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tachyondecay
This may not be the best book I read all year, but it is the best non-fiction book I’ve read so far in 2019, and any future non-fiction book this year is going to have to work hard to unseat this one. Wayfinding: The Science and Mystery of How Humans Navigate the World snuck up on me. When I received my eARC from NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press, I was anticipating a mildly interesting book about navigation: maps and charts and compasses and whatnot. Instead, what I ended up with was an intense, fascinating, mind-blowing experience that exceeded all expectations and led to me pre-ordering 2 copies of the hardcover: one for me and one as a belated birthday gift for a friend I think will appreciate this.
M.R. O’Connor is interested in how we get around. Specifically, she wants to know how humans—both as individuals and culturally—can navigate and explore without the aid of devices like maps and GPS. Her quest takes her on a journey around the world, from offices in American universities to the Arctic tundra to Polynesian islands. Along the way, she brings in a wealth and variety of sources, from the oral histories and knowledge of Inuit elders and hunters to the intricate MRI results of neuroscience research. How much of our navigation skills come from innate, physical abilities? How much are culturally-dependent? Like so much in science, this is a thorny, difficult-to-answer question. O’Connor communicates her findings with style and contagious curiosity.
My first inkling of how much I would come to appreciate and revel in Wayfinding came from reading O’Connor’s discussion of Inuit wayfinding. O’Connor weaves the practices of Indigenous peoples throughout the book, first discussing the Inuit, then Australian Aboriginals, and finally Pacific Islanders. While discussing the Inuit, she mentions residential schools—and not just in an offhand, let’s-acknowledge-this-part-of-the-history kind of way, oh no. What impresses me so much is the way O’Connor goes much deeper than that. She explains to her readers—many of whom, I’m going to guess, remain ignorant of residential schools and the depth of the damage they have done to Indigenous peoples—exactly why these schools were so abhorrent. She explicitly connects residential schools to the intergenerational trauma and loss of culture, including knowledge of traditional wayfinding.
This becomes a recurring pattern in Wayfinding. As O’Connor discusses Aboriginal peoples in Australia, or the peoples of the Pacific islands, she never misses a beat when it comes to acknowledging colonialism’s impact. At the same time, she also highlights how all of these cultures remain vital and alive—even if some are hanging on through a few particularly dedicated practitioners. She emphasizes the resilience of Indigenous peoples the world over, and shares their stories in their own words. Through her travels to these places, whether it’s the desert in Nunavut or the desert in the Australian Outback, O’Connor speaks to individuals who have been raised in these traditional ways and still practice them. She shares their perspectives on how being connected to the land is healthy. As Inuk Solomon Awa says:
Although she does draw these spiritual connections between how people relate themselves to the land or ocean, O’Connor’s ethnography avoids exoticizing these cultures. Rather, O’Connor is careful to point out that in many cases, Indigenous cultures were practising science as much or more than Western navigators and explorers, for thousands of years. If anything, over-reliance on Western technology and cartography has dulled our awareness of how our surroundings provide natural cues:
As Awa says, “We have a hundred megapixels of memory, not one … because we were taught oral history. Our memory is way bigger.” I enjoy that analogy. Similarly, O’Connor points out the European obsession with maps and related navigational tools is inextricably tied up with the European penchant for imperialism and colonialism: you need to be able to map the territories you claim to own. This contrasts with how many Indigenous peoples view themselves as co-existing with the land and water and moving on/through it as part of their everyday reality.
What really cemented Wayfinding’s claim to being the best non-fiction book of 2019 so far is how O’Connor builds atop these anthropological journeys by diving into neuroscience and biology. Yes, she looks at our brains on wayfinding. She cites some extremely interesting studies, mostly related to the hippocampus. Some of them I’ve heard about before, such as the ones relating to taxi drivers in London. Others were novel to me. I loved learning about the various theories around how our brains interpret and store memories, how this relates to our understanding of space and maybe things like musicality too. O’Connor is very skilled at presenting different, sometimes conflicting ideas, and keeping everything clear while also emphasizing what science is widely accepted and which theories are new or less-tested.
Maybe this is just a case of right place, right time, but I’m more receptive to the pitch now that we’re losing something as a result of our use of hi-tech tools. Back when Nicholas Carr first wrote about whether Google was making us stupid, I kind of vacillated. I acknowledged that Google was changing our brains, but I came down on the side that said knowing how to think, knowing how to ask the right questions, was far more important than memorizing things. Since then, my opinions have shifted. O’Connor’s writing and rhetoric found their way into those gaps in my open mind, and she makes a compelling case:
As a teacher of adult students trying to finish their high school diploma, I think a lot about these ideas. I teach math and English. With math in particular, students often come into my classroom with prejudices built up like layers of armour from years of math abuse within elementary and high school. And I’ve had to unlearn—am still unlearning—a lot about how I want to teach math; I’ve had to discover, re-discover, or “borrow” practices that ground knowledge in direct experience. It isn’t easy, yet it’s so much more rewarding. (I won’t pretend that I’m doing everything right, or better. I have a lot more work to do. But I am thinking about these things every single day.)
Awa is right, too: being on the land is medicine. I’m still not what I would describe as an outdoorsy person. I have no desire to go camping, hunting, tracking, etc. But one of my goals this summer is to go for more walks. I’ve already started to do this, to range further and further afield from my house, to wander and meander (I love that word) kilometres from home, and as O’Connor notes, to purposefully take stock of my surroundings. To be mindful of the world around me. It really is good, not just as exercise, but for the soul. The science backs up what O’Connor and innumerable anthropologists heard from the people they’ve interviewed over decades.
Wayfinding is nothing short of amazing in how it brings together so many deep and diverse perspectives on its topic. It respects and champions Indigenous peoples and their traditions, recognizing the lasting effects of colonialism as well as the resilience and skill of the people who are alive and transmitting this knowledge today. It references studies in neuroscience and animal biology to put our wayfinding skills in the context of the wider animal world. Most importantly, for me, O’Connor ruminates on why wayfinding is so important to us, and what we lose when we abdicate that responsibility to machines. If, like me, you are a massive technophile who spends too much time online, this book won’t turn you into a hiking maniac overnight—but it will expand your knowledge and your ways of thinking overnight. And that is the best possible gift a non-fiction book can give to me.
M.R. O’Connor is interested in how we get around. Specifically, she wants to know how humans—both as individuals and culturally—can navigate and explore without the aid of devices like maps and GPS. Her quest takes her on a journey around the world, from offices in American universities to the Arctic tundra to Polynesian islands. Along the way, she brings in a wealth and variety of sources, from the oral histories and knowledge of Inuit elders and hunters to the intricate MRI results of neuroscience research. How much of our navigation skills come from innate, physical abilities? How much are culturally-dependent? Like so much in science, this is a thorny, difficult-to-answer question. O’Connor communicates her findings with style and contagious curiosity.
My first inkling of how much I would come to appreciate and revel in Wayfinding came from reading O’Connor’s discussion of Inuit wayfinding. O’Connor weaves the practices of Indigenous peoples throughout the book, first discussing the Inuit, then Australian Aboriginals, and finally Pacific Islanders. While discussing the Inuit, she mentions residential schools—and not just in an offhand, let’s-acknowledge-this-part-of-the-history kind of way, oh no. What impresses me so much is the way O’Connor goes much deeper than that. She explains to her readers—many of whom, I’m going to guess, remain ignorant of residential schools and the depth of the damage they have done to Indigenous peoples—exactly why these schools were so abhorrent. She explicitly connects residential schools to the intergenerational trauma and loss of culture, including knowledge of traditional wayfinding.
