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tachyondecay
It’s a shame. I really enjoyed Journeys, but my first attempt at novel-length Ian R. MacLeod falls short.
The Light Ages takes place in an alternative England where the ability to manipulate aether has jumpstarted steam engine technology somewhat. Other technologies, like electricity, have fallen by the wayside as too unreliable. The result is a grittier, dirtier, more magical and more chaotic industrialized England.
My problems stem from the writing style. MacLeod doesn’t value the nature of the scene in this book. Narration is interminable, and very little seems to happen—or things happen, but we’re told about them instead of being shown them. Ten chapters and a hundred pages in, and I don’t really have a handle on what the stakes are or why I should care. It’s a drab, dusty, dreary place to live, and I sympathize with Robert a little bit … but why, exactly, is he special? So far MacLeod hasn’t bothered to answer that, or drop more than a few frustratingly dim clues.
I went into this looking for a good ol’fashioned fantasy novel—by which I mean, something that has a little magic, a little conflict, a little fun. There’s plenty of magic in here, but it’s constrained. There’s conflict here, but it’s all in the background, under the surface, and it never boils over to the point of holding my attention. There is no fun to be had here, at least not from what I’ve read so far.
By all means, you might enjoy this book much more than I did—I don’t think it’s bad, but I just don’t want to read it right now.
The Light Ages takes place in an alternative England where the ability to manipulate aether has jumpstarted steam engine technology somewhat. Other technologies, like electricity, have fallen by the wayside as too unreliable. The result is a grittier, dirtier, more magical and more chaotic industrialized England.
My problems stem from the writing style. MacLeod doesn’t value the nature of the scene in this book. Narration is interminable, and very little seems to happen—or things happen, but we’re told about them instead of being shown them. Ten chapters and a hundred pages in, and I don’t really have a handle on what the stakes are or why I should care. It’s a drab, dusty, dreary place to live, and I sympathize with Robert a little bit … but why, exactly, is he special? So far MacLeod hasn’t bothered to answer that, or drop more than a few frustratingly dim clues.
I went into this looking for a good ol’fashioned fantasy novel—by which I mean, something that has a little magic, a little conflict, a little fun. There’s plenty of magic in here, but it’s constrained. There’s conflict here, but it’s all in the background, under the surface, and it never boils over to the point of holding my attention. There is no fun to be had here, at least not from what I’ve read so far.
By all means, you might enjoy this book much more than I did—I don’t think it’s bad, but I just don’t want to read it right now.
So, Lady Chatterley’s Lover is about a woman who can’t have sex (or a child) with her paraplegic husband, who gives her permission to take a lover so she can conceive a child that he can raise as theirs, and then gets mad when she does exactly that.
And there’s lots of sex in it.
Like, explicit, full-on-erotica, “he entered her, and she cradled his penis and balls” sort of stuff.
So naturally it got banned when it was first published, but as any modern reader of the book will report, the sex scenes are tame in comparison to the way sex gets represented in books, TV, and movies today. And in fact, it wasn’t even really the sex scenes that seemed to be the problem: most of the trials for obscenity appear to relate to the language used, in those scenes or just in the conversation around them. It’s a striking example of paternalism when those in power believe adults are unable to bear the sight of some small, four-letter words.
It’s also easy to mock the censorship of Lady Chatterley’s Lover and its like, to dismiss it as absurdity of an earlier era. This would be a mistake. People can and still attempt to censor books, even in Canada. We must always remain vigilant for attempts to curtail our freedom to read and our children’s autonomy as responsible readers.
But enough about censorship. If Lawrence hadn’t included explicit sex in this book, it still could have been banned for its incendiary depictions of class and gender. Constance (Connie) Chatterley is a woman protagonist, and Lawrence dares to portray her affairs (yes, plural!) in a sympathetic light. Imagine that, a married, upper-class woman cheating on her poor, fragile husband—a paralyzed veteran!—first with a playwright and then (shock! gasp!) a groundskeeper from the village near their estate!
Sorry, ladies, I should have warned you of the impropriety of it all. Give me a moment to pass around the smelling salts….
There we go—better? Yeah, so Lawrence goes out of his way to try to make these characters sympathetic, at least at the outset. Connie and Clifford Chatterley have a functional relationship; they don’t exactly love each other, but they seem devoted to each other in a kind of resigned acceptance that they could have come off far worse when it comes to marriage. Yet Lawrence also doesn’t waste time in introducing Connie’s first affair, which she begins before Clifford broaches the subject of her sleeping with another man so she can get pregnant.
The clue to where Lawrence wants to direct the reader’s attention lies in the title: Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He could easily have called the book Lady Chatterley if he wanted to make it about Connie; he could even have called it Lady Chatterley’s Most Spectacular Sexytime Adventures had he desired. (This is why I’m not allowed to come up with titles for things any more….) But no, he explicitly focuses on Mellors, because his existence as a working class man having an affair with a woman of higher social status is the true scandal of this book. Clifford’s harshness towards Connie in the last third of the book is more about this perceived betrayal, on her part, of this covenant not to mix the classes—of all his character traits, his classism is the most constant even as Lawrence infantilizes him—than any real anger that she betrayed him.
My reaction to Lawrence’s characterization is … mixed. On one hand, I love that he so clearly and unapologetically ascribes to Connie a sex drive that extends beyond making babies. Having sex—and not just having it, but deriving pleasure from it—is on Connie’s to-do list. In the middle of the book she has a very frank scene where she strips and looks at herself in the mirror, and Lawrence describes—lushly but not all that erotically—how Connie observes the aging of her own body. And while I don’t think (obviously I don’t know) he succeeds in always portraying the thoughts and desires of a frustrated woman like Connie, at least he’s trying. Despite the ending, I don’t think that Lawrence is punishing Connie for straying; if anything, he makes his disapproval of Clifford and others like Clifford very clear.
On the other hand, characters like Mellors and his estranged wife are less easy to applaud. Mellors is quixotic: in his actions and demeanour he seems every bit the stereotype of the working man; however, lest we are too quick to judge, his Derbyshire accent is affected—he can speak the King’s English when he wants to. Doubtless it’s this paradox that is supposed to make Mellors so attractive to Connie; similarly, Lawrence needs to set him up as a more conventionally masculine figure when juxtaposed with Clifford, or even Connie’s first lover. But he isn’t an easy person to sympathize with, and at times it is difficult to see what Connie sees in him.
His wife is worse—if Connie is Lawrence’s attempt not to employ common tropes vs. women in literature, then Bertha Coutts undermines that aim. She is the stereotypical “crazed woman” out to spread lies and drag her husband through the muck, and pretty much all the main characters are derisive and dismissive about her (and we are supposed to go along with it, because otherwise Connie and Ollie can’t be happy together!). Indeed, Bertha seems to imply by her very existence that the reason Connie is desirable and appropriate as a mate for Mellors is because, by her very nature, she is compliant and there for his satisfaction—the fact that he expresses happiness at being able to give her satisfaction is merely a bonus, and just another feather in the cap of his prowess as a lover.
Infamy aside, Lady Chatterley’s Lover is not a stand-out novel. It is memorable as a part of Lawrence’s oeuvre, though, and yet another example of his willingness to court controversy. Whatever its merits or lack thereof, though, I liked it. It took me a while to warm up to it—the story, short though it is by our standards, is a dense narrative with meagre dialogue and mostly exposition about Connie’s life. But by the end, though, I bought into the relationships among Connie, Clifford, and Mellors, and that’s what matters.
Oh, note to Dover, the publisher: margins. Seriously, next time, have some.
And there’s lots of sex in it.
Like, explicit, full-on-erotica, “he entered her, and she cradled his penis and balls” sort of stuff.
So naturally it got banned when it was first published, but as any modern reader of the book will report, the sex scenes are tame in comparison to the way sex gets represented in books, TV, and movies today. And in fact, it wasn’t even really the sex scenes that seemed to be the problem: most of the trials for obscenity appear to relate to the language used, in those scenes or just in the conversation around them. It’s a striking example of paternalism when those in power believe adults are unable to bear the sight of some small, four-letter words.
It’s also easy to mock the censorship of Lady Chatterley’s Lover and its like, to dismiss it as absurdity of an earlier era. This would be a mistake. People can and still attempt to censor books, even in Canada. We must always remain vigilant for attempts to curtail our freedom to read and our children’s autonomy as responsible readers.
But enough about censorship. If Lawrence hadn’t included explicit sex in this book, it still could have been banned for its incendiary depictions of class and gender. Constance (Connie) Chatterley is a woman protagonist, and Lawrence dares to portray her affairs (yes, plural!) in a sympathetic light. Imagine that, a married, upper-class woman cheating on her poor, fragile husband—a paralyzed veteran!—first with a playwright and then (shock! gasp!) a groundskeeper from the village near their estate!
Sorry, ladies, I should have warned you of the impropriety of it all. Give me a moment to pass around the smelling salts….
There we go—better? Yeah, so Lawrence goes out of his way to try to make these characters sympathetic, at least at the outset. Connie and Clifford Chatterley have a functional relationship; they don’t exactly love each other, but they seem devoted to each other in a kind of resigned acceptance that they could have come off far worse when it comes to marriage. Yet Lawrence also doesn’t waste time in introducing Connie’s first affair, which she begins before Clifford broaches the subject of her sleeping with another man so she can get pregnant.
