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tachyondecay
For a while I did not like this book. In fact, I was downright worried: was I really going to pan a Terry Pratchett book? Inconceivable! So I let out a sharp breath of relief when everything suddenly clicked and fell into place. Nation is a fun yet sensitive tale, full of Pratchett’s signature wit. I mean, how can you not enjoy exchanges like this?
And then there’s stuff like this:
And you realize that Nation is an anti-imperialist parable that kids can understand.
(My first draft of this review read “just an anti-imperialist parable,” but I don’t think that’s accurate.)
I started to wonder how anyone could not love this book, so I checked out the 1-star reviews. Many people complained that nothing interesting happens and the characters are all stock. To that latter point: well, duh. That’s how parables work! Daphne isn’t just Daphne; she has to represent a large swath of Europeans, while Mau represents a large swath of non-Europeans. And as for interesting … at one point, Mau scares away a shark by yelling at it, and later, Daphne poisons a man with beer (these are pre-teens we’re talking about here).
I have much respect for Daphne with that action, by the way, because of what follows. She feels such guilt over killing this man (who really had it coming) that she demands a murder trial from the islanders. They, naturally, are confused by this intrusion of European-style morality and rule of law—but they give her one, island-style. And it’s not a sham; it’s a legitimate proceeding that teases out the morality of what Daphne did. But it’s flavoured with the type of democratic, restorative justice that we see in many non-European cultures. As someone interested in Indigenous issues and how we can approach justice from an Indigenous perspective, I liked this scene. There is a weightiness to it that wouldn’t be there if this book were just children’s fluff.
Instead of being fluff, Nation is a fairly serious meditation on how we should behave when coming into contact with people who are different from us. I would call it a utopian novel, because Pratchett has reimagined Polynesian–European contact in a more sensitive way. This is a vision of how it could have been, instead of being colonialist. And he does it so well, from both sides of the issue.
So long, Sir Terry. Thank you for all these wonderful stories.
“The thing about the trousermen is, they are very brave and they sail their boats from the other end of the world, and they have the secret of iron, but there is one thing that they are frightened of. Guess what it is?”
“I don’t know. Sea monsters?” Mau wondered.
“No!”
“Getting lost? Pirates?”
“No.”
“Then I give in. What are they afraid of?”
“Legs. They’re scared of legs,” Pilu said triumphantly.
“They’re scared of legs? Whose legs? Their own legs? Do they try to run away from them? How? What with?”
“Not their own legs! But trousermen women get very upset if they see a man’s leg, and one of the boys on the John Dee said a young trouserman fainted when he saw a woman’s ankle. The boy said the trousermen women even put trousers on table legs in case young men see them and think of ladies’ legs!”
“What’s a table? Why does it have legs?”
“That is,” said Pilu, pointing towards the other end of the big cabin. “It’s for making the ground higher.”
And then there’s stuff like this:
It’s a planet, Papa. Up and down are just ways of looking at it. I’m sure people here won’t object to copies being made for all the big museums. But don’t take this place away from them. It’s theirs.
And you realize that Nation is an anti-imperialist parable that kids can understand.
(My first draft of this review read “just an anti-imperialist parable,” but I don’t think that’s accurate.)
I started to wonder how anyone could not love this book, so I checked out the 1-star reviews. Many people complained that nothing interesting happens and the characters are all stock. To that latter point: well, duh. That’s how parables work! Daphne isn’t just Daphne; she has to represent a large swath of Europeans, while Mau represents a large swath of non-Europeans. And as for interesting … at one point, Mau scares away a shark by yelling at it, and later, Daphne poisons a man with beer (these are pre-teens we’re talking about here).
I have much respect for Daphne with that action, by the way, because of what follows. She feels such guilt over killing this man (who really had it coming) that she demands a murder trial from the islanders. They, naturally, are confused by this intrusion of European-style morality and rule of law—but they give her one, island-style. And it’s not a sham; it’s a legitimate proceeding that teases out the morality of what Daphne did. But it’s flavoured with the type of democratic, restorative justice that we see in many non-European cultures. As someone interested in Indigenous issues and how we can approach justice from an Indigenous perspective, I liked this scene. There is a weightiness to it that wouldn’t be there if this book were just children’s fluff.
Instead of being fluff, Nation is a fairly serious meditation on how we should behave when coming into contact with people who are different from us. I would call it a utopian novel, because Pratchett has reimagined Polynesian–European contact in a more sensitive way. This is a vision of how it could have been, instead of being colonialist. And he does it so well, from both sides of the issue.
So long, Sir Terry. Thank you for all these wonderful stories.
I confess I was sceptical about this one, despite the PhD author. A student lent this to me, though, and in addition to generally trying to keep an open mind, I like to take an interest in what students are reading. So while I probably wouldn’t have picked up The Superhuman Mind on my own, I gave it a try—and it was all right. The rhetoric was not as hyperbolic as I feared, and the scientific aspects were pretty fascinating. It doesn’t have the same kind of intense hook or narrative that some books have—the writing is easy to follow but not overly engaging—but the subject matter is pretty cool.
Neuroscience fascinates me, as does philosophy of mind. What makes us who we are? Berit Brogaard and her coauthor, Kristian Marlow, discuss various examples of how the brain can exceed its seemingly “ordinary” capacities to engage in “superhuman” tasks. Brogaard draws on her research on savants, synesthetes, and other people who have abnormal or extraordinary abilities caused by brain function. Her central thesis is that these abilities are not just granted through accident (of birth or circumstance) but can be replicated or learned by almost anyone, provided we have a good enough understanding of how they come about.
Frankly, we need more books like this. Once upon a time I watched a movie called Lucy. It was, quite simply, one of the worst movies I have ever watched. The plot was an utter trainwreck of uninspired scenes stitched together somewhat haphazardly, with garbage science tossed around with the impunity of someone who watched The Core and thought, “Hmm, this is too scientifically accurate.” They take the “we only use 10% of our brain” myth—a myth I loathe with the fire of three hundred suns—and crank it up to 11. It’s so ridiculous it should be silly and fun, but it takes itself so seriously and artsy that it falls incredibly flat.
But I digress.
The 10% myth isn’t the only brain myth that needs to die. Whenever people hear I teach both mathematics and English, they react with surprise, and many of them make a comment along the lines of, “Oh, you use both sides of your brain!” Yeah, because everyone else just goes through life using half a brain. Well, OK, maybe it seems that way! If they bring up the left brain/right brain thing, though, I have to say, “Well, actually, the left brain is also typically the dominant hemisphere for language as well.”
So there.
My point is that our understanding of brain function has advanced considerably in the past fifty years, but our education on the brain has not. The general public still has a very vague idea of how our brains work. This ignorance, combined with the proliferation of various myths, is not just inconvenient but can also be dangerous: it leads to stigma around mental health and traumatic brain injury; it reinforces stereotypes of gender (and even race!); and it leads to people basing important decisions on mistaken or pseudo-scientific information.
The Superhuman Mind goes a long way towards informing its reader about the wonders of the human brain, laying out what we know and how we know it, along with what we don’t know or need to find out next. It sheds light on the savant abilities of people with autism, traumatic brain injury, and other brain function that differs from the “norm.” Brogaard explains how these abilities work—at least as far as we know right now—and how people might acquire them without sacrificing chunks of grey and white matter.
Neuroplasticity is a fascinating idea, and a complex one, and I’m not going to try to explain it here. I like, however, that Brogaard explores how practice influences the brain. It’s not just the practice is building up memories—it’s rewiring our neural connections, training the brain to dedicate specific pathways to certain tasks. This is adjacent to the bigger discussion around nature and nurture: some people seem born with savant abilities, and others acquire them suddenly in similarly “natural” experiences; yet, Brogaard contends, it is entirely possible to learn these abilities like one might learn to play piano.
As much as I enjoyed the book, I really hate the way it is being marketed by cover and copy decisions. My copy has the subtitle “Free the Genius in Your Brain” (only slightly different from “How to Unleash Your Inner Genius”), and the back quotes extensively from the book’s own foreword, talking about the “superbrain.” All in all it just comes across like this is supposed to be one of those gimmicky The Secret–like books that will give you powers over matter and the universe itself. It isn’t. It’s hard science at its best, albeit told through some scattered and disorganized narratives about individual patients and larger studies.
The Superhuman Mind is informative and interesting. It talks about the brain, and neuroscience, in an unconventional but still utterly rational, thoughtful way. I liked those aspects. At times it doesn’t deliver what I generally want from a non-fiction read, in terms of style and feel, but those seem like minor and very personal quibbles. If, like me, you wonder how we tick beneath these skulls of ours, you might like giving this a shot.
Neuroscience fascinates me, as does philosophy of mind. What makes us who we are? Berit Brogaard and her coauthor, Kristian Marlow, discuss various examples of how the brain can exceed its seemingly “ordinary” capacities to engage in “superhuman” tasks. Brogaard draws on her research on savants, synesthetes, and other people who have abnormal or extraordinary abilities caused by brain function. Her central thesis is that these abilities are not just granted through accident (of birth or circumstance) but can be replicated or learned by almost anyone, provided we have a good enough understanding of how they come about.
Frankly, we need more books like this. Once upon a time I watched a movie called Lucy. It was, quite simply, one of the worst movies I have ever watched. The plot was an utter trainwreck of uninspired scenes stitched together somewhat haphazardly, with garbage science tossed around with the impunity of someone who watched The Core and thought, “Hmm, this is too scientifically accurate.” They take the “we only use 10% of our brain” myth—a myth I loathe with the fire of three hundred suns—and crank it up to 11. It’s so ridiculous it should be silly and fun, but it takes itself so seriously and artsy that it falls incredibly flat.
