forthcoming)

Seeing the future is never a good idea.

Setting aside the question of whether the future is fixed or malleable, our linear existence dooms any glimpses of the future. It provokes us into acting in strange, contradictory ways—and so even if the future isn’t predetermined, we tend to fulfil our own prophecies. Miriam Black is a good example of this: in Blackbirds, she sees how someone is going to die the first time she touches them. She gets the date of their death and a vivid movie of how it happens. And every single time she has tried to stop it, she only helps it to happen.

Blackbirds is a combination of a thriller and a road book. Miriam can’t prevent people from dying, so she travels across the United States to bear witness—and rob the pockets of the dead. When she falls in with a grifter carrying a case of stolen meth, her life on the road goes into an inexorable tailspin towards a terrifying, cataclysmic confrontation. Miriam is, as far as she knows, unique in her ability to perceive deaths—and for some people, harnessing that ability is a lot more valuable than a case of meth.

This is not the kind of book that usually appeals to me. American road novels just don’t do much for me in general; I’m not American, nor am I much of a traveller. Blackbirds embraces that self-sufficient, run down, living from hand-to-mouth atmosphere that so many such novels take up. Miriam has no real home and just lives on the road, surviving off what she takes from the dead. She crashes in motels, hitchhikes with truck drivers, and hangs out with con artists. As far as books go, there is nothing wrong with any of these elements—they just don’t appeal to me personally.

So I wouldn’t have expected to enjoy Blackbirds, but I did. There is one reason for this, and one reason alone: I wanted to see Miriam win.

Chuck Wendig is clever. The question of whether Miriam can alter fate comes up almost immediately, and he gives us what seems like a clear-cut answer. Except it isn’t, and one of the subplots becomes Miriam’s desperate need to avert someone’s death. Not only does she want to do this because she thinks it’s her fault that he will die—she needs a win, more than ever, lest she finally succumb to depression and loneliness. Miriam is on her last legs. And as everything else goes to hell around her, I found myself needing her to win as much as she did. I became convinced pretty early on that she would win, that Wendig would let her change the future—the other option was inconceivable—but it was interesting to see how it happened.

Unfortunately, Blackbirds doesn’t evenly distribute this genius. While I like that Wendig gives some of the supporting characters backstories, some of them still seemed rather two-dimensional (Franks and Harriet spring to mind). The real problems, however, are mostly confined to the plot, which is sparse. Wendig tries to break up the monotony with flashbacks that allow Miriam some time for exposition, as well as the aforementioned detours into the other characters’ lives. However, this only serves to highlight the dearth of development of the main story. Miriam meets Ashley and starts working with him, ditches him, finds him again … it all happens in a very linear, dull fashion. There aren’t enough detours and digressions, few little sidequests where Miriam demonstrates other ramifications of her ability and lifestyle. Blackbirds is interesting, but it also comes across as all-business.

I will confess that I want to read the sequel, though. In that respect, Wendig did it right: he has me hooked. The plot is a little thin, and the characters—aside from Miriam—don’t help weigh it down any further. But I’m dying to know why Miriam has this ability and how it’s going to evolve. Blackbirds didn’t make me a believer, but it managed to sustain my interest and keep me reading—sometimes, that’s all it takes.

My reviews of the Miriam Black series:
Mockingbird →

Second Review (Read on March 4, 2015)

So Locke Lamora won the day at the end of his first book, but at a terrible price. He and Jean are the last surviving Gentlemen Bastards (unless you count the estranged Sabetha, whose existence Scott Lynch dangles beneath our noses with all the glee of a writer of a trilogy). With nothing left for them in Camorr, they wind up in Tal Verarr, pulling a heist against Requin of the Sinspire, the best and most cheat-proof casino there is. But the Archon of Tal Verarr—who would be played by Jeremy Irons in the movie, I hope—has other plans for them. Soon Locke and Jean find themselves setting out to sea, to begin a life of … piracy?

Coming off the immediate high of The Lies of Locke Lamora and all its dark and bittersweet comedy, I wondered why I only gave Red Seas Under Red Skies 3 stars. But I can see why now. I love heist plots: heists are even better than con games. So the fact that Lynch promises me a heist plot in this book gets me so unbelievably excited; you have no idea.

And then he yanks the carpet out from my metaphorical feet and announces we’re doing a pirate theme instead.

Ouch.

