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tachyondecay
Addison Coleman, or Addie, is a mutant Tomorrow Person—damn it, she’s got mind powers, mmkay? But not floaty-move-stuff-with-your-mind powers—that’s Telekinetics—or memory-erasing powers—that’s Erasing—she can see the two possible paths that branch from a choice she has to make—Discerning, or Divergence, or whatever. The names aren’t that important. This is the Tomorrow People if the Tomorrow People were led by adults and not afraid for their lives because they’re all safe in a Compound in Texas. Addie has led a pretty privileged and cushiony life. But that all changes when her parents divorce.
The eponymous Pivot Point is Addie’s choice of who to live with: Dad, who is leaving the Compound to live among the “norms”; or Mom, who is staying in the Compound and trying to keep everything status quo? Naturally Addie uses her power to find out what would happen along either path. Turns out that either way isn’t that good … but Kasie West doesn’t give Addie an easy way out. She has to choose one option.
Each chapter has a definition as an epigraph. It took me longer than it should have to figure out that the chapters where Addie chooses Dad start with words that have norm in them, while the chapters with Mom in the Compound have definitions of words that contain para. I see what you did there! It’s actually helpful, though, especially towards the middle of the book where the worldlines start to converge again.
This dual-worldline narrative is awesome. It’s by far one of the coolest reading experiences I’ve had in a while. West could have made it even more gimmicky, and I think she wisely chose to keep it pretty simple. One question I had early on after Addie embarked on her “Search” was simply, what happens if you Search within a Search? Is it possible to get into some kind of Search infinite regression? Fortunately, West poses and answers this question in the book. (No spoilers!)
As cool as the power sounds, if I’m nitpicking I have to point out how it seems to create false dilemmas. Or can Addie see all possible futures? For example, if she’s going to buy an ice cream cone and can choose chocolate, strawberry, or coconut, can she see all three? Or is this only ever a binary divergence phenomenon?
To be honest it doesn’t bother me too much. Addie’s power doesn’t really affect the plot beyond the macro-level structure it creates for the narrative. And that, as I said, is pretty cool. West alternates between the norm/para futures that Addie envisions. We see Addie make friends at a norm high school, only to drift away from her awesome but somewhat unstable best friend, Laila, back at the Compound. In the para-verse, Addie and Laila stay fast friends, but Addie starts dating the high school quarterback (blech) only to discover there’s something more sinister happening, and she’s getting involved whether she likes it or not.
The dualistic structure of the narrative makes for some fascinating dramatic irony. In both futures, Addie’s dad consults on a murder investigation back at the Compound. The same person of interest, a guy who pretends he’s cool by calling himself Poison, shows up in both worldlines. These larger events—the ones not easily affected by whatever Addie chooses—remain the same, so spotting the ripples from Addie’s choice becomes a fun kind of game. In this way, West explores the butterfly effect in an interesting way.
I’m a bit disappointed the budding romance between Addie and Trevor in one ’verse belies Addie’s contention that yes, indeed, girls and boys can be platonic friends. I want more YA with mixed gender platonic friendships! But I can’t really fault Pivot Point if that was the story that West wanted to tell, because of course, there isn’t anything a priori wrong with Addie seeking a boyfriend in either ’verse.
On the other hand, Addie’s friendship with Laila is a lot of fun. Laila is definitely one of those best friends who isn’t always good for you, if you know what I mean. She pushes Addie, sometimes in directions I (and even Addie) might disagree with. She’s a very outgoing, in-your-face, this-is-in-my-comfort-zone-even-if-it’s-not-in-yours kind of girl. And that’s cool. I appreciate how she acts as a foil for Addie, and how Addie’s friendship with Laila eventually proves to be the true pivot point of this book.
As the story comes to a head, Addie begins to realize that both choices suck. I can’t help but think West is using this as a metaphor for the fact that having to choose a parent in a divorce really does suck. But in Addie’s case, either path leads to rather dark outcomes. So she has to choose the “least dark” future, or at least the one where she and Laila have a fighting chance at rescuing some semblance of their old life afterwards. But West seems to be setting things up for a much deeper conflict in the sequel (which I also happened to borrow from the library!).
Pivot Point is a solid novel. As far as YA goes, it hits on a lot of tropes without belabouring them. I think there’s lots here to keep older readers like myself interested too. West’s take on the mutants-among-us trope, combined with the cool way she spins out the narratives in parallel, makes for an interesting read. There were moments when my interest started to flag, and then we got to the climax. I was reading during the breaks between innings at a baseball game … and suddenly I did not want to put the book down. I was relieved when the game ended so I could go home and plow through the remaining few chapters, because I needed to know how it worked out. That’s how the book made me feel.
(I was definitely annoyed by the summary resolution/sequel tease at the end. But the magnitude of the exhilaration I felt from those last few chapters more than made up for it.)
My review of the Pivot Point duology:
Split Second →
The eponymous Pivot Point is Addie’s choice of who to live with: Dad, who is leaving the Compound to live among the “norms”; or Mom, who is staying in the Compound and trying to keep everything status quo? Naturally Addie uses her power to find out what would happen along either path. Turns out that either way isn’t that good … but Kasie West doesn’t give Addie an easy way out. She has to choose one option.
Each chapter has a definition as an epigraph. It took me longer than it should have to figure out that the chapters where Addie chooses Dad start with words that have norm in them, while the chapters with Mom in the Compound have definitions of words that contain para. I see what you did there! It’s actually helpful, though, especially towards the middle of the book where the worldlines start to converge again.
This dual-worldline narrative is awesome. It’s by far one of the coolest reading experiences I’ve had in a while. West could have made it even more gimmicky, and I think she wisely chose to keep it pretty simple. One question I had early on after Addie embarked on her “Search” was simply, what happens if you Search within a Search? Is it possible to get into some kind of Search infinite regression? Fortunately, West poses and answers this question in the book. (No spoilers!)
As cool as the power sounds, if I’m nitpicking I have to point out how it seems to create false dilemmas. Or can Addie see all possible futures? For example, if she’s going to buy an ice cream cone and can choose chocolate, strawberry, or coconut, can she see all three? Or is this only ever a binary divergence phenomenon?
To be honest it doesn’t bother me too much. Addie’s power doesn’t really affect the plot beyond the macro-level structure it creates for the narrative. And that, as I said, is pretty cool. West alternates between the norm/para futures that Addie envisions. We see Addie make friends at a norm high school, only to drift away from her awesome but somewhat unstable best friend, Laila, back at the Compound. In the para-verse, Addie and Laila stay fast friends, but Addie starts dating the high school quarterback (blech) only to discover there’s something more sinister happening, and she’s getting involved whether she likes it or not.
The dualistic structure of the narrative makes for some fascinating dramatic irony. In both futures, Addie’s dad consults on a murder investigation back at the Compound. The same person of interest, a guy who pretends he’s cool by calling himself Poison, shows up in both worldlines. These larger events—the ones not easily affected by whatever Addie chooses—remain the same, so spotting the ripples from Addie’s choice becomes a fun kind of game. In this way, West explores the butterfly effect in an interesting way.
I’m a bit disappointed the budding romance between Addie and Trevor in one ’verse belies Addie’s contention that yes, indeed, girls and boys can be platonic friends. I want more YA with mixed gender platonic friendships! But I can’t really fault Pivot Point if that was the story that West wanted to tell, because of course, there isn’t anything a priori wrong with Addie seeking a boyfriend in either ’verse.
On the other hand, Addie’s friendship with Laila is a lot of fun. Laila is definitely one of those best friends who isn’t always good for you, if you know what I mean. She pushes Addie, sometimes in directions I (and even Addie) might disagree with. She’s a very outgoing, in-your-face, this-is-in-my-comfort-zone-even-if-it’s-not-in-yours kind of girl. And that’s cool. I appreciate how she acts as a foil for Addie, and how Addie’s friendship with Laila eventually proves to be the true pivot point of this book.
As the story comes to a head, Addie begins to realize that both choices suck. I can’t help but think West is using this as a metaphor for the fact that having to choose a parent in a divorce really does suck. But in Addie’s case, either path leads to rather dark outcomes. So she has to choose the “least dark” future, or at least the one where she and Laila have a fighting chance at rescuing some semblance of their old life afterwards. But West seems to be setting things up for a much deeper conflict in the sequel (which I also happened to borrow from the library!).
Pivot Point is a solid novel. As far as YA goes, it hits on a lot of tropes without belabouring them. I think there’s lots here to keep older readers like myself interested too. West’s take on the mutants-among-us trope, combined with the cool way she spins out the narratives in parallel, makes for an interesting read. There were moments when my interest started to flag, and then we got to the climax. I was reading during the breaks between innings at a baseball game … and suddenly I did not want to put the book down. I was relieved when the game ended so I could go home and plow through the remaining few chapters, because I needed to know how it worked out. That’s how the book made me feel.
(I was definitely annoyed by the summary resolution/sequel tease at the end. But the magnitude of the exhilaration I felt from those last few chapters more than made up for it.)