But I digress.
The 10% myth isn’t the only brain myth that needs to die. Whenever people hear I teach both mathematics and English, they react with surprise, and many of them make a comment along the lines of, “Oh, you use both sides of your brain!” Yeah, because everyone else just goes through life using half a brain. Well, OK, maybe it seems that way! If they bring up the left brain/right brain thing, though, I have to say, “Well, actually, the left brain is also typically the dominant hemisphere for language as well.”
So there.
My point is that our understanding of brain function has advanced considerably in the past fifty years, but our education on the brain has not. The general public still has a very vague idea of how our brains work. This ignorance, combined with the proliferation of various myths, is not just inconvenient but can also be dangerous: it leads to stigma around mental health and traumatic brain injury; it reinforces stereotypes of gender (and even race!); and it leads to people basing important decisions on mistaken or pseudo-scientific information.
The Superhuman Mind goes a long way towards informing its reader about the wonders of the human brain, laying out what we know and how we know it, along with what we don’t know or need to find out next. It sheds light on the savant abilities of people with autism, traumatic brain injury, and other brain function that differs from the “norm.” Brogaard explains how these abilities work—at least as far as we know right now—and how people might acquire them without sacrificing chunks of grey and white matter.
Neuroplasticity is a fascinating idea, and a complex one, and I’m not going to try to explain it here. I like, however, that Brogaard explores how practice influences the brain. It’s not just the practice is building up memories—it’s rewiring our neural connections, training the brain to dedicate specific pathways to certain tasks. This is adjacent to the bigger discussion around nature and nurture: some people seem born with savant abilities, and others acquire them suddenly in similarly “natural” experiences; yet, Brogaard contends, it is entirely possible to learn these abilities like one might learn to play piano.
As much as I enjoyed the book, I really hate the way it is being marketed by cover and copy decisions. My copy has the subtitle “Free the Genius in Your Brain” (only slightly different from “How to Unleash Your Inner Genius”), and the back quotes extensively from the book’s own foreword, talking about the “superbrain.” All in all it just comes across like this is supposed to be one of those gimmicky The Secret–like books that will give you powers over matter and the universe itself. It isn’t. It’s hard science at its best, albeit told through some scattered and disorganized narratives about individual patients and larger studies.
The Superhuman Mind is informative and interesting. It talks about the brain, and neuroscience, in an unconventional but still utterly rational, thoughtful way. I liked those aspects. At times it doesn’t deliver what I generally want from a non-fiction read, in terms of style and feel, but those seem like minor and very personal quibbles. If, like me, you wonder how we tick beneath these skulls of ours, you might like giving this a shot.
The Chee are back, sort of, but they’ve got problems on the Animorphs can fix. It involves a deep dive, acquiring two new morphs, and weighing the consequences of the sides you pick. The Exposed has its moments, but after the explosiveness of The Attack, its more goofy drama feels incongruous.
Rachel is an excellent narrator for this story. She is good at taking weird in stride: when Erek shows up at the mall with a malfunctioning hologram, she takes charge. I loved her self-satisfied proclamation “I am the goddess of shopping.” The contrast between teenage-girl Rachel, who is obsessed with fashion and gymnastics and being good at as much as possible, and Animorph Rachel, the fierce warrior who doesn’t back down, is fascinating and complex. Just think about how Rachel acts when she is in one of her power morphs: she is more bloodthirsty than some hardened killers. Well, in some ways she is a killer.
As much as I don’t like the Drode’s introduction (he just seems to complicate things), I did love the way it insinuates itself into the worst facets of the Animorphs’ personalities. He appeals directly to that darker side of Rachel, and it sends shivers down the spine because it’s not a side that Rachel allows herself to acknowledge—so having someone else point it out is troubling.
Applegate also does something interesting here with the relationship (or lack thereof) between Rachel and Tobias. She dangles the prospect of an “ordinary” boyfriend for Rachel in the form of T. And therein we have that contrast again: T is everything that teenage-girl Rachel wants; Tobias, on the other hand, is a better fit for the more primal urges of Animorph Rachel. It’s telling that when Rachel is stressed at the end she chooses to morph into a bird and go for a flight with Tobias. Even so, there is a marked difference between Rachel’s killing instinct and Tobias’, because he has to kill for food. It’s a way of life for him, and he is good at it and even “enjoys” it, to some extent, thanks to the hawk morph—but it’s all about survival. For Rachel, however, it’s the fight that is the reward.
So I enjoyed diving deeper into Rachel’s psyche. The actual plot to this book, unfortunately, is more disappointing. It’s a fine premise, but this is one of those cases where the writers have relied on lazy storytelling and Idiot Ball plot devices instead of coming up with more realistic threats. The Drode, a kind of anti–deus ex machina, is a prime example, as is the actual deus ex machina at the end. I admit that I giggled a little—the Pemalite ship’s politeness and cheerfulness reminds me of Eddie, the computer on board the Heart of Gold in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
A few other good highlights: “Then we had bailed at top speed, pausing only long enough to change the channel on Erek’s TV. The two Chee would be stuck there for a while” and “<Mr. King gave us an access code that’ll get us into the main computer,> Jake said, his tone sardonic. <Everybody memorize it: Six.>”
As these quotes imply, though, this is a very silly book. Sometimes the silly books work for me, but sometimes they feel like a bit of a drag, especially on the heels of something like The Attack.
Next time, the Animorphs take on a Yeerk science experiment, and Ax gets TV (it was the nineties!).
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #26: The Attack | #28: The Experiment →
Rachel is an excellent narrator for this story. She is good at taking weird in stride: when Erek shows up at the mall with a malfunctioning hologram, she takes charge. I loved her self-satisfied proclamation “I am the goddess of shopping.” The contrast between teenage-girl Rachel, who is obsessed with fashion and gymnastics and being good at as much as possible, and Animorph Rachel, the fierce warrior who doesn’t back down, is fascinating and complex. Just think about how Rachel acts when she is in one of her power morphs: she is more bloodthirsty than some hardened killers. Well, in some ways she is a killer.
As much as I don’t like the Drode’s introduction (he just seems to complicate things), I did love the way it insinuates itself into the worst facets of the Animorphs’ personalities. He appeals directly to that darker side of Rachel, and it sends shivers down the spine because it’s not a side that Rachel allows herself to acknowledge—so having someone else point it out is troubling.
Applegate also does something interesting here with the relationship (or lack thereof) between Rachel and Tobias. She dangles the prospect of an “ordinary” boyfriend for Rachel in the form of T. And therein we have that contrast again: T is everything that teenage-girl Rachel wants; Tobias, on the other hand, is a better fit for the more primal urges of Animorph Rachel. It’s telling that when Rachel is stressed at the end she chooses to morph into a bird and go for a flight with Tobias. Even so, there is a marked difference between Rachel’s killing instinct and Tobias’, because he has to kill for food. It’s a way of life for him, and he is good at it and even “enjoys” it, to some extent, thanks to the hawk morph—but it’s all about survival. For Rachel, however, it’s the fight that is the reward.
So I enjoyed diving deeper into Rachel’s psyche. The actual plot to this book, unfortunately, is more disappointing. It’s a fine premise, but this is one of those cases where the writers have relied on lazy storytelling and Idiot Ball plot devices instead of coming up with more realistic threats. The Drode, a kind of anti–deus ex machina, is a prime example, as is the actual deus ex machina at the end. I admit that I giggled a little—the Pemalite ship’s politeness and cheerfulness reminds me of Eddie, the computer on board the Heart of Gold in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
A few other good highlights: “Then we had bailed at top speed, pausing only long enough to change the channel on Erek’s TV. The two Chee would be stuck there for a while” and “<Mr. King gave us an access code that’ll get us into the main computer,> Jake said, his tone sardonic. <Everybody memorize it: Six.>”
As these quotes imply, though, this is a very silly book. Sometimes the silly books work for me, but sometimes they feel like a bit of a drag, especially on the heels of something like The Attack.
Next time, the Animorphs take on a Yeerk science experiment, and Ax gets TV (it was the nineties!).
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #26: The Attack | #28: The Experiment →
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I didn’t know what to expect from A Canticle for Leibowitz, because despite being aware of its classic status, nothing that I read about it really prepared me for it. So I’m going to try to leave you with a clear (but spoiler-free) idea of what this book is about so you will be encouraged to dive into it. It is deservedly a classic, eminently accessible, and very interesting. If you’re one of those people who shy away from science fiction because you’re not that into “spaceships and ray guns,” this is a book that might make you reconsider that conception of the genre label.
Loosely put, this is three related vignettes that together form a post-apocalyptic novel. It reminds me a bit of The Dying Earth in its setting, but with the resurgence of science (as opposed to the rise of magic) as the main conceit. Walter M. Miller seizes on the idea that, as they did during the so-called Dark Ages, monasteries preserved a great many works of literature and philosophy during widespread periods of illiteracy—this time during the centuries following a nuclear winter. Humanity, somewhat and occasionally mutated, is spreading across the world again, but rediscovering literacy and technology is low on the list.
Miller’s proposition is basically that our ancestral tendency towards tribalism does not disappear as we advance technology. It is what sets off the conflagration, impedes rediscovery of science afterwards, and indeed, contributes to a second apocalypse a mere 1500 years after the first. So it goes.