I don’t have a problem with pirates. If you like pirates, you’ll have a good time here. But don’t bait-and-switch me. Keep your pirates out of my heist plot!

Other than the above disappointment, there’s a lot to like about Red Seas Under Red Skies. With the other Gentlemen Bastards out of the picture, this is very much a “Locke and Jean against the world” scenario, so Lynch focuses on their friendship more closely than he could in the first book. Their very identity and purpose as thieves is in question here: with the ire of the Bondsmagi hanging over their heads, they wonder how they should spend the rest of their lives. They question how long they can carry on as professional con artists.

Although Locke might question his ability to carry on as a con artist for many more years, Lynch makes it clear that Locke is happiest and at the top of his game when he is cheating or swindling someone. Somehow, it seems that no matter how dire the stakes or how injured or affronted Locke is, if he is in a position to deceive someone, he comes into his own and shines. His enjoyment at playing the character of Orrin Ravelle is palpable, even when that means hauling rope and swabbing the deck and doing any number of other, unpleasant menial tasks while posing as a failed would-be pirate captain. Locke loves inhabiting a role, and his exuberance gets the better of him, even when he claims to be taking things seriously.

Another thing I loved about the book on this reading was the passionate relationship between Jean and Ezri. Lynch is not exactly subtle—but that’s part of what makes it so fun. Jean received some good characterization in the first book, with his sharp intellect and mathematical mind belying his “bruiser” appearance that earned him the role of bodyguard for Locke. Yet he definitely plays an even more prominent role as protagonist here: The Lies of Locke Lamora was unquestionably a book about Locke Lamora; Red Seas Under Red Skies is definitely Locke & Jean.

I also want to take a moment just to point out the excellent portrayal of women in Lynch’s books. It was solid in the first book and is even better here. There are plenty of women characters, both bit characters as well as more exciting minions, like Selendri and Merrain. And of course, Zamira Drakasha takes the cake: super-capable pirate badass who also happens to be a caring, responsible mother. Talk about work–life balance. I love that, in this world Lynch has created, women totally make up 50% of the cast—and they can be just as capable at fighting, thieving, and plotting as men. This is not a new or revolutionary idea in the twenty-first century, people—yet the fact I have to highlight it here suggests we have some catching up to do.

It would be a mistake to pan this book just because it doesn’t inspire the same wide-eyed adoration that I felt about The Lies of Locke Lamora. After all, that was a debut novel, the first in a new series with new characters—and I fell, hard. As a sequel, Red Seas Under Red Skies had a lot to live up to, so I shouldn’t be surprised it doesn’t blow me away. If we set aside such impossible standards, then, what we have left is a solid sequel: Lynch has written yet another good fantasy novel with dynamic, flawed characters who continue to pull cons, plot capers, and cheat at cards.

It’s pretty great.

And now, finally, I get to read Republic of Thieves! About time.

First Review (Read in October 11, 2009)

(Since this book features pirates, I'm using that as flimsy excuse to present my review entirely in "piratical" dialect, courtesy of this handy translator. Apologies to those who were expecting a sobre critique of literature in grammatical, precise English. Ye scallywag.)

I read this hot on th' heels o' me second readin' o' [b:Th' Lies o' Locke Lamora|127455|The Lies of Locke Lamora (Gentleman Bastard #1)|Scott Lynch|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1386924569s/127455.jpg|2116675], about which I positively gushed in ever' way possible.

Goin' into this sequel, I be excited. I anticipated another brilliant adventure o' Locke Lamora an' Jean Tannen—an' that`s what I got. Exactly what I got. Therein lies th' problem: th' best parts o' th' book be similar t' th' best parts in th' first book. Once again, Locke relies on a Xanatos Roulette t' extricate hisself from a very messy situation, an' e'en by th' end o' th' book, they aren`t safe yet. As other reviewers be havin' lamented, however, th' worst offence be that o' shoehornin' one plot into th' other . . . after interestin' me in a very Ocean`s Eleven-esque casino heist plot, Lynch suddenly injects a gentleman o' fortune plot into th' story, which smartly takes o'er as th' "main" course o' th' book.