The clue to where Lawrence wants to direct the reader’s attention lies in the title: Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He could easily have called the book Lady Chatterley if he wanted to make it about Connie; he could even have called it Lady Chatterley’s Most Spectacular Sexytime Adventures had he desired. (This is why I’m not allowed to come up with titles for things any more….) But no, he explicitly focuses on Mellors, because his existence as a working class man having an affair with a woman of higher social status is the true scandal of this book. Clifford’s harshness towards Connie in the last third of the book is more about this perceived betrayal, on her part, of this covenant not to mix the classes—of all his character traits, his classism is the most constant even as Lawrence infantilizes him—than any real anger that she betrayed him.
My reaction to Lawrence’s characterization is … mixed. On one hand, I love that he so clearly and unapologetically ascribes to Connie a sex drive that extends beyond making babies. Having sex—and not just having it, but deriving pleasure from it—is on Connie’s to-do list. In the middle of the book she has a very frank scene where she strips and looks at herself in the mirror, and Lawrence describes—lushly but not all that erotically—how Connie observes the aging of her own body. And while I don’t think (obviously I don’t know) he succeeds in always portraying the thoughts and desires of a frustrated woman like Connie, at least he’s trying. Despite the ending, I don’t think that Lawrence is punishing Connie for straying; if anything, he makes his disapproval of Clifford and others like Clifford very clear.
On the other hand, characters like Mellors and his estranged wife are less easy to applaud. Mellors is quixotic: in his actions and demeanour he seems every bit the stereotype of the working man; however, lest we are too quick to judge, his Derbyshire accent is affected—he can speak the King’s English when he wants to. Doubtless it’s this paradox that is supposed to make Mellors so attractive to Connie; similarly, Lawrence needs to set him up as a more conventionally masculine figure when juxtaposed with Clifford, or even Connie’s first lover. But he isn’t an easy person to sympathize with, and at times it is difficult to see what Connie sees in him.
His wife is worse—if Connie is Lawrence’s attempt not to employ common tropes vs. women in literature, then Bertha Coutts undermines that aim. She is the stereotypical “crazed woman” out to spread lies and drag her husband through the muck, and pretty much all the main characters are derisive and dismissive about her (and we are supposed to go along with it, because otherwise Connie and Ollie can’t be happy together!). Indeed, Bertha seems to imply by her very existence that the reason Connie is desirable and appropriate as a mate for Mellors is because, by her very nature, she is compliant and there for his satisfaction—the fact that he expresses happiness at being able to give her satisfaction is merely a bonus, and just another feather in the cap of his prowess as a lover.
Infamy aside, Lady Chatterley’s Lover is not a stand-out novel. It is memorable as a part of Lawrence’s oeuvre, though, and yet another example of his willingness to court controversy. Whatever its merits or lack thereof, though, I liked it. It took me a while to warm up to it—the story, short though it is by our standards, is a dense narrative with meagre dialogue and mostly exposition about Connie’s life. But by the end, though, I bought into the relationships among Connie, Clifford, and Mellors, and that’s what matters.
Oh, note to Dover, the publisher: margins. Seriously, next time, have some.
This is an adorable book. I don’t know why it hasn’t received more attention, though looking at other reviews, it seems that most people didn’t find it as charming as I did—or at least, that charm didn’t outweigh perceived faults in David Schickler’s writing.
The premise of Sweet and Vicious is simple: it’s a gangster romance road trip black comedy.
Gangster: Henry Dante is one of Honey Pobrinkis’ best thugs—though he hasn’t had to kill anyone yet. But when Honey’s nephew threatens an innocent woman while on a job, something in Henry snaps. He betrays the Pobrinkis clan, making off with the diamonds they were sent to collect on Honey’s behalf. Now he’s a wanted man.
Romance: Grace McGlone is an odd kid. Her religious mother is obsessed with evangelists on the radio, particularly Betram Block. Somewhere along the way, Grace goes from rejecting religion to a curious convert—she’s “trying for heaven” in the “celibate until marriage” way, but after walking through an automatic car wash and jumping in Henry’s truck to run away from home, Grace seems to be more on a literal journey than a spiritual one.
Road trip: Henry and Grace tour through a couple of midwest states as they attempt to elude Honey’s pursuit and give away the diamonds Henry stole. Along the way they encounter your standard cast of quirky road trip characters who help Henry and Grace Learn a Lesson.
Black comedy: Everyone dies. Well, OK, not everyone dies. But without spoiling it, a significant number of the main cast dies. This isn’t the blackest of black comedies—think more a charcoal than jet. Really, though, that’s the only way to do humour with gangsters—you can’t ignore the reality that, at the end of the day, Honey is this guy who kills people and steals things. Gangsters, even sympathetic ones like Henry, are objectively not nice people. So when you want to tell a funny gangster story, your comedy needs that dark edge to it.
The power comes from the unexpected sources of darkness. The title, Sweet and Vicious, comes from a phrase Henry utters to himself. He’s describing Grace and himself: she’s the sweet one, and he’s the vicious thug. Or are they? As the story develops, Grace seems to have a vicious streak centred on Bertram Block—and Henry’s inherent sweetness is visible ever since he throws it all over for Helena Chalk.
I appreciate, too, that this book does not overstay its welcome. It is a short and sweet little story. Even still the first part lingers a little longer than it could, but I’d argue that the action-packed last chapter, with its precarious and enthralling climax, more than makes up for earlier indiscretions. You could easily read this in an afternoon and be none the worse for it.
The writing could be better, sure. I mean, with characters like “Honey Pobrinkis” and “Grace McGlone” and “Bertram Block” you have to recognize the aesthetic Schickler is going for here—and arguably it takes even more work to come up with such caricatures. The name “Honey Pobrinkis” isn’t just arbitrarily chosen as a funny-sounding name for a gangster. Many gangsters have sweet-sounding nicknames belied by their cruelty. Schickler carefully calibrates this nickname, even going so far as to divulge backstory for it.
So I give this book four stars for the same reason I give Animorphs novels four stars: the story is the thing. Even amidst bad writing, if your story tickles me, you’ve got me. I’m not saying I’d marry Sweet and Vicious, but I’d swipe right.
And that’s as close as I’ll likely ever get to a casual hook-up.
The premise of Sweet and Vicious is simple: it’s a gangster romance road trip black comedy.
Gangster: Henry Dante is one of Honey Pobrinkis’ best thugs—though he hasn’t had to kill anyone yet. But when Honey’s nephew threatens an innocent woman while on a job, something in Henry snaps. He betrays the Pobrinkis clan, making off with the diamonds they were sent to collect on Honey’s behalf. Now he’s a wanted man.
Romance: Grace McGlone is an odd kid. Her religious mother is obsessed with evangelists on the radio, particularly Betram Block. Somewhere along the way, Grace goes from rejecting religion to a curious convert—she’s “trying for heaven” in the “celibate until marriage” way, but after walking through an automatic car wash and jumping in Henry’s truck to run away from home, Grace seems to be more on a literal journey than a spiritual one.
Road trip: Henry and Grace tour through a couple of midwest states as they attempt to elude Honey’s pursuit and give away the diamonds Henry stole. Along the way they encounter your standard cast of quirky road trip characters who help Henry and Grace Learn a Lesson.
Black comedy: Everyone dies. Well, OK, not everyone dies. But without spoiling it, a significant number of the main cast dies. This isn’t the blackest of black comedies—think more a charcoal than jet. Really, though, that’s the only way to do humour with gangsters—you can’t ignore the reality that, at the end of the day, Honey is this guy who kills people and steals things. Gangsters, even sympathetic ones like Henry, are objectively not nice people. So when you want to tell a funny gangster story, your comedy needs that dark edge to it.
The power comes from the unexpected sources of darkness. The title, Sweet and Vicious, comes from a phrase Henry utters to himself. He’s describing Grace and himself: she’s the sweet one, and he’s the vicious thug. Or are they? As the story develops, Grace seems to have a vicious streak centred on Bertram Block—and Henry’s inherent sweetness is visible ever since he throws it all over for Helena Chalk.
I appreciate, too, that this book does not overstay its welcome. It is a short and sweet little story. Even still the first part lingers a little longer than it could, but I’d argue that the action-packed last chapter, with its precarious and enthralling climax, more than makes up for earlier indiscretions. You could easily read this in an afternoon and be none the worse for it.
The writing could be better, sure. I mean, with characters like “Honey Pobrinkis” and “Grace McGlone” and “Bertram Block” you have to recognize the aesthetic Schickler is going for here—and arguably it takes even more work to come up with such caricatures. The name “Honey Pobrinkis” isn’t just arbitrarily chosen as a funny-sounding name for a gangster. Many gangsters have sweet-sounding nicknames belied by their cruelty. Schickler carefully calibrates this nickname, even going so far as to divulge backstory for it.
So I give this book four stars for the same reason I give Animorphs novels four stars: the story is the thing. Even amidst bad writing, if your story tickles me, you’ve got me. I’m not saying I’d marry Sweet and Vicious, but I’d swipe right.
And that’s as close as I’ll likely ever get to a casual hook-up.
