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tachyondecay
Sometimes, serendipity: The Martian movie came on Netflix Canada a few weeks ago; coincidentally, the book showed up on my library’s New Books shelf last week! I prefer to read the book before I watch a movie, so that has worked out very well. I’ve intended to read The Martian for a while now, but it has not been a high priority—I planned to “get around to it”. As I tend to do with books that suddenly explode in popularity and get movie deals, I wanted to be sceptical. I didn’t want to like it that much. That being said, the book’s origin story means there is something special to it (even if that something special isn’t something I would see). I am surprised by how much I ended up liking it. Andy Weir certainly slings enough technical details in there for any science nerd’s appetite—but there is also a complex and nuanced story that leaves you with a lot to think about, both in terms of space travel and being human.
Let’s get this out of the way: this book is very technically dense. Like, you might think they sling a lot of technobabble in Star Trek, and you’d be right—but there is much more technobabble here, with the added bonus of much more verisimilitude as well. Weir has the expertise and has done the research to back up this attempt to portray as accurately as possible an attempt to survive on Mars solo. Unlike many other novels where the author has done the research so thoroughly they are aching to show all their work, The Martian’s technical density works. There’s a few reasons for this. Firstly, Weir has most of the narrative taking place as a series of log entries by Mark. As a result, only the interstitial scenes of talking heads at NASA seem Sorkinesque in their intense “as you know” and idiot ball question moments. Secondly, Weir balances out the science with moments of dry, self-deprecating humour, as well as moments of profound humility. There is a sense of respect and awe in this book, both for science and space and the sheer audacity of the human spirit.
It’s probably not very original to compare this to Apollo 13—both are stories about disasters in space requiring quick thinking and quick action, and both are more technical than your average science fiction entertainment. Apollo 13, of course, is based on a true story, whereas The Martian is wholly fictional, albeit attempting as much realism as one can muster for a mission to Mars twenty years into the future. Nevertheless, to me what these two stories most have in common is how they highlight the essential fragility of our space travel.
Think about it for a moment. Aside from a handful of people who have visited the Moon, which itself is not that far away from Earth in the grandest scheme of things, we have barely left the atmosphere of our planet. Even these accomplishments have taken tremendous effort. And if you pay attention to Mark in The Martian, you can see why: there is so much that can go wrong. One broken component, one mismatched seal, and the whole mission might have to be scrubbed. Physics is a stern and unforgiving tutor, orbital mechanics more so: if you miss your window, burn too much or too little fuel, don’t plan ahead far enough … you’re done. There are seldom do-overs in space.
When you look at it this way, it is a miracle that more astronauts haven’t died and a testament to the efforts of all the people involved in designing, building, testing, deploying, and managing the complex systems and technologies in place to achieve spaceflight. The Martian lets us be a fly on the wall as that same machine spins up to save one man stranded on Mars. We get to hear about how difficult it is, precisely why it is so difficult, and we learn about all the ways it can go disastrously, horribly wrong for the one way it might go right. Meanwhile, we are left with the sad and tragic certainty that Mark Watney has nothing to listen to on Mars except disco. The poor man.
Aside from the technical feat of rescuing Mark, there is also the psychological aspect to the plot. Mark’s humour, of course, is an obvious draw. I appreciate how Weir depicts Mark’s varying mood depending on his situation: sometimes Mark is extremely resilient, upbeat, optimistic; after a setback, he might be somewhat down, a little more subdued. As Mark’s time as the sole inhabitant of Mars stretches on, a sense of deep loneliness settles into his log entries. Even in his most optimistic moments, when everything is going well and he hasn’t set himself on fire lately, we get the sense that Mark is just tired. Because Weir shows us rather than tells us, the whole experience is much more evocative.
One of my worries and preconceptions going into The Martian was that it would just be “the Mark Watney show”, that is, Mark would be a huge Mary Sue who is good at everything required to help him survive alone on a planet trying its best to kill him. To some extent the complaint is still valid, lampshaded slightly by the reality that astronauts are selected precisely because they are somewhat like the real-world equivalent of Mary Sues: they are polymaths who excel in not just one but multiple fields, respond well to pressure, have great creativity, and also have grit. Still, few things are more boring than watching a lone American dude talk us through how he was totally da best at living on Mars. This is not the hero I need.
Fortunately, that doesn’t happen. Mark’s individual intelligence and resilience are definitely on display. Nor am I going to get counterfactual on a fictional scenario and try to figure out if Mark might have survived and then made it to the Ares 4 MAV if he had never re-established contact with NASA (probably not). However, Weir also emphasizes that rescuing him is a massive team effort (something Mark acknowledges explicitly) on the order of most of the planet, in a psychic sense if not a literal one. So instead of “the Mark Watney show” it’s “the combined output of NASA and several other governmental and private institutions, featuring Mark Watney, show”. Again, this is much more realistic, and more importantly—from a reading perspective—it’s more satisfying. It allows Mark to be a flawed character who can make mistakes because someone else is kind of watching his back.
I can definitely see how one’s emotional investment in Mark might vary. He is not exactly a well-defined protagonist, despite being a dynamic character. For example, although he disparages Lewis’ seventies obsession and seems neutral about Johannsen’s Agatha Christie fandom, we learn very little about his likes and dislikes. His sense of humour, his intelligence, his perseverance—these all come through. But if it weren’t for the narrative device being used, this might almost sound like a recreation of Mark Watney’s famous Mars experience rather than the real thing. Combine this with the dense technical details, and I can see why some might pan The Martian as lacking spirit—though I don’t agree. As noted above, there is so much spirit to this work if you’re looking for it.
The Martian is an example of how there is so much good science fiction out there that is so different. It’s not going to appeal to everyone, though events obviously demonstrate it has a broad appeal. What matters to me is its depiction of a space industry that feels both realistic and yet also positive. Although Weir probably underestimates the extent to which private companies like SpaceX will have a role in Mars exploration, the very idea that we will send not one but multiple scientific missions to Mars within my lifetime is very inspirational. This isn’t the only kind of science fiction I want to read (I’ll take my Gibsonian techno-dystopias and Strossian near-future political singularities too), but it is a kind of science fiction. The kind that reminds us what humanity is capable of in our greatest moments and encourages us to keep reaching for those dreams.
Let’s get this out of the way: this book is very technically dense. Like, you might think they sling a lot of technobabble in Star Trek, and you’d be right—but there is much more technobabble here, with the added bonus of much more verisimilitude as well. Weir has the expertise and has done the research to back up this attempt to portray as accurately as possible an attempt to survive on Mars solo. Unlike many other novels where the author has done the research so thoroughly they are aching to show all their work, The Martian’s technical density works. There’s a few reasons for this. Firstly, Weir has most of the narrative taking place as a series of log entries by Mark. As a result, only the interstitial scenes of talking heads at NASA seem Sorkinesque in their intense “as you know” and idiot ball question moments. Secondly, Weir balances out the science with moments of dry, self-deprecating humour, as well as moments of profound humility. There is a sense of respect and awe in this book, both for science and space and the sheer audacity of the human spirit.
It’s probably not very original to compare this to Apollo 13—both are stories about disasters in space requiring quick thinking and quick action, and both are more technical than your average science fiction entertainment. Apollo 13, of course, is based on a true story, whereas The Martian is wholly fictional, albeit attempting as much realism as one can muster for a mission to Mars twenty years into the future. Nevertheless, to me what these two stories most have in common is how they highlight the essential fragility of our space travel.
Think about it for a moment. Aside from a handful of people who have visited the Moon, which itself is not that far away from Earth in the grandest scheme of things, we have barely left the atmosphere of our planet. Even these accomplishments have taken tremendous effort. And if you pay attention to Mark in The Martian, you can see why: there is so much that can go wrong. One broken component, one mismatched seal, and the whole mission might have to be scrubbed. Physics is a stern and unforgiving tutor, orbital mechanics more so: if you miss your window, burn too much or too little fuel, don’t plan ahead far enough … you’re done. There are seldom do-overs in space.
When you look at it this way, it is a miracle that more astronauts haven’t died and a testament to the efforts of all the people involved in designing, building, testing, deploying, and managing the complex systems and technologies in place to achieve spaceflight. The Martian lets us be a fly on the wall as that same machine spins up to save one man stranded on Mars. We get to hear about how difficult it is, precisely why it is so difficult, and we learn about all the ways it can go disastrously, horribly wrong for the one way it might go right. Meanwhile, we are left with the sad and tragic certainty that Mark Watney has nothing to listen to on Mars except disco. The poor man.
Aside from the technical feat of rescuing Mark, there is also the psychological aspect to the plot. Mark’s humour, of course, is an obvious draw. I appreciate how Weir depicts Mark’s varying mood depending on his situation: sometimes Mark is extremely resilient, upbeat, optimistic; after a setback, he might be somewhat down, a little more subdued. As Mark’s time as the sole inhabitant of Mars stretches on, a sense of deep loneliness settles into his log entries. Even in his most optimistic moments, when everything is going well and he hasn’t set himself on fire lately, we get the sense that Mark is just tired. Because Weir shows us rather than tells us, the whole experience is much more evocative.
One of my worries and preconceptions going into The Martian was that it would just be “the Mark Watney show”, that is, Mark would be a huge Mary Sue who is good at everything required to help him survive alone on a planet trying its best to kill him. To some extent the complaint is still valid, lampshaded slightly by the reality that astronauts are selected precisely because they are somewhat like the real-world equivalent of Mary Sues: they are polymaths who excel in not just one but multiple fields, respond well to pressure, have great creativity, and also have grit. Still, few things are more boring than watching a lone American dude talk us through how he was totally da best at living on Mars. This is not the hero I need.
Fortunately, that doesn’t happen. Mark’s individual intelligence and resilience are definitely on display. Nor am I going to get counterfactual on a fictional scenario and try to figure out if Mark might have survived and then made it to the Ares 4 MAV if he had never re-established contact with NASA (probably not). However, Weir also emphasizes that rescuing him is a massive team effort (something Mark acknowledges explicitly) on the order of most of the planet, in a psychic sense if not a literal one. So instead of “the Mark Watney show” it’s “the combined output of NASA and several other governmental and private institutions, featuring Mark Watney, show”. Again, this is much more realistic, and more importantly—from a reading perspective—it’s more satisfying. It allows Mark to be a flawed character who can make mistakes because someone else is kind of watching his back.
I can definitely see how one’s emotional investment in Mark might vary. He is not exactly a well-defined protagonist, despite being a dynamic character. For example, although he disparages Lewis’ seventies obsession and seems neutral about Johannsen’s Agatha Christie fandom, we learn very little about his likes and dislikes. His sense of humour, his intelligence, his perseverance—these all come through. But if it weren’t for the narrative device being used, this might almost sound like a recreation of Mark Watney’s famous Mars experience rather than the real thing. Combine this with the dense technical details, and I can see why some might pan The Martian as lacking spirit—though I don’t agree. As noted above, there is so much spirit to this work if you’re looking for it.
The Martian is an example of how there is so much good science fiction out there that is so different. It’s not going to appeal to everyone, though events obviously demonstrate it has a broad appeal. What matters to me is its depiction of a space industry that feels both realistic and yet also positive. Although Weir probably underestimates the extent to which private companies like SpaceX will have a role in Mars exploration, the very idea that we will send not one but multiple scientific missions to Mars within my lifetime is very inspirational. This isn’t the only kind of science fiction I want to read (I’ll take my Gibsonian techno-dystopias and Strossian near-future political singularities too), but it is a kind of science fiction. The kind that reminds us what humanity is capable of in our greatest moments and encourages us to keep reaching for those dreams.