Now we reach th' point 'ere yer mileage may vary. Fans o' nautical adventures will probably enjoy this here log more than swabbies like myself who, while fans o' gentleman o' fortunes, aren`t fans o' havin' marine terminology bandied about while Jean an' Locke cool the'r heels on th' Sea o' Brass. Parts o' this here log bored me, which nerehappened in Th' Lies o' Locke Lamora. An' 'tis nay jus' th' fact that 't takes place at sea among gentleman o' fortunes; 'tis th' failed synthesis o' two disparate plots that irks me so much. By th' end o' th' book, Lynch attempts t' tie all th' plots together fer a grand climax . . . an' 'tis almost thar, but nay quite.

`Tis odd t' say this about a fantasy book, perhaps, but th' realism be sorely lackin'. In a sense, th' lies o' Locke Lamora be too extraordinary an' insouciant, whereas in th' first book, they be jus' th' starboard amount o' extraordinary an' insouciant. Savvy? By th' time we reached th' climax, I had trouble believin' Locke could truly get th' lad's an' Jean ou' o' this mess alive, an' triumphant—speakin' o' which, I did enjoy th' twist at th' very end regardin' the'r spoils o' victory.

Th' first wee chapters o' th' book be th' best. We get t' be seein' Locke at his nadir, resigned t' drink an' mope in a room in an inn while Jean goes ou' an' tries t' build a gang in th' wee, dumpy city t' which they's fled. Locke, whom we`ve grown t' love as a smartass an' badass, be reduced t' a self-pityin' shadow o' his former self. 't takes some tough love from Jean t' set th' lad's straight, after which th' two begin plottin' t' rob th' most heavily-guarded casino eremade by man: th' Sinspire.

I`d like t' continue sayin' good things starboard now, but th' subject o' th' Sinspire forces me t' criticize another unrealistic aspect o' Lynch`s story: everything be hyperinflated in its status. Th' Sinspire be th' ultimate casino, 'ere nay one, nay one single swabbie ever gets away wi' cheatin'. Th' Archon`s One good eye be th' elite swabbieal guard who would never betray th' lad's. An' so on. Th' superlatives begin t' get annoyin' . . . well, superlative. Once an' a while 't would be nice t' come across an average sort o' swabbie who t'ain't either a complete idiot or a Chessmaster. I reckon, however, what wi' Locke Lamora bein' so brilliant an' all, 'tis difficult t' challenge th' lad's wi' ere less than a genius.

Speakin' o' which, I miss th' Dona Vorchenza! She be an antagonist, sure, but I liked th' lass'. She be fun. Neither Requin nor th' Archon, Stragos, be particularly likable; in th' first book, while I cheered fer Locke, I sympathized wi' th' Dona`s loss. Here, I couldna care less about what happened t' Requin or his position o' power afterward. Stragos, on th' other hand . . . well, as I be readin' th' book, I wondered why a troper on th' Gentleman Sons of a biscuit eater page o' TV Tropes labelled Stragos an anti-villain. I dasn't agree wi' th' label, but I agree that Stragos didna deserve his fate, an' I be nay sure Locke an' Jean would be havin' had 't in them. Then again, I didna understand how Locke an' Jean let they's self get into th' situation o' bein' poisoned anyway. Last time someone poisoned Locke coercively, he punched them in th' face an' stole th' antidote.

Without th' poison, o' course, thar`s very wee impetus fer Locke an' Jean t' go nautical—or refuse t' swashbuckle o'er th' one extant keg o' antidote at th' end. (Oh, come on, dasn't tell me that`s a spoiler. I won`t tell ye who drank 't, `kay?) We get a much stronger idee o' th' bond between Locke an' Jean in this here log. Again, Lynch likes his superlative expressions o' affection, so I started t' skim them scenes after these two reconciled wi' each other fer th' nth time. 't be nice t' be seein' occasional tension, tho. An' 't be good t' be seein' Jean get some action (ye know th' sort o' action I mean).

Red Seas Under Red Skies preserves th' strong, witty characterization that made Th' Lies o' Locke Lamora amazin' in th' best sense o' th' word. Unfortunately, 't lacks a strong story t' go wi' its characters. This series still has great potential; I canna wait t' be seein' who makes th' next move in th' ongoin' struggle between Locke an' Jean an' th' Karthani bondsmages. E'en tho me interest in th' series remains intact, however, Lynch`s writin' an' plottin' needs t' improve t' restore me faith in th' quality o' th' series.

My reviews o' th' Gentleman Son of a biscuit eater sequence:
← The Lies of Locke Lamora | The Republic of Thieves →

When I re-read this book, I might give it five stars. It’s that close. I just have all these … feelings.