Within the stories, then, Miller explores the tension between our curiosity, our need to discover, and our ability to fuck it up. There are characters who favour rediscovery and reinvention, and there are characters who urge more caution. Of course, one of the tragedies of such disasters is that the imperfect retention of information means it isn’t always clear what caused the apocalypse. It is interesting to see how Miller allows legends of the nuclear war filter down to these descendants, as seen most obviously in the canonization of the eponymous Leibowitz.
“Fiat Homo,” the first novella, is largely about the state of life at this point after the apocalypse. Miller points to signs of nuclear winter—the main character discovers a fallout shelter. One of the recurring themes here is the inexorable passage of time: Francis spends years as a novice, enduring numerous vigils; thereafter he spends fifteen years toiling on his reproduction of the blueprints; his colleague monk spends a lifetime working towards restoring a few pages of damaged manuscripts. Progress at the monastery comes not in months or years but in decades and centuries, a microcosm of how progress happens in human society at large.
Of course, not everyone would agree that more technology is progressive or a good thing. Miller entertains this argument in “Fiat Lux.” Set five hundred years after the events of the first novella, this story takes place in the same monastery. The surrounding countryside is more formally organized, if not more civilized, and finally there are some outside scholars attempting to rediscovery what was lost. This leads to political tension, as well as hints at religious and philosophical quandaries. I loved when the visiting scholar gives a little lecture to the monks, who are totally fine with the science stuff, and when one of the monks suggestions a Darwin-style theory of evolution of humans, the scholar gives the equivalent of a snort—like it’s just that unreasonable.
That’s something I wasn’t expecting: the keen humour. For some reason, maybe the dour cover or the mis-remembered reviews I’d long ago, I was expecting something much more sombre. And while there are the more conventional moments where Miller asks us to consider the insanity of nuclear warfare, he also displays a sense of compassion and wit that nicely balances the macabre plot. This is especially true in the final novella, “Fiat Voluntas Tua.” Even as nuclear war looms on the horizon again, and as people voluntary euthanize themselves because of overexposure to radiation, we have a fiery fightin’ priest who takes issue with these ideas. It is a very lively way to confront the idea that our history is, alas, cyclical: as Head Six says on Battlestar Galactica, all this has happened before, and all of it will happen again.
A Canticle for Leibowitz also reminds me of Always Coming Home. While Le Guin’s fascinating and unconventional book is a more utopian conception of a “less progressive” but happier world, Miller’s novel touches on similar themes but with less optimism. Almost Vonnegutian in temperament, if not in delivery, Miller makes the case that we are inherently flawed, à la Hobbes. Is that enough name-dropping for you?
This is a great book. It’s not just a classic of science fiction; it is a great book, full stop. And it’s short. It’s easy to follow, despite being set in the far future after our cultures have disintegrated. There are moments that might truly be considered “downers,” including perhaps the ending (that depends, I suppose, on your perspective). But it’s such a beautifully written and considered work that even such cynicism gives way to glimmers of hope. That is to say, Miller might admit to the faults of our species, but even he sees the potential for redemption within the hopes, dreams, and actions of a brave few. It is these, I suppose, who we call saints.
Loosely put, this is three related vignettes that together form a post-apocalyptic novel. It reminds me a bit of The Dying Earth in its setting, but with the resurgence of science (as opposed to the rise of magic) as the main conceit. Walter M. Miller seizes on the idea that, as they did during the so-called Dark Ages, monasteries preserved a great many works of literature and philosophy during widespread periods of illiteracy—this time during the centuries following a nuclear winter. Humanity, somewhat and occasionally mutated, is spreading across the world again, but rediscovering literacy and technology is low on the list.
Miller’s proposition is basically that our ancestral tendency towards tribalism does not disappear as we advance technology. It is what sets off the conflagration, impedes rediscovery of science afterwards, and indeed, contributes to a second apocalypse a mere 1500 years after the first. So it goes.
Within the stories, then, Miller explores the tension between our curiosity, our need to discover, and our ability to fuck it up. There are characters who favour rediscovery and reinvention, and there are characters who urge more caution. Of course, one of the tragedies of such disasters is that the imperfect retention of information means it isn’t always clear what caused the apocalypse. It is interesting to see how Miller allows legends of the nuclear war filter down to these descendants, as seen most obviously in the canonization of the eponymous Leibowitz.
“Fiat Homo,” the first novella, is largely about the state of life at this point after the apocalypse. Miller points to signs of nuclear winter—the main character discovers a fallout shelter. One of the recurring themes here is the inexorable passage of time: Francis spends years as a novice, enduring numerous vigils; thereafter he spends fifteen years toiling on his reproduction of the blueprints; his colleague monk spends a lifetime working towards restoring a few pages of damaged manuscripts. Progress at the monastery comes not in months or years but in decades and centuries, a microcosm of how progress happens in human society at large.
Of course, not everyone would agree that more technology is progressive or a good thing. Miller entertains this argument in “Fiat Lux.” Set five hundred years after the events of the first novella, this story takes place in the same monastery. The surrounding countryside is more formally organized, if not more civilized, and finally there are some outside scholars attempting to rediscovery what was lost. This leads to political tension, as well as hints at religious and philosophical quandaries. I loved when the visiting scholar gives a little lecture to the monks, who are totally fine with the science stuff, and when one of the monks suggestions a Darwin-style theory of evolution of humans, the scholar gives the equivalent of a snort—like it’s just that unreasonable.
That’s something I wasn’t expecting: the keen humour. For some reason, maybe the dour cover or the mis-remembered reviews I’d long ago, I was expecting something much more sombre. And while there are the more conventional moments where Miller asks us to consider the insanity of nuclear warfare, he also displays a sense of compassion and wit that nicely balances the macabre plot. This is especially true in the final novella, “Fiat Voluntas Tua.” Even as nuclear war looms on the horizon again, and as people voluntary euthanize themselves because of overexposure to radiation, we have a fiery fightin’ priest who takes issue with these ideas. It is a very lively way to confront the idea that our history is, alas, cyclical: as Head Six says on Battlestar Galactica, all this has happened before, and all of it will happen again.
A Canticle for Leibowitz also reminds me of Always Coming Home. While Le Guin’s fascinating and unconventional book is a more utopian conception of a “less progressive” but happier world, Miller’s novel touches on similar themes but with less optimism. Almost Vonnegutian in temperament, if not in delivery, Miller makes the case that we are inherently flawed, à la Hobbes. Is that enough name-dropping for you?
This is a great book. It’s not just a classic of science fiction; it is a great book, full stop. And it’s short. It’s easy to follow, despite being set in the far future after our cultures have disintegrated. There are moments that might truly be considered “downers,” including perhaps the ending (that depends, I suppose, on your perspective). But it’s such a beautifully written and considered work that even such cynicism gives way to glimmers of hope. That is to say, Miller might admit to the faults of our species, but even he sees the potential for redemption within the hopes, dreams, and actions of a brave few. It is these, I suppose, who we call saints.
Ain’t nobody got time for vampire fiction masquerading as high-octane thrillers hidden behind too many characters and subplots.
I must have added The Passage to my to-read list back when it came out and received vaguely positive reviews from some quarters. To be sure, I can see why some people would like this. Justin Cronin writes with that pseudo-noir style that works well for certain types of thrillers: everyone in his books seems like a world-weary figure who is just tired of life chewing them up and spitting them out. But with vampires!
Little of what Cronin offers here is new. Vampirism-as-disease is a tired trope, as is the idea that the United States military (or any military) would be dumb enough to try to study such a dangerous phenomenon for gain. FBI agent haunted by the past? Check. Need to protect an innocent but creepy child? Check.
And maybe if this book were three hundred pages shorter I might be down with it. As it was, less than a hundred pages in, I just did not want to continue reading. When I start making excuses to not read, it’s not because I don’t want to read—it’s because I don’t like the book I’m reading.
For me, the main issue is the sheer density and number of characters with all their backstories and incidental histories. I have an increasingly diminished tolerance for this as I get older. The one possible exception might be The Count of Monte Cristo—but I feel like Dumas justifies that, somewhat, because we need to understand where these characters are coming from in order to understand just how perfectly Dantes gets his revenge. In Cronin’s case, I’m just not interested in every minor character’s origins. So many people, so many names—it’s like an A Song of Ice and Fire novel, except with not as much death. Or dragons. But with vampires!
So here I was, less than one hundred pages in, just getting to the part with the actual “vampires.” I felt like I was an hour into an action movie without anything exploding. And that’s it: that’s my only real complaint, that this book moved too slowly. I’m not sticking it out to find out what happens next, who lives and who dies, and whether the pace picks up. If you do, all the more power to you. The Passage is not bad, not necessarily even poorly written or edited—but it was not satiating my reading appetite, so I’ve set it aside for more palatable fare.
I must have added The Passage to my to-read list back when it came out and received vaguely positive reviews from some quarters. To be sure, I can see why some people would like this. Justin Cronin writes with that pseudo-noir style that works well for certain types of thrillers: everyone in his books seems like a world-weary figure who is just tired of life chewing them up and spitting them out. But with vampires!
Little of what Cronin offers here is new. Vampirism-as-disease is a tired trope, as is the idea that the United States military (or any military) would be dumb enough to try to study such a dangerous phenomenon for gain. FBI agent haunted by the past? Check. Need to protect an innocent but creepy child? Check.
And maybe if this book were three hundred pages shorter I might be down with it. As it was, less than a hundred pages in, I just did not want to continue reading. When I start making excuses to not read, it’s not because I don’t want to read—it’s because I don’t like the book I’m reading.
