Are you ready for this?

Guys, are you ready for this?

It doesn’t matter what you answered. You are not ready for this. None of the preceding five books could prepare us for The Capture.

See, the Yeerks have built a shiny new hospital that they have staffed with Controllers. That way, they can infect the people who go there for treatment—including powerful people, like the state governor, who might one day be the President of the United States. Yikes! So the Animorphs come up with a plan to infiltrate the hospital and put a stop to that, and—wait for it—it goes horribly wrong.

In fact, from now on, just assume that whenever I say “the Animorphs come up with a plan…” the “it goes horribly wrong” is implied. Because it always does.

These books are far too short. Fellow Animorphist (Is that a thing? I’m making it a thing. It’s so fetch.) Julie opined on my review of #1: The Invasion that Applegate’s sparse prose is a positive, earning her the moniker “the Hemingway of YA,” and I can see her point. These books were originally coming out fast and furious, only a few months apart. That doesn’t exactly leave much time for details. Still, I dislike it for entirely selfish reasons. Back in the day, I used to be able to stretch these out for at least the whole day. Now they last maybe an hour, if I’m careful. And I’m only six books in, but I still feel like I’m going through them too fast. Yet I can’t wait to tackle the next one! Graaargh!

Anyway, The Capture kicks off what we might tentatively call the second arc of the Animorphs series. The first five books form the introductory arc, in which we meet each of the Animorphs in first person, and we see them become personally invested in the fight against the Yeerks. With book 6, we start to learn more about the larger galaxy-wide war between the Yeerks and those who oppose them (mostly the Andalites)—Applegate even goes so far as to tantalize us with a vision at the very end of a mysterious being:

And then I saw it.

A creature. Or a machine. Some combination of both. It had no arms. It sat still, as if unable to move, on a throne that was miles high.

Its head was a single eye. The eye turned slowly … left … right …

I trembled. I prayed it would not look my way.

And then it saw me.

The eye, the bloodred eye, looked straight at me.

It saw me.

It SAW me!

Oh, snap! The Eye of Sauron! Er, I mean, Crayak! I had forgotten that Applegate foreshadows Crayak as early as this book, and if I had any doubts she had a master plan and knew what she was doing, this lays them to rest. But of course, where Crayak lurks, the Ellimist must be just around the corner….

Jake has this vision after the Yeerk inhabiting him, poor unlucky Temrash, dies from Kandrona withdrawal. The idea that Jake of all people should become a Controller is a powerful and creepy one. I can’t really critique Applegate’s writing this time around: she does a fantastic job conveying the utter helplessness of Yeerk possession. Couple that with the fact that Temrash, until recently, was the Yeerk in control of Jake’s brother, Tom, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for heart-wrenching drama.

Layered atop this drama, however, is just enough comedy to keep us going. That’s the Animorphs way. It doesn’t take long for Controller!Jake to betray himself, and the Animorphs react swiftly. They put in place a pretty solid plan to isolate Controller!Jake until the Yeerk dies. And, to their credit, it actually works.

I want to emphasize this. At the top of the review I mock the Animorphs for their plans going sideways (and to be fair, no plan, not even ones formulated by military geniuses, survives contact with the enemy). I think the way that they handle Jake’s capture is perhaps the first time in this series where they develop and successfully execute a plan in a way that leads to total victory for them. Most of their other triumphs so far have been accidental more than intentional. But this? This is all them.

While Jake confronts the existential horror of being trapped in his own body with a Yeerk for company, Applegate keeps things light with Temrash’s mounting frustration as the Animorphs thwart escape attempt after escape attempt. Temrash is eager to exploit Jake’s morphing powers, but the other Animorphs always seem one step ahead, going so far as to lay traps that Temrash then falls into. Eventually he betrays a level of frustration that rivals Visser Three’s obsession with those sneaky Andalite warriors, and I start to wonder whether all of the powerful Yeerks are actually just deranged psychotics with child-like levels of maturity.

Applegate wisely does not go near the can of worms that is a Yeerk in the body of someone who can morph. Too many questions. When a Controller morphs, the Yeerk is still in control, so presumably it is still wrapped around the brain of its host body, whatever form that might be. But what if the animal is smaller than a Yeerk, like a flea? I guess the Yeerk body shrinks commensurately? Or is the Yeerk body itself transformed during the morphing process—in which case, can a Yeerk leave its host when it is morphed? If a Yeerk in a morph gets trapped in morph, does it still need Kandrona rays, or has it become merged with the morphed animal?

So many questions. Animorphists, please commence a flame war in the comment thread!

The only thing I wish we had seen more of is Ax impersonating Prince Jake so no one gets suspicious. Thankfully, Applegate includes a few tidbits about what this must have been like (Ax does like his food). Still, I would love to read more about this. Can we have a short story called “A Day in the Life of Prince Jake,” in which Ax recounts everything he did as Jake? Does that fanfic exist? (I don’t want to go searching for it, because I really don’t want to come across Animorph porn….)

Finally, a shout-out to Rachel and Cassie’s exchange at the start of Chapter 6:

“How long do you think this will take?” Rachel asked. She checked her watch. “I set the VCR for two of my favorite shows, but I forgot to tape the movie of the week.”