This becomes a recurring pattern in Wayfinding. As O’Connor discusses Aboriginal peoples in Australia, or the peoples of the Pacific islands, she never misses a beat when it comes to acknowledging colonialism’s impact. At the same time, she also highlights how all of these cultures remain vital and alive—even if some are hanging on through a few particularly dedicated practitioners. She emphasizes the resilience of Indigenous peoples the world over, and shares their stories in their own words. Through her travels to these places, whether it’s the desert in Nunavut or the desert in the Australian Outback, O’Connor speaks to individuals who have been raised in these traditional ways and still practice them. She shares their perspectives on how being connected to the land is healthy. As Inuk Solomon Awa says:
Being out on the land lifts you up spiritually, emotionally, and physically. It gives you medication, or meditation, however you want to call it. I’ll never stop.
Although she does draw these spiritual connections between how people relate themselves to the land or ocean, O’Connor’s ethnography avoids exoticizing these cultures. Rather, O’Connor is careful to point out that in many cases, Indigenous cultures were practising science as much or more than Western navigators and explorers, for thousands of years. If anything, over-reliance on Western technology and cartography has dulled our awareness of how our surroundings provide natural cues:
it took just a couple of centuries for most scientists to forget that environmental cues can be just as accurate as maps and gadgets. This historical amnesia made non-European navigation practices seem that much more supernatural and mysterious.
As Awa says, “We have a hundred megapixels of memory, not one … because we were taught oral history. Our memory is way bigger.” I enjoy that analogy. Similarly, O’Connor points out the European obsession with maps and related navigational tools is inextricably tied up with the European penchant for imperialism and colonialism: you need to be able to map the territories you claim to own. This contrasts with how many Indigenous peoples view themselves as co-existing with the land and water and moving on/through it as part of their everyday reality.
What really cemented Wayfinding’s claim to being the best non-fiction book of 2019 so far is how O’Connor builds atop these anthropological journeys by diving into neuroscience and biology. Yes, she looks at our brains on wayfinding. She cites some extremely interesting studies, mostly related to the hippocampus. Some of them I’ve heard about before, such as the ones relating to taxi drivers in London. Others were novel to me. I loved learning about the various theories around how our brains interpret and store memories, how this relates to our understanding of space and maybe things like musicality too. O’Connor is very skilled at presenting different, sometimes conflicting ideas, and keeping everything clear while also emphasizing what science is widely accepted and which theories are new or less-tested.
Maybe this is just a case of right place, right time, but I’m more receptive to the pitch now that we’re losing something as a result of our use of hi-tech tools. Back when Nicholas Carr first wrote about whether Google was making us stupid, I kind of vacillated. I acknowledged that Google was changing our brains, but I came down on the side that said knowing how to think, knowing how to ask the right questions, was far more important than memorizing things. Since then, my opinions have shifted. O’Connor’s writing and rhetoric found their way into those gaps in my open mind, and she makes a compelling case:
Students today learn biology, chemistry, and geology—the result of hundreds of years of scientific discovery—but they atomize this knowledge rather than find a home for it within a larger conceptual framework, namely their own direct experience.
As a teacher of adult students trying to finish their high school diploma, I think a lot about these ideas. I teach math and English. With math in particular, students often come into my classroom with prejudices built up like layers of armour from years of math abuse within elementary and high school. And I’ve had to unlearn—am still unlearning—a lot about how I want to teach math; I’ve had to discover, re-discover, or “borrow” practices that ground knowledge in direct experience. It isn’t easy, yet it’s so much more rewarding. (I won’t pretend that I’m doing everything right, or better. I have a lot more work to do. But I am thinking about these things every single day.)
Awa is right, too: being on the land is medicine. I’m still not what I would describe as an outdoorsy person. I have no desire to go camping, hunting, tracking, etc. But one of my goals this summer is to go for more walks. I’ve already started to do this, to range further and further afield from my house, to wander and meander (I love that word) kilometres from home, and as O’Connor notes, to purposefully take stock of my surroundings. To be mindful of the world around me. It really is good, not just as exercise, but for the soul. The science backs up what O’Connor and innumerable anthropologists heard from the people they’ve interviewed over decades.
Wayfinding is nothing short of amazing in how it brings together so many deep and diverse perspectives on its topic. It respects and champions Indigenous peoples and their traditions, recognizing the lasting effects of colonialism as well as the resilience and skill of the people who are alive and transmitting this knowledge today. It references studies in neuroscience and animal biology to put our wayfinding skills in the context of the wider animal world. Most importantly, for me, O’Connor ruminates on why wayfinding is so important to us, and what we lose when we abdicate that responsibility to machines. If, like me, you are a massive technophile who spends too much time online, this book won’t turn you into a hiking maniac overnight—but it will expand your knowledge and your ways of thinking overnight. And that is the best possible gift a non-fiction book can give to me.
I didn’t realize how much I needed The Rhesus Chart until I started reading it, but almost from page one this was like a comforting cup of tea. See, I’ve been in a bit of a reading slump lately—nothing to do with the quality of my reading material, more just not being in the mood to read and actively finding reasons not to read, which is so unlike me! But The Rhesus Chart is the kind of urban fantasy candy novel that I can’t put down. I wanted to read this on break, after work, before bed … I stayed up an hour past my bedtime to devour the last hundred pages of this thriller. This is why I keep coming back to Charles Stross over and over.
In this latest instalment of The Laundry Files, Bob Howard is in the middle of a mess that is somewhat of his own making. See, everyone knows that vampires don’t exist. So when an algorithm Bob has whipped up and runs against some test data from the NHS suggests an outbreak of vampirism … well, that’s a problem. It’s even more of a problem for the vampires in question (who certainly don’t exist). And meanwhile, Bob is struggling with his marriage. He and Mo have been doing their jobs for the Laundry for a very long time now, and it is taking its psychological toll.
The Rhesus Chart references another long-running urban fantasy series I enjoy, The Dresden Files. Much like that series, I find it difficult to come up with extremely new takes on the Laundry Files sometimes. Still, there are some elements I’ll highlight here to pique your interest.
First, the vampire thing. Stross handles this with his trademark combination of neurotic verisimilitude and British humour. He starts from the premise of “if vampires were real, how would they actually function?” and goes from there, and it’s really fun to see it worked out. Although some parts of the exposition get repeated a few times (grr argh), overall I like the pace with which he uncovers the backstory here. I complained in my review of the previous book that the first act dragged. That isn’t a problem here: the first act is intense, as Bob is on the hunt for this possible nest of vampires who shouldn’t exist, leading all the way to a false climax that then tips us over into…
… the second thing, which is yet another brush with mind-numbing bureaucracy. This is a hallmark of this series, of course, so you shouldn’t be surprised by this. Don’t you worry: Bob has his share of awkward committee meetings, overbearing employees, and insufferable twits. On the surface this is about laughs, of course, but once Stross reveals the identity of the villain behind the scenes (I’m pleased to remark that I worked it out myself a few chapters ahead of time, albeit perhaps not as soon as I might have), this satire turns into social commentary. Stross has more than once commented that the combination of the Scottish referendum and Brexit kind of created a massive political singularity and throws a wrench into his plotting for these kinds of near-future novels. When your real-life politicians are entirely human (we suppose) yet still monstrous, the “our leaders are monsters” take might not seem so original. What makes The Rhesus Chart more interesting, in my opinion, is how Stross highlights how clever psychopaths—vampiric or otherwise—can manipulate the layers of bureaucracy to shroud themselves in a secrecy no less obscuring than actual fog.