The three Goodreads friends who have rated Bleeding Edge all gave it 5 stars, so that’s impressive. Thomas Pynchon, of course, is a literary juggernaut. This is his first book I’ve read. Coincidentally, I watched the adaptation of Inherent Vice just after I started reading this. Obviously I don’t know if the movie is much like the book, but it has a similar stylistic feeling to Bleeding Edge: an overwhelming cast of characters connected in bizarre and coincidental ways stumbling in a stupour through a miasmic plot that sputters and jolts towards its conclusion.
Pynchon here reminds me a little of William Gibson. Whereas Gibson writes books in “alternative near-futures,” Pynchon seems to be writing about alternative near-pasts. I say alternative because while this isn’t really alternative history, the lens through which Pynchon examines events in New York surrounding September 11, 2001 is an esoteric one. He draws up a constellation of conspirators who seem to have involvement in September 11, which might have been a government plot, or a Middle Eastern plot, or both. In what I can only describe as pretentious satire Pynchon channels that Gibson flavour of social commentary on technology while populating this New York with strange, if not memorable, people.
It would be an understatement to call the cast of Bleeding Edge numerous. A cast list or dramatis personae at the front (or even the back) might have helped; throughout the nearly-500 pages of this book I kept finding myself going “Uh, did we meet this character before? The dialogue and narration seem to imply we have, but I have no memory of this person.” The revolving door and seemingly random comings-and-goings of characters is a problem for this book, or at least for me and the level of attention I was willing to pay it.
In terms of dialogue, Pynchon does a few interesting (but not necessarily good) things. He employs a lot of uptalk, especially with the women. And although dialogue tags are largely absent, when they appear, they are invariably in the form of sez, as if Pynchon has been reading too much BoingBoing. The uptalk is a nice observation on modern speech patterns; the absurd dialogue tag is just an affectation that serves little purpose.
So the characters come and go, mostly forgotten as I hike through the landscape of Pynchon’s self-aware and smug narration. (I can picture him sitting at a typewriter, plugging away at the manuscript one sentence at a time, rubbing his hands together with each convoluted simile or metaphor that transforms a simple description of a plate of food or a glance across the street into a paragraph’s worth of reflection on turn-of-the-millennium culture. Pynchon might have been a hipster before being a hipster was cool, yo.) Really the only character of note is the main character, Maxine. And despite my criticism of the rest of the cast, I genuinely liked Maxine. She is a round and dynamic character, possessing both the toughness one might expect from a de-certified fraud examiner and the vulnerability of a single mother wanting to protect her children from the vagaries such a job sometimes brings home.
Alas, any agency that Pynchon gives Maxine seems negated by the way Bleeding Edge’s plot just happens. I had the exact same sensation trying to watch Inherent Vice. Yes, the characters did things … but those things did not always seem directly connected to the outcomes, as if what happened was always going to happen. This faint scent of predestination tarnishes the story for me. Combine it with the flirtation with the conspiracy theories behind September 11, and I’m starting to check out.
Not even Pynchon’s treatment of our relationship with technology, particularly the nascent Web, manages to salvage the book for me. I’m starting to find it hard to remember the Web before social media—I started using the Internet in 2004, so I predate Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube (barely) and only just jumped on the AOL train as it was rolling into its final station (where it even now sits, its steam engine rumbling gently, as its last and most devoted attendants keep its fires stoked at the most minimal levels). But of course in 2001, the whole idea of social networking was in its infancy. The Web was not yet 10 years old, and the hyperlink still reigned supreme. As Maxine navigates some primitive virtual reality (again harkening to Gibsonian cyberspace), we get treated to this idea that the Web is this yet-to-be mapped frontier, and that beyond the edge is an unknowable void labelled (probably in Comic Sans) “Here Be Dragons.”
If I’m coming across as somewhat ambivalent about Bleeding Edge and Pynchon, that’s only because I am. On one hand, I can see a horizon line, one that if I could only cross would allow me to submerge myself as deeply into this work as so many others have before me. I get why some people feel this is a masterpiece. On the other hand, there was never a point where I felt like I was enjoying myself. I was never intrigued by the mysteries, never electrified by my confusion, never motivated to read faster except by my desire to be done with the book. As with many clever books that reach high but don’t make their mark on me, Bleeding Edge has some heart to it, but it’s just spread way too thinly.
Pynchon here reminds me a little of William Gibson. Whereas Gibson writes books in “alternative near-futures,” Pynchon seems to be writing about alternative near-pasts. I say alternative because while this isn’t really alternative history, the lens through which Pynchon examines events in New York surrounding September 11, 2001 is an esoteric one. He draws up a constellation of conspirators who seem to have involvement in September 11, which might have been a government plot, or a Middle Eastern plot, or both. In what I can only describe as pretentious satire Pynchon channels that Gibson flavour of social commentary on technology while populating this New York with strange, if not memorable, people.
It would be an understatement to call the cast of Bleeding Edge numerous. A cast list or dramatis personae at the front (or even the back) might have helped; throughout the nearly-500 pages of this book I kept finding myself going “Uh, did we meet this character before? The dialogue and narration seem to imply we have, but I have no memory of this person.” The revolving door and seemingly random comings-and-goings of characters is a problem for this book, or at least for me and the level of attention I was willing to pay it.
In terms of dialogue, Pynchon does a few interesting (but not necessarily good) things. He employs a lot of uptalk, especially with the women. And although dialogue tags are largely absent, when they appear, they are invariably in the form of sez, as if Pynchon has been reading too much BoingBoing. The uptalk is a nice observation on modern speech patterns; the absurd dialogue tag is just an affectation that serves little purpose.
So the characters come and go, mostly forgotten as I hike through the landscape of Pynchon’s self-aware and smug narration. (I can picture him sitting at a typewriter, plugging away at the manuscript one sentence at a time, rubbing his hands together with each convoluted simile or metaphor that transforms a simple description of a plate of food or a glance across the street into a paragraph’s worth of reflection on turn-of-the-millennium culture. Pynchon might have been a hipster before being a hipster was cool, yo.) Really the only character of note is the main character, Maxine. And despite my criticism of the rest of the cast, I genuinely liked Maxine. She is a round and dynamic character, possessing both the toughness one might expect from a de-certified fraud examiner and the vulnerability of a single mother wanting to protect her children from the vagaries such a job sometimes brings home.
Alas, any agency that Pynchon gives Maxine seems negated by the way Bleeding Edge’s plot just happens. I had the exact same sensation trying to watch Inherent Vice. Yes, the characters did things … but those things did not always seem directly connected to the outcomes, as if what happened was always going to happen. This faint scent of predestination tarnishes the story for me. Combine it with the flirtation with the conspiracy theories behind September 11, and I’m starting to check out.
Not even Pynchon’s treatment of our relationship with technology, particularly the nascent Web, manages to salvage the book for me. I’m starting to find it hard to remember the Web before social media—I started using the Internet in 2004, so I predate Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube (barely) and only just jumped on the AOL train as it was rolling into its final station (where it even now sits, its steam engine rumbling gently, as its last and most devoted attendants keep its fires stoked at the most minimal levels). But of course in 2001, the whole idea of social networking was in its infancy. The Web was not yet 10 years old, and the hyperlink still reigned supreme. As Maxine navigates some primitive virtual reality (again harkening to Gibsonian cyberspace), we get treated to this idea that the Web is this yet-to-be mapped frontier, and that beyond the edge is an unknowable void labelled (probably in Comic Sans) “Here Be Dragons.”
If I’m coming across as somewhat ambivalent about Bleeding Edge and Pynchon, that’s only because I am. On one hand, I can see a horizon line, one that if I could only cross would allow me to submerge myself as deeply into this work as so many others have before me. I get why some people feel this is a masterpiece. On the other hand, there was never a point where I felt like I was enjoying myself. I was never intrigued by the mysteries, never electrified by my confusion, never motivated to read faster except by my desire to be done with the book. As with many clever books that reach high but don’t make their mark on me, Bleeding Edge has some heart to it, but it’s just spread way too thinly.
Haters gonna hate, but I don’t care: oatmeal is a fantastic weakness. I mean, think about some of the weaknesses enemies or superheroes have had in other stories. Kryptonite? Water? Tricking them into saying their names backwards? Country music? Oatmeal is a legit weakness—and Applegate very specifically restricts it to maple and ginger instant oatmeal. Throw in the additional snag that it doesn’t kill a Yeerk, just renders the Yeerk mad and keeps it from needing Kandrona rays, and you have the perfect kind of imperfect weapon. The Underground is intense in many ways, and the fact the Animorphs have what amounts to a ten-minute discussion about biological warfare is one of them.
See, it’s really easy to see the words “instant oatmeal turns out to be the new superweapon to fight the Yeerks” and have your eyes glaze over and your brain turn off. It sounds silly; it sounds like something you’d find in a kids’ book. Fine for a kid but not so interesting for adults, right? It’s tempting to dismiss this book as something like The Unknown for the level of silliness it approaches. But that would be underestimating it, and doing the story a disservice.
In this, the Silver Age of Animorphs, which began in #9: The Secret, the Animorphs have accepted their roles in the war against the Yeerks but now have to come to terms with what waging war means for them as individuals. It’s like making that ideological jump from “joining up for the army” and “deploying overseas.” Except the Animorphs aren’t getting a regular stipend, danger pay, furloughs—and they’re waging war on their own turf. I guess it’s more like French WWII resistance fighters than anything else.