“I’m taping it in case you miss it,” Cassie said.

Oh, those were the days. I remember having to know how to program a VCR. Do you remember? Pepperidge Farm remembers.

Next review I get to revel in Rachel’s raw sense of self again! It’s also meet-and-greet time with the Animorphs’ personal Trickster/nearly-omnipotent godlike being, the Ellimist. But don’t worry, the Animorphs have a plan….

My reviews of Animorphs:
← #5: The Predator | #7: The Stranger →

Well, don’t I feel all unoriginal. Here I was, prepared to critique this book’s extremely dry, technical style … only to read some of the other reviews on Goodreads and discover it is almost universally remarked upon. There goes that approach!

To be fair, I was going to moderate my criticism by pointing out that if you are studying linguistics or have anything more than the passing interest in it that I do, then The Last Lingua Franca is the book for you. It could be a textbook for a linguistics class. Nicholas Ostler doesn’t just opine; he brings it: facts and charts and footnotes and endnotes and everything you could possibly want from an academic text. The prose is careful and precise enough that it verges at times like reading like a full-on academic paper. Did not expect that from a guy with a hair-do like the one in his author photograph (just goes to show you can’t judge someone based on their author photograph).

None of these are negatives. In fact, we should hope that more books could be as precise as this one, that more authors should refuse to bow to the sensationalist populism that occasionally infects the most well-meaning science writers. If anything, this should just prompt a discussion about the relationship between the readability and density of prose versus the benefit one gets from the information it contains. Ostler goes into incredible detail about the history and spread not just of languages but of the cultures and societies that used them. I learned a great deal about the Middle East, India, and Asia that I didn’t know before, even as I skimmed over probably twice as much.

One consequence—probably not primary but almost certainly intentional—of Ostler’s inexorable display of erudition is a reminder of our Eurocentric worldview in the West. This is particularly a problem for education. I learned a lot about Western history, or history from a Western perspective, in school. My knowledge of the timelines and scales for events like the advent of Islam, rise and fall of the Mughal and Ottoman Empires, etc., is scattered at best. These just aren’t things that we learn about in school, yet of course, Asia had its own dramatic history before Britain and the Netherlands spread their trade empire into its corners. So, good on Ostler for jolting me out of my comfortable Eurocentric wolrdview.

The history lesson is a bonus, but like I said, it didn’t hold my interest all that much. I was not expecting Ostler to get that technical about what makes the various languages tick. Maybe I should have. Reviews that reduce Ostler’s main argument to “machine translation will obviate the need for any lingua franca” are on the right track. I understand the criticisms that this last part is rushed considering it seems to be the thesis of the book. However, I agree with Ostler that a survey of the historical use and spread of lingua francas is essential to understanding how English, as the current dominant lingua franca across the world, might change in the future. Until we have a more rigorous and well-founded understanding of the history of languages, we can’t really form good opinions on what their futures might be.

So the history lesson is not just a bonus but an essential component of The Last Lingua Franca. And depending on your tolerance for the technical detail behind components of language, you’ll love it or be lukewarm towards it. But what of the main event, this discussion of the future of lingua francas and the celebration of our Robot Overlords?

I agree with those who find this section short considering it is, you know, the title of the book. Ostler could have spent just as much time exploring the history of machine translation attempts as he did on the history of Persian and Latin. He could delve into the intricacies of information theory, and actually explain how natural-language processing works. Instead he gives a half-hearted rendition of ASCII and Unicode’s inception. Then he claims that machine translation will eventually be “good enough” to serve as a lingua franca.

Here I’m inclined to be more charitable than others. Ostler’s argument here is not overly optimistic. For one thing, he’s right: machine translation is approaching the point where, in many situations, it is good enough—and that’s only going to get better. I know it’s easy to laugh at the stupid mistakes Google Translate or its cousins makes, but once upon a time we never thought these “computers” would be good for much. Technology continually surprises us, so I’m not going to bet against machine translation.

Speaking of which, Ostler could have spent more time looking at projects that involve technology and language. Crowdsourcing offers a vast potential for augmenting machine translation. Projects like Global Voices aim to make news from around the world accessible in over 30 languages. Such efforts could well contribute to removing the need for a lingua franca in much the same way machine translation would. If machine translation continues to get better, and crowdsourcing continues to become easier to do … well, there’s lots of possibilities.

In some ways, The Last Lingua Franca feels like two books awkwardly combined. The first could survive without the second; Ostler serves up an admirable history of lingua francas. The second requires the first, however—but it’s not itself very deeply developed or interesting. And that’s a shame, because it should be the shining moment for this book.

Ostler’s research and knowledge in this field is clearly impressive. The Last Lingua Franca is well-written, albeit in a tone that requires patience and careful attention. He certainly educations and opens eyes. But there are missteps along the way that make the book less successful than it might otherwise be.