I’m also loving how Stross explores the stress that fighting the supernatural puts on Bob and Mo’s relationships. Lots of supernatural fiction explores this, of course. Not so much mired in it being an actual day job though. Ending of the book’s ramifications notwithstanding, the whole idea that Mo is just feeling done with being the Laundry’s wetwork asset is so palpable here. (I know the next book is actually from Mo’s point of view, so I’m very excited for that!!) Moreover, the telltale scenes in which Angleton, Lockhart, and the Auditor discuss how they tiptoe around this issue are so interesting. They remind us that when you reach a certain level in an organization like the Laundry, sometimes you have to choose between what’s best for your employee and what might be best for the world. Something like Angleton might have no problem making that call. But Bob? … Well, we’ll see.
The ending of The Rhesus Chart is properly explosive and dramatic. It upends a lot of the status quo. One of the constant themes of this series has been Bob’s rise within the ranks of the Laundry. Like many an urban fantasy series, Dresden Files included, power creep is an issue. I suspect that’s one reason why Stross is diversifying his narrators. Nevertheless, I am definitely … I don’t know if sad is the right word, but I’m moved by the departure of a few of the characters we’ve come to know over previous books.
This is another fun entry in the series. If you’re new, you could start here, but I would recommend going back, or at least tackle The Apocalypse Codex first. But if you were ever curious about how Stross would deal with vampires in the context of the Laundry, this book is for you.
My reviews of The Laundry Files:
← The Apocalypse Codex
In this latest instalment of The Laundry Files, Bob Howard is in the middle of a mess that is somewhat of his own making. See, everyone knows that vampires don’t exist. So when an algorithm Bob has whipped up and runs against some test data from the NHS suggests an outbreak of vampirism … well, that’s a problem. It’s even more of a problem for the vampires in question (who certainly don’t exist). And meanwhile, Bob is struggling with his marriage. He and Mo have been doing their jobs for the Laundry for a very long time now, and it is taking its psychological toll.
The Rhesus Chart references another long-running urban fantasy series I enjoy, The Dresden Files. Much like that series, I find it difficult to come up with extremely new takes on the Laundry Files sometimes. Still, there are some elements I’ll highlight here to pique your interest.
First, the vampire thing. Stross handles this with his trademark combination of neurotic verisimilitude and British humour. He starts from the premise of “if vampires were real, how would they actually function?” and goes from there, and it’s really fun to see it worked out. Although some parts of the exposition get repeated a few times (grr argh), overall I like the pace with which he uncovers the backstory here. I complained in my review of the previous book that the first act dragged. That isn’t a problem here: the first act is intense, as Bob is on the hunt for this possible nest of vampires who shouldn’t exist, leading all the way to a false climax that then tips us over into…
… the second thing, which is yet another brush with mind-numbing bureaucracy. This is a hallmark of this series, of course, so you shouldn’t be surprised by this. Don’t you worry: Bob has his share of awkward committee meetings, overbearing employees, and insufferable twits. On the surface this is about laughs, of course, but once Stross reveals the identity of the villain behind the scenes (I’m pleased to remark that I worked it out myself a few chapters ahead of time, albeit perhaps not as soon as I might have), this satire turns into social commentary. Stross has more than once commented that the combination of the Scottish referendum and Brexit kind of created a massive political singularity and throws a wrench into his plotting for these kinds of near-future novels. When your real-life politicians are entirely human (we suppose) yet still monstrous, the “our leaders are monsters” take might not seem so original. What makes The Rhesus Chart more interesting, in my opinion, is how Stross highlights how clever psychopaths—vampiric or otherwise—can manipulate the layers of bureaucracy to shroud themselves in a secrecy no less obscuring than actual fog.
I’m also loving how Stross explores the stress that fighting the supernatural puts on Bob and Mo’s relationships. Lots of supernatural fiction explores this, of course. Not so much mired in it being an actual day job though. Ending of the book’s ramifications notwithstanding, the whole idea that Mo is just feeling done with being the Laundry’s wetwork asset is so palpable here. (I know the next book is actually from Mo’s point of view, so I’m very excited for that!!) Moreover, the telltale scenes in which Angleton, Lockhart, and the Auditor discuss how they tiptoe around this issue are so interesting. They remind us that when you reach a certain level in an organization like the Laundry, sometimes you have to choose between what’s best for your employee and what might be best for the world. Something like Angleton might have no problem making that call. But Bob? … Well, we’ll see.
The ending of The Rhesus Chart is properly explosive and dramatic. It upends a lot of the status quo. One of the constant themes of this series has been Bob’s rise within the ranks of the Laundry. Like many an urban fantasy series, Dresden Files included, power creep is an issue. I suspect that’s one reason why Stross is diversifying his narrators. Nevertheless, I am definitely … I don’t know if sad is the right word, but I’m moved by the departure of a few of the characters we’ve come to know over previous books.
This is another fun entry in the series. If you’re new, you could start here, but I would recommend going back, or at least tackle The Apocalypse Codex first. But if you were ever curious about how Stross would deal with vampires in the context of the Laundry, this book is for you.
My reviews of The Laundry Files:
← The Apocalypse Codex
Excellent short novelette from Mary Robinette Kowal about having to choose between having children and striking out amongst the stars. Except it isn’t about that at all. It’s about having to choose between watching your husband die, slowly and with less dignity every day, and striking out amongst the stars. Or maybe it’s about growing old, and the way the old are manipulated and treated, trotted out like icons from a fading past. Or perhaps it’s how women are held up against an impossible measuring stick: you need to have a career, have children, be beautiful, be dignified, be smart, be compliant….
Well, this is sounding complex for a 19-page story!
That’s the wonderful thing about “The Lady Astronaut of Mars”: it’s complex without requiring much effort. Kowal doesn’t get bogged down in the minutiae of how humanity colonizes Mars. We’re there, Elma is there, and she has a choice to make. Kowal fleshes this out by exploring Elma’s past and her motivations and using that to cast light on how she can make this choice. It’s a situation where there is no easy, no right answer. Either way she will feel like she is losing something, giving something up, in order to gain or even just maintain the status quo. Such is life: the making of impossible choices.
“The Lady Astronaut of Mars” delivers everything a novelette should. It’s a smart and fast-paced narrative that makes it easy to keep reading. At the same time, as I said above, it has layers of complexity. Elma becomes a fully-realized, three-dimensional character. The secondary characters, such as her husband Nathaniel, are understandably less developed but still important and interesting. It says a lot about this future that Nathaniel is being cared for the way he is. We’ve managed to make it to Mars, but confronting end-of-life care is something that remains difficult and daunting.
This is a powerful story that harnesses some of the best qualities of science fiction: its ability to make a reader think in new ways about everyday parts of our existence. It has a retro feel, with talk of rockets and programmers and tapes and punch cards, but the problems Kowal explores are still present in the modern world, and they will dog us all the way to Mars.
Well, this is sounding complex for a 19-page story!
That’s the wonderful thing about “The Lady Astronaut of Mars”: it’s complex without requiring much effort. Kowal doesn’t get bogged down in the minutiae of how humanity colonizes Mars. We’re there, Elma is there, and she has a choice to make. Kowal fleshes this out by exploring Elma’s past and her motivations and using that to cast light on how she can make this choice. It’s a situation where there is no easy, no right answer. Either way she will feel like she is losing something, giving something up, in order to gain or even just maintain the status quo. Such is life: the making of impossible choices.