For me, the main issue is the sheer density and number of characters with all their backstories and incidental histories. I have an increasingly diminished tolerance for this as I get older. The one possible exception might be The Count of Monte Cristo—but I feel like Dumas justifies that, somewhat, because we need to understand where these characters are coming from in order to understand just how perfectly Dantes gets his revenge. In Cronin’s case, I’m just not interested in every minor character’s origins. So many people, so many names—it’s like an A Song of Ice and Fire novel, except with not as much death. Or dragons. But with vampires!
So here I was, less than one hundred pages in, just getting to the part with the actual “vampires.” I felt like I was an hour into an action movie without anything exploding. And that’s it: that’s my only real complaint, that this book moved too slowly. I’m not sticking it out to find out what happens next, who lives and who dies, and whether the pace picks up. If you do, all the more power to you. The Passage is not bad, not necessarily even poorly written or edited—but it was not satiating my reading appetite, so I’ve set it aside for more palatable fare.
So many feelings, not sure how to put it into words. Mistwood started off like its title: hazy but somewhat enervating in all its potential; as it condensed, the story and plot started narrowing until it almost missed the mark. Even a few days later, I’m not sure whether I think this is a good book or not. I guess the truth is that I liked so many parts of this book, but in other respects Leah Cypress seemed to leave out or gloss over dimensions that might have made it even better.
The Shifter is a creature of legend, protector to the monarchy of Samorna. Isabel is the Shifter, freshly “recaptured” by the heir to the Samornan throne after she fled from the castle under mysterious circumstances decades ago. Her memory is full of gaps, however, and her powers are on the blink. She spends most of the novel attempting to rediscover who the Shifter is—who she is—even as she questions her supposedly unquestionably loyalty to the king and the throne. The theme, of course, is that these last two are not necessarily one and the same. Oh, and there are some romantic and sibling subplots that kind of dangle awkwardly until the end, where it sort-of-but-not-really gets resolved.
I loved the amnesia part of the plot. It reminds me of a story idea I have, which also involves someone returning to a fantasy court with amnesia (and there the similarities end), and Cypress exploits this trope very well. Isabel is at a great disadvantage, and she knows it, so she has to start making decisions and forming alliances. The characters seem one-dimensional at first, but you gradually get the feeling that even the most outspoken (like Clarisse) have hidden depths. Indeed, the revelation about Clarisse at the end might have been the best “twist” in the book. In contrast, the revelation about Isabel/the Shifter was a little ho-hum and predictable after what we learn about two thirds through.
And so it goes: great little moments amid otherwise unimpressive story elements. Dukes conspiring against a possibly illegitimate king? Yawn. The plotting and palace intrigue is all very pedestrian, with little enough to keep my interest. Similarly, Cypress doesn’t go very deeply into sorcery and why sorcerers seem like such dicks. She hints at things, at how difficult it is, how much it takes from you, but I would have liked to learn more.
Finally, while I enjoyed the revelation about Isabel’s nature, the rest of the book’s climax and conclusion felt too contrived for me. It wasn’t any one thing so much as a lack of good foundations: I didn’t really have any reason to care about one side of the conflict or the other. The true nature of Isabel’s loyalty to the crown is kept so vague for so much of the novel that when it finally matters, we don’t really have a good idea of whether she has actually made a choice, as she thought, or is just following a compulsion. In the end, because we never got to experience the Shifter as the Shifter, pre-Isabel, we lose out on a chance to understand the true impact of humanity’s touch.
You’ll notice I haven’t spent much time examining the themes or anything beyond the surface story. Don’t let this fool you: Mistwood has some profound moments. It might be labelled as YA by dint of Cypress’ sparing prose style and simplified intrigues, but it has all the hallmarks of a strong fantasy novel meant for all ages. Aside from the personal struggle that Isabel faces with finding an identity cruelly ripped from her, Mistwood is a good example of how arbitrary monarchical rule feels. “Legitimacy” is such a tenuous concept, both in our actual history and in fantasy worlds, and the definition of a “good” ruler is very debatable.
Unfortunately, most of these ideas don’t get the exploration they deserve. Mistwood is genuinely entertaining: I certainly wanted to keep reading it. And perhaps that is why my dissatisfaction is so keenly felt now. A lesser book would be easier to write off because it is just all-around disappointing, whereas this one has so many good qualities. It’s not essential reading, perhaps, but one you might pick up if you like “this sort of thing.”
The Shifter is a creature of legend, protector to the monarchy of Samorna. Isabel is the Shifter, freshly “recaptured” by the heir to the Samornan throne after she fled from the castle under mysterious circumstances decades ago. Her memory is full of gaps, however, and her powers are on the blink. She spends most of the novel attempting to rediscover who the Shifter is—who she is—even as she questions her supposedly unquestionably loyalty to the king and the throne. The theme, of course, is that these last two are not necessarily one and the same. Oh, and there are some romantic and sibling subplots that kind of dangle awkwardly until the end, where it sort-of-but-not-really gets resolved.
I loved the amnesia part of the plot. It reminds me of a story idea I have, which also involves someone returning to a fantasy court with amnesia (and there the similarities end), and Cypress exploits this trope very well. Isabel is at a great disadvantage, and she knows it, so she has to start making decisions and forming alliances. The characters seem one-dimensional at first, but you gradually get the feeling that even the most outspoken (like Clarisse) have hidden depths. Indeed, the revelation about Clarisse at the end might have been the best “twist” in the book. In contrast, the revelation about Isabel/the Shifter was a little ho-hum and predictable after what we learn about two thirds through.
And so it goes: great little moments amid otherwise unimpressive story elements. Dukes conspiring against a possibly illegitimate king? Yawn. The plotting and palace intrigue is all very pedestrian, with little enough to keep my interest. Similarly, Cypress doesn’t go very deeply into sorcery and why sorcerers seem like such dicks. She hints at things, at how difficult it is, how much it takes from you, but I would have liked to learn more.
Finally, while I enjoyed the revelation about Isabel’s nature, the rest of the book’s climax and conclusion felt too contrived for me. It wasn’t any one thing so much as a lack of good foundations: I didn’t really have any reason to care about one side of the conflict or the other. The true nature of Isabel’s loyalty to the crown is kept so vague for so much of the novel that when it finally matters, we don’t really have a good idea of whether she has actually made a choice, as she thought, or is just following a compulsion. In the end, because we never got to experience the Shifter as the Shifter, pre-Isabel, we lose out on a chance to understand the true impact of humanity’s touch.
You’ll notice I haven’t spent much time examining the themes or anything beyond the surface story. Don’t let this fool you: Mistwood has some profound moments. It might be labelled as YA by dint of Cypress’ sparing prose style and simplified intrigues, but it has all the hallmarks of a strong fantasy novel meant for all ages. Aside from the personal struggle that Isabel faces with finding an identity cruelly ripped from her, Mistwood is a good example of how arbitrary monarchical rule feels. “Legitimacy” is such a tenuous concept, both in our actual history and in fantasy worlds, and the definition of a “good” ruler is very debatable.
Unfortunately, most of these ideas don’t get the exploration they deserve. Mistwood is genuinely entertaining: I certainly wanted to keep reading it. And perhaps that is why my dissatisfaction is so keenly felt now. A lesser book would be easier to write off because it is just all-around disappointing, whereas this one has so many good qualities. It’s not essential reading, perhaps, but one you might pick up if you like “this sort of thing.”
A few years ago I discovered a neat little book called Magic Lost, Trouble Found, about an elf named Raine who inadvertently becomes linked to a soul-sucking magical rock called the Saghred. Lisa Shearin provided a kickass protagonist with the kind of witty voice I love, particularly in my urban fantasy. Here we are, five more books later, and the story of the Saghred has finally reached its conclusion.
Raine, Mychael, and Tam are following Sarad Nukpana and the Saghred to Regor, the goblin capital. Nukpana, Raine’s occasional nemesis and a mad sorcerer, plans to use the Saghred’s magic-amplifying abilities to take over the world. Raine would like to stop him, as well as destroy the Saghred in the process. But it won’t be easy, because their resources are limited and time grows short.
This definitely isn’t the kind of book where a reader new to the series can jump in and hope to follow along. All Spell Breaks Loose is the culmination of the previous books’ plot and character development. Granted, a lot of the characters we’ve come to know and love don’t get much (if any) page time in this book—no Phaelan, and not much in the way of Justinian or even Piaras and Talon, though they have minor roles. And in that sense, it’s kind of disappointing as the concluding book to the series (sort of like Mass Effect 3’s ending), because Shearin wraps up the plot but leaves a lot about the characters dangling. Yet I still think this is an effective conclusion for fans, because it delivers what we—and Raine—need most: emotional closure.
Being the Saghred’s bond slave has changed Raine’s life in so many ways. It’s easy to forget that, for her, less than a year has passed since she first encountered that awful rock. In that time she has fought Sarad Nukpana and imprisoned him in the Saghred—only to see him escape—fought demons and their queen, and saved the Isle of Mid from the escaped souls of evil sorcerers. Along the way, the Saghred has amplified her magical abilities—but at the price of chipping away at her soul, sinking its tendrils into her, making her enjoy the power she can now wield. Raine recognizes that the Saghred is not a neutral tool, not something she could ever continue using without repercussions. She wants it gone.