There’s a paradoxical tension that lies at the heart of a lot of fantasy. The presence of magic seemingly makes some things that are impossible for us easy, or even commonplace. People can heal (or even come back from the dead). People can shapeshift into animals, or use telepathy, or see long distances without the aid of a telescope. Yet this often occurs in a setting that is pre-industrial (at best), a world that knows not of flush toilets, cars, and cell phones. Sure, you might be able to heal your flesh wound if you know a wizard—but if you don’t, you will probably die of infection that we can now easily prevent.

Emma Newman examines this tension in Between Two Thorns. Cathy Rhoeas-Papaver is the scion of a Fae-touched family. She used to live in Aquae Sulis, a magical reflection of Bath. There, she and her family do not age. They exist merely as puppets and playthings of the Fae, to participate in a bizarre and twisted reflection of what high society once was in, say, the early nineteenth century. But in addition to not-ageing and going to balls, they learn charms and other little magicks. They think they are better off. But Cathy’s governess infected her with thoughts of “Mundanus,” our world, and so Cathy ran away to go to university. And now she is being dragged back home to get married off into a life of servitude and knowing one’s place.

There is so much to unpack here. But what affected me most is the emotional and physical abuse Cathy suffers at the hands of her family. She is punished merely for refusing to conform to her family’s and society’s expectations for how a woman should behave. Her father beats her. Her brother displays genuine tenderness towards her but nonetheless promises to put a “Doll’s Charm” on her and render her paralysed if she resists him in bringing her back home. Because she would rather live in Mundanus, age, fall in love with a mortal boy than live her life as an empty-headed wife.

Newman is very effective at portraying the way in which abusive people isolate their victim. Once back in Aquae Sulis, Cathy is always supervised and watched. She is essentially kept leashed, allowed out only on special occasions to interact with the fiancé she does not want. Combine this with the fact that nobody else in Cathy’s society really understands or believes that she could possibly not want to participate, and virtually all avenues of escape are cut off for her. It’s only through the extraordinary circumstances of Cathy’s collision with the other plot that she can grasp at any hope whatsoever.

The other plot concerns Max, an Arbiter, a human charged by one of the Sorcerers to police Fae influence on Mundanus. The Sorcerers are apparently the cabal who managed to exile the Fae to Exilium (they are not, however, the most creative bunch when it comes to names). As far as I can tell, the Fae can move between worlds, but they aren’t supposed to do that very often, or else it threatens the balance established by whatever contract the Sorcerers negotiated with them.

If it sounds like I’m fuzzy on the details, that’s because Newman offers very little in the way of exposition. From the beginning to the end, Between Two Thorns keeps its cards close to its chest. However, if you’re paying attention, the internal consistency of the world slowly comes into focus, and you pick up on the details here and there. I really appreciate this “slow burn” approach to worldbuilding.

So, gradually, we learn more about the roles and relationships among the Arbiters, Sorcerers, Fae-touched, and Fae. It’s all very complicated—and, one gets the sense, very precariously balanced. Someone (or multiple parties) appear to be upsetting that balance. Max tries to solve this mystery, enlisting Cathy in a somewhat ad hoc manner, along with a clueless computer programmer who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh, and Max’s soul is presently living inside a gargoyle. Can’t forget that detail.

Even as Cathy plays spy, then, in an attempt to find out who among the Fae-touched appears to be behind the machinations in Mundanus, she has to figure out a way to deal with her fiancé, William Reticulata-Iris. Here’s another place where I appreciate Newman’s deft touch. William doesn’t seem like a bad fellow—but he’s a product of his society, and those values are very much ingrained in him. Hence, although he is courteous to Cathy, he still regrets that his family has promised him to someone so plain-looking and ill-mannered. And Newman doesn’t commit the sin of making these two ill-matched people fall in love with each other. Cathy and Will’s relationship is every bit as nuanced, complicated, and volatile as one would expect given how circumstance has thrown them together.

Overall, Newman’s depiction of the Fae-touched society exemplifies the paradox I mentioned in my introduction. As Cathy reflects, the Fae-touched like to look down on ordinary mortals … but no one in Aquae Sulis has a flush-toilet or running water, let alone electricity. The Sorcerer’s reaction to the notion of using a computer to help him track Way-opening activity is humorous. Yet all this technology would certainly improve their lives. And, keep in mind, we’re talking about people who don’t age here. Can you imagine going centuries without running water?

I admit there are aspects of how Newman’s world works that aren’t entirely clear. If Fae-touched don’t age, how come overpopulation is not a problem? Does everyone eventually die in a duel, or become enslaved in Exilium? If not, I don’t understand how the society can continue to function and have comings out for its younger members if the older ones don’t eventually vacate pride of place for them. Similarly, I would have liked to learn a little more about the history of these worlds, how and why the Sorcerers imprisoned the Fae, that sort of thing.

Given the leisurely pacing of the majority of the book, the climax slips into a much higher gear than I anticipated. Cathy and William briefly team up to expose the bad guys, and then suddenly there’s a Sorcerer, and then there’s a denouement where the authorities can hand out punishments … and it’s over, in barely the blink of an eye. It just feels so very easy, compared to some of the tribulations that Cathy faces getting to that point (Lord Poppy is one passive-aggressive mofo, and don’t get me started about Tinkerfaeries).