“The Lady Astronaut of Mars” delivers everything a novelette should. It’s a smart and fast-paced narrative that makes it easy to keep reading. At the same time, as I said above, it has layers of complexity. Elma becomes a fully-realized, three-dimensional character. The secondary characters, such as her husband Nathaniel, are understandably less developed but still important and interesting. It says a lot about this future that Nathaniel is being cared for the way he is. We’ve managed to make it to Mars, but confronting end-of-life care is something that remains difficult and daunting.
This is a powerful story that harnesses some of the best qualities of science fiction: its ability to make a reader think in new ways about everyday parts of our existence. It has a retro feel, with talk of rockets and programmers and tapes and punch cards, but the problems Kowal explores are still present in the modern world, and they will dog us all the way to Mars.
At least one book’s length, if not a whole library of, encomia of Ursula K. Le Guin has already been written by people far more learned than me. It’s so tempting to take this collection of her novellas and use it as an excuse to praise Le Guin as an author in general. Yet there isn’t much I can hope to add to that conversation. Yet The Found and the Lost, as a collection of some of Le Guin’s novellas, is itself commentary on Le Guin as an author: her ideas, her choices, her voice.
Collections are always curious things, particularly of novellas that were not necessarily meant to be together in the first place. It’s fortunate that Le Guin was able to curate this prior to her death. I’m not sure anyone else would have pulled together her works in the way she would have wanted. As it is, this is a collection of Hainish/Ekumen novellas and Earthsea works. I think I had read one or two of them elsewhere—they felt vaguely familiar—but otherwise I enjoyed that many of these were new to me. I started this in the summer of 2018, hoping to read it over a few weeks on my deck. Life had other plans, so here I am only finishing it now. But it was worth it.
All of Le Guin’s works, whether they are set in a future of worlds scattered amongst the stars or in an alternate world of islands scattered across an ocean, are deeply considered with ideas of power, gender, and class. These novellas showcase how she uses science fiction and fantasy to interrogate the extent to which injustice seems to be an artifact of the human condition and how much our social constructs influence it.
The novellas set on Werel feature a slave-owning caste eventually overthrown during a long, bloody civil war. Le Guin examines this society from multiple points of view: slaves, owners or privileged people, and the supposedly-neutral Ekumen observers. She interrogates the intersections of class, race, and gender. Notably, Le Guin’s protagonists, and indeed the majority of the characters in books, often have brown skin tones. Le Guin is careful to subvert the “whiteness by default” trope, to remark on the skin colours of black, brown, and white characters. These are the subtle ways in which she challenges our privileges and assumptions as readers.
Le Guin has less subtle ways of challenging us too. The Earthsea stories focus mainly on the role of wizards within the kyriarchy. The novellas take place at very different times in Earthsea’s history. One concerns the founding of Roke and foreshadows the establishment of wizardry as a male-only trade, which is reprised and expanded upon in Dragonfly. These stories remind me a lot of the main Earthsea cycle and its protagonists, Ged and Tenar: one of Le Guin’s trademark moves, in my opinion, is her stubborn refusal to give us heroes. These novellas really emphasize that people who have more power don’t always use that power in sensible ways. In addition to the truism that power corrupts, Le Guin points out that people are flawed in general. The most famous Archmage is no less fallible than a fisherman or fisherwoman, despite our yearning as readers for larger-than-life heroic mages who can beat back the forces of darkness.
In the end, Le Guin refuses to give us comfort. Her stories are unrelenting in their realism, despite being works of speculative fiction. The last story in this collection, Paradises Lost, exemplifies this approach. Le Guin’s take on a generation ship story feels very realistic in the way it deals with the emergence of a new religion and the gradual disinterest in the ship’s original purpose.
If this review has slipped back into discussing Le Guin’s work in a more general way, that’s only because The Found and the Lost is itself a comprehensive celebration of Le Guin’s work. She is a first-class author because she possesses those twin talents of both theme and storytelling ability. Reading a Le Guin story is to wrap oneself in another world for a time; this is the ultimate aim of almost any storytelling experience. Not every story of Le Guin’s is 5 stars and golden, of course. Some will resonate with you more than others. Yet even at her least engaging, Ursula K. Le Guin holds her own—and then some.
Collections are always curious things, particularly of novellas that were not necessarily meant to be together in the first place. It’s fortunate that Le Guin was able to curate this prior to her death. I’m not sure anyone else would have pulled together her works in the way she would have wanted. As it is, this is a collection of Hainish/Ekumen novellas and Earthsea works. I think I had read one or two of them elsewhere—they felt vaguely familiar—but otherwise I enjoyed that many of these were new to me. I started this in the summer of 2018, hoping to read it over a few weeks on my deck. Life had other plans, so here I am only finishing it now. But it was worth it.
All of Le Guin’s works, whether they are set in a future of worlds scattered amongst the stars or in an alternate world of islands scattered across an ocean, are deeply considered with ideas of power, gender, and class. These novellas showcase how she uses science fiction and fantasy to interrogate the extent to which injustice seems to be an artifact of the human condition and how much our social constructs influence it.
The novellas set on Werel feature a slave-owning caste eventually overthrown during a long, bloody civil war. Le Guin examines this society from multiple points of view: slaves, owners or privileged people, and the supposedly-neutral Ekumen observers. She interrogates the intersections of class, race, and gender. Notably, Le Guin’s protagonists, and indeed the majority of the characters in books, often have brown skin tones. Le Guin is careful to subvert the “whiteness by default” trope, to remark on the skin colours of black, brown, and white characters. These are the subtle ways in which she challenges our privileges and assumptions as readers.
Le Guin has less subtle ways of challenging us too. The Earthsea stories focus mainly on the role of wizards within the kyriarchy. The novellas take place at very different times in Earthsea’s history. One concerns the founding of Roke and foreshadows the establishment of wizardry as a male-only trade, which is reprised and expanded upon in Dragonfly. These stories remind me a lot of the main Earthsea cycle and its protagonists, Ged and Tenar: one of Le Guin’s trademark moves, in my opinion, is her stubborn refusal to give us heroes. These novellas really emphasize that people who have more power don’t always use that power in sensible ways. In addition to the truism that power corrupts, Le Guin points out that people are flawed in general. The most famous Archmage is no less fallible than a fisherman or fisherwoman, despite our yearning as readers for larger-than-life heroic mages who can beat back the forces of darkness.
In the end, Le Guin refuses to give us comfort. Her stories are unrelenting in their realism, despite being works of speculative fiction. The last story in this collection, Paradises Lost, exemplifies this approach. Le Guin’s take on a generation ship story feels very realistic in the way it deals with the emergence of a new religion and the gradual disinterest in the ship’s original purpose.
If this review has slipped back into discussing Le Guin’s work in a more general way, that’s only because The Found and the Lost is itself a comprehensive celebration of Le Guin’s work. She is a first-class author because she possesses those twin talents of both theme and storytelling ability. Reading a Le Guin story is to wrap oneself in another world for a time; this is the ultimate aim of almost any storytelling experience. Not every story of Le Guin’s is 5 stars and golden, of course. Some will resonate with you more than others. Yet even at her least engaging, Ursula K. Le Guin holds her own—and then some.
My library did not have a copy of this, because it has been independently published, so I had to go and buy it like the fan I am. The Ghost Rebellion picks up shortly after The Diamond Conspiracy. Books and Braun are back, along with longtime supporting characters like Bruce Campbell, and some new faces in the principal setting of India. The Ministry managed to foil a plot against the British Empire while technically being disavowed, but their work is far from over. Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris once again deliver a book that is simultaneously action-packed, funny, and intensely interesting.