I hadn’t heard anything about this book before I snagged it from my library’s new books shelf, which surprises me. I would have thought that one of the book blogs I read would have featured it at some point. Bronze Gods sounds like, and indeed is, a very original and refreshing voice in fantasy. Its authors (Ann and Andres Aguirre, who together form a writing name that is sure to be as close to the beginning of the shelf as possible) have written a fairly standalone novel that nevertheless kicks off a new mystery/fantasy series in a very rich world.
Initially, from the book’s cover and description I thought that this was some kind of steampunk Victoriana, an alternate England where gods and machinery co-existed in an uneasy truce, with the paranormal component of the Criminal Investigations Department keeping the peace. No, Bronze Gods is set in a different world, one in which the blood of the fae (Ferrishers) and humans has mixed, and centuries later Dorstaad is a burgeoning city of trade, passion, and of course, crime.
Janus Mikani and Celeste Ritsuko, partner inspectors in the CID, are the cornerstone of this book. If you like them, you will like the book; similarly, if you don’t fall for these two, then this book is going to fall flat for you. I, for one, enjoyed both of these characters immensely. They are so distinctive that they become all the more real for it. Mikani fiercely values his independence, yet he constantly seeks companionship. Whenever he tries to form attachments, they crumble as it becomes clear his commitment to the CID always comes first. Ritsuko is likewise committed to her job—because she has defied her grandfather to do it, and as a woman she must work twice as hard to prove herself. As the story commences, the two have been partners for three years, meaning they have a deeply established bond and routine that we gradually learn.
Aguirre adeptly addresses the sexual tension between these two. Over the years, they’ve come to respect and value one another, mostly because their abilities and attitudes are complementary. It’s not exactly an “attraction of opposites” as it is an “affinity of opposites”. Nevertheless, both Mikani and Ritsuko are in a very vulnerable place, emotionally, at the story start. This is probably one of their most stressful cases ever, and as the pressure mounts, they find themselves drawn to one another in a way that sets alarm bells ringing. That being said, I’m pleased to see a man/woman partnership being portrayed as something that can be platonic.
The mystery involves the disappearance and death of an important House scion—i.e., rich girl gets killed, so her father pressures the city and police department to catch someone quickly. Mikani and Ritsuko, alas, are more interested in catching the actual murderer, who appears to be killing specific women in some kind of magical ritual. (Joy!) As their field of suspects narrows and they begin tracking the person they believe responsible, it becomes a race against time to stop him before he kills again.
I think the mystery component of this story is strong enough that, even if you aren’t all that into fantasy, you can still enjoy this book. The magic is mostly incidental; aside from its use as a MacGuffin for the murders, its largest role in the plot manifests as Mikani’s ability to “read” people. Well, that, and some of the people in the story are a few centuries old.
The writing in this is splendid. Good writing is unremarkable: it’s just there. Bad writing is remarkable because it pulls you out of the story. Great writing is remarkable because you notice how much it makes you enjoy the act of reading. In this case, through precise diction and melodious phrases, Aguirre transforms this from another simple mystery into a really enchanting read.
This is the first in the series, as the cover boldly proclaims and the end of the book promises. However, the mystery is self-contained. Instead, Aguirre sets up a larger, more nebulous menace, much like Jim Butcher gradually established in the Dresden Files—my gold standard for urban fantasy mystery. I imagine that the next book, whenever it appears, will feature Mikani and Ritsuko pursuing another investigation, only to stumble on something that helps them towards understanding the bigger picture.
Bronze Gods works on two levels, both firmly establishing a brand new series while still offering a good standalone story. The protagonist duo is lovely, with the two characters working together to form an unstoppable team that just made me want to cheer every time they triumphed. I got really excited when I plucked this book off the library shelves, and I couldn’t really explain why. In this case, at least, that excitement was not misplaced.
My reviews of Apparatus Infernum:
Silver Mirrors →
Initially, from the book’s cover and description I thought that this was some kind of steampunk Victoriana, an alternate England where gods and machinery co-existed in an uneasy truce, with the paranormal component of the Criminal Investigations Department keeping the peace. No, Bronze Gods is set in a different world, one in which the blood of the fae (Ferrishers) and humans has mixed, and centuries later Dorstaad is a burgeoning city of trade, passion, and of course, crime.
Janus Mikani and Celeste Ritsuko, partner inspectors in the CID, are the cornerstone of this book. If you like them, you will like the book; similarly, if you don’t fall for these two, then this book is going to fall flat for you. I, for one, enjoyed both of these characters immensely. They are so distinctive that they become all the more real for it. Mikani fiercely values his independence, yet he constantly seeks companionship. Whenever he tries to form attachments, they crumble as it becomes clear his commitment to the CID always comes first. Ritsuko is likewise committed to her job—because she has defied her grandfather to do it, and as a woman she must work twice as hard to prove herself. As the story commences, the two have been partners for three years, meaning they have a deeply established bond and routine that we gradually learn.
Aguirre adeptly addresses the sexual tension between these two. Over the years, they’ve come to respect and value one another, mostly because their abilities and attitudes are complementary. It’s not exactly an “attraction of opposites” as it is an “affinity of opposites”. Nevertheless, both Mikani and Ritsuko are in a very vulnerable place, emotionally, at the story start. This is probably one of their most stressful cases ever, and as the pressure mounts, they find themselves drawn to one another in a way that sets alarm bells ringing. That being said, I’m pleased to see a man/woman partnership being portrayed as something that can be platonic.
The mystery involves the disappearance and death of an important House scion—i.e., rich girl gets killed, so her father pressures the city and police department to catch someone quickly. Mikani and Ritsuko, alas, are more interested in catching the actual murderer, who appears to be killing specific women in some kind of magical ritual. (Joy!) As their field of suspects narrows and they begin tracking the person they believe responsible, it becomes a race against time to stop him before he kills again.
I think the mystery component of this story is strong enough that, even if you aren’t all that into fantasy, you can still enjoy this book. The magic is mostly incidental; aside from its use as a MacGuffin for the murders, its largest role in the plot manifests as Mikani’s ability to “read” people. Well, that, and some of the people in the story are a few centuries old.
The writing in this is splendid. Good writing is unremarkable: it’s just there. Bad writing is remarkable because it pulls you out of the story. Great writing is remarkable because you notice how much it makes you enjoy the act of reading. In this case, through precise diction and melodious phrases, Aguirre transforms this from another simple mystery into a really enchanting read.
This is the first in the series, as the cover boldly proclaims and the end of the book promises. However, the mystery is self-contained. Instead, Aguirre sets up a larger, more nebulous menace, much like Jim Butcher gradually established in the Dresden Files—my gold standard for urban fantasy mystery. I imagine that the next book, whenever it appears, will feature Mikani and Ritsuko pursuing another investigation, only to stumble on something that helps them towards understanding the bigger picture.
Bronze Gods works on two levels, both firmly establishing a brand new series while still offering a good standalone story. The protagonist duo is lovely, with the two characters working together to form an unstoppable team that just made me want to cheer every time they triumphed. I got really excited when I plucked this book off the library shelves, and I couldn’t really explain why. In this case, at least, that excitement was not misplaced.
My reviews of Apparatus Infernum:
Silver Mirrors →
I can’t believe it has been nearly three years since I read Bronze Gods! It feels like just yesterday I stumbled across the gem of a new fantasy novel in the library and excitedly took it home. Mind you, my memory (or lack thereof) of that first book is more consistent with such an elapsed time. I went into Silver Mirrors with only a vague sense of what happened in Bronze Gods (fortunately, Aguirre summarizes the main points succinctly without too much exposition, something many authors struggle to do). It has taken me far too long to read this book, more because I simply forgot to look for it in my library. It was nice to hang out with Inspectors Celeste Ritsuko and Janus Mikani again as they take on various nefarious happenings in Hy Breasil.
As I commented in my review of Bronze Gods, Aguirre has a great world here. They continue to build on it in this book, with Ritsuko and Mikani leaving Dorstaad to venture north and deal with the fallout from the end of the first book. We get to spend more time with Saskia Braelan, meet some other interesting characters, and learn a little more about the magic that underpins this world. There is also plenty of adventure, combat, and explosions. Indeed, Silver Mirrors feels very much like the “bigger budget” sequel to a movie that was a surprise box office hit: Ritsuko and Mikani, back for a second adventure, get a grander stage and more CGI effects. Like many such sequel movies, this creates new opportunities for storytelling but also brings with it challenges and even drawbacks.
I enjoyed the mystery element of Bronze Gods, and it isn’t as evident here. This is a bit of a strange complaint from me, because normally I’m ready to complain about how much paranormal and urban fantasy fiction is wrapped up in the mystery genre as well. The book starts off hinting that Ritsuko and Mikani might continue pursuing the ur-mystery uncovered in the first novel, and the events do eventually converge in that direction. Most of the book, however, follows a more conventional quest structure for the plot, with the inspectors facing various physical and psychological challenges to have them demonstrate their worthiness as heroic figures.
It almost feels like Silver Mirrors is a bunch of story ideas hastily stitched together: Ritsuko and Mikani pursuing their mystery; pirates raiding shipping; elementals on the loose on remote islands; a megalomaniac governor with evil designs on these elementals, etc. Just when it seems like they are making progress on one story, the novel suddenly says, “Surprise, that’s not actually the main plot after all!” And it’s all very disorienting. Yes, in general it’s good to have multiple layers to one’s plots. But in a book this short and so densely-packed with action sequences, it’s important to make the plots work smoothly together. That doesn’t happen here.
On the other hand, the character development between Ritsuko and Mikani continues apace, in interesting ways. Without delving too far into spoilers, let’s say that I like the way that Aguirre manages their relationship status. It feels very believable without being too contrived. Too many writers throw duos together into romance for no good reason; too many writers take the opposite tack of playing the “will they or won’t they” game forever because they’re worried that putting the characters together will make things “boring”. Aguirre opts for neither approach, and it works here. Along with the development of the minor characters, Ritsuko and Mikani’s ongoing respect for one another’s feelings and skills as they navigate their own emotions is a very compelling aspect of Silver Mirrors.
You know, I knock the story, but this is actually really good fantasy. Its magic is intriguing without dominating everything. It has great characters, both main and secondary. And it has a nice setting. I called the first book “steampunk” and I’m no longer sure that applies, but it feels steampunk-adjacent, if that makes any sense. It has a similar kind of proto-industrial atmosphere to it. I can totally see the appeal. I think where this series and the writers’ styles and I part ways are simply in the way all of these elements are brought together into a whole. It feels very patchwork, too much of everything and not enough of anything for my tastes: “Look, we’re on a boat! Look now we’re trapped in a mine! Look, a dragon!” And I can get great boat fantasy and great mine fantasy and great dragon fantasy in separate stories that explore these settings or ideas much more rigorously. When I read fantasy, a smorgasbord is not what I’m after.
If you have read Bronze Gods, give Silver Mirrors a try. There should be a sequel—I like how Aguirre has kept the overall story arc moving briskly—though we’re two years on without a sign of one. I would probably read a third book if it emerges, but this is definitely a fantasy series I “like” rather than “love”.
My reviews of Apparatus Infernum:
← Bronze Gods
As I commented in my review of Bronze Gods, Aguirre has a great world here. They continue to build on it in this book, with Ritsuko and Mikani leaving Dorstaad to venture north and deal with the fallout from the end of the first book. We get to spend more time with Saskia Braelan, meet some other interesting characters, and learn a little more about the magic that underpins this world. There is also plenty of adventure, combat, and explosions. Indeed, Silver Mirrors feels very much like the “bigger budget” sequel to a movie that was a surprise box office hit: Ritsuko and Mikani, back for a second adventure, get a grander stage and more CGI effects. Like many such sequel movies, this creates new opportunities for storytelling but also brings with it challenges and even drawbacks.