These are minor quibbles, however, held up against what is otherwise a surprisingly engrossing story. From Cathy’s rebellion to Max’s sleuthing, Newman creates a layered narrative that comes together into a neat faerie tale. I’ll be honest: I wasn’t expecting much from this; faeries can be hit-and-miss for me. Newman makes the right call in not hewing too closely to “established” faerie lore, like the Winter/Summer or Seelie/Unseelie Courts (or if she is, she isn’t showing those cards yet either). She forges a new path, one with tantalizing hints at deeper mythology we’ll hopefully explore in the sequels. Until then, if you want a story with faeries that nonetheless embraces all the foibles of being human, take a look at this.

I have never read anything else by Peter S. Beagle.

Just want to make that clear, since I know that in some corners of the fantasyscape, he is a Big Deal. He’s Known. Renowned, even. So this little collection of short stories of his was probably met with squeals of glee from fans the world over when it was published (back in 2009, because I am 6 years behind on my to-read list these days). I was not one of those people.

But I might be, some day.

We Never Talk About My Brother starts off on a very good note: it has a foreword by Charles de Lint. He talks about how Beagle is one of the first writers he, as a reader, was aware of who wrote fantasy set in our world. Of course, that is now one of de Lint’s major claims to fame, so he knows what he’s talking about. And he was totally right. I might even go so far as to say that, clause for clause, Beagle is actually more of a wordsmith than de Lint.

I don’t really want to wade into the false dichotomy of literary versus genre fiction. But Beagle verily shatters the notion of such a dichotomy; he is a literary fantasy writer, and if your brain explodes at such a notion, then read not this book. Each story is crafted with the skill of Margaret Atwood or Alice Munro. Beagle writes about people like us, or like people we might know, who happen to have experiences a little out of the ordinary. (Another loaded term I could throw out there, if I cared to, might be magical realism—but I don’t care to do that. No, sir, I do not.)

I have, in the past, done that thing where one goes through each story in the anthology and reviews it separately. It is a sensible though naive approach to reviewing anthologies, and it would certainly be easy to accomplish for one with nine stories in it. Yet this approach ignores the fact that some stories are disproportionately better than others—and I mean that from an entirely subjective sense; a story might speak to me here even if another thinks it is awful.

So let me highlight the ones I really, really liked.

The titular “We Never Talk About My Brother,” which is the second tale, is fantastic. Beagle takes a brilliant central idea and unspools it layer by layer until he reaches the core nugget that makes it not just fantasy but somewhat unsettling, verging upon but not quite breaching that tenuous veil between fantasy and horror. This is a story of psychological warfare on a Biblical level.

Likewise, “The Stickball Witch,” has a similar first-person perspective with a moral at the end that left me both entertained and thoughtful. It reminded me quite a bit of an episode of Recess—I don’t think this was intentional on Beagle’s part, but sometimes the best associations aren’t.

I was actually surprised by how much I liked “By Moonlight,” even though it hews closer to many of the standard tropes about faeries. This is probably thanks to Beagle’s great style; he’s a consummate teller of stories by storytellers.

I think all the stories here are good in one way or another, though I didn’t particularly like “The Last and Only, or, Mr. Moscowitz Becomes French,” and because poetry is not my thing, “The Unicorn Tapestries” left me pretty numb. I suspect there are plenty who will call these their favourites, though.

I’m at a loss to draw deeper comparisons between the stories or talk subtext here. I would like to read more of Beagle’s work before I try that. That’s probably the main takeaway from this review: enjoyed the book, will read more. Hopefully it won’t take me six years this time.

Marco finds the location of the main Yeerk pool. (It’s underneath the Gap, guys! We don’t have a Gap in Thunder Bay any more. But I remember when we had one—in the nineties.) It’s too difficult to destroy the pool, but if they can find the Kandrona that emits the rays the Yeerks need to live, then they can deal a serious blow to the Yeerks. Don’t worry, the Animorphs have a plan … and I’ll let you guess how well that turns out.

Good thing the Ellimist shows up to be minimally helpful! (TVTropes)

I had forgotten how soon the Ellimist becomes involved in the series. As I reflected in the previous review, this demonstrates Applegate’s larger plan for the series beyond “kids fight body-snatching aliens by turning into animals.” As much as I might be inclined to criticize things like the writing style or the length (and that last is mostly because I just want more Animorphs!), I can’t fault the way Applegate foreshadows what is to come.

The Ellimist is a gigantic dick in this book. He shows up and claims he’ll transport the Animorphs, some of their family, and a few other humans to an Earth-like planet where humanity can survive. After the Animorphs refuse, it comes back with a whopping possible future in which Rachel is a Controller and the Yeerks have conquered Earth. But even that proves to be more of a gambit on the Ellimist’s part than anything else—sneaky fellow.

I had also forgotten how even the earliest books are very dark and serious when it comes to the psychological effects of war. People often pan the ending of the series, because it really isn’t a very happy one, but it’s not like Applegate ever lied to us. She never made it easy for the Animorphs. I mean, their plans never work out the first time around, and in this case a nearly-omnipotent alien had to save them.