My review of the Pivot Point duology:
Split Second →
I wasn’t sure how Kasie West could follow up Pivot Point. The dual, parallel narrative structure of the first novel was neat, but I didn’t think it would be as interesting a second time. Fortunately, West approaches the story differently. This time the narrative is split between Addie and Laila.
Since I found Laila an interesting character in the first book, I welcomed the opportunity to get inside her head and learn more about her life. It isn’t all that pretty. I find it interesting that as much as West positions the Compound as this controlling, nefarious entity, it isn’t all that effective at eliminating people like Laila’s dad—people who aren’t criminal but who so clearly need more help. With a better idea of Laila’s home life, her outgoing and larger-than-life personality takes on a new dimension and a new meaning. And I loved watching her interactions with Eli, particularly when they take him along on the rescue mission to Dallas. (The last third of this book is just badass.)
Meanwhile, Addie is dealing with the changes her powers seem to be undergoing. Her Divergence has expanded into a full-blown case of Time Manipulation. West subtly allows this to evolve over the course of the book. Whereas Addie’s power was at the forefront of Pivot Point, in Split Second it is simply another part of her. She uses her newfound time manipulation to her advantage, and she also Searches a few times—but it’s just not as big a deal. Similarly, while there is plenty of boy and personal drama (for both Addie and Laila) in this book, the sinister nature of the Compound is a much bigger focus now. It seems that the Compound doesn’t have the best interests of the individual in mind, and they will go to ridiculous lengths to protect Paranormal society.
Seriously, the whole test that they put Addie through? Ridiculous. All that expense for a single girl, even one they’ve flagged? And the Compound’s solution for Trevor learning of their existence is to give him a new life on the East Coast? The United States is a small place these days—what if someone recognizes him? Or do they plan to Erase the memories of everyone who knows Trevor? That seems like a lot of work, a lot of resources. It would be simpler just to kill him.
It would be simpler to kill most of these malcontents, no?
This bizarre non-lethality, coupled with its cumbersome tactics, hinders the Compound from feeling like a truly formidable adversary. Addie and Laila are great and all, but they aren’t exactly a crack squad of dissidents. You trying to tell me that a ragtag team of kids took down your highly-trained team of Compound agents? Please.
I appreciate the way that West gradually draws back the curtain on the Compound’s misdeeds. I love the setting and the idea of the Compound as this Big Bad, mad party of scientists obsessed with perfecting humanity. Nevertheless, what we’ve seen of them so far is just … not that impressive.
Fortunately, the personal drama helps distract from the messy but unfulfilling shenanigans. Addie meets Trevor again! But he totally doesn’t remember her! And she doesn’t quite remember him! And she doesn’t remember Stephanie! So she becomes norm-besties with Stephanie! And then Laila helps her remember Trevor! So she puts the moves on him—smmooooooth! They go to the formal in a big group, and she totally—
—spoilers.
Suffice it to say, the reader can definitely understand what Addie means when she talks about how both paths she Searches are real to her, even the rejected one. The future where she’s with Trevor never happened, but it feels real to us (and to her, once she gets that memory back). We know stuff about Trevor that Addie doesn’t know at first, which is fun—plus the whole Stephanie thing, which is an even richer source of irony. On a more serious level, though, West makes a fine point about how context and chance can influence people’s impressions of us. In one context and through certain chance events, Stephanie sees Addie immediately as a rival and never gets to know her as a friend. In another context, Stephanie and Addie become friends—enough so that when Addie starts mulling over the possibility of getting together with Trevor, she feels really bad about it. She knows she is betraying Stephanie. This idea that a person might have disliked you, or might have liked you, if circumstances had just been a little bit different … it’s one of the best parts of alternative history plots, and West plays with it to great effect here.
I should also add that my criticisms are almost entirely in hindsight. The bumbling nature of the Compound never pulled me out of the story or ruined my enjoyment. As I said earlier, the last part of this book is badass. Duke is a douche, everything is going to hell, and Laila and Addie pretty much have to save the day. But it’s a fly-by-wire operation that might not fully succeed, and the stakes are pretty intense. I thought Pivot Point had a nail-biting conclusion, but Split Second manages to top even that.
West leaves us in a good spot this time. She kind of wraps up this story arc in such a way that if there weren’t any more Pivot Point novels, I would be OK with that. Yet there is still so much more to see. Without verging too far into spoilers, I’ll just add that I like Laila’s offhand observation that there’s more than one way to defy the Compound—from without and from within. There’s so much potential here to keep telling these stories about paranormal teens who might be more responsible with their powers than the people raising them. With this sequel, West shows she can keep changing things up while retaining the core that makes the characters and the setting fascinating. It seems like this is it for Addie and Laila. I can only hope that means we’ll see newer, even cooler novels from West in the future.
My review of the Pivot Point duology:
← Pivot Point
Since I found Laila an interesting character in the first book, I welcomed the opportunity to get inside her head and learn more about her life. It isn’t all that pretty. I find it interesting that as much as West positions the Compound as this controlling, nefarious entity, it isn’t all that effective at eliminating people like Laila’s dad—people who aren’t criminal but who so clearly need more help. With a better idea of Laila’s home life, her outgoing and larger-than-life personality takes on a new dimension and a new meaning. And I loved watching her interactions with Eli, particularly when they take him along on the rescue mission to Dallas. (The last third of this book is just badass.)
Meanwhile, Addie is dealing with the changes her powers seem to be undergoing. Her Divergence has expanded into a full-blown case of Time Manipulation. West subtly allows this to evolve over the course of the book. Whereas Addie’s power was at the forefront of Pivot Point, in Split Second it is simply another part of her. She uses her newfound time manipulation to her advantage, and she also Searches a few times—but it’s just not as big a deal. Similarly, while there is plenty of boy and personal drama (for both Addie and Laila) in this book, the sinister nature of the Compound is a much bigger focus now. It seems that the Compound doesn’t have the best interests of the individual in mind, and they will go to ridiculous lengths to protect Paranormal society.
Seriously, the whole test that they put Addie through? Ridiculous. All that expense for a single girl, even one they’ve flagged? And the Compound’s solution for Trevor learning of their existence is to give him a new life on the East Coast? The United States is a small place these days—what if someone recognizes him? Or do they plan to Erase the memories of everyone who knows Trevor? That seems like a lot of work, a lot of resources. It would be simpler just to kill him.
It would be simpler to kill most of these malcontents, no?
This bizarre non-lethality, coupled with its cumbersome tactics, hinders the Compound from feeling like a truly formidable adversary. Addie and Laila are great and all, but they aren’t exactly a crack squad of dissidents. You trying to tell me that a ragtag team of kids took down your highly-trained team of Compound agents? Please.
I appreciate the way that West gradually draws back the curtain on the Compound’s misdeeds. I love the setting and the idea of the Compound as this Big Bad, mad party of scientists obsessed with perfecting humanity. Nevertheless, what we’ve seen of them so far is just … not that impressive.
Fortunately, the personal drama helps distract from the messy but unfulfilling shenanigans. Addie meets Trevor again! But he totally doesn’t remember her! And she doesn’t quite remember him! And she doesn’t remember Stephanie! So she becomes norm-besties with Stephanie! And then Laila helps her remember Trevor! So she puts the moves on him—smmooooooth! They go to the formal in a big group, and she totally—
—spoilers.
Suffice it to say, the reader can definitely understand what Addie means when she talks about how both paths she Searches are real to her, even the rejected one. The future where she’s with Trevor never happened, but it feels real to us (and to her, once she gets that memory back). We know stuff about Trevor that Addie doesn’t know at first, which is fun—plus the whole Stephanie thing, which is an even richer source of irony. On a more serious level, though, West makes a fine point about how context and chance can influence people’s impressions of us. In one context and through certain chance events, Stephanie sees Addie immediately as a rival and never gets to know her as a friend. In another context, Stephanie and Addie become friends—enough so that when Addie starts mulling over the possibility of getting together with Trevor, she feels really bad about it. She knows she is betraying Stephanie. This idea that a person might have disliked you, or might have liked you, if circumstances had just been a little bit different … it’s one of the best parts of alternative history plots, and West plays with it to great effect here.
I should also add that my criticisms are almost entirely in hindsight. The bumbling nature of the Compound never pulled me out of the story or ruined my enjoyment. As I said earlier, the last part of this book is badass. Duke is a douche, everything is going to hell, and Laila and Addie pretty much have to save the day. But it’s a fly-by-wire operation that might not fully succeed, and the stakes are pretty intense. I thought Pivot Point had a nail-biting conclusion, but Split Second manages to top even that.
West leaves us in a good spot this time. She kind of wraps up this story arc in such a way that if there weren’t any more Pivot Point novels, I would be OK with that. Yet there is still so much more to see. Without verging too far into spoilers, I’ll just add that I like Laila’s offhand observation that there’s more than one way to defy the Compound—from without and from within. There’s so much potential here to keep telling these stories about paranormal teens who might be more responsible with their powers than the people raising them. With this sequel, West shows she can keep changing things up while retaining the core that makes the characters and the setting fascinating. It seems like this is it for Addie and Laila. I can only hope that means we’ll see newer, even cooler novels from West in the future.