Instant oatmeal presents the Animorphs with a massive opportunity. But it’s also another moral dilemma, something Applegate is not shy about introducing. If the Animorphs expose more Controllers to instant oatmeal, it will drive their Yeerks insane. But the Yeerks will also be able to survive inside their hosts indefinitely without returning to the pool for Kandrona rays. Neutralizing Controllers means condemning those hosts to living with a mad Yeerk, perhaps for the rest of their lives. This might seem preferable to life as a Controller or death, but we see firsthand through George Edelman that this is not something to be taken lightly.
I love that Applegate has various Animorphs espouse different opinions on the matter, and that she links it into the idea of the American Civil War, and what might have happened if the two sides reached a compromise where the Confederacy only gave up “some” of its slaves. It’s interesting that when, later in the book, Cassie hits upon the idea of dumping the oatmeal directly into the Yeerk pool, no one questions the morality of driving hundreds, potentially thousands, of Yeerks insane. (Remember this is only a few books since The Andalite Chronicles, where we watched Elfangor wrestle with the morality of killing defenseless Yeerks in cold blood. Is driving Yeerks insane not as bad?)
Anyway, I want to highlight one other important part of The Underground. Rachel and the others pretty much go tête-à-tête with Visser Three here … and win. I mean, remember how at the beginning of the series, the Animorphs would just barge into a situation without much of a plan—or a very flimsy plan, which would go awry—and fight their way out? Their plan in this one is meticulous. It does go awry, but they cope with it spectacularly. They stare down Visser Three, essentially back him into a corner, and get away. This is a far cry from nearly getting killed until the Ellimist rescued them in #8: The Stranger.
I love seeing this maturation of the Animorphs as a team. Visser Three is a formidable threat, but he can be beaten. He can be outsmarted and outmaneuvered—and that’s exactly what they do here. Amidst the seriousness of The Underground’s main plot, we see a glimmer of hope for the future.
But at what cost to the Animorphs?
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #16: The Warning | #18: The Decision →
See, it’s really easy to see the words “instant oatmeal turns out to be the new superweapon to fight the Yeerks” and have your eyes glaze over and your brain turn off. It sounds silly; it sounds like something you’d find in a kids’ book. Fine for a kid but not so interesting for adults, right? It’s tempting to dismiss this book as something like The Unknown for the level of silliness it approaches. But that would be underestimating it, and doing the story a disservice.
In this, the Silver Age of Animorphs, which began in #9: The Secret, the Animorphs have accepted their roles in the war against the Yeerks but now have to come to terms with what waging war means for them as individuals. It’s like making that ideological jump from “joining up for the army” and “deploying overseas.” Except the Animorphs aren’t getting a regular stipend, danger pay, furloughs—and they’re waging war on their own turf. I guess it’s more like French WWII resistance fighters than anything else.
Instant oatmeal presents the Animorphs with a massive opportunity. But it’s also another moral dilemma, something Applegate is not shy about introducing. If the Animorphs expose more Controllers to instant oatmeal, it will drive their Yeerks insane. But the Yeerks will also be able to survive inside their hosts indefinitely without returning to the pool for Kandrona rays. Neutralizing Controllers means condemning those hosts to living with a mad Yeerk, perhaps for the rest of their lives. This might seem preferable to life as a Controller or death, but we see firsthand through George Edelman that this is not something to be taken lightly.
I love that Applegate has various Animorphs espouse different opinions on the matter, and that she links it into the idea of the American Civil War, and what might have happened if the two sides reached a compromise where the Confederacy only gave up “some” of its slaves. It’s interesting that when, later in the book, Cassie hits upon the idea of dumping the oatmeal directly into the Yeerk pool, no one questions the morality of driving hundreds, potentially thousands, of Yeerks insane. (Remember this is only a few books since The Andalite Chronicles, where we watched Elfangor wrestle with the morality of killing defenseless Yeerks in cold blood. Is driving Yeerks insane not as bad?)
Anyway, I want to highlight one other important part of The Underground. Rachel and the others pretty much go tête-à-tête with Visser Three here … and win. I mean, remember how at the beginning of the series, the Animorphs would just barge into a situation without much of a plan—or a very flimsy plan, which would go awry—and fight their way out? Their plan in this one is meticulous. It does go awry, but they cope with it spectacularly. They stare down Visser Three, essentially back him into a corner, and get away. This is a far cry from nearly getting killed until the Ellimist rescued them in #8: The Stranger.
I love seeing this maturation of the Animorphs as a team. Visser Three is a formidable threat, but he can be beaten. He can be outsmarted and outmaneuvered—and that’s exactly what they do here. Amidst the seriousness of The Underground’s main plot, we see a glimmer of hope for the future.
But at what cost to the Animorphs?
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #16: The Warning | #18: The Decision →
I have a real soft spot for The Decision, because it is so awesome.
I remember the “Animorphs get pulled into Z-space” book from my childhood reading of the series—but I didn’t remember it coming so early. I loved the whole concept. Indeed, while not quite as long as the Megamorphs books, I’d argue that the plot of The Decision is just as cinematic and huge as any of those books—and maybe superior to some of them.
We finally get Ax’s second turn at narrating. Applegate spaces out his books more than the others, at least at the front end of the series, probably because for the moment his perspective is the most alien. That makes it harder to write for longer periods, and also harder to read. There’s only so much you can do with the “I’m an alien and boy do I think humans are the weird ones” stand-up schtick … but hey, Applegate nails it.
After an opening with Ax in human morph going all out on cinnamon buns that can only be described as hilarious, he continues to deliver zinger after zinger in his observations about the other Animorphs, or about human society in general. Whereas #8: The Alien is generally an introduction to Ax and Andalite society, The Decision is about the ways in which we prosecute war. Ax was briefly in contact with the Andalite homeworld in his first book, but his role was largely one of passive soldier who received orders and followed them. Here he has a more active role, one in which he has to choose loyalties. Because that’s the kicker in war: sometimes it’s not even clear if the “good guys” are all on the same side.
There are so many reasons to give this book five stars, but the moment that clinched it for me comes when Leeran-Controllers start shooting at the Animorphs, who are in hammerhead morph:
Think about that for a moment. To an adult reading this book, the reference makes perfect sense. But I don’t know about you—as a Canadian growing up in the 1990s, I didn’t know much about the Vietnam War. I knew it was a thing that happened over the 1960s and most of the 1970s. I knew there was a draft, and that Canadian had not only stayed out of the war but welcomed the “draft dodgers.” But the moral complexity and ambiguity surrounding Vietnam escaped me at the time. I have no doubt this allusion went over my head when I read The Decision as a child.
So Applegate’s inclusion of this reference speaks to the subtlety and layers she builds into these books. For those kids who get it, it’s an added bonus. For those who don’t, maybe it makes them wonder what Marco means by this comment. These are not just fluffy adventure books: war is serious; war is hell; and Applegate is not sugar-coating it. A whole ship of Andalites dies in these pages.
Ax’s need to choose between his loyalty to the Andalite command and his loyalty to the Animorphs underlines this idea that war is ambiguous and messed up. We also get a good sense of why the Andalites are losing this war: it’s not that the Yeerks are superior so much as they are less picky. The Andalites’ morality is slipping, as we saw from the revelations about Alloran and the Hork-Bajir in The Andalite Chronicles; even so, their arrogance is getting the better of them. “We are stronger fighting alone” is the most BS thing I have ever heard, and younger!Ben would definitely have picked up on that. (And even if he didn’t, the tactical officer’s change of heart prior to sacrificing the ship would have hammered it home—sometimes you don’t need to be subtle.)
The Decision is nothing short of beautiful. I first gave five stars to #6: The Capture because it is terrifying. And while Applegate continues to show us the horrors and things that go wrong with war in this book, she also underscores the values of cameraderie, loyalty, friendship, and trust. She combines the “alien moved by humanity’s passion” and “war buddies” tropes and makes something wonderful.
Next time, it’s the second Megamorphs instalment, and you know what that means: time travel and dinosaurs. Off the chain!
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #17: The Underground | Megamorphs #2: In the Time of the Dinosaurs →
I remember the “Animorphs get pulled into Z-space” book from my childhood reading of the series—but I didn’t remember it coming so early. I loved the whole concept. Indeed, while not quite as long as the Megamorphs books, I’d argue that the plot of The Decision is just as cinematic and huge as any of those books—and maybe superior to some of them.
We finally get Ax’s second turn at narrating. Applegate spaces out his books more than the others, at least at the front end of the series, probably because for the moment his perspective is the most alien. That makes it harder to write for longer periods, and also harder to read. There’s only so much you can do with the “I’m an alien and boy do I think humans are the weird ones” stand-up schtick … but hey, Applegate nails it.
After an opening with Ax in human morph going all out on cinnamon buns that can only be described as hilarious, he continues to deliver zinger after zinger in his observations about the other Animorphs, or about human society in general. Whereas #8: The Alien is generally an introduction to Ax and Andalite society, The Decision is about the ways in which we prosecute war. Ax was briefly in contact with the Andalite homeworld in his first book, but his role was largely one of passive soldier who received orders and followed them. Here he has a more active role, one in which he has to choose loyalties. Because that’s the kicker in war: sometimes it’s not even clear if the “good guys” are all on the same side.