And when they do find the Kandrona and decide a full-frontal assault is the most sensible way to take it out? Dismemberment. Gaping wounds. Not only is it pretty graphic, for what is ostensibly preteen literature, but some of the Animorphs nearly die.

This is Book 7.

We get to see it all from the perspective of gung-ho Rachel! Each Animorph reacts differently to the prospect that losing this war is a foregone conclusion. Rachel, being an Action Girl, needs to lash out: she has to do something, take control. She goes for a flight, finds another fighting morph, anything. Applegate mirrors this in Rachel’s reaction to being invited to move out of state with her father. As with the grim future scenario, Rachel cannot seem to do anything to change her father’s decision to move. She feels powerless, trapped—and that is so not Rachel’s jam.

I just love how Rachel will never, ever give up or settle for less than winning. She revels in the power of her new grizzly morph and its feeling of invincibility, because as a teenaged girl, she feels vulnerable and wants to wrap herself up in that grizzly morph. She wants to charge through all the obstacles in her life, be they of alien or human origin. And she does this with utter conviction and commitment.

Even though so much of The Stranger is serious, however, Applegate still manages to find time for the humorous. Take, for instance, Marco’s approach to getting them into the building that houses the Kandrona:

<Hi.> Marco said in thought-speak. <I just came from a masquerade party, and I was looking for Visser Three.>

And then, once inside and in their fighting morphs, they cram into a freight elevator, and this happens:

<Can you press the button? I sure can’t.> Jake said. He held up one of his huge paws to show me.

It wasn’t easy. Bear paws aren’t exactly subtle tools. But after carefully lining up my first claw, I hit the top button.

Ordinarily I don’t visualize while reading. In this case, though, I couldn’t help but picture a bear, tiger, and gorilla waiting in an elevator, trying to figure out how to punch for the top floor. And then, elevator music playing as they ride. That is the kind of visual gag they should have had in that horrible TV show Nickelodeon made. Oh well.

(Oh, and Rachel also talks about going to see a new Keanu Reeves movie. So nineties!)

In the end, what do we take away from this book? Well, there are far stranger beings out there than the Yeerks or the Andalites. The Ellimist isn’t just going to leave them alone now. And Marco’s quips about Rachel starting to crack aside, even this early in the fight, these experiences are starting to take their toll on the Animorphs.

Next up: the first Megamorphs adventure! And no, that doesn’t involve the Animorphs merging together into a single, formidable morphed being.

My reviews of Animorphs:
← #6: The Capture | Megamorphs #1: The Andalite’s Gift →

Every ongoing but somewhat formulaic series has its tipping point, that moment where the overall story arc and mythos of the series’ world begins to subsume the individual plots of each book. For The Dresden Files it was Summer Knight, the fourth book, which adds faeries to the Dresdenverse. For the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, that tipping point is here, with Dawn’s Early Light.

On the surface, there is little to make Dawn’s Early Light stand out from the first two books. Once again Eliza Braun and Wellington Books are investigating a curious mystery. This time they are doing it as an officially-sanctioned team of field agents—but they are in disgrace, seconded to the United States to help the American Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical. Along the way, we find out that the House of Usher has contracted the services of a certain Mr. Edison, who has in turn stolen some very promising plans for a death ray from a certain Mr. Tesla.

Some of you, like me, will be pleased to find out that this book comes down decidedly in the pro-Tesla camp.

Despite the somewhat formulaic framework, though, there are indications that this is different even from the beginning. There is less mystery here: we learn fairly early on about Edison’s involvement. (That’s why I’m not really counting it as a spoiler.) The plot metamorphoses from investigation to a chase across country, and soon Ballantine and Morris send their foursome of agents on a merry little tour of nineteenth-century America. From North Carolina to Michigan to Arizona and then all the way out to San Francisco, Books and Braun get their fair share of travelling in.

Along the way, Ballantine and Morris throw some obstacles between the two. After that passionate kiss from Wellington at the end of The Janus Affair, I assumed that Braun and Books were an item. Clearly I was being naive; Eliza spends most of this book fuming that Wellington hasn’t made any further moves, so she flirts outrageously with her American counterpart, Bill Wheatley. Normally I’m not happy when a series contrives obstacles to two characters’ romantic happiness just ’cause, but in this case I think it works. And, to their credit, Books and Braun eventually have a conversation about it, like two adults. Well, like two adults trying to disarm a bomb. I’m not going to tell you how it works out.

To be honest, the actual chase-Edison-and-the-Pinkertons plot is rather ho-hum. Edison’s motivations are never explored to a satisfactory depth. The House of Usher is at its most transparent here, with its agents walking around with little rings to identify their affiliation. (Clearly they subscribe to the Hydra school of secret, shadowy bad guys—branding is everything!) And neither of the two subplots—much like the Campbell subplot from the previous book—mesh very well with the main story.

The first subplot concerns our favourite Italian assassin, Sophia. This time the Maestro sends her to San Francisco on a mission. She gets to play dress-up to get closer to her target, but nothing really seems to come of it. Similarly, the House of Usher contracts an Episcopal priest named Van to bring Wellington to them alive. She eventually tracks Wellington down, but then people start shooting at both of them. As with Sophia’s subplot, Van’s never seems to amount to much. I wouldn’t have missed its absence, but its presence doesn’t add another interesting dimension to the story.