This immense burden is evident in All Spell Breaks Loose from the very beginning. As they gear up to go through the mirror to Regor, Raine and her comrades get caught in an attack on Mid itself. Raine reflects on her relative uselessness—her last use of the Saghred left her without access to her magic, so she can do little to defend against the Khrynsani goblins coming for them. This recurs throughout the first half of the book, until Tam’s (and Sarad Nukpana’s) former teacher takes Raine aside and tells her to buck up.
The secret, you see, is that it’s never been about the magic. It’s never been about who can hit harder, cast spells better, or more effectively wield the Saghred. Raine has never triumphed because she’s a stronger mage; she wins because she’s smart, careful, and compassionate. And when she’s captured and it seems all is lost, that reliance on planning and execution instead of sorcery and deception is what saves her.
All Spell Breaks Loose is almost a recantation of the transformation Raine has undergone in the past five books. As she looks to heal herself of the psychological scarring the Saghred has caused, Raine has to come to terms with being of nominal magical ability again, and the implications this would have for her relationship with Mychael and the Guardians. In a way, I think the worst thing the Saghred has done to her hasn’t been using her as a conduit for souls or stealing her father—no, the worst thing about Raine’s association with the Saghred has been the extent to which she has become codependent on it. She gradually began to believe that, in order to win against the impossible odds set before her, she needed to draw upon the power of the Saghred. Now, with that power cut off and the Saghred in Nukpana’s hands, Raine has to rediscover who she was and use that person to save the day.
Like its predecessors, this book is fast paced and tightly written. I have little more to say about it than that—anyone familiar with this series and Shearin’s writing will feel right at home here. As I mentioned above, the tight timeline and economy of characters makes this feel like a much sparser experience than the one I’ve become accustomed to with these books. Shearin could have taken more time to build up toward the expedition’s departure, I think, so that we could have one last goodbye with Mid and the characters on it.
Sarad Nukpana’s role as the Big Bad leaves a lot to be desired. He is essentially a cartoon character of a villain, all gloating and cackling and evil, his motivation that of a psychopath rather than anything more interesting. It works, and there are some points where he can be terrifying in his cruelty, but he never really has me quaking in my boots. He’s just so over-the-top, as a villain, that it’s obvious Raine has to win, and her victory is a little less satisfying as a result. Carnades, Raine’s on-again/off-again/on-again enemy, suffers from similarly shallow characterization.
I guess part of my disappointment is that the series has come so far, and I was expecting more from its final book. As just another book in the series, it’s good (though still not great). And Raine’s personal catharsis is excellent. As a conclusion to the series, however, I’m less satisfied. I wanted to see a little more growth, a few more risks, and didn’t quite get it.
I’m really looking forward to Shearin’s new forthcoming urban fantasy series. As far as the Raine Benares series goes, it has sometimes been bumpy, and the books have not always made me swoon—but even the roughest ones managed to entertain. I can’t wait to see what Shearin has planned next. All Spell Breaks Loose is Raine Benares through and through: bumpy but brilliant, and usually good times.
My reviews of the Raine Benares series:
← Con & Conjure | Wedding Bells, Magic Spells →
Raine, Mychael, and Tam are following Sarad Nukpana and the Saghred to Regor, the goblin capital. Nukpana, Raine’s occasional nemesis and a mad sorcerer, plans to use the Saghred’s magic-amplifying abilities to take over the world. Raine would like to stop him, as well as destroy the Saghred in the process. But it won’t be easy, because their resources are limited and time grows short.
This definitely isn’t the kind of book where a reader new to the series can jump in and hope to follow along. All Spell Breaks Loose is the culmination of the previous books’ plot and character development. Granted, a lot of the characters we’ve come to know and love don’t get much (if any) page time in this book—no Phaelan, and not much in the way of Justinian or even Piaras and Talon, though they have minor roles. And in that sense, it’s kind of disappointing as the concluding book to the series (sort of like Mass Effect 3’s ending), because Shearin wraps up the plot but leaves a lot about the characters dangling. Yet I still think this is an effective conclusion for fans, because it delivers what we—and Raine—need most: emotional closure.
Being the Saghred’s bond slave has changed Raine’s life in so many ways. It’s easy to forget that, for her, less than a year has passed since she first encountered that awful rock. In that time she has fought Sarad Nukpana and imprisoned him in the Saghred—only to see him escape—fought demons and their queen, and saved the Isle of Mid from the escaped souls of evil sorcerers. Along the way, the Saghred has amplified her magical abilities—but at the price of chipping away at her soul, sinking its tendrils into her, making her enjoy the power she can now wield. Raine recognizes that the Saghred is not a neutral tool, not something she could ever continue using without repercussions. She wants it gone.
This immense burden is evident in All Spell Breaks Loose from the very beginning. As they gear up to go through the mirror to Regor, Raine and her comrades get caught in an attack on Mid itself. Raine reflects on her relative uselessness—her last use of the Saghred left her without access to her magic, so she can do little to defend against the Khrynsani goblins coming for them. This recurs throughout the first half of the book, until Tam’s (and Sarad Nukpana’s) former teacher takes Raine aside and tells her to buck up.
The secret, you see, is that it’s never been about the magic. It’s never been about who can hit harder, cast spells better, or more effectively wield the Saghred. Raine has never triumphed because she’s a stronger mage; she wins because she’s smart, careful, and compassionate. And when she’s captured and it seems all is lost, that reliance on planning and execution instead of sorcery and deception is what saves her.
All Spell Breaks Loose is almost a recantation of the transformation Raine has undergone in the past five books. As she looks to heal herself of the psychological scarring the Saghred has caused, Raine has to come to terms with being of nominal magical ability again, and the implications this would have for her relationship with Mychael and the Guardians. In a way, I think the worst thing the Saghred has done to her hasn’t been using her as a conduit for souls or stealing her father—no, the worst thing about Raine’s association with the Saghred has been the extent to which she has become codependent on it. She gradually began to believe that, in order to win against the impossible odds set before her, she needed to draw upon the power of the Saghred. Now, with that power cut off and the Saghred in Nukpana’s hands, Raine has to rediscover who she was and use that person to save the day.
Like its predecessors, this book is fast paced and tightly written. I have little more to say about it than that—anyone familiar with this series and Shearin’s writing will feel right at home here. As I mentioned above, the tight timeline and economy of characters makes this feel like a much sparser experience than the one I’ve become accustomed to with these books. Shearin could have taken more time to build up toward the expedition’s departure, I think, so that we could have one last goodbye with Mid and the characters on it.
Sarad Nukpana’s role as the Big Bad leaves a lot to be desired. He is essentially a cartoon character of a villain, all gloating and cackling and evil, his motivation that of a psychopath rather than anything more interesting. It works, and there are some points where he can be terrifying in his cruelty, but he never really has me quaking in my boots. He’s just so over-the-top, as a villain, that it’s obvious Raine has to win, and her victory is a little less satisfying as a result. Carnades, Raine’s on-again/off-again/on-again enemy, suffers from similarly shallow characterization.
I guess part of my disappointment is that the series has come so far, and I was expecting more from its final book. As just another book in the series, it’s good (though still not great). And Raine’s personal catharsis is excellent. As a conclusion to the series, however, I’m less satisfied. I wanted to see a little more growth, a few more risks, and didn’t quite get it.
I’m really looking forward to Shearin’s new forthcoming urban fantasy series. As far as the Raine Benares series goes, it has sometimes been bumpy, and the books have not always made me swoon—but even the roughest ones managed to entertain. I can’t wait to see what Shearin has planned next. All Spell Breaks Loose is Raine Benares through and through: bumpy but brilliant, and usually good times.
My reviews of the Raine Benares series:
← Con & Conjure | Wedding Bells, Magic Spells →
As a longtime fan of the Raine Benares series, I was excited when I learned that Lisa Shearin was self-publishing a seventh book. Although All Spell Breaks Loose was a satisfying conclusion to the Saghred saga, there seems like plenty of story left to tell about Raine and this world. Sure enough, Wedding Bells, Magic Spells begins just before Raine’s wedding to Mychael. At the same time, the Isle of Mid is playing host to the equivalent of nuclear non-proliferation peace talks among the major nations. Oh, and someone is trying to kill everyone, and make it look like the goblins are doing it. This is the perfect set up for some intense, thrilling intrigue—but to be honest, for most of the book I wasn’t feeling it.
This is a difficult review, just because the amount of time that has passed since I last read this series makes it hard for me to trust how much of this is the book’s influence and how much is just the way I’ve changed since I read All Spell Breaks Loose. While I’ve always delivered honest critiques of this series in the past, I’ve also always genuinely enjoyed every single book, despite any bumps or flaws. Wedding Bells, Magic Spells is different in that it’s the first Raine Benares book I didn’t enjoy that much. Whereas previous books had great pacing and fantastical action scenes, this book largely feels like a series of recaps.
The story opens with a great deal of exposition on Raine’s background, and in particular what happened at the end of the last book. Fair enough, I thought—there was a lengthy gap between the two books, so much so that even regular readers like me would have trouble recalling the details. So I gave that one a free pass. But then it happens again. And again. And before you know it, the book feels more like “Raine explains…” than “Raine does….” There is so much more telling than showing—or, to be more accurate, Shearin shows and tells, which might be even more annoying. A character can barely sneeze without Raine analyzing the action, then explaining how it relates to that character’s culture or position or what happened three books ago. One reason I love series with rich backgrounds and mythologies is because longtime readers will understand callbacks and allusions that newcomers just won’t. We don’t need every allusion explained to us, unless it is crucial to understanding the present situation.