There are so many reasons to give this book five stars, but the moment that clinched it for me comes when Leeran-Controllers start shooting at the Animorphs, who are in hammerhead morph:
<Hey, great war! You can’t tell who’s on what side!> Marco yelled. <What is this, Vietnam?>
Think about that for a moment. To an adult reading this book, the reference makes perfect sense. But I don’t know about you—as a Canadian growing up in the 1990s, I didn’t know much about the Vietnam War. I knew it was a thing that happened over the 1960s and most of the 1970s. I knew there was a draft, and that Canadian had not only stayed out of the war but welcomed the “draft dodgers.” But the moral complexity and ambiguity surrounding Vietnam escaped me at the time. I have no doubt this allusion went over my head when I read The Decision as a child.
So Applegate’s inclusion of this reference speaks to the subtlety and layers she builds into these books. For those kids who get it, it’s an added bonus. For those who don’t, maybe it makes them wonder what Marco means by this comment. These are not just fluffy adventure books: war is serious; war is hell; and Applegate is not sugar-coating it. A whole ship of Andalites dies in these pages.
Ax’s need to choose between his loyalty to the Andalite command and his loyalty to the Animorphs underlines this idea that war is ambiguous and messed up. We also get a good sense of why the Andalites are losing this war: it’s not that the Yeerks are superior so much as they are less picky. The Andalites’ morality is slipping, as we saw from the revelations about Alloran and the Hork-Bajir in The Andalite Chronicles; even so, their arrogance is getting the better of them. “We are stronger fighting alone” is the most BS thing I have ever heard, and younger!Ben would definitely have picked up on that. (And even if he didn’t, the tactical officer’s change of heart prior to sacrificing the ship would have hammered it home—sometimes you don’t need to be subtle.)
The Decision is nothing short of beautiful. I first gave five stars to #6: The Capture because it is terrifying. And while Applegate continues to show us the horrors and things that go wrong with war in this book, she also underscores the values of cameraderie, loyalty, friendship, and trust. She combines the “alien moved by humanity’s passion” and “war buddies” tropes and makes something wonderful.
Next time, it’s the second Megamorphs instalment, and you know what that means: time travel and dinosaurs. Off the chain!
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #17: The Underground | Megamorphs #2: In the Time of the Dinosaurs →
Let’s begin with a disclaimer that I read this because my dad gave it to me as a Christmas gift. I don’t, generally, read media tie-in novels—or comics. Despite my abiding desire to continue Buffy or Farscape, I just can’t do it. I read—and greatly enjoyed—many of the Star Trek novels when I was a child. Nevertheless, I find that the actors bring something to their portrayal of a character that not even the best writer can capture. (The best novels are the ones by writers who manage to come close.) In the physicality of the performance, the way the actors make use of the set and the reactions of other characters, we receive so much more than mere narration and dialogue can convey.
Now, Doctor Who: Engines of War is a War Doctor novel, so that makes things more interesting. With only the one television appearance of the War Doctor, we don’t have much to go on. So George Mann has a little more latitude. That being said, I think John Hurt did an amazing job during the 50th anniversary special. So does Mann manage to capture the way the Doctor’s enthusiasm is constantly bubbling to the surface, even in this, his most serious of incarnations?
I don’t know. I don’t really have any experience to judge this sort of thing. The Doctor in this novel is just not my Doctor (any of them) because he isn’t on TV. It’s more like I’m reading Doctor Who fan-fiction … just officially sanctioned fan-fiction.
Thematically, this is a very strong work. Engines of War leads into The Day of the Doctor, showing us the events that finally galvanized the Doctor into using the Moment. As usual, it’s not the fate of billions that moves the Doctor so much as it is the sacrifice of a single human being. Time and again, we see the Doctor’s companions act as mirrors for his own morality—stopping him when he is going too far, and pushing him on when he hasn’t gone far enough.
For Doctor Who fans, this is a book full of continuity references. The Doctor’s attitude, and the Time War itself, has its origins in his fateful decision not to abort the creation of the Daleks way back in Genesis of the Daleks. That was one of the most tense moments of the entire show, and so much interesting drama has since developed out of that one question of morality.
Now on Moldox we see the Daleks testing a super-weapon that is meant to wipe out Gallifrey and win them the Time War. The Time Lords want to stop that, but with collateral damage of the billions of humans in that system. The Doctor, of course, can’t stand for that. Mann further develops the idea planted in the new series that the Time War changed the Time Lords for the worse, particularly after they resurrected the ruthless Rassilon to lead them.
The plot, by comparison, underwhelms—though I find that’s pretty common, even with the television episodes. Lots of running to and fro, little clever conversations with various characters, and then a bombastic climax in which the Doctor manages to scrape through on his brilliance and—more often than not—his companions’ heroism. It’s an easy read.
That’s about it. If you like Doctor Who, there is a lot you will enjoy in this book. If you like these novels, I suspect you’ll find this a good one. This has not changed my mind about Doctor Who novels or other tie-in novels. It was the palate-cleanser I was looking for, but I don’t feel as enriched by it as I do with most books.
Now, Doctor Who: Engines of War is a War Doctor novel, so that makes things more interesting. With only the one television appearance of the War Doctor, we don’t have much to go on. So George Mann has a little more latitude. That being said, I think John Hurt did an amazing job during the 50th anniversary special. So does Mann manage to capture the way the Doctor’s enthusiasm is constantly bubbling to the surface, even in this, his most serious of incarnations?
I don’t know. I don’t really have any experience to judge this sort of thing. The Doctor in this novel is just not my Doctor (any of them) because he isn’t on TV. It’s more like I’m reading Doctor Who fan-fiction … just officially sanctioned fan-fiction.
Thematically, this is a very strong work. Engines of War leads into The Day of the Doctor, showing us the events that finally galvanized the Doctor into using the Moment. As usual, it’s not the fate of billions that moves the Doctor so much as it is the sacrifice of a single human being. Time and again, we see the Doctor’s companions act as mirrors for his own morality—stopping him when he is going too far, and pushing him on when he hasn’t gone far enough.
For Doctor Who fans, this is a book full of continuity references. The Doctor’s attitude, and the Time War itself, has its origins in his fateful decision not to abort the creation of the Daleks way back in Genesis of the Daleks. That was one of the most tense moments of the entire show, and so much interesting drama has since developed out of that one question of morality.
Now on Moldox we see the Daleks testing a super-weapon that is meant to wipe out Gallifrey and win them the Time War. The Time Lords want to stop that, but with collateral damage of the billions of humans in that system. The Doctor, of course, can’t stand for that. Mann further develops the idea planted in the new series that the Time War changed the Time Lords for the worse, particularly after they resurrected the ruthless Rassilon to lead them.
The plot, by comparison, underwhelms—though I find that’s pretty common, even with the television episodes. Lots of running to and fro, little clever conversations with various characters, and then a bombastic climax in which the Doctor manages to scrape through on his brilliance and—more often than not—his companions’ heroism. It’s an easy read.
That’s about it. If you like Doctor Who, there is a lot you will enjoy in this book. If you like these novels, I suspect you’ll find this a good one. This has not changed my mind about Doctor Who novels or other tie-in novels. It was the palate-cleanser I was looking for, but I don’t feel as enriched by it as I do with most books.
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Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files universe has a very rich mythology, something I greatly admire about the series. From werewolves to vampires to faerie, Butcher doesn’t just take one or two types of supernatural creatures and run with it—he takes all-comers. He continues this trend with these three novelettes that involve Bigfoot. Working For Bigfoot is a short but nice little collection that takes the edge off waiting for the next novel in the series.
I liked each story for slightly different reasons. “B is for Bigfoot” is interesting because it lacks much in the way of magic on Harry’s part. He mostly acts as a guide for young Irwin, giving him advice on how to deal with bullies. “I Was a Teenage Bigfoot” puts Harry in a slightly more active role—but there, too, he’s more protector and guardian, putting on his Warden cap, and the antagonist backs down pretty quickly. “Bigfoot on Campus” involves the most action and peril—and even then, it’s ultimately not Harry who intervenes to save the day (and that is rather the point).
None of the stories would impress me on their own. Collected here, though, they form a nice progression. They remove Harry from his element—none of them take place in familiar haunts, and none involve any characters we are familiar with—and, as I mentioned above, Harry doesn’t actually use much magic. Nevertheless, these still feel in all respects like quintessential Dresden Files stories—just proving that it isn’t the way Butcher writes magic that keeps me coming back. It’s Harry Dresden, and his inability to keep his nose out of other people’s business, especially when he’s trying to be a do-gooder.
If I had to pick a favourite, it would be the last one. Firstly, Irwin has a much stronger presence now that he’s a young adult. (In the middle story, being sick, he basically lay around and was far too passive.) Secondly, Butcher brings the theme of fatherhood to the forefront here. In the earlier books there are hints of it, and Harry acts rather like a proxy for River Shoulders. However, Butcher has us come full circle, with Irwin finally meeting his father (and acting extremely cool and mature about it, by the way). Finally, I also liked Connie. I love how Butcher deals with the idea that she doesn’t know she’s a White Court Vampire, and how she might actually be “saved” if they handle the situation properly. Again, Harry is all about having compassion in the strangest of circumstances.
(There’s a curious continuity error in my book—in “Bigfoot on Campus” Harry calls Irwin’s mother “Carol Pounder” even though she is “Helena Pounder” in “B is for Bigfoot.” I don’t know if this error was caught and fixed in other editions, but I just thought I’d point it out for posterity here.)