I’ve waited a long time to read The Republic of Thieves and brought it with me as an airplane/travel book. It did not disappoint. For a third time Scott Lynch manages to deliver an incredible adventure breathtaking in the depth of its intrigue and the passionate portrayal of its characters. Without question I liked it better than Red Seas Under Red Skies—there was no heist plot derailed by a pirate plot in the middle of the book—and in some ways it is indubitably superior to The Lies of Locke Lamora. After all, Lynch finally delivers on an unspoken promise dangled before the reader since that first volume: we get to meet Sabetha!

Having heard about Sabetha for two entire books, it’s a pleasure to finally meet her in the flesh. The Republic of Thieves introduces two Sabethas: Sabetha in her youth, when Locke first meets her in Shade’s Hill, and then later when they are reunited as part of the Gentlemen Bastards; and Sabetha in adulthood, having lived and conned alone for years, reunited with Locke in Karthain to match wits and compete against each other to rig an election. Young Locke courts Sabetha for the first time while they spend a summer on stage outside Camorr. Older Locke must reconcile his lust and love for Sabetha with the obstacles put in place by their Bondsmagi employers.

This parallel structure that worked so well The Lies of Locke Lamora once more provides a satisfactory look at how both Locke and Sabetha have grown and changed (or not changed, as the case might be). The previous books all featured great depictions of women; Lynch demonstrates how it’s possible to create a cornucopia of cultures with varying traditions and attitudes and still feature women characters who are diverse and interesting individuals. But The Republic of Thieves, with its character of Sabetha, is the superlative use of this talent. She is the foil to Locke’s Magnificent Bastard personality, and boy does she know how to take him down a notch or two, in both time periods.

I love how Sabetha explains to Locke why being with him is so frustrating. She points out the deference shown to him by the other Gentlemen Bastards, and then goes on to point out how he takes it for granted. That’s right: Lynch has Sabetha talk about Locke’s privilege. And it’s great to see him sputter and at a loss for words, because he is completely prepared to declare his love and extol her virtues and protest his fidelity … but there was no way for him to anticipate those critiques. Though I don’t know from personal experience, I suspect this is typical of many relationships … all the second-guessing one does is for nought, because usually the problem is that one is totally oblivious to what the problem is….

Locke’s fallibility has always been a strength of this series. He is clever, fast to think on his feet, and ferociously loyal—yet people still manage to get the better of him at times. The fun comes from watching him take revenge or escape by the skin of his teeth by improvising upon his improvisations. Every once in a while, however, something happens that he can’t improvise his way out of, not entirely. Something blindsides him, and there are genuine moments of bewilderment. Sabetha’s critiques of him are one of those, as are Patience’s revelations about his origins.

That’s the part I’m ambivalent about. On one hand, I love that Lynch continues to expand the mythology he is building in this world. On the other hand, it’s just not a direction I expected him to go in—and maybe that should excite me, but it doesn’t. I suppose I’m worried it’s a cludge to give Locke a little more angst without actually changing too much about the formula or format of the series.

Still, at this point in the game, I guess Lynch has earned a good deal of leeway from me!

The political machinations in The Republic of Thieves are great fun. Locke’s energy, as Jean observes, has never been higher in recent memory. He inhabits the carefree character of election manager Sebastian Lazari and comes up with all manner of interesting schemes. I kind of expected the contest to end up the way it did—Lynch foreshadows the outcome, rather obliquely, in the flashbacks—but it was still well-executed.

Likewise, the theatrical subplot in the flashbacks is also great fun. Locke, Sabetha, Jean, and the Sanzas find themselves embroiled in their very first major con game—more of out necessity than avarice or ambition—and it’s so great. Complication upon complication piles up, and only their quick wits and specialized skill set allow them to escape.

If, like me, you’re a fan of this series, then there’s little that you won’t like in The Republic of Thieves. It’s once more a fun book that nevertheless has high stakes and a strong emotional arc. Lynch is a master at creating characters you care about and plots that you can sink your teeth into.

If you’re new, don’t start here. I mean you could, but that would be shooting yourself in the foot. It is so worthwhile to start at the first book. You’ll gobble them up like the richest, most filling of desserts. And then, like me, you will be stuck waiting for the next book … soon….