My review of the Pivot Point duology:
← Pivot Point
Hot on the heels of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd we have Agatha Christie’s other “best novel”, And Then There Were None, alternatively known under a few other racist titles. Loosely woven around an equally racist poem, the actual mystery is not in itself racist but instead another one of those clever stories that blew minds all around. I, however, didn’t like it very much.
I’m not going to argue that this is a bad book or even a bad mystery. I understand why other people enjoy it so much. Despite the twist, however, I feel like Christie’s technical achievements here have been overrated compared to something like The Murder of Rogery Ackroyd, which is indeed quite a feat. Beyond that, this just doesn’t have what I’m looking for in a mystery.
The whole premise is mind-boggingly unrealistic. I can believe a retired judge buying an island under an assumed name. Even if he manages to dig up the necessary information on all these people, what are the chances they are all available to travel to this island? And they all manage to arrive on the same day, at roughly the same time? British trains are not that reliable. And Then There Were None is like an episode in the seventh or eighth season of a procedural: the writers have literally been doing the same thing for so long that they have to come up with increasingly contrived ideas to keep the plots fresh.
Note, however, that I’m not going to extend that metaphor and claim Christie was just retreading old ground here. The plot is original, and the story might even be entertaining. The atmosphere is certainly one of suspense: with everyone unsure as to the identity of the murderer, everyone becomes increasingly paranoid. It’s lovely. In this respect, Christie is one of the inventors of the modern thriller; And Then There Were None is a literary version of an extreme, life-or-death Survivor.
But there isn’t much mystery to it. I think one reason the Poirot mysteries, above Christie’s other work, stick with me is the sheer presence of Poirot. His personality, his unique combination of egotism and brilliance, makes those mysteries work. I love watching Poirot on the case, because it’s like watching an amazing concert pianist or an Olympic athlete: you just know they’ll nail it. In contrast, all these amateur detectives running around feels like changing channels from the Olympics to a kids’ sports match. It’s not bad, just like kids’ sports are not bad—but it certainly can’t be judged by the same metrics.
So I’m forced to concede this kind of conflict between my subjective taste and my appreciation, at a remove, for what Christie has accomplished here. Though I’m inclined to disagree with those who label it her best work, I agree it’s a masterful piece of storytelling. As a mystery, as a Christie mystery, however, it just leaves so much to be desired.
I’m not going to argue that this is a bad book or even a bad mystery. I understand why other people enjoy it so much. Despite the twist, however, I feel like Christie’s technical achievements here have been overrated compared to something like The Murder of Rogery Ackroyd, which is indeed quite a feat. Beyond that, this just doesn’t have what I’m looking for in a mystery.
The whole premise is mind-boggingly unrealistic. I can believe a retired judge buying an island under an assumed name. Even if he manages to dig up the necessary information on all these people, what are the chances they are all available to travel to this island? And they all manage to arrive on the same day, at roughly the same time? British trains are not that reliable. And Then There Were None is like an episode in the seventh or eighth season of a procedural: the writers have literally been doing the same thing for so long that they have to come up with increasingly contrived ideas to keep the plots fresh.
Note, however, that I’m not going to extend that metaphor and claim Christie was just retreading old ground here. The plot is original, and the story might even be entertaining. The atmosphere is certainly one of suspense: with everyone unsure as to the identity of the murderer, everyone becomes increasingly paranoid. It’s lovely. In this respect, Christie is one of the inventors of the modern thriller; And Then There Were None is a literary version of an extreme, life-or-death Survivor.
But there isn’t much mystery to it. I think one reason the Poirot mysteries, above Christie’s other work, stick with me is the sheer presence of Poirot. His personality, his unique combination of egotism and brilliance, makes those mysteries work. I love watching Poirot on the case, because it’s like watching an amazing concert pianist or an Olympic athlete: you just know they’ll nail it. In contrast, all these amateur detectives running around feels like changing channels from the Olympics to a kids’ sports match. It’s not bad, just like kids’ sports are not bad—but it certainly can’t be judged by the same metrics.
So I’m forced to concede this kind of conflict between my subjective taste and my appreciation, at a remove, for what Christie has accomplished here. Though I’m inclined to disagree with those who label it her best work, I agree it’s a masterful piece of storytelling. As a mystery, as a Christie mystery, however, it just leaves so much to be desired.
So if you’re a famous detective like Hercule Poirot, you’re probably steeped in murder. It’s just murder, murder, murder, all day, every day. What’s a Belgian to do? Go on vacation, of course! Tour the Nile, they said. It’ll be relaxing, they said. No one will kill anyone on your boat, they said.
In case the title doesn’t give it away, Death on the Nile is a punishment of sorts for Hercule Poirot. Poor bastard doesn’t get a moment’s peace and quiet. I guess it’s payback for being so insufferably arrogant.
Poirot is a badass, with one badass moustache, and this book proves that pretty definitively. Borrowing a page, anachronistically, from a television crime procedural, Christie ramps up the stakes with not one but two additional murders. The guests aboard the S.S. Karnak are all suitably aghast. It’s up to Poirot and the able, but not as sharp, Colonel Race to discover the culprit. Who killed the heiress, her maid, and the novelist? It’s like Clue, set on a boat in Egypt.
The characterization here is brilliant. As with And Then There Were None, Christie spends about a chapter introducing each character in sequence. This has the potential to make one dizzy—I find this technique is far more effective in movies, because of all the different visual cues one has at one’s disposal. Soon enough, though, we are off on the cruise. We get to watch as Lynette and her husband Simon attempt to elude their stalker, Joanna. Tim Allerton and his mother just want some peace and quiet. Rosalie Otterbourne is stuck tending to her mother—I love how Christie pokes fun at her own profession here, creating a somewhat melodramatic woman novelist, albeit of a more … um … delicate type of novel than the murder mystery. There’s also Dr. Bessner and the archaeologist Signor Richetti. And Cornelia Robson accompanies her cousin, Madame Van Schulyer. Into this vast cast Christie thrusts Poirot, who wastes no time getting mixed up in all the business.
It would be very easy to see Poirot as nothing more than insufferable. He spends a lot of time talking about how clever he is. But at the end of the day, he’s right. He’s not talking himself up: he’s just being accurate. Modesty on his part would necessarily be false modesty. Countless characters label Poirot a mounteback, a rogue, or a loonie, and underestimate him and think they can hide things. He always ferrets it out. (I seldom do. I am not Hercule Poirot.)
In Death on the Nile, Poirot insists on playing matchmaker before revealing the identity of the murderer to Colonel Race. This is brilliant. It reminds us that in spite of his emphasis on order, organization, and cleanliness, at his heart Poirot is a romantic. He believes that the young deserve happiness; I think, in part, his obsession with the criminal element and solving mysteries is an obsession with what makes people happy. So often we are stirred to crimes, passionate or coldblooded, because we are not happy, and we think that removing someone or gaining something will make us happier. Alas, it seldom works out that way.
Egypt itself does not feature so much in this book. In that respect, the Nile portion of the title indicates setting only barely—this could just as easily have been a cruise down the River Thames, though I doubt there would have been any takers if that were the case! This is a straightforward murder-on-a-boat kind of mystery, very similar in tenor and tone to The Murder on the Orient Express, which Poirot references here. However, two things elevate this and explain its presence in my omnibus of Masterpieces of Murder alongside The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and And Then There Were None.
Firstly, the motives. Revenge. Lust. Love. Betrayal. So primal, much impressive. And there is plenty of motive to go around. You might or might not deduce the identity of the killer, but there are plenty of red herrings. Not only does everyone have something to hide, but everyone has something to be upset about. Christie is a master at pulling the curtain back and exposing the torrid emotions that beat beneath our breasts.
Secondly, the construction of the mystery. Christie uses a combination of timing and subsequent murders to set up a twist at the very end, just as Poirot reveals the killer. As usual, trying to find the murderer is a process of elimination—but it also involves making assumptions on imperfect information. Poirot reminds us that if one isn’t willing to discard an assumption and create new theories to fit the facts, then one won’t get very far at all.
Death on the Nile is certainly an enjoyable Poirot mystery. It showcases all the best about Christie’s writing, and the Belgian detective of the little grey cells is in his prime here. Part of me feels so sad that these people have to die to bring me joy. (And is it terrible that part of me doesn’t care? I mean, they are fictional….)
In case the title doesn’t give it away, Death on the Nile is a punishment of sorts for Hercule Poirot. Poor bastard doesn’t get a moment’s peace and quiet. I guess it’s payback for being so insufferably arrogant.
Poirot is a badass, with one badass moustache, and this book proves that pretty definitively. Borrowing a page, anachronistically, from a television crime procedural, Christie ramps up the stakes with not one but two additional murders. The guests aboard the S.S. Karnak are all suitably aghast. It’s up to Poirot and the able, but not as sharp, Colonel Race to discover the culprit. Who killed the heiress, her maid, and the novelist? It’s like Clue, set on a boat in Egypt.