Shearin clearly has a very complex world (or multiverse, more like) thought out here, too. Previous books featured travels to Hell, and The SPI Files and this book have both confirmed that Shearin’s two series take place within a larger multiverse. Wedding Bells, Magic Spells also feature portals to another world, being used as a staging ground by extradimensional invaders. I love all of this so much. Firstly, there is so much more happening in this series than the Saghred, and it’s clear that there is plenty more story left to tell about Raine, Tam, Mychael, et al. Secondly, unlike her penchant for explaining what happened previously, Shearin is happy not to delve too deeply into how Raine’s world or magic works. As a result, we’ve had to wait seven books to see things like portals to other worlds and extradimensional invaders—but it’s obvious that Shearin has been planning these plot points for a while now.
Now, objectively, a lot happens in this book. In addition to the much-hyped wedding, there are assassination attempts to foil, shapeshifters, monsters infesting the Void used for mirror travel, and all sorts of mysteries and shenanigans that Raine must deal with during the peace talks. It should make for an intense story. So I was just so surprised that I dawdled with this short book. The heavy exposition really breaks the pacing, and despite all these events, it feels overwhelmingly as if Raine doesn’t do much at all.
I did enjoy getting to meet some of the new characters, particularly Mychael’s parents. Raine’s mother-in-law is great during the shapeshifter scene, and I loved their bonding afterwards. That being said, it might have been nice if not everyone had fallen head-over-heels for Raine. Shearin has a great flare for the dramatic, but she can also write really nuanced characters—Tam and his addiction to dark magic is a prime example. Unfortunately, that kind of nuance and depth seemed to be missing from most of the characters, who seemed to fall into fairly stock descriptions.
While it has its moments, Wedding Bells, Magic Spells might be my least favourite Raine Benares book yet. Diehard fans will love the ending and its resolution of what has been—for us if not for Raine and Mychael—such a long arc. That alone is definitely worth reading this book, which is not so much bad as it is just disappointingly banal. The sequel is supposedly from Tam’s point of view, and I’m hopeful this will inject some freshness into the series—I’m sad to say goodbye to Raine, even temporarily, but it might be interesting to see her through someone else’s eyes!
My reviews of the Raine Benares series:
← All Spell Breaks Loose
This is a difficult review, just because the amount of time that has passed since I last read this series makes it hard for me to trust how much of this is the book’s influence and how much is just the way I’ve changed since I read All Spell Breaks Loose. While I’ve always delivered honest critiques of this series in the past, I’ve also always genuinely enjoyed every single book, despite any bumps or flaws. Wedding Bells, Magic Spells is different in that it’s the first Raine Benares book I didn’t enjoy that much. Whereas previous books had great pacing and fantastical action scenes, this book largely feels like a series of recaps.
The story opens with a great deal of exposition on Raine’s background, and in particular what happened at the end of the last book. Fair enough, I thought—there was a lengthy gap between the two books, so much so that even regular readers like me would have trouble recalling the details. So I gave that one a free pass. But then it happens again. And again. And before you know it, the book feels more like “Raine explains…” than “Raine does….” There is so much more telling than showing—or, to be more accurate, Shearin shows and tells, which might be even more annoying. A character can barely sneeze without Raine analyzing the action, then explaining how it relates to that character’s culture or position or what happened three books ago. One reason I love series with rich backgrounds and mythologies is because longtime readers will understand callbacks and allusions that newcomers just won’t. We don’t need every allusion explained to us, unless it is crucial to understanding the present situation.
Shearin clearly has a very complex world (or multiverse, more like) thought out here, too. Previous books featured travels to Hell, and The SPI Files and this book have both confirmed that Shearin’s two series take place within a larger multiverse. Wedding Bells, Magic Spells also feature portals to another world, being used as a staging ground by extradimensional invaders. I love all of this so much. Firstly, there is so much more happening in this series than the Saghred, and it’s clear that there is plenty more story left to tell about Raine, Tam, Mychael, et al. Secondly, unlike her penchant for explaining what happened previously, Shearin is happy not to delve too deeply into how Raine’s world or magic works. As a result, we’ve had to wait seven books to see things like portals to other worlds and extradimensional invaders—but it’s obvious that Shearin has been planning these plot points for a while now.
Now, objectively, a lot happens in this book. In addition to the much-hyped wedding, there are assassination attempts to foil, shapeshifters, monsters infesting the Void used for mirror travel, and all sorts of mysteries and shenanigans that Raine must deal with during the peace talks. It should make for an intense story. So I was just so surprised that I dawdled with this short book. The heavy exposition really breaks the pacing, and despite all these events, it feels overwhelmingly as if Raine doesn’t do much at all.
I did enjoy getting to meet some of the new characters, particularly Mychael’s parents. Raine’s mother-in-law is great during the shapeshifter scene, and I loved their bonding afterwards. That being said, it might have been nice if not everyone had fallen head-over-heels for Raine. Shearin has a great flare for the dramatic, but she can also write really nuanced characters—Tam and his addiction to dark magic is a prime example. Unfortunately, that kind of nuance and depth seemed to be missing from most of the characters, who seemed to fall into fairly stock descriptions.
While it has its moments, Wedding Bells, Magic Spells might be my least favourite Raine Benares book yet. Diehard fans will love the ending and its resolution of what has been—for us if not for Raine and Mychael—such a long arc. That alone is definitely worth reading this book, which is not so much bad as it is just disappointingly banal. The sequel is supposedly from Tam’s point of view, and I’m hopeful this will inject some freshness into the series—I’m sad to say goodbye to Raine, even temporarily, but it might be interesting to see her through someone else’s eyes!
My reviews of the Raine Benares series:
← All Spell Breaks Loose
Just last week, CBC News announced it was closing comments on articles about indigenous peoples, because at the moment, it cannot guarantee sufficient moderation to sustain polite discourse. In addition to the usual trolls, some people were writing hate speech motivated by a misconception of the state of indigenous peoples in Canada. And while this is reprehensible, it probably shouldn’t be surprising. We white people are very good at ignoring indigenous people—until we want their land, that is.
The Inconvenient Indian: A Curious Account of Native People in North America is Thomas King’s attempt to make some kind of sense of the conflicting narratives and myths created about the European occupation of North America. I approached this book as someone who is interested in gaining a deeper awareness of indigenous perspectives on indigenous issues. I’m already sympathetic to these ideas and have a surface-level understanding of some of the challenges Indigenous people face as a result of colonialism. I don’t think this book would work for someone who, say, is not so sympathetic or is actively labouring under the types of misconceptions that I hear all-too-often in Thunder Bay.
Unlike Stephen Harper, I have no trouble admitting that Canada has a history of colonialism. As King demonstrates in the Chapter 7, “Forget About It,” that colonialism is ongoing. It has never stopped. And while I thought I understood this prior to reading The Inconvenient Indian, the implications of this continuum of colonialism only crystallized for me after reading this book.
We don’t learn enough about our history of colonialism in schools. It’s convenient, for instance, for us to subscribe to the fiction that we aren’t responsible for anything that happened before 1867. That was Britain and France, we say—blame those European powers! (Strangely enough, we’re quite happy to claim we “won” the War of 1812 despite not being a country back then, either.) But for all the noise that provincial governments make about curricula, indigenous peoples were largely absent from my education. And while I understand now that the colonization and oppression of indigenous people is ongoing, it took King’s book to help me connect these two ideas—that is to say, our education system leaves us ignorant because colonialism is ongoing. I learned about the slavery and the triangle trade in history class, because these things are done and gone, and we can talk about them as “terrible tragedies” with the required distance of history. (N.B., I know that slavery is still a huge problem in Canada, and similarly, racism against black people is an ongoing issue we need to deal with as a society. But slavery is underground instead of legalized, and while racism against black people is endemic and systemic, it is not codified in our laws the way it is with indigenous people and the Indian Act.) But talking about our history with indigenous nations requires us to look at how things are “better” now … and as King points out, over and over in this book, things aren’t better; we’re just adept at discriminating in new and creative ways.
It’s this cyclical view that was the gamechanger for me here. I knew we had been colonialist in the past, and I knew we were being colonialist now, but King lines everything up and connects the dots in a way that shows how our current attitudes emerged from past ones. And so I can see now that a statement I might have made previously, like, “The situation of indigenous peoples in Canada is still pretty bad, but it has gotten a lot better in recent years” is just woefully inaccurate. Although it’s true that some bands and nations have made great strides in some areas, others have seen setbacks; it’s so difficult to quantify whether things are getting better or worse, because overall our society remains hostile and racist.
Disagree? I refer you to the CBC comments section.
Naturally, being a teacher, I’m all for education. But King has a wet blanket for me, too; he puts it very elegantly in the final chapter:
He does go on to say, “If nothing else, an examination of the past—and of the present, for that matter—can be instructive,” so education is helpful—just not enough on its own. Because when you get right down to it, our governments, past and present, have always known what they were doing. They want “inconvenient Indians” to disappear. They wish that indigenous peoples were relegated to history like they are so often portrayed in Hollywood. And if we truly are a democracy where governments reflect the will of the people—where governments refuse to take a stand about land rights or missing and murdered women or police brutality because it would mean upsetting affluent white voters—then the will of the people sucks, and we should be ashamed.