My reviews of the Gentleman Bastard series:
← Red Seas Under Red Skies

Miles Vorkosigan has a mixed bag. On one hand, he’s the Barrayaran heir to a title. He has parents who care about him and have given him a first-class education. When he travels off-world to Beta Colony, he gets sweet diplomatic immunity and a tough bodyguard. Then again, the bodyguard is there in case someone tries to kill him. That’s the other hand. Exposure to a toxin in the womb has left Miles with weakened, underdeveloped bones that are prone to breaking. His diminutive stature doesn’t work in his favour on Barrayar, where people are rather reactionary about that sort of thing. It also washes him out of getting into the military academy, leaving Miles to consider how else he should spend the rest of his life.

The actual plot behind The Warrior’s Apprentice sneaks up on you. At first his trip to Beta Colony seems like a diversion, something to help establish character and setting before we proceed to the real task of finding out what Miles will do in lieu of becoming an officer. It’s not until you’re neck-deep in Miles’ increasingly complex scheme to pose as a merchant/smuggler/mercenary that you realize this is the novel, and it’s wonderful.

Lois McMaster Bujold is great at fusing elements from different cultures and time periods to create unique yet familiar societies. One of the difficulties in writing other cultures is the “uncanny valley” problem. Different cultures have different traditions, yes, but some human behaviour recurs across cultures. Most societies have swindlers and schemers, heroes and helpers, people who know how to make money, and people who are excessively indolent, motivated, knowledgeable, or creative. It takes a good deal of thoughtfulness and effort to portray such variations within the parameters one creates, or adopts, from one’s synthetic or existing cultural template.

Bujold does this multiple times, from Barrayar to Beta Colony to Tau Ceti and beyond. She juxtaposes the reactionary culture of Barrayar with the progressive, collectivist tendencies of Beta Colony. Miles, of course, being a literal mixing of these two cultures, is an interesting test bed for their confluence: he is a Barrayaran noble, but he has some very Betan ideas about how people (especially women) might be allowed to behave.

I suppose we could call The Warrior’s Apprentice a bildungsroman. I don’t know if that’s the most interesting way to look at it. Miles is definitely the central character and protagonist, but he’s just so bemused by everything that happens. He dives into something that looks like it will be a minor diversion, only for it to develop into an interstellar incident that results in charges of treason…. This is amusing, and it’s worth noting how Miles grows. (Some things about him never change though—he retains that habit of small acts that are supposed to be diversions coming back to bite him.)

Still, Miles is only as good as the people who work with him. And that’s where the most enjoyment with this book lies: the supporting cast. From the terse Sergeant Bothari to his daughter, Elena, and all the people they meet on this adventure, the supporting characters react to Miles’ larger-than-life wit and confidence with a charming mixture of compliance and incredulity. Miles displays a talent for leadership that will serve him well. But he also shows how much he relies on other people. Without Jesek’s technical skill or Mayhew’s piloting prowess or Elena’s fierce commitment and perseverance, Miles would not succeed. So while it’s true that Miles Vorkosigan is himself and interesting and appealing character, it’s really the community he creates around himself that is the star of The Warrior’s Apprentice.

Despite Miles admittedly interfering in another society’s civil war, this book doesn’t have quite the same far-reaching scope as Barrayar or Shards of Honour does. If that’s the criteria you’re using, you might well rank this book among the “lesser” books of the Vorkosigan saga. Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. That’s sometimes what happens with skilled authors of series this sprawling. I’m discovering that when it comes to Bujold, even a lesser book results in an afternoon or two well spent.

My reviews of the Vorkosigan saga:
← Barrayar | The Mountains of Mourning →

Third review: February 28, 2015

I was a bad boy and only recently purchased Republic of Thieves. Instead of starting it immediately, I decided to delay the pleasure. It feels strange to think that the last time I read The Lies of Locke Lamora was five years ago. As I suspected, I had forgotten almost all of the actual plot details. I’m glad I decided to re-read this, and to read Red Seas Under Red Skies again, before I start the third book. Why read one great book when you can read three?

My appreciation for this novel has only ever increased. You can read my first two reviews below. I don’t have a lot to add to those. The book itself hasn’t changed, but I have. I’ve graduated from university, spent two years teaching in England, and now I’m back here, kinda-sorta teaching. I’ve grown up, might be a little more cynical and definitely more sarcastic than I used to be—so I thought I wouldn’t necessarily like this as much as I used to. I was wrong. The Lies of Locke Lamora took me back to the basics; Scott Lynch reminds me of how much I love stories about con artists and heists. Yet beneath that decoration, it’s more accurate to say that this is a book about friendship and loyalty.