Books and Braun are on the trail of Dr. Henry Jekyll. In this universe, Jekyll's medical talents have allowed him to develop a serum that is basically steroids+--but with all the terrible side-effects one might remember from Jekyll and Hyde. B&B are hoping to trap Jekyll by following an associate, Dr. Featherstone. Their journey takes them to India, where they get caught up in fighting against the Ghost Rebellion, who have been furnished with technology by Jekyll.
Meanwhile, Agents Campbell and Hill are dispatched to Russia to find a cure for Queen Victoria's terminal ailment. They have to infiltrate a Russian factory held by the House of Usher. Fortunately, they have the assistance of Ryfka, a crack sniper and deaf woman who is ready to put her life on the line to stop Usher's operation in its tracks. They quickly find that they have bitten off more than they can chew. Like most missions with the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, the parameters expand exponentially....
I love the dual A/B plot structure in The Ghost Rebellion. Although Ballantine and Morris have often given us different perspectives in previous books, particularly glimpses at the villains' plotting, Campbell and Hill's story gets a lot of page-time--and that's great. Not that I don't love B&B, of course, but Ballantine and Morris effectively balance these stories so you're kept wanting more of one just as they switch to another.
Neither plot lacks for action. There are gunfights. There are fistfights. There are gun-and-fist-and-holy-hell-is-that-power-armor?-and-hey-who-brought-the-tank-and-fuck-we're-fucked-we're-all-screwed fights. Although I suspect the vast majority of people picking up this book are series fans, a newcomer might enjoy this book for the action alone. Everyone gets a chance to shine in their own way (although if I name names, I'm going into spoiler territory, if you know what I mean).
Books and Braun's relationship continues to advance in interesting ways. This might be one of the book's weaker areas--there isn't as much character development here. There are plenty of callbacks to what we have already learned about Books' past. This includes a fairly intense and kind of disturbing sequence in which Books basically gets a bunch of inexperienced agents killed and then goes off as a result, to bloody ends. Braun, likewise, doesn't see much development. No real new backstory tidbits.
Together, though? I love how they have conversations like adults. They don't tiptoe around issues. They know their lives are weird and perilous--and they always resolve to deal with it together. I think the reason I like Books and Braun so much is that theirs is a relationship that is so healthy. They are totally a relationship of equals, complementing each other in skills and interests but always, always consulting and compromising instead of deferring or manipulating. Books and Braun do not play games. And that is what makes them such a formidable, amazing couple.
The other area in which The Ghost Rebellion is lacking is the eponymous antagonists. I appreciate Ballantine and Morris' effort to once again take us to an exotic location in their steampunk Victorian world. I'm not so chuffed with how it feels like Books and Braun are on the wrong side of the conflicts, here, defending Britain's imperialist interests from people seeking (albeit violently) liberation of their land and culture. Although there are some attempts to examine the moral ambiguity of the situation, they're ultimately sidelined in favour of the smash-bang-boom style action that I lauded above (because, really, it is spectacular). A throwaway mention of Pakistan at the end of the book, in a story set well before the independence and partitioning of India and the conception of the Pakistan region by that name, indicates that little care was put into representing India as an historical entity so much as an exotic, colonial setting for another steampunk romp. It's hard to get mad at this series; taking liberties with history is what it is all about, after all. But I think it's important to engage with these problems, even when we might be tempted to excuse them by labelling the books as less "serious" (whatever that means).
Don't get me wrong, though: as much as this book has a few problems, I hella enjoyed every moment of it. The plotting and scenes are just so tightly managed and written; Ballantine and Morris wring every last shred of suspense out of this story. There are some juicy moments with the House of Usher, where we see that the fallout from previous books has shaken the House to its very foundation. And Books and Braun continually have to adjust and course-correct as new information becomes available. As a result, Ballantine and Morris keep them (and us) guessing right until the very end.
As far as I'm aware, the next novel is going to be the conclusion of the series (at least for Books and Braun's adventures). As sad as I am to see the series coming to its close, I like that Ballantine and Morris have a plan. I'm so curious to see how they intend to wrap up these storylines. My only hope is that they manage to present Books and Braun with some deeper, more meaningful challenges in the next story, ones that bring them back to their roots from the very first books.
My reviews of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences series:
← The Diamond Conspiracy
Books and Braun are on the trail of Dr. Henry Jekyll. In this universe, Jekyll's medical talents have allowed him to develop a serum that is basically steroids+--but with all the terrible side-effects one might remember from Jekyll and Hyde. B&B are hoping to trap Jekyll by following an associate, Dr. Featherstone. Their journey takes them to India, where they get caught up in fighting against the Ghost Rebellion, who have been furnished with technology by Jekyll.
Meanwhile, Agents Campbell and Hill are dispatched to Russia to find a cure for Queen Victoria's terminal ailment. They have to infiltrate a Russian factory held by the House of Usher. Fortunately, they have the assistance of Ryfka, a crack sniper and deaf woman who is ready to put her life on the line to stop Usher's operation in its tracks. They quickly find that they have bitten off more than they can chew. Like most missions with the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, the parameters expand exponentially....
I love the dual A/B plot structure in The Ghost Rebellion. Although Ballantine and Morris have often given us different perspectives in previous books, particularly glimpses at the villains' plotting, Campbell and Hill's story gets a lot of page-time--and that's great. Not that I don't love B&B, of course, but Ballantine and Morris effectively balance these stories so you're kept wanting more of one just as they switch to another.
Neither plot lacks for action. There are gunfights. There are fistfights. There are gun-and-fist-and-holy-hell-is-that-power-armor?-and-hey-who-brought-the-tank-and-fuck-we're-fucked-we're-all-screwed fights. Although I suspect the vast majority of people picking up this book are series fans, a newcomer might enjoy this book for the action alone. Everyone gets a chance to shine in their own way (although if I name names, I'm going into spoiler territory, if you know what I mean).
Books and Braun's relationship continues to advance in interesting ways. This might be one of the book's weaker areas--there isn't as much character development here. There are plenty of callbacks to what we have already learned about Books' past. This includes a fairly intense and kind of disturbing sequence in which Books basically gets a bunch of inexperienced agents killed and then goes off as a result, to bloody ends. Braun, likewise, doesn't see much development. No real new backstory tidbits.
Together, though? I love how they have conversations like adults. They don't tiptoe around issues. They know their lives are weird and perilous--and they always resolve to deal with it together. I think the reason I like Books and Braun so much is that theirs is a relationship that is so healthy. They are totally a relationship of equals, complementing each other in skills and interests but always, always consulting and compromising instead of deferring or manipulating. Books and Braun do not play games. And that is what makes them such a formidable, amazing couple.
The other area in which The Ghost Rebellion is lacking is the eponymous antagonists. I appreciate Ballantine and Morris' effort to once again take us to an exotic location in their steampunk Victorian world. I'm not so chuffed with how it feels like Books and Braun are on the wrong side of the conflicts, here, defending Britain's imperialist interests from people seeking (albeit violently) liberation of their land and culture. Although there are some attempts to examine the moral ambiguity of the situation, they're ultimately sidelined in favour of the smash-bang-boom style action that I lauded above (because, really, it is spectacular). A throwaway mention of Pakistan at the end of the book, in a story set well before the independence and partitioning of India and the conception of the Pakistan region by that name, indicates that little care was put into representing India as an historical entity so much as an exotic, colonial setting for another steampunk romp. It's hard to get mad at this series; taking liberties with history is what it is all about, after all. But I think it's important to engage with these problems, even when we might be tempted to excuse them by labelling the books as less "serious" (whatever that means).