I enjoyed the mystery element of Bronze Gods, and it isn’t as evident here. This is a bit of a strange complaint from me, because normally I’m ready to complain about how much paranormal and urban fantasy fiction is wrapped up in the mystery genre as well. The book starts off hinting that Ritsuko and Mikani might continue pursuing the ur-mystery uncovered in the first novel, and the events do eventually converge in that direction. Most of the book, however, follows a more conventional quest structure for the plot, with the inspectors facing various physical and psychological challenges to have them demonstrate their worthiness as heroic figures.
It almost feels like Silver Mirrors is a bunch of story ideas hastily stitched together: Ritsuko and Mikani pursuing their mystery; pirates raiding shipping; elementals on the loose on remote islands; a megalomaniac governor with evil designs on these elementals, etc. Just when it seems like they are making progress on one story, the novel suddenly says, “Surprise, that’s not actually the main plot after all!” And it’s all very disorienting. Yes, in general it’s good to have multiple layers to one’s plots. But in a book this short and so densely-packed with action sequences, it’s important to make the plots work smoothly together. That doesn’t happen here.
On the other hand, the character development between Ritsuko and Mikani continues apace, in interesting ways. Without delving too far into spoilers, let’s say that I like the way that Aguirre manages their relationship status. It feels very believable without being too contrived. Too many writers throw duos together into romance for no good reason; too many writers take the opposite tack of playing the “will they or won’t they” game forever because they’re worried that putting the characters together will make things “boring”. Aguirre opts for neither approach, and it works here. Along with the development of the minor characters, Ritsuko and Mikani’s ongoing respect for one another’s feelings and skills as they navigate their own emotions is a very compelling aspect of Silver Mirrors.
You know, I knock the story, but this is actually really good fantasy. Its magic is intriguing without dominating everything. It has great characters, both main and secondary. And it has a nice setting. I called the first book “steampunk” and I’m no longer sure that applies, but it feels steampunk-adjacent, if that makes any sense. It has a similar kind of proto-industrial atmosphere to it. I can totally see the appeal. I think where this series and the writers’ styles and I part ways are simply in the way all of these elements are brought together into a whole. It feels very patchwork, too much of everything and not enough of anything for my tastes: “Look, we’re on a boat! Look now we’re trapped in a mine! Look, a dragon!” And I can get great boat fantasy and great mine fantasy and great dragon fantasy in separate stories that explore these settings or ideas much more rigorously. When I read fantasy, a smorgasbord is not what I’m after.
If you have read Bronze Gods, give Silver Mirrors a try. There should be a sequel—I like how Aguirre has kept the overall story arc moving briskly—though we’re two years on without a sign of one. I would probably read a third book if it emerges, but this is definitely a fantasy series I “like” rather than “love”.
My reviews of Apparatus Infernum:
← Bronze Gods
I didn’t realize I only read one book between Salvage and Sound, but hey, that’s how time goes in the summer. I’m working through the summer again, so not as much time to sit outside and read—much sadness!
Sound is a companion novel to Salvage. It follows Miyole, Parastrata Ava’s adopted sister. A few years have gone by, and Miyole is now sixteen (though people think she is seventeen). She has sped through her schooling, thanks to her smarts, and wrangled her way aboard a Deep Sound Research Institute (DSRI) expeditionary vessel with a fake ID claiming she is eighteen. Miyole is all about going into space.
Then she throws it away for a girl. Typical.
There is an interesting symmetry already between Sound and Salvage, with Miyole running towards space after Ava had refuge from it. However, I want to make it clear that you don’t need to read one novel to understand the other, nor do you really need to read them in order (although obviously if you read this one you’ll have a few spoilers for how Salvage ends). The novels are independent of one another. I do like that we get a glimpse at Ava and Rushil a few years on, that we see how Ava has adapted to life on Earth and started to make a name for herself helping other crewe girls leave the ships and gain independence. This was a nice way for Alexandra Duncan to provide a coda to that story without writing another whole novel for Ava.
Miyole is a whole different girl, of course, and it’s nice to see that. She has a reflexive anti-bullshit detector, and that gets her in trouble with the brass. On a ship where propriety and class are important, Miyole is a cipher to some and a thorn in the side of others. She gets treated like a prep school brat by the fighter jocks and a foreigner by the mostly-Indian senior crew, despite Miyole growing up in Mumbai and considering herself a Mumbaikar. Watching her grapple with the reality of the DSRI mission versus what she thought it would be is very entertaining. But this doesn’t last long: soon Duncan has Miyole throwing away everything she ever wanted to help a girl get back her cousin.
Sound moves much faster than Salvage and is, for me at least, far more satisfying for it. Miyole doesn’t stay still, so neither does the plot. From the Ranganathan to Ceres to Enceladus, Miyole, Cassia, and Rubio have more than their fair share of adventure. (Speaking of Rubio, did anyone else have trouble not thinking of Marco Rubio? I mean they’re both super abrasive.) There’s even a deep-“sea” diving scene, which although kind of shoehorned in, is also really, really cool. And while Miyole uncomfortably treads the line of being a Mary Sue on occasion, she screws up enough to avoid succumbing to such a label.
In particular, I love how her relationships with the other characters shift throughout the novel. Rubio, her kind-of nemesis, starts to come round to her. They discover something that is all-too-easy to forget: hey, the other person also has feelings and a history! Miyole isn’t just a preppy foreign girl high on privilege; Rubio isn’t just an ignorant jackass made of testosterone and bravado. Turns out they each have histories and their own problems, and though sometimes they are like oil and water, they manage to work well together and start respecting one another. I love that.
Similarly, Cassia and Miyole’s relationship is fascinating, from the way Duncan portrays the initial attraction to where it ultimately ends up. I love that this is not a typical “head-over-heels but doomed and tragic” romance. Instead, they act like actual people; notably, once the heat of the moment has passed, the cracks start to show. While I’m sad that they don’t end up together, I find the ending all the more enjoyable for its feeling of authenticity: yes, maybe they are attracted to one another and maybe they would even make a good couple, but circumstances just aren’t right, at least not right now. And that is so, so true of life (or at least I assume it is, not that I have any experience of my own to go on).
I’m tired of fiction, and particularly young adult fiction, throwing OTPs at us (or worse, love triangles) and expecting us to believe that these two teenagers are Destined to Be Together. Duncan shows that it’s OK to be attracted, OK to consider loving another person, but that it is also OK if the relationship doesn’t go anywhere. Indeed, Miyole is still so young at the end of this; she has so much more left to experience in her life. This is not the end of her adventures, whether or not she ends up in another novel. (I’m not too obviously pleading for a sequel, am I?)
As with Salvage, there are some deeper cuts to this story to talk about issues like slavery and other injustices. One of my criticisms of the other book was how the wider world was very indistinct; we never got a good sense of political structures, technology level, etc. Duncan fixes this with Sound: someone can grow ships that can then be sent out on these expeditions to other places in the solar system. The DSRI, we learn, is the closest thing there is to an authority off-planet, and even it doesn’t have all that much pull. It really is a kind of lawless frontier, as Miyole and Cassia soon discover. I just knew the moment they discovered Nethanel among all those others on Enceladus that they had problems, because it’s not like they could just break Nethanel out and leave everyone else to toil away (or get punished in their place).
There are times when the plot tries one’s patience. As I mentioned above, the deep-sea diving/hunting expedition is awesomely executed but feels out of place. Similarly, while I like the ending, it is all a little too convenient. There is a sense of purpose here that was missing from parts of Salvage, which makes the story feel much more unified. Yet as much as I liked the setting, the characters, the social commentary, it doesn’t quick strike me as all that innovative. Rather, Duncan takes a lot of stuff we’ve seen elsewhere and just combines it in an interesting way to tell a good story. This is ultimately an adventure tale.
That’s not something to be dismissed lightly, mind you. This is a YA novel featuring a Haitian girl who was raised in India—oh, and she is lesbian. We need more fiction like this, but more importantly, we need it to be good (because otherwise people inevitably complain about token diversity and “quotas”, as if there is something wrong with an author deliberately casting her characters in different races and sexualities). And Sound is both diverse and good.
I kind of get the feeling Duncan is just getting started, too. Salvage was OK; Sound is really quite good—what will she do next??
Did I mention I want more of Miyole? No? I haven’t mentioned this at all, you say? Well I do.
Sound is a companion novel to Salvage. It follows Miyole, Parastrata Ava’s adopted sister. A few years have gone by, and Miyole is now sixteen (though people think she is seventeen). She has sped through her schooling, thanks to her smarts, and wrangled her way aboard a Deep Sound Research Institute (DSRI) expeditionary vessel with a fake ID claiming she is eighteen. Miyole is all about going into space.
Then she throws it away for a girl. Typical.
There is an interesting symmetry already between Sound and Salvage, with Miyole running towards space after Ava had refuge from it. However, I want to make it clear that you don’t need to read one novel to understand the other, nor do you really need to read them in order (although obviously if you read this one you’ll have a few spoilers for how Salvage ends). The novels are independent of one another. I do like that we get a glimpse at Ava and Rushil a few years on, that we see how Ava has adapted to life on Earth and started to make a name for herself helping other crewe girls leave the ships and gain independence. This was a nice way for Alexandra Duncan to provide a coda to that story without writing another whole novel for Ava.
Miyole is a whole different girl, of course, and it’s nice to see that. She has a reflexive anti-bullshit detector, and that gets her in trouble with the brass. On a ship where propriety and class are important, Miyole is a cipher to some and a thorn in the side of others. She gets treated like a prep school brat by the fighter jocks and a foreigner by the mostly-Indian senior crew, despite Miyole growing up in Mumbai and considering herself a Mumbaikar. Watching her grapple with the reality of the DSRI mission versus what she thought it would be is very entertaining. But this doesn’t last long: soon Duncan has Miyole throwing away everything she ever wanted to help a girl get back her cousin.
Sound moves much faster than Salvage and is, for me at least, far more satisfying for it. Miyole doesn’t stay still, so neither does the plot. From the Ranganathan to Ceres to Enceladus, Miyole, Cassia, and Rubio have more than their fair share of adventure. (Speaking of Rubio, did anyone else have trouble not thinking of Marco Rubio? I mean they’re both super abrasive.) There’s even a deep-“sea” diving scene, which although kind of shoehorned in, is also really, really cool. And while Miyole uncomfortably treads the line of being a Mary Sue on occasion, she screws up enough to avoid succumbing to such a label.
In particular, I love how her relationships with the other characters shift throughout the novel. Rubio, her kind-of nemesis, starts to come round to her. They discover something that is all-too-easy to forget: hey, the other person also has feelings and a history! Miyole isn’t just a preppy foreign girl high on privilege; Rubio isn’t just an ignorant jackass made of testosterone and bravado. Turns out they each have histories and their own problems, and though sometimes they are like oil and water, they manage to work well together and start respecting one another. I love that.
Similarly, Cassia and Miyole’s relationship is fascinating, from the way Duncan portrays the initial attraction to where it ultimately ends up. I love that this is not a typical “head-over-heels but doomed and tragic” romance. Instead, they act like actual people; notably, once the heat of the moment has passed, the cracks start to show. While I’m sad that they don’t end up together, I find the ending all the more enjoyable for its feeling of authenticity: yes, maybe they are attracted to one another and maybe they would even make a good couple, but circumstances just aren’t right, at least not right now. And that is so, so true of life (or at least I assume it is, not that I have any experience of my own to go on).