Otherwise, as always this boutique Subterranean Press edition is lovely. From the paper to the artwork by Vincent Chong, it’s totally worth the added price, even for something as short and quick as Working for Bigfoot. Not what I would recommend for Dresden newbies, of course. But for fans it’s a really cool way to celebrate your enjoyment of the books.
Working for Bigfoot is nothing special or extraordinary, but it was never supposed to be. It hits the spot, does what it’s supposed to do, delivers a little more Dresden to the bloodstream. In those respects, it’s fun but forgettable—until I want to come back and read it again.
My reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Skin Game
I liked each story for slightly different reasons. “B is for Bigfoot” is interesting because it lacks much in the way of magic on Harry’s part. He mostly acts as a guide for young Irwin, giving him advice on how to deal with bullies. “I Was a Teenage Bigfoot” puts Harry in a slightly more active role—but there, too, he’s more protector and guardian, putting on his Warden cap, and the antagonist backs down pretty quickly. “Bigfoot on Campus” involves the most action and peril—and even then, it’s ultimately not Harry who intervenes to save the day (and that is rather the point).
None of the stories would impress me on their own. Collected here, though, they form a nice progression. They remove Harry from his element—none of them take place in familiar haunts, and none involve any characters we are familiar with—and, as I mentioned above, Harry doesn’t actually use much magic. Nevertheless, these still feel in all respects like quintessential Dresden Files stories—just proving that it isn’t the way Butcher writes magic that keeps me coming back. It’s Harry Dresden, and his inability to keep his nose out of other people’s business, especially when he’s trying to be a do-gooder.
If I had to pick a favourite, it would be the last one. Firstly, Irwin has a much stronger presence now that he’s a young adult. (In the middle story, being sick, he basically lay around and was far too passive.) Secondly, Butcher brings the theme of fatherhood to the forefront here. In the earlier books there are hints of it, and Harry acts rather like a proxy for River Shoulders. However, Butcher has us come full circle, with Irwin finally meeting his father (and acting extremely cool and mature about it, by the way). Finally, I also liked Connie. I love how Butcher deals with the idea that she doesn’t know she’s a White Court Vampire, and how she might actually be “saved” if they handle the situation properly. Again, Harry is all about having compassion in the strangest of circumstances.
(There’s a curious continuity error in my book—in “Bigfoot on Campus” Harry calls Irwin’s mother “Carol Pounder” even though she is “Helena Pounder” in “B is for Bigfoot.” I don’t know if this error was caught and fixed in other editions, but I just thought I’d point it out for posterity here.)
Otherwise, as always this boutique Subterranean Press edition is lovely. From the paper to the artwork by Vincent Chong, it’s totally worth the added price, even for something as short and quick as Working for Bigfoot. Not what I would recommend for Dresden newbies, of course. But for fans it’s a really cool way to celebrate your enjoyment of the books.
Working for Bigfoot is nothing special or extraordinary, but it was never supposed to be. It hits the spot, does what it’s supposed to do, delivers a little more Dresden to the bloodstream. In those respects, it’s fun but forgettable—until I want to come back and read it again.
My reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Skin Game
It’s hard to believe I’ve had to wait over a year between Dresden Files books! I’m glad I developed this sideline of being a teacher while I waited.
As with previous reviews, this is full of spoilers. And, to be honest, I don’t really understand why someone who hasn’t been following the series up to this point would be much interested in what happens in book 15. If you’re really curious about whether Dresden Files is for you, check out my reviews from the beginning; the reviews of the first few books don’t have too many spoilers.
So from here on out, I’m going to assume it’s just me and my fellow fans. I’m also going to assume that, like me, you’re still relatively enthusiastic about the series—you don’t think it has jumped the shark or declined steeply. Because if you have—and you have that right, as a reader—then this review is not for you. I am here to praise Jim Butcher, not to bury him.
Harry has to team up with Nicodemus and a group of lesser bad guys to steal something precious—the Holy Grail, no less—from the vault of Hades. He has no choice; as Mab’s Winter Knight, he is hers to loan out in repayment of favours she owes Nicodemus … and he can’t refuse as long as there is a parasite in his head that only she can remove.
I love heist stories! And I love that Harry takes Murphy along for backup. Butcher assembles a neat ensemble of villains for Harry to work with. The posturing gets tiresome at times—this is one of the disadvantages to having such a rich universe of supernatural beings, namely that it starts becoming difficult to work out which power trumps which. Nevertheless, this is an interesting and dangerous situation in which Harry finds himself.
The actual heist, though, is unimportant. Skin Game is really about Harry’s return to Chicago after such a long absence. It allows us to revisit some of the characters who haven’t played such a big role lately, and it allows them to reassure Harry that he is not a monster. Well, most of them. Butters isn’t so sure.
The question of how far Harry can go, how powerful he can become, before he becomes a monster has been with us since the first book. The sorcerer whom Harry defeats represents the dangers of abusing magic, of allowing power to corrupt oneself so utterly that one loses all humanity. And that’s only one of the infinite dangers that Harry faces in this world. In my review of Summer Knight, I mention that I don’t think Harry can ever become another Lloyd Slate, that he just doesn’t have it in him. Now look at him, years on, struggling with the mantle of the Winter Knight and the desires it wakes in him.
Butters has reason to question. So does Harry. With each passing book, he seems to become more powerful. But Butcher also gives us voices of faith and integrity. Both Murphy and Michael assert that Harry is basically a good person, and that this goodness will allow him to resist temptation and corruption. They point out that the fact he still cares enough about people to ask these questions, that he makes these deals with beings like Mab to save people rather than for his own gain, demonstrates he is still basically a good person.
It remains to be seen who is ultimately proved right. That’s what makes this series so interesting and enduring. It’s ultimately the story of Harry Dresden, from a young upstart wizard in Chicago to being a Warden of the White Council, the Winter Knight of Queen Mab, and, oh yeah, a father—twice over now.
Reading Skin Game was a pleasure. In some ways it is a return to some of the older formulas in Dresden Files. It echoes back to the less serial, more standalone stories of the earliest novels. Though the characters—with a few notable exceptions, like the perplexing Goodman Grey—are now well-established regulars, the plot is more of a one-off. It puts Harry back in charge, in a way: although Mab was initially pulling the strings, we later learn that Harry has been outmanoeuvring Nicodemus all along. It’s pretty sweet.
Although this feels like the earlier Dresden Files, it’s noticeably a better book. One of the privileges of reading a fifteen-book series is getting to see how a writer’s style and skill changes over such a long period of time. The earliest Dresden Files novels were good; some were even great. None of them approach Skin Game, though—and arguably, this novel isn’t even as good as Cold Days or Changes. But over the past fifteen years, Butcher’s writing has improved noticeably. His plotting is tighter, its intricacies coiled more elaborately. He is better able to move his pieces in the shadows and work his clever tricks off stage, working up to a big reveal.
I’m not sure what else to say. Fifteen books in, and it really does feel like all has been said. Skin Game delivers exactly what a fan of the Dresden Files wants after Cold Days. It introduces new mysteries and problems, such as Harry’s daughter-spirit, and Butters is now apparently a Knight of the Cross. I’m very eager to learn more about Molly’s experiences as the new Winter Lady (spinoff series, please?). And it looks like Murphy’s showdown with Nicodemus has had a lasting impact on her, physically, in much the same way Michael has had to retire after his injuries on Demonreach.
It seems clear that from here on out, Harry has two problems. The first is that Nicodemus is still out there and now knows that he has a daughter. Nicodemus is not a foe to be underestimated; he has survived for multiple millennia despite three Knights with literally God-given powers working to stop him—oh, and now he has the Holy Grail. The second is that Harry still has very little hold over Mab, and it’s only a matter of time before she manoeuvres him into another unpleasant or untenable situation—after all, she has been doing this considerably longer than he has. So it seems like Harry really needs to start thinking of a better game plan.
Damn it, Butcher. Now look what you’ve gone and done … Skin Game has only just come out, and all it’s done is made me want to read the next book already!
My reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Cold Days | Working for Bigfoot →
As with previous reviews, this is full of spoilers. And, to be honest, I don’t really understand why someone who hasn’t been following the series up to this point would be much interested in what happens in book 15. If you’re really curious about whether Dresden Files is for you, check out my reviews from the beginning; the reviews of the first few books don’t have too many spoilers.
So from here on out, I’m going to assume it’s just me and my fellow fans. I’m also going to assume that, like me, you’re still relatively enthusiastic about the series—you don’t think it has jumped the shark or declined steeply. Because if you have—and you have that right, as a reader—then this review is not for you. I am here to praise Jim Butcher, not to bury him.
Harry has to team up with Nicodemus and a group of lesser bad guys to steal something precious—the Holy Grail, no less—from the vault of Hades. He has no choice; as Mab’s Winter Knight, he is hers to loan out in repayment of favours she owes Nicodemus … and he can’t refuse as long as there is a parasite in his head that only she can remove.
I love heist stories! And I love that Harry takes Murphy along for backup. Butcher assembles a neat ensemble of villains for Harry to work with. The posturing gets tiresome at times—this is one of the disadvantages to having such a rich universe of supernatural beings, namely that it starts becoming difficult to work out which power trumps which. Nevertheless, this is an interesting and dangerous situation in which Harry finds himself.