Don't get me wrong, though: as much as this book has a few problems, I hella enjoyed every moment of it. The plotting and scenes are just so tightly managed and written; Ballantine and Morris wring every last shred of suspense out of this story. There are some juicy moments with the House of Usher, where we see that the fallout from previous books has shaken the House to its very foundation. And Books and Braun continually have to adjust and course-correct as new information becomes available. As a result, Ballantine and Morris keep them (and us) guessing right until the very end.
As far as I'm aware, the next novel is going to be the conclusion of the series (at least for Books and Braun's adventures). As sad as I am to see the series coming to its close, I like that Ballantine and Morris have a plan. I'm so curious to see how they intend to wrap up these storylines. My only hope is that they manage to present Books and Braun with some deeper, more meaningful challenges in the next story, ones that bring them back to their roots from the very first books.
My reviews of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences series:
← The Diamond Conspiracy
Ever since the first Binti novella came out, I’ve been hearing all about it. I jumped at this collection when I saw it at the bookstore, then, because I find it difficult to grab hold of novellas otherwise. I don’t care if Tor.com pushes them on me for free sometimes: I need it in my hands or on my device or else I just … read other things. And I’m glad I read Binti and its startling, heartbreaking, daring vision of a future in which an African girl aspires to learn and grow beyond the village life she knows.
Binti is Himba, an ethnic group in a future Africa in a world parched by climate change. The Himba coexist in uneasy tension with the more dominant Khoush people, who had previously been at war with an alien species known as the Meduse. When Binti leaves home as the first Himba student admitted to the famous off-world Oomza University, she inadvertently winds up in the middle of an interstellar conflict. Her actions propel her into a role of increasing significance and danger, even as her experiences unmake and remake her into someone she never anticipated she could become.
Nnedi Okorafor herself gives a brief TED Talk explaining Afrofuturism, including an excerpt from the beginning of Binti. I encourage you to check it out, as I’m definitely not qualified to dive deeper into the question of what Afrofuturism is. All I can do is share my perspective and interpretation of what I saw in Binti.
The story here captivated me from the very beginning. Okorafor wastes no time throwing Binti her first challenge. Her interactions with the Meduse remind me somewhat of the ooloi from Butler’s Lilith’s Brood. There’s something so incredibly uncomfortable about swapping DNA in such a way (I suppose this is probably speciesist of me). Indeed, one of my favourite things about this series is the way in which Okorafor consistently challenges us to consider what Otherness means in the context of science fiction. The species Binti encounters are often non-humanoid. Even the humans she meets are extremely different, coming as they do from various cultures. The [Desert People] are particularly fascinating with their use of an alien biotech communications net.
None of those would matter, though, were it not for Binti herself. This is very much, as the titles imply, her story. She is crucial not because of some special talent she has (despite her abilities as a harmonizer) but for an openness, a willingness that others might lack. She has the technological aptitude of the Himba yet lacks the conservative streak of her people. As her story progresses, she acquires different and new artifacts of the various cultures she encounters. She is an envoy, yet an envoy of whom or indeed what is the question. While I found the arc of Binti’s story, up to and including the twist at the end, very predictable, that didn’t make it less enjoyable. Okorafor executes it flawlessly, building up Binti into a character who regrets everything and nothing, whose choices have led her to precisely where she needs to be, even if it isn’t where she wants to be.
I also love that Okorafor feels no need to explain how we got to here from where humanity is right now. There are some general allusions to the past, of course, but beyond that, we don’t have a clear sense of how far into the future it is, or indeed, what life is like elsewhere on Earth. We can try to read between the lines—that the Khoush and Meduse could be involved in a war while other parts of Earth aren’t seem to imply a fractured government, or a planet otherwise uninterested in contact with other species. Ultimately, though, none of this is important. None of it matters compared to Binti’s story and the lives that intersect hers.
One of the most interesting, most thought-provoking ideas in this story is that individual actions might resonate throughout history, yet always they only matter to a point. Consider how Oomza University’s administration reacts, first to Binti and the Meduse, then later to the story that Binti and friends tell of what happened in Binti’s homeland. In both cases, the administration doesn’t seem all that shaken by the loss of life, for instance. It recognizes that these are constants in our existence, and that there is only so much any one person can do to alter such events. This is an effective foil to Binti’s idealistic burden that she is responsible for igniting hostilities and also somehow capable of resolving them.
I could go on. I could discuss how Binti explores the conflict between wanting to be something more and wanting to respect and honour your family and people’s traditions. I could praise Okorafor’s descriptions and depictions of technology: living ships, nanites, mathematical fugue states. This isn’t hard or soft SF; it’s a truly delicious, squishiest sandwich or smorgasbord of SF tropes, and it works so very well.
Binti is an example of the glorious storytelling that you can let into your life if you reach out and look for science fiction that isn’t part of the classic white, male canon. Women and people of colour have always been writing badass SF stories. Okorafor is yet another member of both these groups demonstrating the value of diverse storytelling and the ways in which it can truly blow your mind.
Binti is Himba, an ethnic group in a future Africa in a world parched by climate change. The Himba coexist in uneasy tension with the more dominant Khoush people, who had previously been at war with an alien species known as the Meduse. When Binti leaves home as the first Himba student admitted to the famous off-world Oomza University, she inadvertently winds up in the middle of an interstellar conflict. Her actions propel her into a role of increasing significance and danger, even as her experiences unmake and remake her into someone she never anticipated she could become.
Nnedi Okorafor herself gives a brief TED Talk explaining Afrofuturism, including an excerpt from the beginning of Binti. I encourage you to check it out, as I’m definitely not qualified to dive deeper into the question of what Afrofuturism is. All I can do is share my perspective and interpretation of what I saw in Binti.
The story here captivated me from the very beginning. Okorafor wastes no time throwing Binti her first challenge. Her interactions with the Meduse remind me somewhat of the ooloi from Butler’s Lilith’s Brood. There’s something so incredibly uncomfortable about swapping DNA in such a way (I suppose this is probably speciesist of me). Indeed, one of my favourite things about this series is the way in which Okorafor consistently challenges us to consider what Otherness means in the context of science fiction. The species Binti encounters are often non-humanoid. Even the humans she meets are extremely different, coming as they do from various cultures. The [Desert People] are particularly fascinating with their use of an alien biotech communications net.
None of those would matter, though, were it not for Binti herself. This is very much, as the titles imply, her story. She is crucial not because of some special talent she has (despite her abilities as a harmonizer) but for an openness, a willingness that others might lack. She has the technological aptitude of the Himba yet lacks the conservative streak of her people. As her story progresses, she acquires different and new artifacts of the various cultures she encounters. She is an envoy, yet an envoy of whom or indeed what is the question. While I found the arc of Binti’s story, up to and including the twist at the end, very predictable, that didn’t make it less enjoyable. Okorafor executes it flawlessly, building up Binti into a character who regrets everything and nothing, whose choices have led her to precisely where she needs to be, even if it isn’t where she wants to be.
I also love that Okorafor feels no need to explain how we got to here from where humanity is right now. There are some general allusions to the past, of course, but beyond that, we don’t have a clear sense of how far into the future it is, or indeed, what life is like elsewhere on Earth. We can try to read between the lines—that the Khoush and Meduse could be involved in a war while other parts of Earth aren’t seem to imply a fractured government, or a planet otherwise uninterested in contact with other species. Ultimately, though, none of this is important. None of it matters compared to Binti’s story and the lives that intersect hers.