The characterization here is brilliant. As with And Then There Were None, Christie spends about a chapter introducing each character in sequence. This has the potential to make one dizzy—I find this technique is far more effective in movies, because of all the different visual cues one has at one’s disposal. Soon enough, though, we are off on the cruise. We get to watch as Lynette and her husband Simon attempt to elude their stalker, Joanna. Tim Allerton and his mother just want some peace and quiet. Rosalie Otterbourne is stuck tending to her mother—I love how Christie pokes fun at her own profession here, creating a somewhat melodramatic woman novelist, albeit of a more … um … delicate type of novel than the murder mystery. There’s also Dr. Bessner and the archaeologist Signor Richetti. And Cornelia Robson accompanies her cousin, Madame Van Schulyer. Into this vast cast Christie thrusts Poirot, who wastes no time getting mixed up in all the business.
It would be very easy to see Poirot as nothing more than insufferable. He spends a lot of time talking about how clever he is. But at the end of the day, he’s right. He’s not talking himself up: he’s just being accurate. Modesty on his part would necessarily be false modesty. Countless characters label Poirot a mounteback, a rogue, or a loonie, and underestimate him and think they can hide things. He always ferrets it out. (I seldom do. I am not Hercule Poirot.)
In Death on the Nile, Poirot insists on playing matchmaker before revealing the identity of the murderer to Colonel Race. This is brilliant. It reminds us that in spite of his emphasis on order, organization, and cleanliness, at his heart Poirot is a romantic. He believes that the young deserve happiness; I think, in part, his obsession with the criminal element and solving mysteries is an obsession with what makes people happy. So often we are stirred to crimes, passionate or coldblooded, because we are not happy, and we think that removing someone or gaining something will make us happier. Alas, it seldom works out that way.
Egypt itself does not feature so much in this book. In that respect, the Nile portion of the title indicates setting only barely—this could just as easily have been a cruise down the River Thames, though I doubt there would have been any takers if that were the case! This is a straightforward murder-on-a-boat kind of mystery, very similar in tenor and tone to The Murder on the Orient Express, which Poirot references here. However, two things elevate this and explain its presence in my omnibus of Masterpieces of Murder alongside The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and And Then There Were None.
Firstly, the motives. Revenge. Lust. Love. Betrayal. So primal, much impressive. And there is plenty of motive to go around. You might or might not deduce the identity of the killer, but there are plenty of red herrings. Not only does everyone have something to hide, but everyone has something to be upset about. Christie is a master at pulling the curtain back and exposing the torrid emotions that beat beneath our breasts.
Secondly, the construction of the mystery. Christie uses a combination of timing and subsequent murders to set up a twist at the very end, just as Poirot reveals the killer. As usual, trying to find the murderer is a process of elimination—but it also involves making assumptions on imperfect information. Poirot reminds us that if one isn’t willing to discard an assumption and create new theories to fit the facts, then one won’t get very far at all.
Death on the Nile is certainly an enjoyable Poirot mystery. It showcases all the best about Christie’s writing, and the Belgian detective of the little grey cells is in his prime here. Part of me feels so sad that these people have to die to bring me joy. (And is it terrible that part of me doesn’t care? I mean, they are fictional….)
I don’t really know how to start this review, because this is a very important topic for me. It should be an important topic for anyone who loves books. Although Pirate Cinema concerns not-so-exaggerated attempts to stop people from copying and remixing movies, much of the same rhetoric around copyright has been applied to books. Libraries pay insanely inflated prices for ebooks because publishers are freaked out that electronic files exist and can be shared. (And let’s not even get started on DRM.) Amazon is not just trying but succeeding in revolutionizing a lot of the publishing industry, particularly around self-publishing, and not in a way that is necessarily good for creators.
And that’s the fundamental lie that Cory Doctorow exposes in Pirate Cinema. The companies and lobbyists behind increasingly draconian copyright regimes always claim that copyright is necessary for creators to flourish. They paint a bleak picture of a world where piracy discourages people from creating stuff because they won’t get paid. I suppose they have a point—I have no clue how our civilization survived without art for all those thousands of years before we had copyright!
So the conflict in this book, and indeed in real life, is not between pirates and creators. It’s between corporations and people, with the former wanting control over created content and the latter wanting … well, culture. As he has done with other books, such as the seminal Little Brother, Doctorow sees a trend in our society that he doesn’t like. So he has extrapolated it—just a little, because most of what happens in this book has been or is happening in some form somewhere today. And he tries to show why he thinks the world should be different, and why it matters that we fight.
This is polemical, no doubt about it, and not always for the best. The bad guys are caricaturish, almost moustache-twirling in how naughty Doctorow depicts them. Even as someone who is very sympathetic to Doctorow’s cause, I have to wish that there had been a little more nuance here. While I love that Doctorow takes the time to explain parts of the UK parliamentary system to readers, it might have been nice if we also learned something about how copyright actually works.
Still, this is a compelling book, and not just on a philosophical level. The characters are fun. Trent is a mixed bag as a protagonist: at times he’s sympathetic, other times he’s not very likable—a very believable portrayal, in other words, of a teenage boy who is a little too clever for his own good. I appreciate, too, that Doctorow doesn’t make him too much of a genius at everything. For example, Trent freely admits he doesn’t know that much about computers—he knows enough to Google around for instructions and commands to run, and he is very good at video editing, but those are his limits.
The pacing is also great—good enough to almost make me forget the lumpy infodumpy parts of the book. Doctorow never really lets us get comfortable with a status quo. First Trent leaves home and spends some time wandering London before lucking into a friendship that opens a lot of doors for him (literally). When he loses that laptop with the finished cut of his Holy Grail of Scot Colford remixes, I was almost as heartbroken as he was. But that’s the point—Doctorow needs to establish that it’s not the product that matters to Trent so much as the love, the act of creating. Really, what Pirate Cinema boils down to is a strong argument in favour of a more distributed notion of creativity. This scares the monolithic corporations that have a lot of power right now, because they don’t know how to control it or make money off it.
Pirate Cinema also captures the senses of dread and defeatism that lurk beneath any massive campaign for public change. Trent and his friends, even the fiery 26, are often discouraged when things they try don’t seem to make a difference to the public. They are up against lobbyists who have almost inexhaustible resources. Doctorow just casually discusses some of the reasons politicians listen to these companies rather than their constituents—whether it’s the lavish weekend getaway or the fear of being expelled from one’s party, something usually convinces them. This dysfunctionality, and the sense that the people we elect aren’t actually representing our interests any more, is very concerning. And it’s not surprising that libertarians find a lot to like about Doctorow’s novels.
As a YA novel, this is pretty good. The love story between Trent and 26 is neither contrived nor overly romantic. I liked the ending. Although I agree with those who think it’s abrupt as an epilogue, the writing was on the wall much earlier in the story, and it’s a very realistic way for their story to conclude. But I think the best thing about Pirate Cinema as a YA novel is simply its ability to educate and get younger readers thinking about these issues in a political way. Even if one doesn’t agree with what Doctorow argues here, it opens the door for critical discussions.
Beyond that, it’s a fun story with good characters and a strong message. That the message threatens to overwhelm those other two aspects at times is par for the course with Doctorow. I hesitate to call it unsophisticated, because it deals with fairly complicated issues. Let’s go with straightforward. There isn’t much in the way of subtext here.
I’m biased, though. Like I said at the beginning, copyright and the way corporations appear eager to own our culture so that we may merely consume it really concerns me. It’s an issue I feel passionate about, so I enjoyed Doctorow sharing his own passion for this subject in a suitably fictional form.
And that’s the fundamental lie that Cory Doctorow exposes in Pirate Cinema. The companies and lobbyists behind increasingly draconian copyright regimes always claim that copyright is necessary for creators to flourish. They paint a bleak picture of a world where piracy discourages people from creating stuff because they won’t get paid. I suppose they have a point—I have no clue how our civilization survived without art for all those thousands of years before we had copyright!
So the conflict in this book, and indeed in real life, is not between pirates and creators. It’s between corporations and people, with the former wanting control over created content and the latter wanting … well, culture. As he has done with other books, such as the seminal Little Brother, Doctorow sees a trend in our society that he doesn’t like. So he has extrapolated it—just a little, because most of what happens in this book has been or is happening in some form somewhere today. And he tries to show why he thinks the world should be different, and why it matters that we fight.
This is polemical, no doubt about it, and not always for the best. The bad guys are caricaturish, almost moustache-twirling in how naughty Doctorow depicts them. Even as someone who is very sympathetic to Doctorow’s cause, I have to wish that there had been a little more nuance here. While I love that Doctorow takes the time to explain parts of the UK parliamentary system to readers, it might have been nice if we also learned something about how copyright actually works.