I’m tired of fiction, and particularly young adult fiction, throwing OTPs at us (or worse, love triangles) and expecting us to believe that these two teenagers are Destined to Be Together. Duncan shows that it’s OK to be attracted, OK to consider loving another person, but that it is also OK if the relationship doesn’t go anywhere. Indeed, Miyole is still so young at the end of this; she has so much more left to experience in her life. This is not the end of her adventures, whether or not she ends up in another novel. (I’m not too obviously pleading for a sequel, am I?)
As with Salvage, there are some deeper cuts to this story to talk about issues like slavery and other injustices. One of my criticisms of the other book was how the wider world was very indistinct; we never got a good sense of political structures, technology level, etc. Duncan fixes this with Sound: someone can grow ships that can then be sent out on these expeditions to other places in the solar system. The DSRI, we learn, is the closest thing there is to an authority off-planet, and even it doesn’t have all that much pull. It really is a kind of lawless frontier, as Miyole and Cassia soon discover. I just knew the moment they discovered Nethanel among all those others on Enceladus that they had problems, because it’s not like they could just break Nethanel out and leave everyone else to toil away (or get punished in their place).
There are times when the plot tries one’s patience. As I mentioned above, the deep-sea diving/hunting expedition is awesomely executed but feels out of place. Similarly, while I like the ending, it is all a little too convenient. There is a sense of purpose here that was missing from parts of Salvage, which makes the story feel much more unified. Yet as much as I liked the setting, the characters, the social commentary, it doesn’t quick strike me as all that innovative. Rather, Duncan takes a lot of stuff we’ve seen elsewhere and just combines it in an interesting way to tell a good story. This is ultimately an adventure tale.
That’s not something to be dismissed lightly, mind you. This is a YA novel featuring a Haitian girl who was raised in India—oh, and she is lesbian. We need more fiction like this, but more importantly, we need it to be good (because otherwise people inevitably complain about token diversity and “quotas”, as if there is something wrong with an author deliberately casting her characters in different races and sexualities). And Sound is both diverse and good.
I kind of get the feeling Duncan is just getting started, too. Salvage was OK; Sound is really quite good—what will she do next??
Did I mention I want more of Miyole? No? I haven’t mentioned this at all, you say? Well I do.
There is something to be said for aspirational science fiction. I singled out The Martian as such. And despite its beginnings, there is definitely much that is inspirational about Salvage. It took a while for that to come into focus. At the start of the book, I was intrigued but not impressed. Alexandra Duncan manages to portray a believable world aboard a spaceship where the patriarchy has gone into overdrive. It could happen, and there are interesting cultural flourishes I’ll touch on in a moment. Still, like I said: not impressed. Why read another book about how the Earth has gone to shit and men are treating women even more poorly than they do now? Why not read a book where women are even more kickass than they already are and are sorting things out like they can totally do? Science fiction can give that to us.
Nevertheless, I’m not going to criticize Salvage for not being what I imagined it should be. When I look at what this novel actually is, and the story Duncan actually tells, there is a lot to like about it. Ava is a complex protagonist, likeable and unlikeable in turns as she grows and comes out of the shell erected around her by the cult of her upbringing. The characters who surround her are not always as complicated, nor is the worldbuilding much to remark upon; however, Duncan makes up for this in a richness of language, description, and emotional beats.
Once I realized the Parastrata is a cult, rather than an example of the wider society, Salvage got much, much better. It’s an awesome twist telegraphed very nicely throughout the first few chapters. Essentially it means we need to look at Ava like someone who needs deprogramming from intensive brainwashing—all the more so because she grew up in this atmosphere. Her flaws suddenly have this additional layer to them: she is hesitant not just because she is unsure of herself but because she has been raised that women should act a certain way. While indubitably social commentary on our own socialization of women, it’s also a fascinating depiction of the way insular societies like cults can dramatically skew the perspective someone has on the world.
Ava goes on to meet people from various classes of society on Earth, from the entrepreneurial merchant trader Perpetué and her daughter, Miyole, to Rushil, to Soraya. In each of these cases, Ava apprehends a new way of looking at the world. She also learns more about herself, for as each character challenges her ingrained worldview, she must decide which aspects of their philosophy to make her own, and which ones to reject. We all do this every day of our lives, of course, but in Ava the process is much more obvious, for she is in constant flux and crisis as a result of her flight from the Parastrata.
I wish the characters had felt like more than mentors and examples, though. (Miyole is an exception, and with good reason.) Rushil probably annoys me the most. He seems shoehorned in as a love interest and alternative to Luck. I get that it’s important for Ava to face a choice and to choose the vast, unknown newness of life on Earth (and potentially Rushil) over the certainty but circumscribed life on AEther with Luck. That climactic moment when Ava must choose, after spending much of the book pining after, then searching for, her once-beloved, is very powerful. Nevertheless, Rushil’s attraction to Ava and their burgeoning romance feels a little too contrived for me. Similarly, Soraya basically functions as another mother figure for Ava, or maybe a kind of older sister: a responsible guardian, wise enough to give Ava some space and some leeway but also to impose a few rules. We don’t see much in the way of her flaws or cracks.
The wider world of Salvage, too, suffers from this kind of glistening indistinctness. Earth is apparently in a bad way, probably from global warming and other environmental mismanagement (stupid humans), but it’s still livable. Parastrata has exaggerated the toxic nature of the planet, especially for women, and Mumbai seems like a thriving urban centre. But that’s about all. In particular, Duncan does little to outline the state of technology. There are apparently colonies elsewhere … in the solar system? Other systems? It’s vague. Similarly, there are spaceships capable of traversing such distances, as well as smaller ships capable of suborbital flight. But we get little sense of technological progress beyond that. Sometimes vagueness is good; there’s nothing wrong with letting the reader imagine or work it out for themselves, and an overwhelming amount of extraneous detail just becomes pointless infodumping. Nevertheless, Duncan errs too much in favour of such reserve.
There are some moments in this I just love. Ava rising to the occasion to take care of Miyole. The way that Duncan depicts how traditional schooling doesn’t always recognize or value hands-on skills like Ava’s, preferring instead to emphasize the academic and the intellectual—and Ava’s understandable frustration at this attitude. The feeling of betrayal when Ava discovers that her grandfather joined the Parastrata crew as an anthropologist and fathered her mother essentially as a way to stick around rather than through any attachment. The corresponding feeling of relief when she discovers Soraya nevertheless feels responsible and even warm to Ava.
So there are many feelings simmering beneath the surface of Salvage, and I have many feelings as a result. It’s a compelling, straightforward narrative with a lot to recommend for the journey its main character undergoes. As I mentioned, Duncan’s treatment of language is interesting and evocative: she sprinkles in enough neologisms to give you a taste of a closed-off society’s cultural drift without so much that you feel overwhelmed. For all these great aspects, Salvage strikes me as quite rough. I borrowed Sound from the library as well, and I’m intrigued to see how Duncan’s writing has evolved with her second novel.
Update: Sound review
Nevertheless, I’m not going to criticize Salvage for not being what I imagined it should be. When I look at what this novel actually is, and the story Duncan actually tells, there is a lot to like about it. Ava is a complex protagonist, likeable and unlikeable in turns as she grows and comes out of the shell erected around her by the cult of her upbringing. The characters who surround her are not always as complicated, nor is the worldbuilding much to remark upon; however, Duncan makes up for this in a richness of language, description, and emotional beats.
Once I realized the Parastrata is a cult, rather than an example of the wider society, Salvage got much, much better. It’s an awesome twist telegraphed very nicely throughout the first few chapters. Essentially it means we need to look at Ava like someone who needs deprogramming from intensive brainwashing—all the more so because she grew up in this atmosphere. Her flaws suddenly have this additional layer to them: she is hesitant not just because she is unsure of herself but because she has been raised that women should act a certain way. While indubitably social commentary on our own socialization of women, it’s also a fascinating depiction of the way insular societies like cults can dramatically skew the perspective someone has on the world.
Ava goes on to meet people from various classes of society on Earth, from the entrepreneurial merchant trader Perpetué and her daughter, Miyole, to Rushil, to Soraya. In each of these cases, Ava apprehends a new way of looking at the world. She also learns more about herself, for as each character challenges her ingrained worldview, she must decide which aspects of their philosophy to make her own, and which ones to reject. We all do this every day of our lives, of course, but in Ava the process is much more obvious, for she is in constant flux and crisis as a result of her flight from the Parastrata.
I wish the characters had felt like more than mentors and examples, though. (Miyole is an exception, and with good reason.) Rushil probably annoys me the most. He seems shoehorned in as a love interest and alternative to Luck. I get that it’s important for Ava to face a choice and to choose the vast, unknown newness of life on Earth (and potentially Rushil) over the certainty but circumscribed life on AEther with Luck. That climactic moment when Ava must choose, after spending much of the book pining after, then searching for, her once-beloved, is very powerful. Nevertheless, Rushil’s attraction to Ava and their burgeoning romance feels a little too contrived for me. Similarly, Soraya basically functions as another mother figure for Ava, or maybe a kind of older sister: a responsible guardian, wise enough to give Ava some space and some leeway but also to impose a few rules. We don’t see much in the way of her flaws or cracks.
The wider world of Salvage, too, suffers from this kind of glistening indistinctness. Earth is apparently in a bad way, probably from global warming and other environmental mismanagement (stupid humans), but it’s still livable. Parastrata has exaggerated the toxic nature of the planet, especially for women, and Mumbai seems like a thriving urban centre. But that’s about all. In particular, Duncan does little to outline the state of technology. There are apparently colonies elsewhere … in the solar system? Other systems? It’s vague. Similarly, there are spaceships capable of traversing such distances, as well as smaller ships capable of suborbital flight. But we get little sense of technological progress beyond that. Sometimes vagueness is good; there’s nothing wrong with letting the reader imagine or work it out for themselves, and an overwhelming amount of extraneous detail just becomes pointless infodumping. Nevertheless, Duncan errs too much in favour of such reserve.
There are some moments in this I just love. Ava rising to the occasion to take care of Miyole. The way that Duncan depicts how traditional schooling doesn’t always recognize or value hands-on skills like Ava’s, preferring instead to emphasize the academic and the intellectual—and Ava’s understandable frustration at this attitude. The feeling of betrayal when Ava discovers that her grandfather joined the Parastrata crew as an anthropologist and fathered her mother essentially as a way to stick around rather than through any attachment. The corresponding feeling of relief when she discovers Soraya nevertheless feels responsible and even warm to Ava.
So there are many feelings simmering beneath the surface of Salvage, and I have many feelings as a result. It’s a compelling, straightforward narrative with a lot to recommend for the journey its main character undergoes. As I mentioned, Duncan’s treatment of language is interesting and evocative: she sprinkles in enough neologisms to give you a taste of a closed-off society’s cultural drift without so much that you feel overwhelmed. For all these great aspects, Salvage strikes me as quite rough. I borrowed Sound from the library as well, and I’m intrigued to see how Duncan’s writing has evolved with her second novel.
Update: Sound review
The Animorphs series is many things over its 54+ book run. At times it is moving, heart-wrenching in its portrayal of the cost of war. At times it is humorous, heart-warming in its depictions of compassion in the face of hatred and misunderstanding.
At times it reaches into very dark places and confronts us with images that sear themselves into your soul.
I’m not trying to be dramatic. Well, maybe a little. But #30: The Reunion is a very special book. Previous Marco books are notable for Marco’s trademark adolescent humour. He has a “class clown” vibe; he makes the groaner jokes that you nevertheless laugh at, because he’s just so earnestly dorky in his clownishness. And while these books hinted at the steel within, it isn’t really until this book that we understand the lengths to which he will go.