One of the most interesting, most thought-provoking ideas in this story is that individual actions might resonate throughout history, yet always they only matter to a point. Consider how Oomza University’s administration reacts, first to Binti and the Meduse, then later to the story that Binti and friends tell of what happened in Binti’s homeland. In both cases, the administration doesn’t seem all that shaken by the loss of life, for instance. It recognizes that these are constants in our existence, and that there is only so much any one person can do to alter such events. This is an effective foil to Binti’s idealistic burden that she is responsible for igniting hostilities and also somehow capable of resolving them.
I could go on. I could discuss how Binti explores the conflict between wanting to be something more and wanting to respect and honour your family and people’s traditions. I could praise Okorafor’s descriptions and depictions of technology: living ships, nanites, mathematical fugue states. This isn’t hard or soft SF; it’s a truly delicious, squishiest sandwich or smorgasbord of SF tropes, and it works so very well.
Binti is an example of the glorious storytelling that you can let into your life if you reach out and look for science fiction that isn’t part of the classic white, male canon. Women and people of colour have always been writing badass SF stories. Okorafor is yet another member of both these groups demonstrating the value of diverse storytelling and the ways in which it can truly blow your mind.
I had never heard of Jack Vance until Subterranean Press announced it would be publishing a tribute anthology containing stories from some of my favourite authors. Apparently Vance is a master fantasist, on par with Tolkien, and his Dying Earth series inspired all of those authors, and many more, in the latter half of the twentieth century. So I ordered the massive volume from Subterranean Press, and then I set about finding a copy of the original book that started it all. Since then, Vance has led to nothing but surprises.
The first surprise was the length of The Dying Earth. This is a thin book. I was expecting something epic, not quite doorstopper (for I'm aware that they did not publish doorstopper fantasy in those days, Tolkien excepted), but something with more presence. That was my mistake, for I am young and unfamiliar with the pulpiness of paperbacks from that era, even British reprints from the 1980s.
The second surprise was the serialized nature of the novel. Either I missed that part when reading about it, or no one deigned to mention that The Dying Earth is actually a collection of episodic shorts rather than a continuous narrative. Not that there is anything wrong with this, but I think that jarred me when I began reading.
And then I began reading.
There is so much to praise about The Dying Earth. Vance has a deft touch when it comes to names, places, and descriptions. His characters have odd-sounding monikers and come from odd-sounding places; the times they inhabit are odder still. Above all, his stories are whimsical in a way that transcends any merely-adequate work of fantasy. His magicians and sorcerers dabble with demons and spirits; his thieves stumble across artifacts of power and cross paths with princes and scholars. Vance has created a world where not only anything can happen but you, while reading it, believe that anything can happen—and eventually, it probably will.
Vance's mastery lies in his ability to create the sense of difference essential to works of speculative fiction. And I see why he is considered one of the greats of this field and why his books are held up as paradigm examples. We are lucky enough to be experiencing a glut of fantasy, and a lot of it is derivative. I can forgive those poor uninitiated who, having cracked open a fantasy novel at the bookstore, conclude that the entire genre is nothing more than "medieval Europe with magic". The Dying Earth is most certainly not that. Instead of presenting a poor analog of our world and adding magic, Vance takes us far into the future, where magic has superseded technology (or assimilated it, if you will) in the waning days of this planet. He gives us vat-grown clones, instantaneous transportation across the face of the Earth and between planets, fantastic flying machines, and of course a broad gallery of interesting new animals and creatures to populate his Dying Earth. Deodands, plegranes, and grues—oh my!
And yet.…
And yet, I cannot give this book three stars. From an academic perspective, I can appreciate Vance's skill. But I just did not enjoy the book as a reader. The Dying Earth is an intricately constructed palace, one which I would love to view from afar. But, like Camelot, it is only a model.
We've all had this feeling before. We read something that people we trust, whether they are bestselling authors or just our best friends, recommend with a fervour and zealousness that is, at times, a little scary. And we don't like it. So we wonder: is there something wrong with us, that everyone else can enjoy this book while we remain unmoved? I am never satisfied by simply saying that my mileage varies, that everything is subjective. I am curious; I want to analyze my discontent and understand what makes me different from those who swear by Jack Vance and his Dying Earth.
Most obviously there is a generational gap between me and the various authors who were inspired by Vance. I have grown up in a literary world very different than the one that educated those authors, thanks in part to their own contributions before I was born and then during my childhood. George R.R. Martin had no George R.R. Martin to hook him on the political intrigue of A Song of Ice and Fire. So I have been exposed to a different set of formative fantasy texts, and for that reason, Vance's effect on me is different.
I won't go so far as to claim that the generation gap is the entire reason. I am sure there are many people my age who have fallen in love with Vance's stories. I have several friends who play Dungeons & Dragons, and they might find his stories more entertaining than I did. In addition to the differences in literature between when I grew up and these Vance fans did, there are also just differences in mood and mentality.
For instance, I have terrible trouble visualizing events. When I read, I seldom picture the story in my head. If I do, characters are mere human-shaped blobs; I don't see faces. Visualizing, for me, ends up more like a radio play than television. So I tend to prefer dialogue to description, action to imagery. I can recognize Vance's penchant for the latter, but a lot of it is lost on me. And I cannot keep his aeons and his places straight for the life of me (I love that maps have become commonplace at the front of newer fantasy). In this respect, The Dying Earth required more effort from me than, shall we say, more straightforward of fantasy.
So I will reserve myself from making a recommendation for or against Jack Vance. I think his vast oeuvre and acclaim speaks for itself, and you would probably be very unwise to ignore him once, like me, you discover his existence. Maybe you will pick up an old paperback copy of one of his earlier books and fall in love and devour everything else he has written. Or maybe, like me, you will read The Dying Earth, recognize a master at work, but sadly be deprived of joining the club. Because you can choose what you appreciate and what you celebrate, but you cannot choose what you love.
The first surprise was the length of The Dying Earth. This is a thin book. I was expecting something epic, not quite doorstopper (for I'm aware that they did not publish doorstopper fantasy in those days, Tolkien excepted), but something with more presence. That was my mistake, for I am young and unfamiliar with the pulpiness of paperbacks from that era, even British reprints from the 1980s.
The second surprise was the serialized nature of the novel. Either I missed that part when reading about it, or no one deigned to mention that The Dying Earth is actually a collection of episodic shorts rather than a continuous narrative. Not that there is anything wrong with this, but I think that jarred me when I began reading.
And then I began reading.
There is so much to praise about The Dying Earth. Vance has a deft touch when it comes to names, places, and descriptions. His characters have odd-sounding monikers and come from odd-sounding places; the times they inhabit are odder still. Above all, his stories are whimsical in a way that transcends any merely-adequate work of fantasy. His magicians and sorcerers dabble with demons and spirits; his thieves stumble across artifacts of power and cross paths with princes and scholars. Vance has created a world where not only anything can happen but you, while reading it, believe that anything can happen—and eventually, it probably will.
Vance's mastery lies in his ability to create the sense of difference essential to works of speculative fiction. And I see why he is considered one of the greats of this field and why his books are held up as paradigm examples. We are lucky enough to be experiencing a glut of fantasy, and a lot of it is derivative. I can forgive those poor uninitiated who, having cracked open a fantasy novel at the bookstore, conclude that the entire genre is nothing more than "medieval Europe with magic". The Dying Earth is most certainly not that. Instead of presenting a poor analog of our world and adding magic, Vance takes us far into the future, where magic has superseded technology (or assimilated it, if you will) in the waning days of this planet. He gives us vat-grown clones, instantaneous transportation across the face of the Earth and between planets, fantastic flying machines, and of course a broad gallery of interesting new animals and creatures to populate his Dying Earth. Deodands, plegranes, and grues—oh my!