I was reading a recent issue of National Geographic, and it had an article about a national park in Scandinavia. It mentioned the Sami people, indigenous peoples of that area. I did a doubletake. I didn’t know there were people indigenous to that area! (I knew there are plenty of indigenous cultures in various parts of the world, just not there.) Our society is not interested in highlighting the diversity of indigenous cultures anywhere, because it would mean admitting that we need to talk to the members of these cultures, to treat them like human beings, to deal with them fairly. And we can’t do that, because they have land we want. Land we deserve, I guess, because we’re better at exploiting it?
I should note that the above tirade is my own and not King’s. Actually, despite his hefty cynicism, King is fairly conciliatory in tone. He’s not here to accuse or point fingers at white people in general; he’s not saying you are a bad person. But acknowledging our privilege and the way we interact with our racist society is important.
As King mentions, this is all about the land. It’s not just a problem of racism; it’s a problem of capitalism. We live in a world that rewards a certain perspective, one in which property and people are both commodities valued only for what they can produce, not their intrinsic qualities. This is a noxious philosophy, but it has made many people rich, and so they defend it. And, unfortunately, attempts to improve or replace this system have sometimes backfired spectacularly.
The Inconvenient Indian is an account of indigenous peoples in North America rather than a history. King explains this choice in the prologue, and I understand. He’s not here to be a scholar—others have done that. He’s here to make a point. He does so eloquently and exhaustively. Each chapter is full of facts (as much as he maligns them) and anecdotes and impressive lists of dates and events. At every turn, he confronts us with the reality that the Canadian and American governments have never dealt with indigenous peoples in good faith, have broken treaties and promises whenever it suited them, and have alternatively attempted to exterminate or legislate indigenous people out of existence.
It’s a grim story. But it is our story. And King does, to his credit, try to end on a happy note. While he can’t point to things getting better, he highlights two “recent” massive land claims (in Alaska and in the creation of Nunavut) that have set some precedents. And he reminds us that whatever the past and present holds, the future is yet unwritten: indigenous cultures and people can change, just as the rest of society can change.
If we will it.
So educate yourself. Read this book. Get uncomfortable. Talk about racism. Challenge your behaviour and the behaviour of the friends. This won’t go away unless we do something about it.
The Inconvenient Indian: A Curious Account of Native People in North America is Thomas King’s attempt to make some kind of sense of the conflicting narratives and myths created about the European occupation of North America. I approached this book as someone who is interested in gaining a deeper awareness of indigenous perspectives on indigenous issues. I’m already sympathetic to these ideas and have a surface-level understanding of some of the challenges Indigenous people face as a result of colonialism. I don’t think this book would work for someone who, say, is not so sympathetic or is actively labouring under the types of misconceptions that I hear all-too-often in Thunder Bay.
Unlike Stephen Harper, I have no trouble admitting that Canada has a history of colonialism. As King demonstrates in the Chapter 7, “Forget About It,” that colonialism is ongoing. It has never stopped. And while I thought I understood this prior to reading The Inconvenient Indian, the implications of this continuum of colonialism only crystallized for me after reading this book.
We don’t learn enough about our history of colonialism in schools. It’s convenient, for instance, for us to subscribe to the fiction that we aren’t responsible for anything that happened before 1867. That was Britain and France, we say—blame those European powers! (Strangely enough, we’re quite happy to claim we “won” the War of 1812 despite not being a country back then, either.) But for all the noise that provincial governments make about curricula, indigenous peoples were largely absent from my education. And while I understand now that the colonization and oppression of indigenous people is ongoing, it took King’s book to help me connect these two ideas—that is to say, our education system leaves us ignorant because colonialism is ongoing. I learned about the slavery and the triangle trade in history class, because these things are done and gone, and we can talk about them as “terrible tragedies” with the required distance of history. (N.B., I know that slavery is still a huge problem in Canada, and similarly, racism against black people is an ongoing issue we need to deal with as a society. But slavery is underground instead of legalized, and while racism against black people is endemic and systemic, it is not codified in our laws the way it is with indigenous people and the Indian Act.) But talking about our history with indigenous nations requires us to look at how things are “better” now … and as King points out, over and over in this book, things aren’t better; we’re just adept at discriminating in new and creative ways.
It’s this cyclical view that was the gamechanger for me here. I knew we had been colonialist in the past, and I knew we were being colonialist now, but King lines everything up and connects the dots in a way that shows how our current attitudes emerged from past ones. And so I can see now that a statement I might have made previously, like, “The situation of indigenous peoples in Canada is still pretty bad, but it has gotten a lot better in recent years” is just woefully inaccurate. Although it’s true that some bands and nations have made great strides in some areas, others have seen setbacks; it’s so difficult to quantify whether things are getting better or worse, because overall our society remains hostile and racist.
Disagree? I refer you to the CBC comments section.
Naturally, being a teacher, I’m all for education. But King has a wet blanket for me, too; he puts it very elegantly in the final chapter:
Ignorance has never been the problem. The problem was and continues to be unexamined confidence in western civilization and the unwarranted certainty of Christianity. And arrogance. Perhaps it is unfair to judge the past by the present, but it is also necessary.
He does go on to say, “If nothing else, an examination of the past—and of the present, for that matter—can be instructive,” so education is helpful—just not enough on its own. Because when you get right down to it, our governments, past and present, have always known what they were doing. They want “inconvenient Indians” to disappear. They wish that indigenous peoples were relegated to history like they are so often portrayed in Hollywood. And if we truly are a democracy where governments reflect the will of the people—where governments refuse to take a stand about land rights or missing and murdered women or police brutality because it would mean upsetting affluent white voters—then the will of the people sucks, and we should be ashamed.
I was reading a recent issue of National Geographic, and it had an article about a national park in Scandinavia. It mentioned the Sami people, indigenous peoples of that area. I did a doubletake. I didn’t know there were people indigenous to that area! (I knew there are plenty of indigenous cultures in various parts of the world, just not there.) Our society is not interested in highlighting the diversity of indigenous cultures anywhere, because it would mean admitting that we need to talk to the members of these cultures, to treat them like human beings, to deal with them fairly. And we can’t do that, because they have land we want. Land we deserve, I guess, because we’re better at exploiting it?
I should note that the above tirade is my own and not King’s. Actually, despite his hefty cynicism, King is fairly conciliatory in tone. He’s not here to accuse or point fingers at white people in general; he’s not saying you are a bad person. But acknowledging our privilege and the way we interact with our racist society is important.
As King mentions, this is all about the land. It’s not just a problem of racism; it’s a problem of capitalism. We live in a world that rewards a certain perspective, one in which property and people are both commodities valued only for what they can produce, not their intrinsic qualities. This is a noxious philosophy, but it has made many people rich, and so they defend it. And, unfortunately, attempts to improve or replace this system have sometimes backfired spectacularly.
The Inconvenient Indian is an account of indigenous peoples in North America rather than a history. King explains this choice in the prologue, and I understand. He’s not here to be a scholar—others have done that. He’s here to make a point. He does so eloquently and exhaustively. Each chapter is full of facts (as much as he maligns them) and anecdotes and impressive lists of dates and events. At every turn, he confronts us with the reality that the Canadian and American governments have never dealt with indigenous peoples in good faith, have broken treaties and promises whenever it suited them, and have alternatively attempted to exterminate or legislate indigenous people out of existence.
It’s a grim story. But it is our story. And King does, to his credit, try to end on a happy note. While he can’t point to things getting better, he highlights two “recent” massive land claims (in Alaska and in the creation of Nunavut) that have set some precedents. And he reminds us that whatever the past and present holds, the future is yet unwritten: indigenous cultures and people can change, just as the rest of society can change.
If we will it.
So educate yourself. Read this book. Get uncomfortable. Talk about racism. Challenge your behaviour and the behaviour of the friends. This won’t go away unless we do something about it.
Indigenous Men and Masculinities: Legacies, Identities, Regeneration
Kim Anderson, Robert Alexander Innes
“But what about the men?” It’s a common refrain heard from people who have misinterpreted, or been misinformed about, the aims of feminism and its related movements. So-called “meninist” and “men’s rights activists” encourage the question, because they want to push the view that feminists want to attain women’s liberation and equality at the expense of men. As one men’s rights activist discovered, when one engages with the actual critical theory underlying feminism, this is not the case: gender being a social construct necessarily means that feminism is working to liberate everyone from systemic oppression.
And feminism has lately been getting a lot of traction in media, mostly because a diverse selection of celebrities are now identifying under that term. This can be the cause of controversy and even consternation. Feminism as a movement is fairly fractured, and there is no one perfect way to be feminist. One must accept one will screw up, make mistakes, and do things that “are not feminist,” because we are not perfect. The point is we’re a work in progress. I like that, within the broader feminist community, especially on the Internet, we are having these discussions about the various roles that people of different backgrounds and privilege can play in dismantling patriarchy.
But what about the men? Feminist theory has plenty on it about toxic masculinity, but I feel like this area of feminism still has yet to surface in the mainstream. I can’t recommend Unspeakable Things enough; not only is it a great feminist primer in general, but Laurie Penny devotes plenty of time to discussing the harmful effects of patriarchy on men and boys. (I certainly don’t mean to imply there is a dearth of masculinity theory within feminism—rather that this theory isn’t as broadly known and discussed as other aspects of feminism.)
Forgive me for the lengthy introduction, but I wanted to provide some context for this book. At the intersection of colonialism, racism, and feminism, then, Indigenous Men and Masculinities is a very academic look at exactly this issue of men, patriarchy, and performing gender. Robert Alexander Innes and Kim Anderson have curated an intense series of articles, essays, and conversations on the topic of Indigenous identity and what it means to be male, man, or masculine, both historically and presently. The book reminds me heavily of my university days, but it proved a fascinating and thoroughly worthy read.