So if I’m so dissatisfied with the plot, why do I think Dawn’s Early Light deserves to be called a tipping point? Why do I think it’s the best of the books in the series so far?

Simply put: the ending.

I’m not going to spoil it. Suffice it to say that there is no going back. Ballantine and Morris definitively put the series on a very specific track; the next book cannot hew to the “mystery of the month” formula. Shit is going to go down. Chaos is going to happen. We’ve got the House of Usher, the Maestro, and now something happening with the Queen of England. Maybe we’ll even get to find out what Doctor Sound has in that mysterious Restricted Section of the Archives of his. (I’m not holding my breath.)

My point is, for two books now, Ballantine and Morris have been carefully building up certain background elements of this universe. In this third book, they continue in the same vein. But suddenly, in the last chapter, everything comes to a head, and there is no going back.

There is no better way to ensure I read the next book in the series than to leave it at such a tantalizing, promising point. How are Books and Braun going to figure into this? What is Doctor Sound’s game anyway? I can’t wait to find out.

If you read the first book of this series but didn’t bother picking up The Janus Affair … skip it. Read Dawn’s Early Light instead, then read the fourth book when it comes out. This is steampunk the way I like it.

My reviews of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences series:
← The Janus Affair | The Diamond Conspiracy →

I read the first 78 pages of this book so you don’t have to.

I was trying to make it to at least 100, but I’m sorry. The body is willing but the mind is weak.

I added this book to my to-read list after reading The God Delusion; it somehow coming up as a counterpoint to Dawkins’ atheistic arguments. I just went back and re-read my review of that book, and I’m pleased to discover it’s less glowing than I thought it was. My atheist leanings have not diminished, but my enchantment with rationalism has, and Dawkins looks even more dogmatic to me now than he did to my 2009 self. In this respect, Terry Eagleton ably critiques the vitrolic nature of Dawkins’ writing. I can’t speak towards “Ditchkins” as a whole, because I haven’t read God Is Not Great. I added it to my to-read list along with this book, but it’s not exactly a priority these days. Because I have better things to do.

It’s not really the content of Reason, Faith, and Revolution that’s the problem here. If that were the case, I’d have hacked it out for all 200 small, wide-margined pages and reported back to you with a 1-star review, stuck it on my “read” shelf, and called it a day. I love demolishing arguments! No, most of the content is pretty sensible—at least, what I can decipher.

See, it’s Eagleton’s style that’s the problem. His writing is somewhere between abstruse academic word vomit and conversational diarrhea. Each individual sentence is comprehensible on its own—some of them are even catchy. Most paragraphs are cogent, albeit often requiring a level of erudition that eludes even me. But each paragraph seems to be disconnected from those that came before and after. One moment Eagleton is talking about the Englightenment, and then suddenly he’s discussing Marx, and then Wittgenstein (Wittgenstein always seems to come up as a parenthetical, for some reason).

And I’m just … wut?

There is just no coherent structure to Eagleton’s argument. And not just from chapter to chapter, which might be bad enough, but as I said above, it’s down to the paragraph level. I waded through the first chapter and a half of this book with very little idea of what Eagleton was saying, other than that everyone else has gotten everything about scientistic and theological thinking wrong, and we should all be ashamed of ourselves and each other. And I’m sure that somewhere in here is an argument worthy of analysis. But I was having to work way too hard to decipher it.

Cannot deal.

I know these derive from lectures, but that is no excuse. Douglas Coupland wrote an entire novel as a series of five hour lectures. Lawrence Hill, Neil Turok … every other author of a CBC Massey Lecture series has managed to create a halfway decent book out of their kick at the intellectual can. But no, you, you screwed it up, Eagleton. Well done.

I am all for reading books critiquing secular humanism, religion, scientism, atheism, rationalism, whatever. But they have to organized, well thought-out, and clear.

This is none of those things. So I’m going to go read another Animorphs novel before going to bed.

Seven books into the Animorphs series, and K.A. Applegate has a problem. The series is popular. Too popular. See, it’s so popular that its sales are already so high that any improvement is not only unlikely but mathematically impossible … unless she can come up with some way to make the series even bigger, even crazier. Something so wild that it transforms a horizontal asymptote on that time versus sales graph into a vertical one.

Enter Megamorphs. Whereas each regular book is told from a single Animorph’s perspective, Megamorphs is told through the voice of all Animorphs—including, for the very first time, Ax! Additionally, the stakes are higher than ever, the action is more intense than ever, and Rachel gets amnesia!

Wait, what?

Yeah, so … here’s the thing. The Andalite’s Gift is, in my opinion, one of the weakest books in the series so far. And that’s saying something, because Applegate introduces a genuinely scary new threat in this book. But the rest of the story strains at the obvious attempt to be bigger! better! stronger! While it never quite degenerates into Michael Bay territory, it verges on that kind of nonsensical action.