The actual heist, though, is unimportant. Skin Game is really about Harry’s return to Chicago after such a long absence. It allows us to revisit some of the characters who haven’t played such a big role lately, and it allows them to reassure Harry that he is not a monster. Well, most of them. Butters isn’t so sure.
The question of how far Harry can go, how powerful he can become, before he becomes a monster has been with us since the first book. The sorcerer whom Harry defeats represents the dangers of abusing magic, of allowing power to corrupt oneself so utterly that one loses all humanity. And that’s only one of the infinite dangers that Harry faces in this world. In my review of Summer Knight, I mention that I don’t think Harry can ever become another Lloyd Slate, that he just doesn’t have it in him. Now look at him, years on, struggling with the mantle of the Winter Knight and the desires it wakes in him.
Butters has reason to question. So does Harry. With each passing book, he seems to become more powerful. But Butcher also gives us voices of faith and integrity. Both Murphy and Michael assert that Harry is basically a good person, and that this goodness will allow him to resist temptation and corruption. They point out that the fact he still cares enough about people to ask these questions, that he makes these deals with beings like Mab to save people rather than for his own gain, demonstrates he is still basically a good person.
It remains to be seen who is ultimately proved right. That’s what makes this series so interesting and enduring. It’s ultimately the story of Harry Dresden, from a young upstart wizard in Chicago to being a Warden of the White Council, the Winter Knight of Queen Mab, and, oh yeah, a father—twice over now.
Reading Skin Game was a pleasure. In some ways it is a return to some of the older formulas in Dresden Files. It echoes back to the less serial, more standalone stories of the earliest novels. Though the characters—with a few notable exceptions, like the perplexing Goodman Grey—are now well-established regulars, the plot is more of a one-off. It puts Harry back in charge, in a way: although Mab was initially pulling the strings, we later learn that Harry has been outmanoeuvring Nicodemus all along. It’s pretty sweet.
Although this feels like the earlier Dresden Files, it’s noticeably a better book. One of the privileges of reading a fifteen-book series is getting to see how a writer’s style and skill changes over such a long period of time. The earliest Dresden Files novels were good; some were even great. None of them approach Skin Game, though—and arguably, this novel isn’t even as good as Cold Days or Changes. But over the past fifteen years, Butcher’s writing has improved noticeably. His plotting is tighter, its intricacies coiled more elaborately. He is better able to move his pieces in the shadows and work his clever tricks off stage, working up to a big reveal.
I’m not sure what else to say. Fifteen books in, and it really does feel like all has been said. Skin Game delivers exactly what a fan of the Dresden Files wants after Cold Days. It introduces new mysteries and problems, such as Harry’s daughter-spirit, and Butters is now apparently a Knight of the Cross. I’m very eager to learn more about Molly’s experiences as the new Winter Lady (spinoff series, please?). And it looks like Murphy’s showdown with Nicodemus has had a lasting impact on her, physically, in much the same way Michael has had to retire after his injuries on Demonreach.
It seems clear that from here on out, Harry has two problems. The first is that Nicodemus is still out there and now knows that he has a daughter. Nicodemus is not a foe to be underestimated; he has survived for multiple millennia despite three Knights with literally God-given powers working to stop him—oh, and now he has the Holy Grail. The second is that Harry still has very little hold over Mab, and it’s only a matter of time before she manoeuvres him into another unpleasant or untenable situation—after all, she has been doing this considerably longer than he has. So it seems like Harry really needs to start thinking of a better game plan.
Damn it, Butcher. Now look what you’ve gone and done … Skin Game has only just come out, and all it’s done is made me want to read the next book already!
My reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Cold Days | Working for Bigfoot →
Harry Dresden is back, baby!
Seriously, I’m going to drop major spoilers about halfway through this review. I’m not kidding around here.
After dying (or nearly dying) and solving his own murder as a ghost, Harry has returned to find his body in the care of Mab. Harry has not escaped his obligations as her new Winter Knight, and so Cold Days opens with a montage of his physical therapy—Mab trying to kill him in creative ways—and a party at the Winter Court in his honour. Harry refers to this as his “first day in the prison yard” and, to continue the metaphor, he smacks down one of the biggest and baddest fae he can find to show that he means business.
Harry Dresden is most definitely back.
The Winter Knight is the Winter Queen’s hitman for mortal targets. But Mab’s first assignment for Harry is to kill the Winter Lady, Maeve, who is most certainly not a mortal. Not only does this make it difficult for Harry to carry out his assignment, but he has to wonder why Mab wants Maeve dead—and whether it is in his and humanity’s best interests to comply. Of course, the truth turns out to be a good deal more twisted and complex than it appears on the surface. As Harry leaves Faerieland and returns to Chicago to sort this out, Jim Butcher delivers us another fast-paced and fascinating story with stakes reminiscent of Small Favor and Changes.
Whereas Ghost Story forces Harry to confront how he has shaped other people’s lives, by seeing how his death and absence has affected them, Cold Days is about Harry confronting his new role as the Winter Knight. Suddenly, he is suspect, tainted by the touch of Winter. The mantle of Winter Knight changes its wearer, and numerous people warn Harry that he is going to turn into a sex-hungry, domineering, violent man who only exists to kill and fulfill Mab’s cruel designs. It’s just a matter of time, they say. Power corrupts. And Harry is scared, because he fears they’re right. He wants to resist, hopes he can resist, but with each passing hour he notices changes in himself—and others, like Murphy, notice it too. And Cold Days takes place on Halloween—barely a day and a half. How much will Harry have changed after a month? A year? Two years?
This has long been a problem for Harry, though. Throughout the Dresden Files, forces have tempted him and tried to corrupt him. Perhaps the most potent example is the shadow of Lasciel, Lash, that lived in his mind for several years, trying to persuade him to use Lasciel’s denarius. So far Harry has resisted all of these attempts, something he chalks up to a strength of will and a knowledge that there is always an alternative:
Much has been made of the fact that humans have souls and free will, while other creatures—like Mab and Maeve and their Summer counterparts—do not. As recently as Ghost Story, Uriel stepped in to remind Harry that whatever else Mab might try—blackmailing him, cajoling him, coercing him—she cannot change who he is, cannot affect that essential core that makes Harry himself. Only Harry can do that. What started as a series following Chicago’s only professional wizard has turned into a much more epic exploration of optimism and the power of free will. This is all the more important after what happens at the very end of Cold Days. The last 25 pages of this book are off the chain and are entirely the reason I’m giving this five stars instead of four.
This review has a spoiler warning for a reason, people.
Mab, answering Harry’s eleventh hour summons, shows up to the battle on Demonreach. We’ve learned that Demonreach is a maximum security prison, built by the original Merlin, for dangerous immortal creatures. And Maeve and Lily have been working to undermine that prison’s security and trigger its destructive failsafe. Lily thinks she’s working against a contagion caused by the Outsiders, one that infects people and co-opts them. But Maeve has already been infected, and Demonreach’s destruction will only further the Outsiders’ plans. At this point, Butcher has already significantly expanded our knowledge of the Outsiders and how the Fae relate to the eternal struggle against them.
And then Mab, through Murphy, kills Maeve. And Molly becomes the new Winter Lady. Oh. Em. Gee.
Up until that point, I had been enjoying Cold Days. As much as I liked Ghost Story, my principle complaint with it had been that its actual plot was quite lacklustre; the book itself was only good because of how it advanced the overall series arc. This book doesn’t suffer from that problem: it both advances the series arc and has its own compelling story to tell. But in those last 25 pages, and in turning Molly into the Winter Lady, this book achieved another whole level of epic awesomeness, because the ramifications of these developments are stunning.
Leaving aside the upheaval caused in the Winter and Summer Courts by Maeve and Lily’s deaths and the two new Ladies, let’s look at where this leaves Harry, Molly, and Murphy. Murphy has already expressed reluctance at getting involved with Harry because she will age but he—and Molly, as a fellow wizard—won’t. Harry is definitely attracted to Molly, but he doesn’t want to get involved with her. He feels that it would be a breach of trust, having known her since she was a child, despite Molly making it clear that such a change to their relationship would be OK with her—and that’s the other problem, because Molly is in love with him, but he doesn’t return the feeling.
Now Molly is the Winter Lady, making her kind of Harry’s boss. And as we saw with Lily earlier in the book, it’s only a matter of time before Molly turns into a Maeve-like clone, with all the same urges and predilections. Much like Harry, she is doomed by the mask she wears—or is she? Butcher has suddenly made the stakes so much more interesting, something the series needed. He can only spin out Harry dealing with the challenges of being the Winter Knight for so long. Adding Molly’s struggle to the mix adds a new dimension. On one hand, it might make Harry’s job slightly more bearable, at least in the short term. On the other hand, it further amplifies the conflict between fate and free will and adds a new urgency to the ongoing theme of how one’s masks and roles change one.
Masks and identity, much like the motif of free will, have always been huge in this series. Identifying things, naming things, has been half the battle in many cases. From true names that bind to the human-like forms adopted by gods and Dragons alike, the Dresdenverse takes nomenclature and identity very seriously. And this is another area in which humans differ so much from supernatural creatures. Humans change. Fae, demons, vampires, etc., do not. Oh, their forms and functions might change, as Kringle remarks to Harry at the opening of this book, as the stories about those creatures change. But Butcher takes the trouble of reminding us, time and again, that for immortals the flow of time has much less meaning. This is a result of their own stasis. Harry and his mortal friends have changed so much over the course of this series, whereas the immortals have remained relatively the same. It’s this distinction, in addition to that pesky free will, that makes humans so interesting and disruptive to immortals’ designs. Humans might not be the most powerful players, but they are the least predictable and the most mutable with time.