Every major character, no matter where they lie along the spectrum of protagonist or antagonist, in this book acts how they do out of loyalty. The Grey King’s entire modus operandi is to avenge the deaths of his family. Doña Vorchenza is the Duke’s most loyal servant. The Salvaras have a touching marital loyalty going on. And then you’ve got the Gentlemen Bastards. It’s no accident, how all those flashbacks Lynch includes are object lessons in loyalty, perseverance, and trust. I know that in my first review I thought the flashbacks were more of a nuisance than not, but I enjoyed them a lot more this time. They’re an efficient way of building Locke’s character without constraining the story to a boring, linear trajectory.

As for Locke and Jean’s friendship … well, I want to keep this review spoiler-free, so I’ll only say this: “I don't have to beat you. I just have to keep you here ... until Jean comes.”

I mean, damn.

(Plus, if you’ve read Red Seas Under Red Skies, you know what happens. You know what I’m talking about.)

In this reading I was also struck by Lynch’s amazing ability with worldbuilding. He makes the world seem much bigger than what we actually see on the page. Some authors don’t have a very clear conception of what their world is like—there are a lot of blank spaces on their maps. Others have detailed biographies of every minor character—but the trouble is that they feel the need to share all those details with the reader! Lynch is among the elite rank of authors who’ve done the research, done the creation, but don’t drown the reader in extraneous exposition. He has invented months and a way of naming the years after the gods and whatnot, but he doesn’t include appendices explaining these systems, and he certainly doesn’t shoehorn such explanations into the text. We just roll with it. It sounds just familiar enough that it becomes part of the flavour of the novel, just alien enough that it helps build up some character for the setting.

It’s also worth noting that this is a dense novel. The paperback edition I have has normal-sized print, but it has slim margins and eschews any headers or footers besides modest page numbers at the bottom. It’s a long book too. That’s because Lynch packs a lot in it—plots within plots within plots within cons and schemes. And it’s awesome.

Other than that, I think my second review covers most of the bases. The Lies of Locke Lamora is, simply put, delightful. It’s a fantasy book I would recommend to anyone thinking, “I don’t read a lot of fantasy, so where can I start?” Magic exists, but it isn’t too in-your-face. And Lynch manages the whole gamut of emotion, from humour through farce and dialogue to the gutwrenching, stomach-punching tragedy of losing the ones we love.

It’s like a movie that you really like: even when you remember the details and the characters (which I didn’t this time around), you take such pleasure from hanging around them and watching them in their element. (I think this would make a great TV series and could work well as an adaptation—but that’s neither here nor there.) After reading The Lies of Locke Lamora three times, I’m starting to see why I keep re-reading it. And I’ve no doubt I will read it again, and again.

Second review: October 9, 2009. Rating: 5 stars

In case the following new review doesn't make it absolutely clear, on a second reading, my admiration of The Lies of Locke Lamora has only increased. Even though I knew what would happen and anticipated every twist, I still enjoyed the book. While I don't think "re-readability" is a requirement for a great book, it certainly helps.

I quite enjoyed the story. It starts out as a con game and quickly becomes about intra-city politics, class warfare, and revenge. No one is whom they seem to be. There's just something so satisfying about watching Locke Lamora and his gang of Gentlemen Bastards execute a confidence game. Maybe I'm a sociopath; certainly it's a valid criticism that the protagonist of the book is a thief. As thieves and rogues go, however, Locke and his bunch aren't bad—they're certainly better than the cutthroat brigands who form one of the two antagonist groups. And the other antagonist group, the largely clueless nobility led by the slightly-less-clueless Dona Vorchenza, isn't much better—there's a reason we switched to democracy, right?

Locke Lamora is everything you expect from the brains behind a con game: sneaky, devious, and a smart-ass. He'll talk back to anyone—even the most scary character in the book, the Karthani Bondsmage known only as "the Falconer." When he's not patronizing you, you should be worried, because that means he's playing you, like he plays Capa Barsavi, once the most important criminal in Camorr, and Dona Vorchenza, Duke Nicovante's secret spymaster.

I suppose I should also telegraph my love for Jean Tannen, Locke's sidekick and muscle. Lynch has a nice way of introducing Jean: he beats up young Locke. Yay, I like when the main character gets taken down a notch! Jean's got brains too—he reads books—but prefers to let Locke build the schemes even as he cuts down anyone in the way. Their symbiotic relationship is perfectly summed up in one flashback scene, which is actually foreshadowing for the climax: "I don't have to beat you. I just have to keep you here ... until Jean comes." Awesome.