Let’s start with the Rachel thing. Why does Rachel have to get amnesia? Like, what purpose does it serve in this plot, except to give Rachel something to do for the entire book? This is a storytelling cliché for a reason, and Applegate never goes anywhere interesting with it. Instead she plays it up for the lulz, with Rachel regaining her memory at the most convenient time. No other adverse effects whatsoever.

And while the book supposedly includes all the Animorphs, Tobias gets shafted. The antagonist is a creature that is attracted to morphing energy, so the climax centres on Jake, Cassie, and Marco. Want to know how many viewpoint chapters Tobias has? Three. Even Ax has more than that. I’m not saying that Tobias needs parity here, but it’s just unfortunate that he gets sidelined like that when Applegate manages to find interesting things for him to do in the other books.

On the other hand, hearing Ax’s narrative voice for the first time is one of the highlights of The Andalite’s Gift. I love his clipped diction and tone. It’s both analytical in the way he describes things unfamiliar to him on this planet, and emotional in his reactions to Visser Three and his failure to go on the attack. I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I can easily forget Ax is a child sometimes (what with him having a deadly weapon on the end of his tail). These chapters really drive that home.

Other highlights include, of course, the epic chase sequence/extended action scene involving Marco driving Cassie’s dad’s pickup truck. DO YOU JUST HATE TRASH CANS? Yes, Jake. Yes we do. This scene is one among many that exemplifies the humour Applegate manages to bring to a series that is otherwise so dark and serious at times. In many ways Animorphs reminds me a lot of Chuck, a spy comedy on NBC that is one of my favourite series: a mixture of oddball humour and serious consequences. The inept chase sequence and the banter between Jake and Marco is definitely something Chuck and Morgan might have experienced.

Once again Applegate introduces a credible threat, in the form of the morph-hunting Veleek. Visser Three comes up with a plan that does not, for once, actually suck. In fact, it sounds like he has invested considerable effort into this plan—that alone is a sign that the Animorphs, despite their inability to create plans to save their lives, are actually making a dent on the Yeerks’ plans for conquering Earth. I enjoyed the way Applegate unspools the plot, from revealing the Veleek’s existence all the way to finding its weakness, and then turning it against Visser Three.

So this book is definitely not all bad! It’s still a fun adventure. It’s just that in attempting to emulate those action movies that sell so well, The Andalite’s Gift might be that sales booster everyone wants … but it’s not on the level that most of the books have been up until now.

My review of the Animorphs series:
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My, my, Patrick Rothfuss, aren’t we a little defensive about this book?

First you include a brief foreword, in which you warn us against buying this book, because this book is different. And fair enough. It’s centred on Auri, a minor character from your series, and one who is rather odd. The story itself is bound to be odd, as you warn us.

But then you add an afterword, in which you feel the need to relate a story about how Vi Hart (whom I adore, incidentally, as everything a mathematician and educator should be) told you that you need to publish this story. You go on about the genesis of this story and your agonizing decision to publish it that you have to relegate the story behind the illustrations to a blog post. (I didn’t go look up the post, no. The illustrations by Nate Taylor are lovely, though.)

We get it, Rothfuss: The Slow Regard of Silent Things is different. Stop going on about it.

So I’m not going to waste my time sitting on the fence, saying, “Well, you might like it or you might not.” That’s a silly way to write a review, because it’s true for pretty much every story. I liked it, and here’s why.

This might actually be the best story of Rothfuss’ I have read so far. The Kingkiller Chronicles are everything a sprawling fantasy opus should be—and therein lies the problem. Rothfuss is a master storyteller but not always a great writer. (He is similar to George R.R. Martin in that respect, I think.) He has such an awesome command of worldbuilding and plot, but his characterization often suffers, bogged down by those former two points. The resulting product is something like The Wise Man’s Fear, where Kvothe appears to be ascending to Ultimate Mary Sue Apotheosis. It’s a damned shame, because this is the sort of fantasy I tend to like.

The Slow Regard of Silent Things is definitely different—and in being different, it fixes a lot of the problems with Rothfuss’ novels.

Auri is great. In the novels, of course, filtered as she is by Kvothe’s narration, we don’t get a full sense of her personality. Kvothe tolerates her and feels a kind of filial affection for her, but he doesn’t understand her—the condescension that is part of his self-pride prevents him from trying to empathize with her worldview. As far as he is concerned, she is “broken,” he can’t “fix” her, so he just leaves her be. And exchanges gifts once in a while.

Auri is so much more than that, though, and here Rothfuss has a chance to show that. Yes, Auri is a little broken—but we are all broken, right? So Auri is just a little more obvious about it. Yet even in her altered state, there is a beautiful layer of order and harmony to her life-style and her behaviour. She is not predictable. But she seeks what she would perceive as a sense of stability.

There is no dialogue here. Rothfuss can indulge in his desire to describe and illuminate as much as he wants, and it’s not going to get in the way of dialogue. (I never thought dialogue was the best part of his novels anyway, so I don’t miss it.) What results is a tapestry of story, made from rich and luxurious fabric. Expressions are no longer moments related just after a character speaks; now they are a paragraph’s worth of processes. I know that might sound like a drag, but it’s not; I assure you. It actually creates a much more melodic and comfortable pace than any of the novels.