Here’s one of those images that seared:
That’s messed up. That’s some straight-up horror movie shit.
The ship has sailed on whether Animorphs is YA at this point—they’ve covered some dark road in the past, what with trapping David in morph, and the amount of emotional and physical trauma the various Animorphs have endured. Applegate is not pulling punches here.
But it’s easy to forget the visceral experience—especially when one is re-reading this series, especially in electronic form. As I’ve mentioned previously, neither Applegate’s nor her ghostwriters’ writing is of the most complex nature. It is tempting to skim through parts of the book, and I find it’s easier to do that in an ebook than on paper. But then you get hit with something like the above, and you have to stop and digest what’s happening.
That’s Marco’s mom. Of everything they’ve experienced, everything that’s happened, Jake’s brother being a controller … this is the first time we’ve seen something as horrible as Marco’s mother, temporarily free of the Yeerk infestation, physically restrained in such a manner. I would argue that this is probably high on the list of most traumatizing moments in the series—and it’s only a quarter of the way through the book.
Central to The Reunion, of course, is the question of whether Marco can sacrifice/kill his own mother to take out Visser One (and potentially Visser Three, in the crossfire). He’s not even sure himself. And it drives a rather awkward wedge through the always-fractious unity of the Animorphs, with Cassie reacting with uncharacteristic anger:
There is so much we could discuss in those three lines—I could write a whole essay, I think, on this one exchange. We could talk about Jake’s evolving role as leader/general of the Animorphs (there is another great exchange earlier in the book, where Marco observes how much his relationship with Jake has changed as the latter has become more of a leader and the Animorphs have evolved from gang to soldiers). We could talk about Cassie’s evolving role as the group’s conscience. There is, of course, the fact that she and Jake must continually butt heads about these matters, even though they lurrrrrve each other, and the tragic consequences this has as the series plays out. And, as she observes in that last line, there are the ramifications that these actions will have for Marco.
All of the above subtext is readily accessible to an adolescent reader. There is nothing here that would elude them; these conflicts would feel real and substantial despite the presence of aliens and morphing. This is the brilliance of the Animorphs series in its most quintessential form: these five human characters are relatable, because they are so flawed and unsure in the face of what are, ultimately, human problems. By mixing the issues of puberty and adolescence (growing up, finding your voice, dealing with absent parents, developing your moral nature) with issues of social justice (war, deception, making allegiances, dealing with betrayal, challenging systemic problems), Animorphs exemplifies what YA can do at its most thoughtful.
We have short memories. It’s easy to forget that there was meaningful, dark YA pre–Hunger Games (which was also a Scholastic publication, heyyyy). Harry Potter, obviously, is a huge influence in the way it grew from “hey, you’re a wizard, Harry, and you’re protected by the Power of Love” to “btw you got to kill Voldemort or he is going to kill you and literally everyone else—no pressure—oh btw a bunch of your favourite characters are DEAD NOW.” The proliferation of vampires and dystopias of late gives rise to a type of saturation that kind of obscures what YA was like when I was coming of age in the 1990s and early 2000s. (On a personal note, I mostly read “adult” literature from the very beginning of my novel-reading career. Aside from brief flirtations with Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew in grade 3, I was pretty much all about the Agatha Christie from the start, followed quickly by LOTR and Dune. While I dabbled in Harry Potter and similar stuff, I was never much of a YA reader until I’d already moved beyond the target age-range.)
Re-reading Animorphs isn’t just a blast from the past: it’s a reminder of the enduring and cyclic nature of our literature. Although the technology and pop culture references might seem dated, I feel like any teen from 2016 could pick up these books and find them recognizable and valuable, just as a teen from the 1980s, somehow stranded in 2016 thanks to time travel, might also get into them. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this series in timeless, because it touches on timeless topics in a deep, meaningful way. The Reunion is a fantastic example of that.
The resolution is, in my opinion, perfect. Firstly, it is kind of a victory for the Animorphs—after all, the Yeerks now believe the free Hork-Bajir colony destroyed. Yet again it raises the stakes for our poor Animorphs: Visser One seems to have figured out there are humans who can morph! And the uncertainty over whether or not Visser One/Marco’s mom are dead sets up this huge emotional weight they have to carry going forward. This is just such rich, masterful plotting.
And I want to reach out and hug every one of these children. Even Ax. (Maybe especially Ax.)
Next time, we’re sticking to the family theme, as Jake has to stop his controller-brother, Tom, from possibly infesting their dad. When did this series get this dark?? I’m starting to see why that TV show never worked out. (I feel like on today’s CW it would be greenlit with, like, 5 seasons.)
My reviews of Animorphs:
← Megamorphs #3: Elfangor’s Secret | #31: The Conspiracy →
At times it reaches into very dark places and confronts us with images that sear themselves into your soul.
I’m not trying to be dramatic. Well, maybe a little. But #30: The Reunion is a very special book. Previous Marco books are notable for Marco’s trademark adolescent humour. He has a “class clown” vibe; he makes the groaner jokes that you nevertheless laugh at, because he’s just so earnestly dorky in his clownishness. And while these books hinted at the steel within, it isn’t really until this book that we understand the lengths to which he will go.
Here’s one of those images that seared:
On the lip of the portable Yeerk pool was a large clamp. A sort of collar.
My mother’s neck was in that collar. It held her tight. It held her head sideways, so that one side of her face, one ear, was pressed into the water.
The rest of her body stood awkwardly, helplessly, bent over.
That’s messed up. That’s some straight-up horror movie shit.
The ship has sailed on whether Animorphs is YA at this point—they’ve covered some dark road in the past, what with trapping David in morph, and the amount of emotional and physical trauma the various Animorphs have endured. Applegate is not pulling punches here.
But it’s easy to forget the visceral experience—especially when one is re-reading this series, especially in electronic form. As I’ve mentioned previously, neither Applegate’s nor her ghostwriters’ writing is of the most complex nature. It is tempting to skim through parts of the book, and I find it’s easier to do that in an ebook than on paper. But then you get hit with something like the above, and you have to stop and digest what’s happening.
That’s Marco’s mom. Of everything they’ve experienced, everything that’s happened, Jake’s brother being a controller … this is the first time we’ve seen something as horrible as Marco’s mother, temporarily free of the Yeerk infestation, physically restrained in such a manner. I would argue that this is probably high on the list of most traumatizing moments in the series—and it’s only a quarter of the way through the book.
Central to The Reunion, of course, is the question of whether Marco can sacrifice/kill his own mother to take out Visser One (and potentially Visser Three, in the crossfire). He’s not even sure himself. And it drives a rather awkward wedge through the always-fractious unity of the Animorphs, with Cassie reacting with uncharacteristic anger:
“She’s your mother!” Cassie exploded. “She’s not ‘Visser One.’ She’s your mother! Is everyone just going to let this happen?”
Jake sent her a cold look. “This is not the time, Cassie.”
“When is it going to be the time? When Marco’s mind is screwed up forever by this? He’s in denial. This is his mother, for God’s sake.”
There is so much we could discuss in those three lines—I could write a whole essay, I think, on this one exchange. We could talk about Jake’s evolving role as leader/general of the Animorphs (there is another great exchange earlier in the book, where Marco observes how much his relationship with Jake has changed as the latter has become more of a leader and the Animorphs have evolved from gang to soldiers). We could talk about Cassie’s evolving role as the group’s conscience. There is, of course, the fact that she and Jake must continually butt heads about these matters, even though they lurrrrrve each other, and the tragic consequences this has as the series plays out. And, as she observes in that last line, there are the ramifications that these actions will have for Marco.
All of the above subtext is readily accessible to an adolescent reader. There is nothing here that would elude them; these conflicts would feel real and substantial despite the presence of aliens and morphing. This is the brilliance of the Animorphs series in its most quintessential form: these five human characters are relatable, because they are so flawed and unsure in the face of what are, ultimately, human problems. By mixing the issues of puberty and adolescence (growing up, finding your voice, dealing with absent parents, developing your moral nature) with issues of social justice (war, deception, making allegiances, dealing with betrayal, challenging systemic problems), Animorphs exemplifies what YA can do at its most thoughtful.
We have short memories. It’s easy to forget that there was meaningful, dark YA pre–Hunger Games (which was also a Scholastic publication, heyyyy). Harry Potter, obviously, is a huge influence in the way it grew from “hey, you’re a wizard, Harry, and you’re protected by the Power of Love” to “btw you got to kill Voldemort or he is going to kill you and literally everyone else—no pressure—oh btw a bunch of your favourite characters are DEAD NOW.” The proliferation of vampires and dystopias of late gives rise to a type of saturation that kind of obscures what YA was like when I was coming of age in the 1990s and early 2000s. (On a personal note, I mostly read “adult” literature from the very beginning of my novel-reading career. Aside from brief flirtations with Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew in grade 3, I was pretty much all about the Agatha Christie from the start, followed quickly by LOTR and Dune. While I dabbled in Harry Potter and similar stuff, I was never much of a YA reader until I’d already moved beyond the target age-range.)
Re-reading Animorphs isn’t just a blast from the past: it’s a reminder of the enduring and cyclic nature of our literature. Although the technology and pop culture references might seem dated, I feel like any teen from 2016 could pick up these books and find them recognizable and valuable, just as a teen from the 1980s, somehow stranded in 2016 thanks to time travel, might also get into them. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this series in timeless, because it touches on timeless topics in a deep, meaningful way. The Reunion is a fantastic example of that.
The resolution is, in my opinion, perfect. Firstly, it is kind of a victory for the Animorphs—after all, the Yeerks now believe the free Hork-Bajir colony destroyed. Yet again it raises the stakes for our poor Animorphs: Visser One seems to have figured out there are humans who can morph! And the uncertainty over whether or not Visser One/Marco’s mom are dead sets up this huge emotional weight they have to carry going forward. This is just such rich, masterful plotting.
And I want to reach out and hug every one of these children. Even Ax. (Maybe especially Ax.)
Next time, we’re sticking to the family theme, as Jake has to stop his controller-brother, Tom, from possibly infesting their dad. When did this series get this dark?? I’m starting to see why that TV show never worked out. (I feel like on today’s CW it would be greenlit with, like, 5 seasons.)
My reviews of Animorphs:
← Megamorphs #3: Elfangor’s Secret | #31: The Conspiracy →
Star Trek Costumes: Five Decades of Fashion from the Final Frontier
Paula M. Block, Terry J. Erdmann
This book was an indulgence: its price is US$60, which means in Canada it’s closer to $80 (although Chapters was selling it online at a considerable discount, so I didn’t pay even close to that). But it’s totally worth it. This book is as gorgeous as you would expect. It’s a coffee-table book, oversized and weighty, its pages thick and glossy and covered with colour photos of costumes, stills, and concept art. I mean, it is hard to mess up a tie-in book like this, but Star Trek Costumes: Five Decades of Fashion from the Final Frontier is definitely worth $60–$80 of your hard-earned money, if you have the money and you are a Trek fan. (If you’re the latter but lack the former, I hear people will buy you things if you have birthdays. If you’re a robot, then you are out of luck.)