At the beginning of this series, Harry Dresden was just a private investigator who happened to be a wizard. He saved Chicago, even the world a few times. That got him noticed, and gradually he began tangling with bigger foes and messier conundrums. He has had the Sword of Damocles over his head, been chased by Wardens of the White Council, been a Warden himself, and become the guardian of a semi-sentient island. Eventually he became the one who was feared, the big, badass Harry Dresden—though, for some reason, the bad guys continued to underestimate him. Now he’s the Winter Knight, the Winter Faerie Court’s mortal hitman, and his onetime apprentice has become the Winter Lady. They are on the forefront of a war against the Outsiders, who will stop at nothing to undermine reality itself.
Cold Days marks yet another turning point in this series. The previous five books, beginning with White Night, have had Harry move from stumbling around in the big leagues to become a player in his own right. He is facing the consequences now, but more importantly, he is beginning to move from the big leagues to the bigger leagues, as he learns more about the purpose of the Fae and his own role to play in larger things to come. I’m quite looking forward to the next books—in particular, as much as I enjoyed this one, it was extremely Harry-centric, without much time devoted to the secondary characters. But I am looking forward to the next book, because Butcher just keeps delivering fantastic new twists and developments that advance the story and keep things fresh. After fourteen books, that’s saying a lot about a series, and it’s one reason I love the Dresden Files so much.
My reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Ghost Story | Skin Game →
Seriously, I’m going to drop major spoilers about halfway through this review. I’m not kidding around here.
After dying (or nearly dying) and solving his own murder as a ghost, Harry has returned to find his body in the care of Mab. Harry has not escaped his obligations as her new Winter Knight, and so Cold Days opens with a montage of his physical therapy—Mab trying to kill him in creative ways—and a party at the Winter Court in his honour. Harry refers to this as his “first day in the prison yard” and, to continue the metaphor, he smacks down one of the biggest and baddest fae he can find to show that he means business.
Harry Dresden is most definitely back.
The Winter Knight is the Winter Queen’s hitman for mortal targets. But Mab’s first assignment for Harry is to kill the Winter Lady, Maeve, who is most certainly not a mortal. Not only does this make it difficult for Harry to carry out his assignment, but he has to wonder why Mab wants Maeve dead—and whether it is in his and humanity’s best interests to comply. Of course, the truth turns out to be a good deal more twisted and complex than it appears on the surface. As Harry leaves Faerieland and returns to Chicago to sort this out, Jim Butcher delivers us another fast-paced and fascinating story with stakes reminiscent of Small Favor and Changes.
Whereas Ghost Story forces Harry to confront how he has shaped other people’s lives, by seeing how his death and absence has affected them, Cold Days is about Harry confronting his new role as the Winter Knight. Suddenly, he is suspect, tainted by the touch of Winter. The mantle of Winter Knight changes its wearer, and numerous people warn Harry that he is going to turn into a sex-hungry, domineering, violent man who only exists to kill and fulfill Mab’s cruel designs. It’s just a matter of time, they say. Power corrupts. And Harry is scared, because he fears they’re right. He wants to resist, hopes he can resist, but with each passing hour he notices changes in himself—and others, like Murphy, notice it too. And Cold Days takes place on Halloween—barely a day and a half. How much will Harry have changed after a month? A year? Two years?
This has long been a problem for Harry, though. Throughout the Dresden Files, forces have tempted him and tried to corrupt him. Perhaps the most potent example is the shadow of Lasciel, Lash, that lived in his mind for several years, trying to persuade him to use Lasciel’s denarius. So far Harry has resisted all of these attempts, something he chalks up to a strength of will and a knowledge that there is always an alternative:
There’s always a choice…. That’s the thing, man. There’s always, always a choice. My options might really, truly suck. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a choice.
Much has been made of the fact that humans have souls and free will, while other creatures—like Mab and Maeve and their Summer counterparts—do not. As recently as Ghost Story, Uriel stepped in to remind Harry that whatever else Mab might try—blackmailing him, cajoling him, coercing him—she cannot change who he is, cannot affect that essential core that makes Harry himself. Only Harry can do that. What started as a series following Chicago’s only professional wizard has turned into a much more epic exploration of optimism and the power of free will. This is all the more important after what happens at the very end of Cold Days. The last 25 pages of this book are off the chain and are entirely the reason I’m giving this five stars instead of four.
This review has a spoiler warning for a reason, people.
Mab, answering Harry’s eleventh hour summons, shows up to the battle on Demonreach. We’ve learned that Demonreach is a maximum security prison, built by the original Merlin, for dangerous immortal creatures. And Maeve and Lily have been working to undermine that prison’s security and trigger its destructive failsafe. Lily thinks she’s working against a contagion caused by the Outsiders, one that infects people and co-opts them. But Maeve has already been infected, and Demonreach’s destruction will only further the Outsiders’ plans. At this point, Butcher has already significantly expanded our knowledge of the Outsiders and how the Fae relate to the eternal struggle against them.
And then Mab, through Murphy, kills Maeve. And Molly becomes the new Winter Lady. Oh. Em. Gee.
Up until that point, I had been enjoying Cold Days. As much as I liked Ghost Story, my principle complaint with it had been that its actual plot was quite lacklustre; the book itself was only good because of how it advanced the overall series arc. This book doesn’t suffer from that problem: it both advances the series arc and has its own compelling story to tell. But in those last 25 pages, and in turning Molly into the Winter Lady, this book achieved another whole level of epic awesomeness, because the ramifications of these developments are stunning.
Leaving aside the upheaval caused in the Winter and Summer Courts by Maeve and Lily’s deaths and the two new Ladies, let’s look at where this leaves Harry, Molly, and Murphy. Murphy has already expressed reluctance at getting involved with Harry because she will age but he—and Molly, as a fellow wizard—won’t. Harry is definitely attracted to Molly, but he doesn’t want to get involved with her. He feels that it would be a breach of trust, having known her since she was a child, despite Molly making it clear that such a change to their relationship would be OK with her—and that’s the other problem, because Molly is in love with him, but he doesn’t return the feeling.
Now Molly is the Winter Lady, making her kind of Harry’s boss. And as we saw with Lily earlier in the book, it’s only a matter of time before Molly turns into a Maeve-like clone, with all the same urges and predilections. Much like Harry, she is doomed by the mask she wears—or is she? Butcher has suddenly made the stakes so much more interesting, something the series needed. He can only spin out Harry dealing with the challenges of being the Winter Knight for so long. Adding Molly’s struggle to the mix adds a new dimension. On one hand, it might make Harry’s job slightly more bearable, at least in the short term. On the other hand, it further amplifies the conflict between fate and free will and adds a new urgency to the ongoing theme of how one’s masks and roles change one.
Masks and identity, much like the motif of free will, have always been huge in this series. Identifying things, naming things, has been half the battle in many cases. From true names that bind to the human-like forms adopted by gods and Dragons alike, the Dresdenverse takes nomenclature and identity very seriously. And this is another area in which humans differ so much from supernatural creatures. Humans change. Fae, demons, vampires, etc., do not. Oh, their forms and functions might change, as Kringle remarks to Harry at the opening of this book, as the stories about those creatures change. But Butcher takes the trouble of reminding us, time and again, that for immortals the flow of time has much less meaning. This is a result of their own stasis. Harry and his mortal friends have changed so much over the course of this series, whereas the immortals have remained relatively the same. It’s this distinction, in addition to that pesky free will, that makes humans so interesting and disruptive to immortals’ designs. Humans might not be the most powerful players, but they are the least predictable and the most mutable with time.
At the beginning of this series, Harry Dresden was just a private investigator who happened to be a wizard. He saved Chicago, even the world a few times. That got him noticed, and gradually he began tangling with bigger foes and messier conundrums. He has had the Sword of Damocles over his head, been chased by Wardens of the White Council, been a Warden himself, and become the guardian of a semi-sentient island. Eventually he became the one who was feared, the big, badass Harry Dresden—though, for some reason, the bad guys continued to underestimate him. Now he’s the Winter Knight, the Winter Faerie Court’s mortal hitman, and his onetime apprentice has become the Winter Lady. They are on the forefront of a war against the Outsiders, who will stop at nothing to undermine reality itself.
Cold Days marks yet another turning point in this series. The previous five books, beginning with White Night, have had Harry move from stumbling around in the big leagues to become a player in his own right. He is facing the consequences now, but more importantly, he is beginning to move from the big leagues to the bigger leagues, as he learns more about the purpose of the Fae and his own role to play in larger things to come. I’m quite looking forward to the next books—in particular, as much as I enjoyed this one, it was extremely Harry-centric, without much time devoted to the secondary characters. But I am looking forward to the next book, because Butcher just keeps delivering fantastic new twists and developments that advance the story and keep things fresh. After fourteen books, that’s saying a lot about a series, and it’s one reason I love the Dresden Files so much.
My reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Ghost Story | Skin Game →