Still, this is a compelling book, and not just on a philosophical level. The characters are fun. Trent is a mixed bag as a protagonist: at times he’s sympathetic, other times he’s not very likable—a very believable portrayal, in other words, of a teenage boy who is a little too clever for his own good. I appreciate, too, that Doctorow doesn’t make him too much of a genius at everything. For example, Trent freely admits he doesn’t know that much about computers—he knows enough to Google around for instructions and commands to run, and he is very good at video editing, but those are his limits.
The pacing is also great—good enough to almost make me forget the lumpy infodumpy parts of the book. Doctorow never really lets us get comfortable with a status quo. First Trent leaves home and spends some time wandering London before lucking into a friendship that opens a lot of doors for him (literally). When he loses that laptop with the finished cut of his Holy Grail of Scot Colford remixes, I was almost as heartbroken as he was. But that’s the point—Doctorow needs to establish that it’s not the product that matters to Trent so much as the love, the act of creating. Really, what Pirate Cinema boils down to is a strong argument in favour of a more distributed notion of creativity. This scares the monolithic corporations that have a lot of power right now, because they don’t know how to control it or make money off it.
Pirate Cinema also captures the senses of dread and defeatism that lurk beneath any massive campaign for public change. Trent and his friends, even the fiery 26, are often discouraged when things they try don’t seem to make a difference to the public. They are up against lobbyists who have almost inexhaustible resources. Doctorow just casually discusses some of the reasons politicians listen to these companies rather than their constituents—whether it’s the lavish weekend getaway or the fear of being expelled from one’s party, something usually convinces them. This dysfunctionality, and the sense that the people we elect aren’t actually representing our interests any more, is very concerning. And it’s not surprising that libertarians find a lot to like about Doctorow’s novels.
As a YA novel, this is pretty good. The love story between Trent and 26 is neither contrived nor overly romantic. I liked the ending. Although I agree with those who think it’s abrupt as an epilogue, the writing was on the wall much earlier in the story, and it’s a very realistic way for their story to conclude. But I think the best thing about Pirate Cinema as a YA novel is simply its ability to educate and get younger readers thinking about these issues in a political way. Even if one doesn’t agree with what Doctorow argues here, it opens the door for critical discussions.
Beyond that, it’s a fun story with good characters and a strong message. That the message threatens to overwhelm those other two aspects at times is par for the course with Doctorow. I hesitate to call it unsophisticated, because it deals with fairly complicated issues. Let’s go with straightforward. There isn’t much in the way of subtext here.
I’m biased, though. Like I said at the beginning, copyright and the way corporations appear eager to own our culture so that we may merely consume it really concerns me. It’s an issue I feel passionate about, so I enjoyed Doctorow sharing his own passion for this subject in a suitably fictional form.
So … yeah. This book made me cry, at the end.
I remember reading the hard copy version of this as a kid and marvelling at how much thicker it was than your typical Animorphs novel. Don’t get me wrong—by that age I was already mainlining The Lord of the Rings and Dune, so I was already acquainted with long novels. Until now, though, Applegate had intentionally been keeping her stories not just short, but brief.
The Andalite Chronicles shook up that format, introducing a subseries of Animorphs that would let Applegate tell stories from the perspectives of non-Animorphs characters. The honour of the first story goes to Elfangor, the guy who kicked off this whole crazy adventure when he crash-lands on Earth and gives the Animorphs their powers in the first place. Now Applegate shows us how he got to that point—and in doing so, reveals that she, much like the Cylons (but not, apparently, Ron Moore), has a plan.
In its departure from Earth for most of the book, The Andalite Chronicles allows Applegate to expand on themes she wants to make universal. For example, Elfangor is a hero; Visser Three is a villain. Applegate wants to show that these archetypes are not localized to the human species but instead apply to a collection of actions and ideals. Lest that become reductive, however, she also points out that the universe is not black and white. Elfangor is a hero, yes, but he both makes mistakes and makes morally questionable decisions. Visser Three is a villain, but he displays an opportunistic pragmatism—and I’m sure that he sees himself as a hero for his people (but this isn’t his book—his book comes later—so we’ll talk more about Elfangor now).
It’s a real treat to see more Andalites in this book. Andalites, in a book called The Andalite Chronicles, you say? Shocking! Until now, though, we’ve only really met a handful of Andalites—and one of them was a Controller. Now we get to see Andalites in action. We learn more about how they live, on ships and back at home, and even some of their history. Applegate once again balances the image of a proud warrior–scientistic culture the Andalites want to project with a backdrop of mistake after mistake caused by that pride. We see this in microcosm through the actions of Arbron and Alloran, both foils to Elfangor’s middle-of-the-road heroism. Arbron’s humour ultimately reveals itself as a mask for nihilism: trapped as a nothlit, he desperately seeks release until he finds a new sense of purpose. In contrast, when Elfangor must confront his bleakest moment, he finds an intrinsic core of strength and morality that allows him to act. But Alloran is too far along that spectrum: through his experiences his sense of morality has grown twisted, amoral, as he decides the ends always justify the means.
The humans in this book are fun too. Young!Chapman is a delight; even though the timeline in which he meets Elfangor is ultimately erased, it allows us to see why he agrees to become a Controller. Similarly, Loren is perhaps a bit of an author avatar for Applegate. She takes no bullshit from anybody, and she backs up Elfangor—sometimes with a softball bat. As the ending of this book implies, and as we learn in the next book, she is also a big deal to the Animorphs themselves….
Of course, it’s when the two cultures—Andalite and human—collide that we get the best moments of all. Elfangor’s observations of the peculiarities of humanity are reminiscent of the best of Ax’s from The Alien. Applegate can’t resist throwing in a few references for the historically-aware reader: Elfangor happens to be around to render some help to “Bill and Steve” to get their operating system working.
But there is, by far, a single crowning moment of awesome in The Andalite Chronicles: the sheer delight of Elfangor driving a yellow mustang across the Taxxon homeworld and through a barrier of Hork-Bajir. Best. Image. Ever.
There are some pretty great books in the series to come, but with The Andalite Chronicles Applegate reaches a pinnacle that proves how great this series can be.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #12: The Reaction | #13: The Change →
I remember reading the hard copy version of this as a kid and marvelling at how much thicker it was than your typical Animorphs novel. Don’t get me wrong—by that age I was already mainlining The Lord of the Rings and Dune, so I was already acquainted with long novels. Until now, though, Applegate had intentionally been keeping her stories not just short, but brief.
The Andalite Chronicles shook up that format, introducing a subseries of Animorphs that would let Applegate tell stories from the perspectives of non-Animorphs characters. The honour of the first story goes to Elfangor, the guy who kicked off this whole crazy adventure when he crash-lands on Earth and gives the Animorphs their powers in the first place. Now Applegate shows us how he got to that point—and in doing so, reveals that she, much like the Cylons (but not, apparently, Ron Moore), has a plan.
In its departure from Earth for most of the book, The Andalite Chronicles allows Applegate to expand on themes she wants to make universal. For example, Elfangor is a hero; Visser Three is a villain. Applegate wants to show that these archetypes are not localized to the human species but instead apply to a collection of actions and ideals. Lest that become reductive, however, she also points out that the universe is not black and white. Elfangor is a hero, yes, but he both makes mistakes and makes morally questionable decisions. Visser Three is a villain, but he displays an opportunistic pragmatism—and I’m sure that he sees himself as a hero for his people (but this isn’t his book—his book comes later—so we’ll talk more about Elfangor now).
It’s a real treat to see more Andalites in this book. Andalites, in a book called The Andalite Chronicles, you say? Shocking! Until now, though, we’ve only really met a handful of Andalites—and one of them was a Controller. Now we get to see Andalites in action. We learn more about how they live, on ships and back at home, and even some of their history. Applegate once again balances the image of a proud warrior–scientistic culture the Andalites want to project with a backdrop of mistake after mistake caused by that pride. We see this in microcosm through the actions of Arbron and Alloran, both foils to Elfangor’s middle-of-the-road heroism. Arbron’s humour ultimately reveals itself as a mask for nihilism: trapped as a nothlit, he desperately seeks release until he finds a new sense of purpose. In contrast, when Elfangor must confront his bleakest moment, he finds an intrinsic core of strength and morality that allows him to act. But Alloran is too far along that spectrum: through his experiences his sense of morality has grown twisted, amoral, as he decides the ends always justify the means.
The humans in this book are fun too. Young!Chapman is a delight; even though the timeline in which he meets Elfangor is ultimately erased, it allows us to see why he agrees to become a Controller. Similarly, Loren is perhaps a bit of an author avatar for Applegate. She takes no bullshit from anybody, and she backs up Elfangor—sometimes with a softball bat. As the ending of this book implies, and as we learn in the next book, she is also a big deal to the Animorphs themselves….
Of course, it’s when the two cultures—Andalite and human—collide that we get the best moments of all. Elfangor’s observations of the peculiarities of humanity are reminiscent of the best of Ax’s from The Alien. Applegate can’t resist throwing in a few references for the historically-aware reader: Elfangor happens to be around to render some help to “Bill and Steve” to get their operating system working.