Although I read and enjoyed many tie-in novels when I was younger, these days I tend to eschew them—without the actors bringing life to the characters, the stories feel flatter to me. Non-fiction companions are a different story. Like many fans, I just love hearing behind-the-scenes anecdotes and getting a peek at how the shows and movies were made. Unlike sausages and law, seeing the secrets in the process—and the slip-ups or improvisations—do not ruin the magic one bit. If anything, hearing these stories make me feel closer to a franchise that has been around longer than I’ve been alive. For example, most fans will have heard about the “Theiss Titillation Theory” and the network’s crusade against nipples or belly buttons in the 1960s; or about the infamously uncomfortable, back-straining uniforms of the first two seasons of TNG. But I didn’t know that Worf’s baldric changed between the first and second season because the original, which might or might not be the same as one used in TOS, was wearing out. I didn’t know about the painstaking care that went into designing the civilian costumes for the TOS cast to wear in Star Trek III.
Indeed, it is impossible to walk away from this book without even more respect and no small amount of awe for the costume designers and other personnel associated with the costuming process. These people are wizards. Think about it for a moment: they get asked to imagine entire alien societies every week and produce clothing that looks distinctive and interesting using the same old boring fabrics available on Earth. And they have to do it cheaply. Sometimes for costumes that might only get a few minutes of screen time—or none, if the scene gets cut. The creativity and innovative spirit of these people have contributed to so much of Star Trek’s success over the past fifty years. As someone who grew up loving and influenced by Trek, I owe them a huge debt. And I’m grateful that Paula M. Block and Terry J. Erdmann were able to bring this book to my table.
The book proceeds chronologically through the series, as these types of retrospectives invariably do. It spends much more time on TOS, the movies, and TNG than the other series, which are just lumped under “the spin-offs”. On one hand, I totally understand: this is a large book as it is, expensive to print, heavy to handle, so there are trade-offs. Decisions must be made about what can go in and what has to be left out. On the other hand, there is just so much that isn’t talked about here. We hear about the various uniform redesigns, but aside from one or two (sometimes strange) choices of alien garments from each series, there are so many episodic costumes that have been left out. I have so many questions! You never explained to me why the Ullians wear Swiss cheese outfits that make my eyes hurt when I look at them? (They do talk about Lwaxana’s outfits, at least.)
There is not much else for me to say. This is a gorgeous, excellent addition to any fan’s collection. (Even the cover of the hardback beneath the dust jacket is fantastic.) I highly recommend it!
Although I read and enjoyed many tie-in novels when I was younger, these days I tend to eschew them—without the actors bringing life to the characters, the stories feel flatter to me. Non-fiction companions are a different story. Like many fans, I just love hearing behind-the-scenes anecdotes and getting a peek at how the shows and movies were made. Unlike sausages and law, seeing the secrets in the process—and the slip-ups or improvisations—do not ruin the magic one bit. If anything, hearing these stories make me feel closer to a franchise that has been around longer than I’ve been alive. For example, most fans will have heard about the “Theiss Titillation Theory” and the network’s crusade against nipples or belly buttons in the 1960s; or about the infamously uncomfortable, back-straining uniforms of the first two seasons of TNG. But I didn’t know that Worf’s baldric changed between the first and second season because the original, which might or might not be the same as one used in TOS, was wearing out. I didn’t know about the painstaking care that went into designing the civilian costumes for the TOS cast to wear in Star Trek III.
Indeed, it is impossible to walk away from this book without even more respect and no small amount of awe for the costume designers and other personnel associated with the costuming process. These people are wizards. Think about it for a moment: they get asked to imagine entire alien societies every week and produce clothing that looks distinctive and interesting using the same old boring fabrics available on Earth. And they have to do it cheaply. Sometimes for costumes that might only get a few minutes of screen time—or none, if the scene gets cut. The creativity and innovative spirit of these people have contributed to so much of Star Trek’s success over the past fifty years. As someone who grew up loving and influenced by Trek, I owe them a huge debt. And I’m grateful that Paula M. Block and Terry J. Erdmann were able to bring this book to my table.
The book proceeds chronologically through the series, as these types of retrospectives invariably do. It spends much more time on TOS, the movies, and TNG than the other series, which are just lumped under “the spin-offs”. On one hand, I totally understand: this is a large book as it is, expensive to print, heavy to handle, so there are trade-offs. Decisions must be made about what can go in and what has to be left out. On the other hand, there is just so much that isn’t talked about here. We hear about the various uniform redesigns, but aside from one or two (sometimes strange) choices of alien garments from each series, there are so many episodic costumes that have been left out. I have so many questions! You never explained to me why the Ullians wear Swiss cheese outfits that make my eyes hurt when I look at them? (They do talk about Lwaxana’s outfits, at least.)
There is not much else for me to say. This is a gorgeous, excellent addition to any fan’s collection. (Even the cover of the hardback beneath the dust jacket is fantastic.) I highly recommend it!
Woo, non-Western science fiction! I love the opportunity to get out of my ethnocentric mindspace. Liu Cixin offers up a science fiction set (mostly) in China during both the modern day and the Cultural Revolution. As such, he brings a lot of history to the story that Western readers are probably not familiar with. Nevertheless, he and translator Ken Liu do an admirable job spinning an engrossing story about humanity’s responsibilities, and what might happen if we don’t start taking them seriously.
A simple way to summarize The Three-Body Problem might be to say that it’s about an alien invasion.
Or you could think of it as being about a philosophical video game.
Or maybe it’s better to call it a conspiracy thriller.
No matter how you slice it, you find that this is a novel with layers. Indeed, most reviews tend to note that it has three main plots—Ye Wenjie’s time at Red Coast Base, Wang Miao’s involvement in an international effort to discover why prominent scientists are committing suicide, and the story of the Trisolarans as told through the video game The Three-Body Problem.
So the three plots in The Three-Body Problem come to resemble the problem itself, which has been a thorn in the sides of mathematicians and physicists for a while. The interaction of any two plots is pretty simple to delineate. But trying to understand the interactions among all three becomes a complicated task.
The story excels when it is peeling back the mystery, layer by layer, only to reveal a new set of questions. My interest probably peaked at the moments when Ye was recounting her time at Red Coast Base, either to Wang or the interrogator, because we are aware of the significance of her actions in context. It’s possible to see the influence of the Cultural Revolution on Ye’s decisions: her faith in humanity has been destroyed by the way the Cultural Revolution tore apart her family. When she discovers it’s possible to correspond with an alien species, she sees this as an opportunity to change the Earth forever.
The virtual reality game, on the other hand, falls flat. This is a shame, because it’s a really intriguing idea. I just have so many questions, though. The way Liu portrays it makes it seem like Wang has a privileged perspective in the game—which would make sense if each player’s instance were isolated, but then how would Wang interact with these other human player characters who seem to recur from civilization to civilization? It’s difficult to understand, and trying to puzzle this out affected my enjoyment of the game as it climaxed and revealed the secrets of the Trisolarans.
I’m also not sure how the Trisolarans managed to advance so far if their civilization keeps getting reset. They make a big deal out of how the pace of scientific and technological development on Earth is accelerating, while theirs has always maintained a constant or decreasing rate. (Or is it that each previous civilization retains enough hazy memories of the last that it can bootstrap itself slightly faster, given a long enough Stable Period?)
I’m not too bothered by that, though, just because I can recognize a compelling SF idea when I see one. The Trisolarans are intriguing on two levels. Firstly, in them Liu has imagined some of the challenges alien life might face as it evolves in a completely different star system. I’ve never quite heard an idea like this before, and I love that. Secondly, their nefarious scheme to slow down or stop the pace of scientific discovery on Earth is also something new. Usually an “alien invasion” plot involves the aliens showing up with advanced technology and using big guns on bigger ships. Parts of this plot are stretching what is otherwise a fairly realistic science-fiction novel, but I can deal.
I suspect that your mileage with The Three-Body Problem lies neither in a particular plot nor a particular character, though. Rather, it comes back to what I was saying above about the way these three plots interact somewhat unpredictably. There’s a lot of philosophy in here, particularly when it comes down to the way science interacts with society. But the major theme, as Liu relates it, is the way in which we will react when we discover we are no longer the only intelligent species in the universe. Will it bring us together or drive us apart? The Three-Body Problem proposes one possibility but hints that, as the story unfolds in the sequels, that too might change.
In the end, I enjoyed the novel rather more than I thought I would given some of the reviews I read from friends. The ideas here, if not sweeping, are stimulating. This is one of the types of science fiction I truly enjoy, where the ideas drive the story in new and often unexpected directions.
But I also agree with many of my friends’ critiques. This is a dry novel, reminiscent of Kim Stanley Robinson’s approach but, I’d argue, drier still in its absence of emotional anchors—even Robinson’s characters have fits of pique. I suspect that’s intentional, though, because there is plenty of emotion during the prologue, and it leaks through at other points as well, such as when Ye confronts her mother or her father’s murderers.
The question at the back of my mind, of course, because I’m reading this as a Hugo nominee: is it Hugo-worthy?
Definitely worthy of a Hugo, in the sense that I wouldn’t be upset to see this take the title. (And, you know what, Sad Puppies? In his afterword Liu mentions how he doesn’t use his fiction “as a disguised way to criticize the reality of the present,” so there you go. Although I don’t know if that’s just there to throw off the scent of the censors.)
In the end, though, I’m probably going to vote for The Goblin Emperor. It’s a story that just has so much heart, in addition to being damn good, whereas The Three-Body Problem is good and idea-heavy—against a similar book, like 2312 from a few years back, it would have the edge.
My reviews of Remembrance of Earth's Past:
The Dark Forest →
A simple way to summarize The Three-Body Problem might be to say that it’s about an alien invasion.
Or you could think of it as being about a philosophical video game.
Or maybe it’s better to call it a conspiracy thriller.
No matter how you slice it, you find that this is a novel with layers. Indeed, most reviews tend to note that it has three main plots—Ye Wenjie’s time at Red Coast Base, Wang Miao’s involvement in an international effort to discover why prominent scientists are committing suicide, and the story of the Trisolarans as told through the video game The Three-Body Problem.
So the three plots in The Three-Body Problem come to resemble the problem itself, which has been a thorn in the sides of mathematicians and physicists for a while. The interaction of any two plots is pretty simple to delineate. But trying to understand the interactions among all three becomes a complicated task.
The story excels when it is peeling back the mystery, layer by layer, only to reveal a new set of questions. My interest probably peaked at the moments when Ye was recounting her time at Red Coast Base, either to Wang or the interrogator, because we are aware of the significance of her actions in context. It’s possible to see the influence of the Cultural Revolution on Ye’s decisions: her faith in humanity has been destroyed by the way the Cultural Revolution tore apart her family. When she discovers it’s possible to correspond with an alien species, she sees this as an opportunity to change the Earth forever.
The virtual reality game, on the other hand, falls flat. This is a shame, because it’s a really intriguing idea. I just have so many questions, though. The way Liu portrays it makes it seem like Wang has a privileged perspective in the game—which would make sense if each player’s instance were isolated, but then how would Wang interact with these other human player characters who seem to recur from civilization to civilization? It’s difficult to understand, and trying to puzzle this out affected my enjoyment of the game as it climaxed and revealed the secrets of the Trisolarans.
I’m also not sure how the Trisolarans managed to advance so far if their civilization keeps getting reset. They make a big deal out of how the pace of scientific and technological development on Earth is accelerating, while theirs has always maintained a constant or decreasing rate. (Or is it that each previous civilization retains enough hazy memories of the last that it can bootstrap itself slightly faster, given a long enough Stable Period?)
I’m not too bothered by that, though, just because I can recognize a compelling SF idea when I see one. The Trisolarans are intriguing on two levels. Firstly, in them Liu has imagined some of the challenges alien life might face as it evolves in a completely different star system. I’ve never quite heard an idea like this before, and I love that. Secondly, their nefarious scheme to slow down or stop the pace of scientific discovery on Earth is also something new. Usually an “alien invasion” plot involves the aliens showing up with advanced technology and using big guns on bigger ships. Parts of this plot are stretching what is otherwise a fairly realistic science-fiction novel, but I can deal.