Camorr comes alive through Lynch's description of the way the city and its inhabitants operate. There's a great deal of exposition in this book, but it seldom interrupts the unity of the story. As a result, we learn all about the culture of Camorr, how other peoples view the Camorri, and what it's like to be a thief in the city. In a way, the city itself is a character.

And it fits perfectly into this novel's tone of badass underdogs versus ruthless villains. Both groups are equally matched when it comes to wits too; Lynch expertly balances the schemes of both the protagonists and antagonists to create a nice element of risk toward the climax. The first time I read this, I certainly didn't know exactly what the Grey King had up his sleeve; every time he stood up and pontificated his "actual" plan, we'd quickly learn it was just the uppermost layer of a Xanatos Gambit! And he's not the only one with a plan. Of course Locke is going to win in the end—at a terrible price—but along the way he suffers many setbacks. He's awesome, but he's flawed and far from invincible, which makes him a believable character.

Instead of learning about the Grey King's actual totally ultimate evil plan from his own mouth, we refreshingly hear it from the mouth of a tortured henchman whom Locke and Jean capture. In fact, although this book has a lot of exposition and flashbacks, it makes up for this by defying expectations when it comes to direct confrontations between two major characters. I cheered aloud when Dona Vorchenza jabbed Locke in the neck with a poisoned knitting needle, proceeded to tell him how he would now surrender, and he punched her in the face and stole the antidote before running away. Finally, a hero who does logical things when at the mercy of an antagonist! My relief is palpable.

Have I extolled The Lies of Locke Lamora enough? Are you crying out, "Enough, already! We get it, Ben; you liked the book!" Hopefully I've given you an idea regarding whether you'd enjoy reading it. This book is fun, while at the same time maintaining suspense and a sense of danger. If so inclined, you can grow attached to some of the characters. That's often difficult with even the best of books, but Lynch's style and way with dialogue make it easy here.

Of course I have some criticism to offer. It's much the same as what I said in my first review, however, so I won't repeat it here. I've included my first (and less well-written) review below.

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First review: September 10, 2008. Rating: 4 stars

The Lies of Locke Lamora offers entertaining characters who all seem to have schemes of their own, exciting action scenes, and equally excellent exposition. Scott Lynch has created a refreshing fantasy story that revolves not around "the chosen one" but around a thief. While this may not be original, Lynch's Locke Lamora is a charming thief with whom I bonded as he becomes the underdog through successive struggles in the story.

Alliteration aside, I enjoyed this book in a way I haven't for a while (mostly because I spent the summer reading The Sword of Truth series). When I reached the climax, I couldn't wait to turn the next page--unfortunately, I had to go to class. Lynch is a good storyteller; he keeps the reader interested while still managing to convey enough details to create a rich setting. Camorr is Venice, with a pinch of magic sprinkled among pseudo-science. I appreciate how Lynch seamlessly integrates magic into his setting: no endless speeches explaining the rules of the author's pet system of magic. I hate that!

Locke Lamora is an orphan who rises to become the leader of a gang of thieves for whom misdirection is everything. They regularly breach Capa Barsavi's Secret Peace--that the thieves of Camorr, or "Right People" as they call themselves, will steal only from commoners and merchants, not from nobles or the "yellowjacket" city watch. Yet to everyone outside their group, the Gentlemen Bastards seem to be nothing more than mediocre thieves. Unfortunately, Lamora's penchant for disguise catches up to him when he becomes a reluctant pawn in a power struggle for control of Camorr's thieves.

While Lynch does a good job weaving backstory into the book using flashback, some of the backstory seems superfluous, and that broke the unity of the story. I would pause and think, "Oh, that's nice. Can I get back to the plot now?" Some of the scenes could have been cut to tighten up the writing, and I would not have missed them.

The book was rushed toward the end--climaxes tend to lead to an increased pace, of course, but in this case I felt that the need for the climax drove the story toward an artificial resolution rather than the other way around. I can forgive Lynch for this simply because I derived great enjoyment from his characterization of Lamora toward the ending.

This edition includes a sneak peek at the second book in the series, and I must say that I can't wait to read it!

My Reviews of the Gentleman Bastard sequence:
Red Seas Under Red Skies →