But there is, by far, a single crowning moment of awesome in The Andalite Chronicles: the sheer delight of Elfangor driving a yellow mustang across the Taxxon homeworld and through a barrier of Hork-Bajir. Best. Image. Ever.
There are some pretty great books in the series to come, but with The Andalite Chronicles Applegate reaches a pinnacle that proves how great this series can be.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #12: The Reaction | #13: The Change →
Do you ever read a book only for it to be exactly what you expected? Not exactly what it promises, mind you, but to have all your expectations confirmed. That’s what happened here with Coyote Horizon. With only vague memories of Allen Steele’s first colonial SF adventures, I was vaguely optimistic about this book. I was looking forward to some politics, some wilderness, some alienness—and that’s what I got. Coyote Horizon, like its predecessors, aptly demonstrates that science fiction books do not need to be “literary” to have great themes.
Looking at this book as a science-fiction story, it’s striking how Steele uses the science-fictional elements. There are spaceships and starbridges/wormholes, and some mention of quantum computers. There are gyrocopters and some advanced medical technology. Yet Steele contrasts this with a very strong frontier, western feel: rifles, sailing vessels and boats, slums, taxi services by the indigenous equivalent of a donkey or camel. Very often characters talk about how certain technologies are only available to those with the money to afford it. So Steele retains an extremely “colonial” feel to a story that is set in our relative future.
It might be possible to describe the main plots of the story, but they are all intertwined. So let’s talk about themes.
Hawk Thompson is on parole for horrific crimes. (Remember, I don’t remember much from the first trilogy, so I forget how they were portrayed there.) Then a hjadd hands him a holy book which is actually an AI in a quantum computer, and he gets the idea into his head that he’s a teacher who should spread this higher system of ethics to the rest of humanity. Alien religions going viral, hmm?
Hawk’s gradual transformation into the chaaz’maha is, of course, your typical “finding oneself” journey for a protagonist. It’s also an example of one of the dangers of exploring the universe: finding new ideas. New ideas are scary! Or so the Dominionist preacher who opposes Hawk thinks. To be honest, I was disappointed by Cosenza. Although people like him undoubtedly exist in real life, fanatics just aren’t as interesting characters as people who are a little more rational but nevertheless disagree with you. To me, the most interesting conflicts are the ones where people who might otherwise get along feel it’s necessary to take opposing sides.
The difficulty of such thorny politics is right at the heart of the Coyote stories, I think. What began as a unified colony of exiles/criminals who hijacked the Alabama was quickly transformed by the arrival of the subsequent ships. Even so, they all shared in common that desire to distinguish themselves from Earth. With the ongoing collapse of the Western Union propelling even more refugees to Coyote, the very identity of the colony is in question.
We also see this question of identity writ large in the Exploratory Expedition’s journey to circumnavigate Coyote. Though Steele only shows us the beginning of the voyage, it is an important symbol for the ongoing colonization of the planet. Several characters are quick to point out that there are less-than-idealistic motives behind such exploration, however. With more people immigrating to Coyote, the colony needs to expand. But if it doesn’t take such expansion slowly, then it will be difficult to forge a cohesive colonial identity. There will be fractures, and division, and the planet and society will both suffer for it.
So there are a lot of big ideas floating around in this book. For the most part, Steele addresses them in interesting—if not entirely original—ways. His portrayal of Sa’Tong as a nonviolent system of ethics is cool. It will be interesting to see if that nonviolence aspect lasts among all of Hawk’S followers. I guess I’m mostly just concerned that a lot of this ground seems to have been tread before—I hope Steele can manage to put a somewhat unique spin on things, or else it’s just going to feel a bit like Dune Messiah all over again. We get it. You can’t control what you started.
Mostly, though, Coyote Horizon works because it doesn’t attempt to be too grandiose. My copy is a mass market paperback from the library: the spine is giving in, the print is so tiny even my young eyes protest … and that feels right. Steele has come up with a solid cast of characters, each with their own prejudices and priorities, and put them in a pressure cooker. As time runs out, we get to watch what happens. It’s at times exhilarating, at times infuriating—but it’s never dull, I can give it that.
Looking at this book as a science-fiction story, it’s striking how Steele uses the science-fictional elements. There are spaceships and starbridges/wormholes, and some mention of quantum computers. There are gyrocopters and some advanced medical technology. Yet Steele contrasts this with a very strong frontier, western feel: rifles, sailing vessels and boats, slums, taxi services by the indigenous equivalent of a donkey or camel. Very often characters talk about how certain technologies are only available to those with the money to afford it. So Steele retains an extremely “colonial” feel to a story that is set in our relative future.
It might be possible to describe the main plots of the story, but they are all intertwined. So let’s talk about themes.
Hawk Thompson is on parole for horrific crimes. (Remember, I don’t remember much from the first trilogy, so I forget how they were portrayed there.) Then a hjadd hands him a holy book which is actually an AI in a quantum computer, and he gets the idea into his head that he’s a teacher who should spread this higher system of ethics to the rest of humanity. Alien religions going viral, hmm?
Hawk’s gradual transformation into the chaaz’maha is, of course, your typical “finding oneself” journey for a protagonist. It’s also an example of one of the dangers of exploring the universe: finding new ideas. New ideas are scary! Or so the Dominionist preacher who opposes Hawk thinks. To be honest, I was disappointed by Cosenza. Although people like him undoubtedly exist in real life, fanatics just aren’t as interesting characters as people who are a little more rational but nevertheless disagree with you. To me, the most interesting conflicts are the ones where people who might otherwise get along feel it’s necessary to take opposing sides.
The difficulty of such thorny politics is right at the heart of the Coyote stories, I think. What began as a unified colony of exiles/criminals who hijacked the Alabama was quickly transformed by the arrival of the subsequent ships. Even so, they all shared in common that desire to distinguish themselves from Earth. With the ongoing collapse of the Western Union propelling even more refugees to Coyote, the very identity of the colony is in question.
We also see this question of identity writ large in the Exploratory Expedition’s journey to circumnavigate Coyote. Though Steele only shows us the beginning of the voyage, it is an important symbol for the ongoing colonization of the planet. Several characters are quick to point out that there are less-than-idealistic motives behind such exploration, however. With more people immigrating to Coyote, the colony needs to expand. But if it doesn’t take such expansion slowly, then it will be difficult to forge a cohesive colonial identity. There will be fractures, and division, and the planet and society will both suffer for it.
So there are a lot of big ideas floating around in this book. For the most part, Steele addresses them in interesting—if not entirely original—ways. His portrayal of Sa’Tong as a nonviolent system of ethics is cool. It will be interesting to see if that nonviolence aspect lasts among all of Hawk’S followers. I guess I’m mostly just concerned that a lot of this ground seems to have been tread before—I hope Steele can manage to put a somewhat unique spin on things, or else it’s just going to feel a bit like Dune Messiah all over again. We get it. You can’t control what you started.
Mostly, though, Coyote Horizon works because it doesn’t attempt to be too grandiose. My copy is a mass market paperback from the library: the spine is giving in, the print is so tiny even my young eyes protest … and that feels right. Steele has come up with a solid cast of characters, each with their own prejudices and priorities, and put them in a pressure cooker. As time runs out, we get to watch what happens. It’s at times exhilarating, at times infuriating—but it’s never dull, I can give it that.
I first read Fragile Things back in my first year of university, after which I promptly lent it to a friend, who gave it back to me three or four years later—as can sometimes happen when I lend out books. I’ve been meaning to re-read it for a while so I can write a review. Then Neil Gaiman’s newest collection, Trigger Warning came out. So when I bought that, I also picked up his first collection, Smoke and Mirrors. I thought I could read all three anthologies in publication order and enjoy the progression.
Well, I kind of screwed that up. I totally forgot I bought Smoke and Mirrors. So when I wanted a change of pace, I took Fragile Things off my shelf, intending to knock it back so I could get to Trigger Warning. Oops. Looks like I’m reading all the things out of order! And this doesn’t matter, I know, except to me—which probably makes it all the worse.
Gaiman is one of my favourite writers. I like his ability to create characters through broad strokes that seem to shift and change in a different light: both American Gods and The Ocean at the End of the Lane feature interesting protagonists who gradually undergo existential crises as the story unfolds. Yet I can’t say that I enjoyed Fragile Things that much. Many of the stories in here are clever; a few are even brilliant, and some certainly made me smile. But as I say every time I come to review a short story collection, this is just not the form for me. I love me my novels, and that’s just a big fat bias on my part.
The star of this book, if there is one, has to be the novella at the end, The Monarch of the Glen. Anyone who wants to know what happens to Shadow following on from American Gods needs to read this. It’s very much in the same vein as the novel: Gaiman shines a light into the liminal space of fantasy in our world—what we might, if we’re feeling snobbish, call magical realism, although I don’t think that’s quite right either. This is a universe where stories have power and a life of their own.