I suspect that your mileage with The Three-Body Problem lies neither in a particular plot nor a particular character, though. Rather, it comes back to what I was saying above about the way these three plots interact somewhat unpredictably. There’s a lot of philosophy in here, particularly when it comes down to the way science interacts with society. But the major theme, as Liu relates it, is the way in which we will react when we discover we are no longer the only intelligent species in the universe. Will it bring us together or drive us apart? The Three-Body Problem proposes one possibility but hints that, as the story unfolds in the sequels, that too might change.
In the end, I enjoyed the novel rather more than I thought I would given some of the reviews I read from friends. The ideas here, if not sweeping, are stimulating. This is one of the types of science fiction I truly enjoy, where the ideas drive the story in new and often unexpected directions.
But I also agree with many of my friends’ critiques. This is a dry novel, reminiscent of Kim Stanley Robinson’s approach but, I’d argue, drier still in its absence of emotional anchors—even Robinson’s characters have fits of pique. I suspect that’s intentional, though, because there is plenty of emotion during the prologue, and it leaks through at other points as well, such as when Ye confronts her mother or her father’s murderers.
The question at the back of my mind, of course, because I’m reading this as a Hugo nominee: is it Hugo-worthy?
Definitely worthy of a Hugo, in the sense that I wouldn’t be upset to see this take the title. (And, you know what, Sad Puppies? In his afterword Liu mentions how he doesn’t use his fiction “as a disguised way to criticize the reality of the present,” so there you go. Although I don’t know if that’s just there to throw off the scent of the censors.)
In the end, though, I’m probably going to vote for The Goblin Emperor. It’s a story that just has so much heart, in addition to being damn good, whereas The Three-Body Problem is good and idea-heavy—against a similar book, like 2312 from a few years back, it would have the edge.
My reviews of Remembrance of Earth's Past:
The Dark Forest →
Last year I read The Three-Body Problem, which you might recall ended up winning a little thing called the Hugo Award. Since then Liu Cixin’s sequels, already published in China, are making their way to English-speaking readers. The Dark Forest didn’t snag a nomination this year, but I still wanted to read it and discover what happens next in the Trisolaran crisis. As I learned in the first book, Liu is a writer of prodigious philosophical talent. His plots and characters attempt to engage with very thorny, complex issues of the human condition. However, the actual story is obviously subservient to these ideas. Once again, whether or not you enjoy this book will largely come down to your tolerance for “Big Idea” SF over interesting characters and stories.
Most immediately it’s obvious that this is a talky book. That’s not always a bad thing—plenty of books use primarily dialogue to drive the plot forward. In The Dark Forest, however, the dialogue often includes a great deal of exposition (whatever exposition isn’t included in the narration). So what you actually have are just a series of philosophical discussions between different talking heads representing slightly different points of view. I’m reminded a lot of Anathem, another novel very explicitly attempting to use science fiction to explore philosophy.
Liu is quite successful in portraying both how incredibly screwed humanity is and how we are very good at denying this fact. The truth is, if we as a species had to face our collective extinction at such a remove, we wouldn’t handle it half so well as they do in this book. Most people would probably ignore it (400 years from now? Pffft) or rationalize it away. Look at how many people don’t care about the consequences of global warming—one might argue an alien fleet is a more “obvious” threat, but when your only evidence is heavily moderated and the only visual confirmation comes from tracks in dust clouds, that threat starts to seem just as mythical as global warming seems to some. After the story jumps ahead two centuries to the midpoint between present-day and the Doomsday Battle, we see that denialism has indeed swept our species, manifesting now as over-confidence. And it’s here that Liu shows he’s not entirely devoid of wanting to deliver a good story: there is tension to this rejection of reality. You know it’s not going to end well; you know the incoming probe is going to wreck the fleet, but you don’t know how it will happen. You don’t know what the reaction or outcome will be. So there are some rewarding aspects.
This series is ultimately about presenting a solution to the Fermi Paradox and then exploring its implications for relations between humanity and the Trisolarans. The Three-Body Problem sets up the conflict: Trisolaris needs a new home, and Earth is the closest candidate. The fact that humans are already there is a minor detail they will have to overcome. The Dark Forest, whose title refers to Luo Ji’s proposed solution to the paradox, offers more insight on the nature of life in the cosmos. It is a curious mix of optimism and realism/pessimism about how we might react in the face of such crises. The darkest moments of the inadvertently Escapist spaceships are a stark reminder that, once we have left the protection of Earth and its atmosphere, life in space is so very fragile. Yet Luo seems very confident that there is a way to avoid conflict—with the Trisolarans, with other hypothetical alien life—if only the species work together hard enough. So there’s that.
Minute Physics did a video a while back about why we might, statistically, be looking for life in the wrong places. The arguments outlined in that video, while not the same as what Luo discusses in this book, make similar claims about the way we can use statistics to extrapolate about life in the cosmos. I am somewhat sympathetic to this point of view. Both arguments sound sensible, and if Luo’s “dark forest” is chilling, that doesn’t make it any less likely. However, I always get wary when people start invoking the law of large numbers. There are a lot of assumptions to Luo’s cosmic sociology, and if even one of them is off, it could have a huge impact on his hypothesis. (I guess that’s why he performs his test first, so maybe I should give him some credit for being more scientific about it than some.)
I still have a hard time absorbing this sophon business and the other physics magic that Liu throws at us, and maybe that’s just making me ornery. Plus the whole Wallfacer/Wallbreaker nonsense is stupid, and it doesn’t matter that this is lampshaded. I suppose it has a kind of dramatic appeal, and I see the purpose it serves in the narrative. In a story about “what would humanity do if x” I can totally see countries using the threat as an excuse to stockpile hella-powerful nuclear weapons—but not that this plan would be instituted by a madman given near-absolute power by bureaucrats and politicians.
Things might have been different I had been able to identify with any of the characters. The closest thing we get to a main character is Luo Ji, but even he is a bit flat. I’m not surprised by this after reading The Three-Body Problem, but it doesn’t help given the otherwise dry and philosophical narrative. Even when the action really picks up in the final act, I just felt myself shrugging. There is too much Big Picture here. It might work as a Hollywood sci-fi blockbuster—but they would gut the philosophy from it and recast everyone as American. (It would have just as few women as the book though!)
The Dark Forest is every bit as stimulating and thought-provoking as science fiction should be. It’s not especially captivating a story—even though the stakes are literally existential. This is an example of how attempts at ultra-realistic science fiction will often fall flat simple because the long timeline and utter unforgiving nature of space travel robs a great deal of the sense of urgency and forward motion we need in our narratives. Perhaps this is a human failing. Perhaps there is a species of slower-living aliens whose thought processes are ideal for stories about spaceflight. Maybe they will emerge victorious as the best hunters in the dark forest….
My reviews of Remembrance of Earth's Past:
← The Three-Body Problem
Most immediately it’s obvious that this is a talky book. That’s not always a bad thing—plenty of books use primarily dialogue to drive the plot forward. In The Dark Forest, however, the dialogue often includes a great deal of exposition (whatever exposition isn’t included in the narration). So what you actually have are just a series of philosophical discussions between different talking heads representing slightly different points of view. I’m reminded a lot of Anathem, another novel very explicitly attempting to use science fiction to explore philosophy.
Liu is quite successful in portraying both how incredibly screwed humanity is and how we are very good at denying this fact. The truth is, if we as a species had to face our collective extinction at such a remove, we wouldn’t handle it half so well as they do in this book. Most people would probably ignore it (400 years from now? Pffft) or rationalize it away. Look at how many people don’t care about the consequences of global warming—one might argue an alien fleet is a more “obvious” threat, but when your only evidence is heavily moderated and the only visual confirmation comes from tracks in dust clouds, that threat starts to seem just as mythical as global warming seems to some. After the story jumps ahead two centuries to the midpoint between present-day and the Doomsday Battle, we see that denialism has indeed swept our species, manifesting now as over-confidence. And it’s here that Liu shows he’s not entirely devoid of wanting to deliver a good story: there is tension to this rejection of reality. You know it’s not going to end well; you know the incoming probe is going to wreck the fleet, but you don’t know how it will happen. You don’t know what the reaction or outcome will be. So there are some rewarding aspects.
This series is ultimately about presenting a solution to the Fermi Paradox and then exploring its implications for relations between humanity and the Trisolarans. The Three-Body Problem sets up the conflict: Trisolaris needs a new home, and Earth is the closest candidate. The fact that humans are already there is a minor detail they will have to overcome. The Dark Forest, whose title refers to Luo Ji’s proposed solution to the paradox, offers more insight on the nature of life in the cosmos. It is a curious mix of optimism and realism/pessimism about how we might react in the face of such crises. The darkest moments of the inadvertently Escapist spaceships are a stark reminder that, once we have left the protection of Earth and its atmosphere, life in space is so very fragile. Yet Luo seems very confident that there is a way to avoid conflict—with the Trisolarans, with other hypothetical alien life—if only the species work together hard enough. So there’s that.
Minute Physics did a video a while back about why we might, statistically, be looking for life in the wrong places. The arguments outlined in that video, while not the same as what Luo discusses in this book, make similar claims about the way we can use statistics to extrapolate about life in the cosmos. I am somewhat sympathetic to this point of view. Both arguments sound sensible, and if Luo’s “dark forest” is chilling, that doesn’t make it any less likely. However, I always get wary when people start invoking the law of large numbers. There are a lot of assumptions to Luo’s cosmic sociology, and if even one of them is off, it could have a huge impact on his hypothesis. (I guess that’s why he performs his test first, so maybe I should give him some credit for being more scientific about it than some.)
I still have a hard time absorbing this sophon business and the other physics magic that Liu throws at us, and maybe that’s just making me ornery. Plus the whole Wallfacer/Wallbreaker nonsense is stupid, and it doesn’t matter that this is lampshaded. I suppose it has a kind of dramatic appeal, and I see the purpose it serves in the narrative. In a story about “what would humanity do if x” I can totally see countries using the threat as an excuse to stockpile hella-powerful nuclear weapons—but not that this plan would be instituted by a madman given near-absolute power by bureaucrats and politicians.
Things might have been different I had been able to identify with any of the characters. The closest thing we get to a main character is Luo Ji, but even he is a bit flat. I’m not surprised by this after reading The Three-Body Problem, but it doesn’t help given the otherwise dry and philosophical narrative. Even when the action really picks up in the final act, I just felt myself shrugging. There is too much Big Picture here. It might work as a Hollywood sci-fi blockbuster—but they would gut the philosophy from it and recast everyone as American. (It would have just as few women as the book though!)
The Dark Forest is every bit as stimulating and thought-provoking as science fiction should be. It’s not especially captivating a story—even though the stakes are literally existential. This is an example of how attempts at ultra-realistic science fiction will often fall flat simple because the long timeline and utter unforgiving nature of space travel robs a great deal of the sense of urgency and forward motion we need in our narratives. Perhaps this is a human failing. Perhaps there is a species of slower-living aliens whose thought processes are ideal for stories about spaceflight. Maybe they will emerge victorious as the best hunters in the dark forest….
My reviews of Remembrance of Earth's Past:
← The Three-Body Problem
Back in Grade 4, a small group of peers asked me if I was a virgin.
Not knowing what a virgin was, I said no. Well, that certainly got them laughing. And I got very upset.