Rothfuss also uses a lot of words that don’t make it into everyday conversation any more. Again, I like it and think that works. It’s part of the whole aesthetic, working as a way of narration as characterization.

The Slow Regard of Silent Things is a completely unnecessary book. My dad asked me if he would enjoy the third Kingkiller book less if he didn’t read this. No. This isn’t going to expand your knowledge of that world, or give you insight into a key issue that will define the third book. It is something entirely on its own, sharing that world only because they share Auri. And it’s great, and while it might not be you, I am not going to get all defensive about it (but then again, it isn’t my baby). Then again, the nice thing about novellas is that they are short—and this one has pictures. So even if you don’t like it, that’s what, less than an afternoon? Spend an afternoon hanging with Auri for seven days.

Time to dig into some solar-system colonial fiction with Red Mars, the first in Kim Stanley Robinson’s trilogy about settling and terraforming our nearest planetary neighbour. First published over twenty years ago, the book holds up well despite the scientific advances two decades’ worth of rovers and satellites have provided. Robinson combines his ecologically-aware vision of the Earth’s future difficulties with a semi-realistic vision for planetary colonization. Throw in an ensemble cast of believable characters, and you have yourself a good novel.

Red Mars begins with a crisis, then jumps back in time to the voyage and founding of the First Hundred’s scientific outpost/colony. Think Mars 100, only funded by governments and, you know, actually viable. Robinson posits the first human on Mars as 2020—which, to be honest, might still be possible, but probably won’t be economical—and the voyage of the Ares in the 2040s. (Let me put it this way: I am not optimistic we’ll see settlers on Mars in my lifetime. I’m willing to believe we’ll visit, maybe.) We get to know the main players as the Ares makes its way to Mars. Then, after touchdown, Robinson jumps around, following each of them for a length of time, as the colony grows and new waves of emigrants arrive. This allows us to see how life on Mars changes the First Hundred; they become more entrenched in various positions, mostly around the subject of terraforming.

The names of the novels in the trilogy are also the various camps in the terraforming debate. Robinson questions whether terraforming is a legitimate activity: can we just do whatever we want with the solar system? What if there is life on Mars we haven’t found yet? Terraforming will destroy that. Yet the terraforming goes ahead, mostly because of pressures back on Earth.

This is the second part of the conflict in the novel. Robinson channels all the mistakes from the colonial era as various nations ship people off to Mars to relieve some of the population pressure. He’s not optimistic about humanity’s ability to pull together to do something like colonize Mars; he seems convinced that the various governments—or the transnational corporations that arise to usurp their prominence—will repeat history. And I’m not sure he’s wrong.

Robinson’s vision of where we might be headed has obviously changed since he wrote this. The more recent 2312 demonstrates this. It is set two and a half centuries after the time of Red Mars, of course, but many of the same themes come up. Earth once again teeters on the edge of ecological collapse, with riots and open war the rule rather than the exception.

Robinson correctly anticipates the rising influence of corporations on politics. The governments depicted in Red Mars are struggling to remain relevant when companies are more agile in moving money around. Nevertheless, he didn’t quite foresee the way governments are, even now, stepping back and allowing the private sector to take a more active role in spaceflight. I mentioned Mars 100 earlier—I think it’s interesting that the idea of sending a hundred people to colonize Mars is still around, but the groups interested in doing it have changed in their origins and intentions.

The question of who owns Mars, or at least who has the right to make decisions about how to use the resources there, is also central to the novel. Robinson’s characters are largely critical of the Outer Space Treaty. He demonstrates that once people are there, and in a position to exploit those resources, then they will do so, treaty be damned. Again, he’s probably right. That treaty exists, and survives, mostly because no one has bothered to try to mine Mars or the moon or asteroids yet—there are various proposals and schemes, but they are all still just a little too expensive.

The recurring message throughout Red Mars is simply: shit happens. Robinson intricately lays out how the first mission has been planned and executed … and then he shows it all go to hell in a handbasket. His point is simply that, so far away from Earth, there is no way to control what’s going on. Even the people with power, like Frank and John and Maya, have little ability to exert that power in vast, planet-wide ways. They spend most of the book running around trying to put out fires that others have started, usually starting fires of their own in the process. I appreciate how Robinson depicts each of these characters as people, with flaws and opinions that don’t always mesh. In fact, it’s safe to say I didn’t really like any of them (with maybe the exception of Nadia). But I liked the book.

I’m forced to repeat many of my reservations about 2312 though. This is a long book, very slow-paced. That’s probably for the best: Robinson needs this time to build the colony and set up for the chaos in Act Three. But it doesn’t help that the book is almost exclusively description and narration. The scenes of dialogue are infrequent and encircled by introspection. I remember this from 2312. This is entirely personal preference on my part—and it is certainly possible to go to other extremes, like John Scalzi does—but it only emphasizes the slow burn that is Red Mars.

Robinson has convinced me he’s a good science-fiction author. I don’t think he’s a writer I’ll ever number among my favourites. I’ll probably read the other books in this trilogy, but it’s not a high priority.