I also remembered “The Problem of Susan” from my first reading all those years ago, and I was happy to revisit it. Gaiman combines two intriguing notions. As the title implies, he addresses this idea that Susan wasn’t allowed back into Narnia because she had grown too old. That alone could have made for a great story, but Gaiman takes it one step further, introducing strange dreams that portray Aslan and the White Witch as conspirators and lovers rather than enemies. The psychosexuality of these dreams highlights the comments that Susan’s ejection from Narnia is related to original sin and the idea that as a woman, rather than a girl, she is no longer pure enough to enter.
One aspect of Gaiman’s writing both sublime and frustrating is his unwillingness to spell everything out. He likes to implicate, and hint, and foreshadow. “How to Talk to Girls at Parties” is an example of this at its most sublime. What’s actually going on here sneaks up on you, but as you start to realize the truth before the narrator, this dramatic irony becomes the driving force for the rest of the story. On the other hand, something like “Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire” frustrates me, because I feel like I’m almost-but-not-quite getting it.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about how the stories (and poems) within Fragile Things are often experimental or unusual in structure. Gaiman explains the provenance of many of these stories in the introduction. Some come from song lyrics, or accompany albums or other art pieces; most were written on demand for one anthology or event or another. The sheer diversity of narrative techniques and styles and literary devices within this volume is dazzling and marvellous.
It’s a nice way to dip back into the mind of Neil Gaiman, though I think I’d prefer re-reading any of his novels instead. I wouldn’t recommend this as someone’s first Gaiman work—again, literally any of his novels is a great introduction, or maybe Sandman for the graphically inclined. If, unlike me, however, you crave the shorter fiction, this is a curated smorgasboard of delectable items. I kind of picked it over, and there was a little bit to like, but not quite enough to fill me.
Well, I kind of screwed that up. I totally forgot I bought Smoke and Mirrors. So when I wanted a change of pace, I took Fragile Things off my shelf, intending to knock it back so I could get to Trigger Warning. Oops. Looks like I’m reading all the things out of order! And this doesn’t matter, I know, except to me—which probably makes it all the worse.
Gaiman is one of my favourite writers. I like his ability to create characters through broad strokes that seem to shift and change in a different light: both American Gods and The Ocean at the End of the Lane feature interesting protagonists who gradually undergo existential crises as the story unfolds. Yet I can’t say that I enjoyed Fragile Things that much. Many of the stories in here are clever; a few are even brilliant, and some certainly made me smile. But as I say every time I come to review a short story collection, this is just not the form for me. I love me my novels, and that’s just a big fat bias on my part.
The star of this book, if there is one, has to be the novella at the end, The Monarch of the Glen. Anyone who wants to know what happens to Shadow following on from American Gods needs to read this. It’s very much in the same vein as the novel: Gaiman shines a light into the liminal space of fantasy in our world—what we might, if we’re feeling snobbish, call magical realism, although I don’t think that’s quite right either. This is a universe where stories have power and a life of their own.
I also remembered “The Problem of Susan” from my first reading all those years ago, and I was happy to revisit it. Gaiman combines two intriguing notions. As the title implies, he addresses this idea that Susan wasn’t allowed back into Narnia because she had grown too old. That alone could have made for a great story, but Gaiman takes it one step further, introducing strange dreams that portray Aslan and the White Witch as conspirators and lovers rather than enemies. The psychosexuality of these dreams highlights the comments that Susan’s ejection from Narnia is related to original sin and the idea that as a woman, rather than a girl, she is no longer pure enough to enter.
One aspect of Gaiman’s writing both sublime and frustrating is his unwillingness to spell everything out. He likes to implicate, and hint, and foreshadow. “How to Talk to Girls at Parties” is an example of this at its most sublime. What’s actually going on here sneaks up on you, but as you start to realize the truth before the narrator, this dramatic irony becomes the driving force for the rest of the story. On the other hand, something like “Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire” frustrates me, because I feel like I’m almost-but-not-quite getting it.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about how the stories (and poems) within Fragile Things are often experimental or unusual in structure. Gaiman explains the provenance of many of these stories in the introduction. Some come from song lyrics, or accompany albums or other art pieces; most were written on demand for one anthology or event or another. The sheer diversity of narrative techniques and styles and literary devices within this volume is dazzling and marvellous.
It’s a nice way to dip back into the mind of Neil Gaiman, though I think I’d prefer re-reading any of his novels instead. I wouldn’t recommend this as someone’s first Gaiman work—again, literally any of his novels is a great introduction, or maybe Sandman for the graphically inclined. If, unlike me, however, you crave the shorter fiction, this is a curated smorgasboard of delectable items. I kind of picked it over, and there was a little bit to like, but not quite enough to fill me.
Let me summarize this book for you.
—wait, no, sorry, that’s Star Wars. Let’s try this again.
—no, no, now that’s Lion King. DAMN IT.
OK, don’t worry, I got this.
Nailed it.
Aristotle: Join me, Alexander. Feel the power of the Dark Side.
Alexander: Never!
Aristotle: Alexander, I AM YOUR FATHER.
Alexander: No!
Aristotle: Look within your heart, Alexander, which is actually a heart, and is not merely the shadow of an ideal heart, because how the hell did Plato think that would work anyway? You know it to be true.
Alexander: Noooooooo!
Aristotle: *chops off Alexander's hand with a light-sabre*
—wait, no, sorry, that’s Star Wars. Let’s try this again.
Aristotle: Everything the light touches is your kingdom.
Alexander: Wow
Aristotle: A king's time as ruler rises and falls like the sun. One day, Alexander, the sun will set on Philip’s time here, and will rise with you as the new king.
Alexander: What’s that dark part over there?
Aristotle: That is Persia. We do not speak of it.
Later, Aristotle gets trampled to death by wildebeest while Alexander looks on, and it is ALL HIS FAULT. Then his uncle becomes—
—no, no, now that’s Lion King. DAMN IT.
OK, don’t worry, I got this.
Aristotle: If you’ll just concede the necessity of going to school, we’ll go on having conversations about leadership every night just as we always have. Is it a bargain?
Alexander: Yes, sir! *prepares to spit on his hand*
Aristotle: We’ll consider it sealed without the usual formality. Now about Boo Radley….
Nailed it.
Juno is a fun movie. Ellen Page nails it as the title character, conveying exactly the intended idea that a lot of the weirdness about teen pregnancy comes from our hang-ups, as a society, about young women/girls. In the movie’s desire to concentrate on how Juno navigates this brave new world, however, Michael Cera’s character—the babydaddy—plays only a minor role. That’s fine for the story Juno wants to tell. But I basically think now of Trouble as “like Juno, but with a father involved.” Not the father, mind you….
Hannah Witton recommended this book in one of her monthly favourites videos. Hannah is an amazing YouTuber who vlogs about sex education, feminism, and relationships, including her lovely Drunk Advice series. Check out her videos. I have no trouble understanding why she liked Trouble. Non Pratt (who I can only assume is just at good at wrangling dinosaurs as Chris Pratt) has created a novel realistic in its portrayal of teenagers yet optimistic in its outcomes.
I’ve been back in Canada for almost a year to the day now, after spending two years teaching students the same age as the ones in this book. While I had no illusions about what fifteen-year-olds are (or are not) getting up to, it’s definitely different to see it presented from their perspective rather than my perspective as an awkward twenty-something dude managing his first classroom…. (This, of course, is one of the reasons I love to read YA.) Hannah Sheppard (not to be confused with Hannah Witton, above!) and her friends are fifteen. They smoke, drink, and—oh yes—have sex. Lots of sex. And when they aren’t having sex, they are thinking about sex, talking about sex, and “pulling” (making out).
So I had flashbacks to teaching in England thanks to the setting of this book. I definitely recognized the type of school Pratt describes, with registration and mock exams and the dreaded GCSEs. I also had flashbacks to my own time in high school, which is not that long ago; I dredged up memories of peers and friends and compared them with the type of life Pratt portrays here.
I admit that part of my reaction is befuddlement, in the sense that I don’t really have a common frame of reference with Hannah here. I was never interested in engaging in these types of hormone-driven hijinks. I never really got why having girlfriends or boyfriends and making out and even having sex were such a big deal—didn’t anyone else realize that there were books to be read? How do you even read a book while having sex, anyway? That just seems awkward. And to this day I still have trouble getting myself in the mindspace of someone who finds all this stuff important or even interesting. It all seems rather messy and sticky and unappealing.
Nevertheless, I greatly appreciate Pratt’s depiction of Hannah’s sex and romance life. Not only does she capture Hannah’s voice with the first-person narration, but she also manages to say a lot about the way young women in our society begin to perceive themselves during adolescence:
Somewhere along the way, women figure out that in order to get by in life, they have to start pretending to be other people.