This incident has stuck in my memory (which is otherwise very much a sieve through which most details inevitably fall) for a few reasons. Firstly, it was one of the few times I ever felt bullied in school, despite being very nerdy and introverted and unapologetically individualist in my outward behaviour. And I don’t even really think of it as bullying, as I’m sure the people responsible didn’t—they probably thought they were just having a laugh at my expense. I don’t think they expected me to react the way I did. Of course, they got in trouble. One of them gave me a Pokémon card in reparation (and it was Item Finder, so I really knew he was sorry).
But I digress. That’s my first memory of the concept of virginity having an impact on my life. In the next couple of years, we would start sex ed, Judy Blume books would materialize on our desks, the boys and girls would go to separate classrooms, and my classmates would start to pair off. (Uh, to be clear, that last part wasn’t school-mandated. That was a kid thing, not a sex ed thing. We’re better off than the States when it comes to sex ed, but we’re not quite Monty Python and the Meaning of Life here.)
I didn’t pair off, and I still haven’t. I made a few half-hearted stabs at it in high school, but I wasn’t all that dedicated. Relationships and sex seemed to be things that happened to my peers, and I was just away the day these things got handed out. But that has never bothered me. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything—and to be honest, I occasionally have a hard time believing other people actually engage in sex. You seriously do that? It just seems so messy, and there are so many … fluids. But, sure. I guess if you don’t have any good books to read you have to do something with your time.
Anyway, The V-Word is of interest to me for a few reasons. Firstly, as I mentioned, this is something outside my realm of personal experience. Because of the importance that sex holds in our society, however, I still find it very fascinating. It’s why I’m enjoying the Banging Book Club so much, and why I seek out non-club reads, like this book, about sex. I don’t see what the big deal is myself, but reading about why others consider it such a big deal helps a little bit. Secondly, I’m a teacher. I don’t actually teach sex ed, and I don’t even teach high school students at the moment—but I care a lot about what we teach our students about sex. I am pleased with the revised health curriculum that Ontario is rolling out. And so I approached The V-Word with the eyes of an educator, wondering if this was something teenagers might find useful—and I would like to think the answer is “yes”.
There is such a wonderful plethora of experiences served up here. This is obviously a book that was not spontaneously created, nor even curated: it was lovingly constructed. Amber J. Keyser, whose own first time is the first of many first times related here, has gone out of her way to include diverse voices from all sorts of women, cis and trans, of varying sexualities and races and religions. I laughed out loud at some of these stories, because they attest to how sex can be funny, or awkward, or how the relationships that surround them can take unexpected turns. Some of these stories were sweet, others more bittersweet. As Keyser’s interjections between each story reinforce, The V-Word is also unabashedly a message book. I don’t see how it could be otherwise. There are so many good quotations in here, so many good ways of summing up its message, but for convenience I’ll grab Kelly Jensen’s pronouncement near the end of the book: “There’s not one single right way to have a sex life.”
I’ve been very lucky. I have friends of many genders and sexualities who have talked to me about their sex lives, about first times, about what they like and don’t like and who or what turns them on. I value these conversations, not just because they signify the close friendships I have, but because they are windows into other people’s selves. We are so isolated from one another. It is so difficult to figure out what someone else is truly thinking or feeling at any given time. I get that, for some people, sex provides a level of connection and dialogue that talking doesn’t. But I have been lucky to have these conversations, and I know that many people grow up with parents who are too nervous to talk about sex, schools who cannot or will not educate them properly, and a big scary Internet full of porn and really bad sex advice.
This book gives good sex advice, not in the sense of how (or even when) to “do it” but in the sense of reassuring people that they are not somehow freakish or abnormal. Exploring your sexuality when you’re eleven? Normal! Not exploring your sexuality until you’re twenty-five? Normal! Having sexual desire but choosing to wait until marriage? Normal! Sometimes we confuse sex positivity with promiscuity and the idea that you’re only liberated if you’re actively going out and having lots of sex. I like that The V-Word’s sex positivity is much more inclusive than that, both in how people timed their first times as well as the actions that qualify for a “first time”.
Following the stories, the book includes end matter with resources for teens and parents. This is brilliant. Why don’t more books do this? I can totally imagine a questioning teen reading the book and, having finished the last story think, “OK, but what can I read or watch now to learn more?” Keyser has you covered. The end matter is, much like the rest of the content, brief but full of compassion. This is a book that wants you to do you (until you decided to do other people, I guess)—and it’s all about how you can do that safely and healthily.
And that’s really what it comes down to, if I can step on a soapbox for a moment. I get really angry when people justify censorship and weak-to-no sex ed “for the children” (much in the same way people will justify anti-abortion laws “for women’s health”). If we really want our children to be safe, to be healthy, to be happy and grow up into full members of our society, then we need to equip them with knowledge. We need to tell them that there is nothing shameful in asking questions, in learning about sex, and in making informed decisions. The V-Word does that, and it’s totally a message I can get behind.
Now, I don’t want to get all “but what about the men”, but I would really be interested in a companion book with men’s stories about their first times. I totally get why this is a book centred on women. Virginity and “the first time” have always been particularly germane to women’s sexual expression, and indeed one might say that the entire Western idea of femininity is grounded within demarcations of virginity. So it is understandable and completely valid that The V-Word should give voices to women. But boys need books too. Boys need male voices telling them about the importance of consent, of communication, of comfort with yourself and your partner(s). The V-Word is an excellent foray into a more compassionate sex ed than what you see in most American classrooms; I cannot wait to discover similar books out there.
Short but sweet (insert sex joke here), The V-Word is an intense but wonderful collection of experiences. It is successful in its goals, and I can only hope that many teens (and even adults) read this book and take something positive away from it. For those who are just beginning to explore their sexuality, it is not a manual, but it is a reassuring signpost along the way. For those who, like me, have decided to opt-out (at least for now), it still provides insight into a critical part of our society.
Not knowing what a virgin was, I said no. Well, that certainly got them laughing. And I got very upset.
This incident has stuck in my memory (which is otherwise very much a sieve through which most details inevitably fall) for a few reasons. Firstly, it was one of the few times I ever felt bullied in school, despite being very nerdy and introverted and unapologetically individualist in my outward behaviour. And I don’t even really think of it as bullying, as I’m sure the people responsible didn’t—they probably thought they were just having a laugh at my expense. I don’t think they expected me to react the way I did. Of course, they got in trouble. One of them gave me a Pokémon card in reparation (and it was Item Finder, so I really knew he was sorry).
But I digress. That’s my first memory of the concept of virginity having an impact on my life. In the next couple of years, we would start sex ed, Judy Blume books would materialize on our desks, the boys and girls would go to separate classrooms, and my classmates would start to pair off. (Uh, to be clear, that last part wasn’t school-mandated. That was a kid thing, not a sex ed thing. We’re better off than the States when it comes to sex ed, but we’re not quite Monty Python and the Meaning of Life here.)
I didn’t pair off, and I still haven’t. I made a few half-hearted stabs at it in high school, but I wasn’t all that dedicated. Relationships and sex seemed to be things that happened to my peers, and I was just away the day these things got handed out. But that has never bothered me. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything—and to be honest, I occasionally have a hard time believing other people actually engage in sex. You seriously do that? It just seems so messy, and there are so many … fluids. But, sure. I guess if you don’t have any good books to read you have to do something with your time.
Anyway, The V-Word is of interest to me for a few reasons. Firstly, as I mentioned, this is something outside my realm of personal experience. Because of the importance that sex holds in our society, however, I still find it very fascinating. It’s why I’m enjoying the Banging Book Club so much, and why I seek out non-club reads, like this book, about sex. I don’t see what the big deal is myself, but reading about why others consider it such a big deal helps a little bit. Secondly, I’m a teacher. I don’t actually teach sex ed, and I don’t even teach high school students at the moment—but I care a lot about what we teach our students about sex. I am pleased with the revised health curriculum that Ontario is rolling out. And so I approached The V-Word with the eyes of an educator, wondering if this was something teenagers might find useful—and I would like to think the answer is “yes”.
There is such a wonderful plethora of experiences served up here. This is obviously a book that was not spontaneously created, nor even curated: it was lovingly constructed. Amber J. Keyser, whose own first time is the first of many first times related here, has gone out of her way to include diverse voices from all sorts of women, cis and trans, of varying sexualities and races and religions. I laughed out loud at some of these stories, because they attest to how sex can be funny, or awkward, or how the relationships that surround them can take unexpected turns. Some of these stories were sweet, others more bittersweet. As Keyser’s interjections between each story reinforce, The V-Word is also unabashedly a message book. I don’t see how it could be otherwise. There are so many good quotations in here, so many good ways of summing up its message, but for convenience I’ll grab Kelly Jensen’s pronouncement near the end of the book: “There’s not one single right way to have a sex life.”
I’ve been very lucky. I have friends of many genders and sexualities who have talked to me about their sex lives, about first times, about what they like and don’t like and who or what turns them on. I value these conversations, not just because they signify the close friendships I have, but because they are windows into other people’s selves. We are so isolated from one another. It is so difficult to figure out what someone else is truly thinking or feeling at any given time. I get that, for some people, sex provides a level of connection and dialogue that talking doesn’t. But I have been lucky to have these conversations, and I know that many people grow up with parents who are too nervous to talk about sex, schools who cannot or will not educate them properly, and a big scary Internet full of porn and really bad sex advice.
This book gives good sex advice, not in the sense of how (or even when) to “do it” but in the sense of reassuring people that they are not somehow freakish or abnormal. Exploring your sexuality when you’re eleven? Normal! Not exploring your sexuality until you’re twenty-five? Normal! Having sexual desire but choosing to wait until marriage? Normal! Sometimes we confuse sex positivity with promiscuity and the idea that you’re only liberated if you’re actively going out and having lots of sex. I like that The V-Word’s sex positivity is much more inclusive than that, both in how people timed their first times as well as the actions that qualify for a “first time”.
Following the stories, the book includes end matter with resources for teens and parents. This is brilliant. Why don’t more books do this? I can totally imagine a questioning teen reading the book and, having finished the last story think, “OK, but what can I read or watch now to learn more?” Keyser has you covered. The end matter is, much like the rest of the content, brief but full of compassion. This is a book that wants you to do you (until you decided to do other people, I guess)—and it’s all about how you can do that safely and healthily.
And that’s really what it comes down to, if I can step on a soapbox for a moment. I get really angry when people justify censorship and weak-to-no sex ed “for the children” (much in the same way people will justify anti-abortion laws “for women’s health”). If we really want our children to be safe, to be healthy, to be happy and grow up into full members of our society, then we need to equip them with knowledge. We need to tell them that there is nothing shameful in asking questions, in learning about sex, and in making informed decisions. The V-Word does that, and it’s totally a message I can get behind.
Now, I don’t want to get all “but what about the men”, but I would really be interested in a companion book with men’s stories about their first times. I totally get why this is a book centred on women. Virginity and “the first time” have always been particularly germane to women’s sexual expression, and indeed one might say that the entire Western idea of femininity is grounded within demarcations of virginity. So it is understandable and completely valid that The V-Word should give voices to women. But boys need books too. Boys need male voices telling them about the importance of consent, of communication, of comfort with yourself and your partner(s). The V-Word is an excellent foray into a more compassionate sex ed than what you see in most American classrooms; I cannot wait to discover similar books out there.
Short but sweet (insert sex joke here), The V-Word is an intense but wonderful collection of experiences. It is successful in its goals, and I can only hope that many teens (and even adults) read this book and take something positive away from it. For those who are just beginning to explore their sexuality, it is not a manual, but it is a reassuring signpost along the way. For those who, like me, have decided to opt-out (at least for now), it still provides insight into a critical part of our society.