I’m a white man who currently teaches predominantly Indigenous (Aboriginal) Canadian adults. So this issue is very important to me, because I’m teaching people who were unsuccessful at high school, or did not have the opportunity to complete high school earlier in life, partly because they are Indigenous. As a feminist in general I’d find this topic interesting, but as a white guy teaching Indigenous peoples, this is pretty much required reading. Although I face, as a man, a little bit of pressure to act in “masculine” ways, my pressures are markedly different from the experiences of Indigenous men. As such, I appreciated learning more about their experiences.
It’s important to note that this book does not limit itself to North American perspectives either: some of the authors discuss Maori (New Zealand) issues, as well as Hawaiian (which I am aware is politically North American, but geographically and culturally the Hawaiian peoples are fairly distinct from North American Indigenous peoples). If we are to educate ourselves about Indigenous issues, we must of course acknowledge that Indigenous peoples exist practically all over the world. I would love to see follow-up volumes talk about Indigenous peoples of South America, Scandinavia, Japan, Polynesia, Southeast Asia, etc.
This book is a fair sight more technical and academic than I am used to reading since I graduated from university. Every chapter has endnotes/citations. Most of the chapters, particularly the first two sections, use very formal language that you tend to find in journal articles and university textbooks. Everyone loves Foucault. Basically what I’m saying is that you don’t want to pick this up thinking you’re going to read a pop feminism book, which is mostly what I’ve been reading lately in this genre (and all the more power to them). You need to be prepared to engage in that direct, academic mindset that efferent reading requires. I admit it was more of a struggle than I was expecting, and I’m not sure how much of that is my academic muscles atrophying and how much of it is me being tired of bullshit academic language constructs….
For this reason, I’m not recommending Indigenous Men and Masculinities for wide reading. It is more something I envision as being useful within a course, either in whole or part—or for those autodidacts like me who set their own course reading! But it engages with so many essential issues, especially for societies like Canada’s, where we continue to grapple with a very real, ongoing colonialism that is a blight on our country’s claim to courtesy, decency, and inclusion for all.
Highlights from this book include the entire first part—the first four chapters—for their intense theoretical discourses on Indigenous masculinities. I loved it all. I love the way the authors challenge me to think about how European settlers brought gender constructs to North America and used them as part of their toolbox of oppression. Moreover, there were some great points about how our attempts to dismantle colonialism and patriarchy can often be co-opted—an idea I’ve come across in other areas of feminism as well!
The second part of the book didn’t hold my interest as much, although Lisa Tatonetti’s “‘Tales of Burning Love’: Female Masculinity in Contemporary Native Literature” is an exception, and has given me a new novel (The Beet Queen) to seek out. Much of Part Three is very interesting, with looks at how sports, street gangs, and incarceration influence Indigenous men and masculinities. While Part Four didn’t keep me as interested, I really like that the editors included conversation and interview pieces in addition to academic essays. This really fits with the oral tradition of many Indigenous cultures and challenges the idea that all worthy academic theory and thought must fit a certain mould.
As the editors note in the final chapter, this book offers up hope, and in particular, hope that the solutions to many of the crises facing Indigenous people will be found through Indigenous people and cultures. Although it is important for white people to educate ourselves about the history, colonialism, and problems that affect Indigenous peoples, we shouldn't overreach and make the mistake of thinking that Indigenous peoples need "saving." Reading about how so many Indigenous individuals and scholars are participating in this discussion and actively working against oppression is inspirational. I only hope I can do my part to use my own privilege to help stand up.
So, if like me you feel that you have a serious stake in learning more about the intersections of Indigenous issues and feminism, I highly recommend you find this book. I don’t think it’s necessary to read all of it, or at least not all in one go, but you can at least read parts that jump out at you. For everyone else, I encourage you to seek out more education and information about Indigenous issues, although this book is not necessarily the place to start; I think to find it useful, you need to be a little further along that journey, lest the tone and assumptions in these articles become overwhelming.
I’m very happy I noticed this at my library, and I really hope to find more books that combine my interests like this in the future.
And feminism has lately been getting a lot of traction in media, mostly because a diverse selection of celebrities are now identifying under that term. This can be the cause of controversy and even consternation. Feminism as a movement is fairly fractured, and there is no one perfect way to be feminist. One must accept one will screw up, make mistakes, and do things that “are not feminist,” because we are not perfect. The point is we’re a work in progress. I like that, within the broader feminist community, especially on the Internet, we are having these discussions about the various roles that people of different backgrounds and privilege can play in dismantling patriarchy.
But what about the men? Feminist theory has plenty on it about toxic masculinity, but I feel like this area of feminism still has yet to surface in the mainstream. I can’t recommend Unspeakable Things enough; not only is it a great feminist primer in general, but Laurie Penny devotes plenty of time to discussing the harmful effects of patriarchy on men and boys. (I certainly don’t mean to imply there is a dearth of masculinity theory within feminism—rather that this theory isn’t as broadly known and discussed as other aspects of feminism.)
Forgive me for the lengthy introduction, but I wanted to provide some context for this book. At the intersection of colonialism, racism, and feminism, then, Indigenous Men and Masculinities is a very academic look at exactly this issue of men, patriarchy, and performing gender. Robert Alexander Innes and Kim Anderson have curated an intense series of articles, essays, and conversations on the topic of Indigenous identity and what it means to be male, man, or masculine, both historically and presently. The book reminds me heavily of my university days, but it proved a fascinating and thoroughly worthy read.
I’m a white man who currently teaches predominantly Indigenous (Aboriginal) Canadian adults. So this issue is very important to me, because I’m teaching people who were unsuccessful at high school, or did not have the opportunity to complete high school earlier in life, partly because they are Indigenous. As a feminist in general I’d find this topic interesting, but as a white guy teaching Indigenous peoples, this is pretty much required reading. Although I face, as a man, a little bit of pressure to act in “masculine” ways, my pressures are markedly different from the experiences of Indigenous men. As such, I appreciated learning more about their experiences.
It’s important to note that this book does not limit itself to North American perspectives either: some of the authors discuss Maori (New Zealand) issues, as well as Hawaiian (which I am aware is politically North American, but geographically and culturally the Hawaiian peoples are fairly distinct from North American Indigenous peoples). If we are to educate ourselves about Indigenous issues, we must of course acknowledge that Indigenous peoples exist practically all over the world. I would love to see follow-up volumes talk about Indigenous peoples of South America, Scandinavia, Japan, Polynesia, Southeast Asia, etc.
This book is a fair sight more technical and academic than I am used to reading since I graduated from university. Every chapter has endnotes/citations. Most of the chapters, particularly the first two sections, use very formal language that you tend to find in journal articles and university textbooks. Everyone loves Foucault. Basically what I’m saying is that you don’t want to pick this up thinking you’re going to read a pop feminism book, which is mostly what I’ve been reading lately in this genre (and all the more power to them). You need to be prepared to engage in that direct, academic mindset that efferent reading requires. I admit it was more of a struggle than I was expecting, and I’m not sure how much of that is my academic muscles atrophying and how much of it is me being tired of bullshit academic language constructs….
For this reason, I’m not recommending Indigenous Men and Masculinities for wide reading. It is more something I envision as being useful within a course, either in whole or part—or for those autodidacts like me who set their own course reading! But it engages with so many essential issues, especially for societies like Canada’s, where we continue to grapple with a very real, ongoing colonialism that is a blight on our country’s claim to courtesy, decency, and inclusion for all.
Highlights from this book include the entire first part—the first four chapters—for their intense theoretical discourses on Indigenous masculinities. I loved it all. I love the way the authors challenge me to think about how European settlers brought gender constructs to North America and used them as part of their toolbox of oppression. Moreover, there were some great points about how our attempts to dismantle colonialism and patriarchy can often be co-opted—an idea I’ve come across in other areas of feminism as well!
The second part of the book didn’t hold my interest as much, although Lisa Tatonetti’s “‘Tales of Burning Love’: Female Masculinity in Contemporary Native Literature” is an exception, and has given me a new novel (The Beet Queen) to seek out. Much of Part Three is very interesting, with looks at how sports, street gangs, and incarceration influence Indigenous men and masculinities. While Part Four didn’t keep me as interested, I really like that the editors included conversation and interview pieces in addition to academic essays. This really fits with the oral tradition of many Indigenous cultures and challenges the idea that all worthy academic theory and thought must fit a certain mould.
As the editors note in the final chapter, this book offers up hope, and in particular, hope that the solutions to many of the crises facing Indigenous people will be found through Indigenous people and cultures. Although it is important for white people to educate ourselves about the history, colonialism, and problems that affect Indigenous peoples, we shouldn't overreach and make the mistake of thinking that Indigenous peoples need "saving." Reading about how so many Indigenous individuals and scholars are participating in this discussion and actively working against oppression is inspirational. I only hope I can do my part to use my own privilege to help stand up.
So, if like me you feel that you have a serious stake in learning more about the intersections of Indigenous issues and feminism, I highly recommend you find this book. I don’t think it’s necessary to read all of it, or at least not all in one go, but you can at least read parts that jump out at you. For everyone else, I encourage you to seek out more education and information about Indigenous issues, although this book is not necessarily the place to start; I think to find it useful, you need to be a little further along that journey, lest the tone and assumptions in these articles become overwhelming.
I’m very happy I noticed this at my library, and I really hope to find more books that combine my interests like this in the future.