Pratt definitely shows Hannah, Katie, and the other 15-year-old girls as confident. But it’s the fragile confidence born from inexperienced enthusiasm, a confidence easily belied by the uncertainty Hannah exhibits later in the scene from above, when she loses her virginity. Nevertheless, it’s the key word, because it’s what Hannah has learned she is supposed to have. Be strong. Be confident. Confidence is sexy. In a lot of ways, this reminds me of Johanna from How to Build a Girl. Tired of being herself, Johanna finds the confidence required to create an entirely new persona in order to fit into the scene she wants to inhabit.
Despite the obvious consequences of Hannah’s unplanned pregnancy, Trouble manages to be sex-positive. It is brutally honest when Hannah confides in us that she wants sex: “This last week or so has been UNbearable. I have never been so horny in all my life, and I think it might kill me if I don’t have sex soon.” More than that, however, this sex drive is by Hannah, for Hannah. Too frequently, women’s sexuality in media is an object of male desire—women are sexy for men, want sex for the benefit of a male viewpoint character. When Hannah refers to being “on the prowl” or “within perving distance” or otherwise discusses her body and her needs, she’s affirming that she wants sex for her own sake.
Furthermore, Trouble distinguishes between sex and romance and friendship in a nuanced way that a lot of YA doesn’t seem to do. It’s easy to conflate these three things—girl friends boy, girl falls for boy, girl sexes boy is a “natural” progression that quickly yields a formula for a summer YA read about “growing up.” And, you know, there is nothing wrong with that sequence of events. But I want some diversity in my relationships. I want platonic friendships among genders. Trouble comes close with the relationship between Hannah and Aaron.
I appreciate the ambiguity, especially towards the end. Pratt leaves Hannah and Aaron’s relationship status up in the air. They are friends, yes. More than that? Hard to say. Maybe. Trouble’s ending really only marks the beginning of the next chapter in Hannah’s life (and the life of her new baby). Rather than providing a trite epilogue, Pratt firmly reminds us that life gives no assurances: Hannah is only fifteen; there is so much more that will happen to her, good and bad.
Aaron’s perspective throughout the book is what differentiated Trouble for me from an experience like Juno. True, Aaron is not actually the babydaddy—and while his volunteering of those services might seem far-fetched, the juxtaposition of his rising star with Katie’s falling one says a lot about how something like being pregnant shows you who your friends are. The subplot about Aaron’s “shadowy past” teeters on the brink of cliché but never quite goes over—and at the very least, it serves to avoid making him into a manic pixie dream boy whose only purpose is to be Hannah’s friend.
The dual perspectives are a perfect juxtaposition. Both Hannah and Aaron are fallible human beings. They are foils for each other, calling each other out when the other is being an idiot, and generally supporting each other through some of the worst moments of their lives thus far. Although Pratt leaves the romantic status of their relationship up in the air, she establishes vehemently that whatever their feelings for one another, Hannah and Aaron are at the very least true friends. And I like that.
Trouble is a fun and exhilarating book that doesn’t overstay its welcome yet still leaves a lasting impression. If you’re a teen, you’ll recognize a lot in here. If, like me, you’re past those tender years, then you’ll probably see echoes of your past—or you’ll at least get a sense of what life is like for some teenagers these days. This is a book about empathy, compassion, and how crazy it is that women have to push babies out of their vaginas.
Go home, evolution. You’re drunk.
Hannah Witton recommended this book in one of her monthly favourites videos. Hannah is an amazing YouTuber who vlogs about sex education, feminism, and relationships, including her lovely Drunk Advice series. Check out her videos. I have no trouble understanding why she liked Trouble. Non Pratt (who I can only assume is just at good at wrangling dinosaurs as Chris Pratt) has created a novel realistic in its portrayal of teenagers yet optimistic in its outcomes.
I’ve been back in Canada for almost a year to the day now, after spending two years teaching students the same age as the ones in this book. While I had no illusions about what fifteen-year-olds are (or are not) getting up to, it’s definitely different to see it presented from their perspective rather than my perspective as an awkward twenty-something dude managing his first classroom…. (This, of course, is one of the reasons I love to read YA.) Hannah Sheppard (not to be confused with Hannah Witton, above!) and her friends are fifteen. They smoke, drink, and—oh yes—have sex. Lots of sex. And when they aren’t having sex, they are thinking about sex, talking about sex, and “pulling” (making out).
So I had flashbacks to teaching in England thanks to the setting of this book. I definitely recognized the type of school Pratt describes, with registration and mock exams and the dreaded GCSEs. I also had flashbacks to my own time in high school, which is not that long ago; I dredged up memories of peers and friends and compared them with the type of life Pratt portrays here.
I admit that part of my reaction is befuddlement, in the sense that I don’t really have a common frame of reference with Hannah here. I was never interested in engaging in these types of hormone-driven hijinks. I never really got why having girlfriends or boyfriends and making out and even having sex were such a big deal—didn’t anyone else realize that there were books to be read? How do you even read a book while having sex, anyway? That just seems awkward. And to this day I still have trouble getting myself in the mindspace of someone who finds all this stuff important or even interesting. It all seems rather messy and sticky and unappealing.
Nevertheless, I greatly appreciate Pratt’s depiction of Hannah’s sex and romance life. Not only does she capture Hannah’s voice with the first-person narration, but she also manages to say a lot about the way young women in our society begin to perceive themselves during adolescence:
We spent far too long messing about getting ready, so that by the time we came downstairs loads of Jay’s mates had arrived. I’m not going to lie. I was on the prowl. A summer of flirting with Tyrone and learning how to make a guy lose control had given me confidence.
Somewhere along the way, women figure out that in order to get by in life, they have to start pretending to be other people.
Pratt definitely shows Hannah, Katie, and the other 15-year-old girls as confident. But it’s the fragile confidence born from inexperienced enthusiasm, a confidence easily belied by the uncertainty Hannah exhibits later in the scene from above, when she loses her virginity. Nevertheless, it’s the key word, because it’s what Hannah has learned she is supposed to have. Be strong. Be confident. Confidence is sexy. In a lot of ways, this reminds me of Johanna from How to Build a Girl. Tired of being herself, Johanna finds the confidence required to create an entirely new persona in order to fit into the scene she wants to inhabit.
Despite the obvious consequences of Hannah’s unplanned pregnancy, Trouble manages to be sex-positive. It is brutally honest when Hannah confides in us that she wants sex: “This last week or so has been UNbearable. I have never been so horny in all my life, and I think it might kill me if I don’t have sex soon.” More than that, however, this sex drive is by Hannah, for Hannah. Too frequently, women’s sexuality in media is an object of male desire—women are sexy for men, want sex for the benefit of a male viewpoint character. When Hannah refers to being “on the prowl” or “within perving distance” or otherwise discusses her body and her needs, she’s affirming that she wants sex for her own sake.
Furthermore, Trouble distinguishes between sex and romance and friendship in a nuanced way that a lot of YA doesn’t seem to do. It’s easy to conflate these three things—girl friends boy, girl falls for boy, girl sexes boy is a “natural” progression that quickly yields a formula for a summer YA read about “growing up.” And, you know, there is nothing wrong with that sequence of events. But I want some diversity in my relationships. I want platonic friendships among genders. Trouble comes close with the relationship between Hannah and Aaron.
I appreciate the ambiguity, especially towards the end. Pratt leaves Hannah and Aaron’s relationship status up in the air. They are friends, yes. More than that? Hard to say. Maybe. Trouble’s ending really only marks the beginning of the next chapter in Hannah’s life (and the life of her new baby). Rather than providing a trite epilogue, Pratt firmly reminds us that life gives no assurances: Hannah is only fifteen; there is so much more that will happen to her, good and bad.
Aaron’s perspective throughout the book is what differentiated Trouble for me from an experience like Juno. True, Aaron is not actually the babydaddy—and while his volunteering of those services might seem far-fetched, the juxtaposition of his rising star with Katie’s falling one says a lot about how something like being pregnant shows you who your friends are. The subplot about Aaron’s “shadowy past” teeters on the brink of cliché but never quite goes over—and at the very least, it serves to avoid making him into a manic pixie dream boy whose only purpose is to be Hannah’s friend.
The dual perspectives are a perfect juxtaposition. Both Hannah and Aaron are fallible human beings. They are foils for each other, calling each other out when the other is being an idiot, and generally supporting each other through some of the worst moments of their lives thus far. Although Pratt leaves the romantic status of their relationship up in the air, she establishes vehemently that whatever their feelings for one another, Hannah and Aaron are at the very least true friends. And I like that.
Trouble is a fun and exhilarating book that doesn’t overstay its welcome yet still leaves a lasting impression. If you’re a teen, you’ll recognize a lot in here. If, like me, you’re past those tender years, then you’ll probably see echoes of your past—or you’ll at least get a sense of what life is like for some teenagers these days. This is a book about empathy, compassion, and how crazy it is that women have to push babies out of their vaginas.
One of the men actually asks if the doll is to scale.
It can’t be. Babies aren’t that big except in hospital shows, where they don’t have minutes-old babies on standby for the end of a birth scene.
You can almost hear all the women let out their breath when she says no.
“This doll’s head is proportionally smaller than a baby’s.”
Go home, evolution. You’re drunk.