And yet.…
And yet, I cannot give this book three stars. From an academic perspective, I can appreciate Vance's skill. But I just did not enjoy the book as a reader. The Dying Earth is an intricately constructed palace, one which I would love to view from afar. But, like Camelot, it is only a model.
We've all had this feeling before. We read something that people we trust, whether they are bestselling authors or just our best friends, recommend with a fervour and zealousness that is, at times, a little scary. And we don't like it. So we wonder: is there something wrong with us, that everyone else can enjoy this book while we remain unmoved? I am never satisfied by simply saying that my mileage varies, that everything is subjective. I am curious; I want to analyze my discontent and understand what makes me different from those who swear by Jack Vance and his Dying Earth.
Most obviously there is a generational gap between me and the various authors who were inspired by Vance. I have grown up in a literary world very different than the one that educated those authors, thanks in part to their own contributions before I was born and then during my childhood. George R.R. Martin had no George R.R. Martin to hook him on the political intrigue of A Song of Ice and Fire. So I have been exposed to a different set of formative fantasy texts, and for that reason, Vance's effect on me is different.
I won't go so far as to claim that the generation gap is the entire reason. I am sure there are many people my age who have fallen in love with Vance's stories. I have several friends who play Dungeons & Dragons, and they might find his stories more entertaining than I did. In addition to the differences in literature between when I grew up and these Vance fans did, there are also just differences in mood and mentality.
For instance, I have terrible trouble visualizing events. When I read, I seldom picture the story in my head. If I do, characters are mere human-shaped blobs; I don't see faces. Visualizing, for me, ends up more like a radio play than television. So I tend to prefer dialogue to description, action to imagery. I can recognize Vance's penchant for the latter, but a lot of it is lost on me. And I cannot keep his aeons and his places straight for the life of me (I love that maps have become commonplace at the front of newer fantasy). In this respect, The Dying Earth required more effort from me than, shall we say, more straightforward of fantasy.
So I will reserve myself from making a recommendation for or against Jack Vance. I think his vast oeuvre and acclaim speaks for itself, and you would probably be very unwise to ignore him once, like me, you discover his existence. Maybe you will pick up an old paperback copy of one of his earlier books and fall in love and devour everything else he has written. Or maybe, like me, you will read The Dying Earth, recognize a master at work, but sadly be deprived of joining the club. Because you can choose what you appreciate and what you celebrate, but you cannot choose what you love.
I grew up in the ’90s, and I vaguely remember on TV when I was a kid some kind of scandal involving this guy named Bill Clinton, whom I knew as the President of the United States. The word impeachment kept getting thrown around, but of course I didn’t really know what that meant. Fast-forward 20 years, and the word has resurfaced as a possible fate for the current President, Donald Trump—and this time, I knew what the word meant, but I didn’t really understand what impeachment entails. So Brenda Wineapple’s book on the impeachment of Andrew Johnson came into my life at an opportune time. The Impeachers explains the nature of presidential impeachment through a case study of one of the only two presidents ever to be impeached. However, it is much, much more than that. It’s really a snapshot of American history immediately following the American Civil War. Thanks to NetGalley and Random House for the eARC.
Here in Canada, we learn some very bare-bones American history (which means we learn slightly more than the average American does about American history). So obviously I knew what the Civil War was, what it was about, causes, etc. I knew the names Lincoln and Grant and (vaguely) Johnson. As history classes in school often do, however, they elide the difficult reconstruction parts that follow any massive conflict. I had known the Civil War was a thing, and that it had led to Emancipation. Never did I really pause to think what that actually looked like, how the Confederate states were readmitted into the Union, the immediate effects of emancipating slaves in the South, the violence that ensued … but of course, the moment Wineapple starts describing the headaches, problems, and loss of life, it was immediately obvious. Just because the Union had “won” the war didn’t mean everyone in the South was suddenly going to magically be all right with living next to free Black people. Duh.
So Wineapple spends the first part of the book on a brief history of the United States right at the beginning of Johnson’s presidency: Lincoln assassinated, the country still fractured, legislators deeply divided on what an equitable Reconstruction looks like. Wineapple frames this as Johnson essentially being the wrong man at the wrong time, his temperament and ideology inappropriate for the task of Reconstruction. As I mentioned above, lots of this was new to me. I had no idea about Johnson’s political views on secession, suffrage, etc.
Wineapple also covers a lot of the animus and internecine racial conflict in the South. She doesn’t mince words: the Union might have won the war and abolished slavery, but that didn’t end racism any more than Obama’s election in 2008 ended it. White people were lynching Black people (and white allies) quite openly. The overall effect is to belie the comfortable idea that the violence and unrest in the present-day United States of America is somehow a new or different condition than earlier in its history. So many people seem interested in “returning” to the better days, of making America—dare I say—great again. Although Wineapple doesn’t come right out and say it, we can infer that there is a strong possibility America was never “great” in that sense. Indeed, even with the civil war “won,” the idea that the former Confederate states would simply return to the Union was not a foregone conclusion….
So, impeachment trial itself aside, The Impeachers provides such valuable insight into US history just after the Civil War. How does it fare with the impeachment though?
Honestly, there are more details here than I probably wanted. This will be an excellent reference for anyone who is a student of this era. Wineapple is careful to go into the backstories of anyone who might be anything more than a passing player in this drama; there are even photos! Believe me, I’m not criticizing the book for these attributes—but they do add up for a somewhat drier experience than I typically look for in my history books. This is just a case of mismatched book and audience, though, not a reflection on the book’s quality.
When we finally get to the impeachment trial, things feel more anticlimactic. Again, Wineapple wants to recount everything in as much detail as possible, drawing out the inevitable acquittal (uh … sorry, spoilers) that we know must be coming. Again, if detail is what you want, then you will not be disappointed. I really just wanted to know what happened and hear Wineapple’s take on the how and why.
On the other hand, all of the back and forth helps us understand what impeachment is and is not. Firstly, it’s not clearly laid out in the Constitution. This first presidential impeachment was very improvisational and ad hoc. It’s not a criminal procedure—it’s a political one, despite the Chief Justice presiding. Finally, its political origins mean it hangs more on the well-chosen words and backroom deals of political vote-grubbing than it does on any type of evidentiary support. At the end of the day, Johnson is acquitted not because he’s “innocent” of the articles of impeachment but because enough senators had doubts, or professed to have doubts because it was more politically expedient for them to do so.
I understand now better the issues at stake as people call for the impeachment of Donald Trump. It’s not just a procedural but an inherently political decision. And, without meaning to downplay the direction in which the United States is currently heading, this book reminds us that there have definitely been Constitutional lacunae previously in American history. It’s true that we don’t really know what Americans and their government will do if Trump finally crosses some kind of line he hasn’t already crossed with apparent impunity—but the United States has actually been in similar situations before. Now, I don’t say this to be reassuring in any way. Instead, I just want to observe that The Impeachers is a good lesson in why learning one’s history is so important: if we remember where we’ve been, we have a better sense of the precedents that can shape our future.
Anyway, as a non-American who doesn’t often read about American history, this was a pretty OK read. A little too technical/detailed for my history-reading tastes. A student of history might be more appreciative of that kind of thing, though. This definitely improved my understanding of an important period of American history and helped put some current events in a new perspective. If we take that to be part of history books’ purpose, then on that scale, The Impeachers succeeds.
Here in Canada, we learn some very bare-bones American history (which means we learn slightly more than the average American does about American history). So obviously I knew what the Civil War was, what it was about, causes, etc. I knew the names Lincoln and Grant and (vaguely) Johnson. As history classes in school often do, however, they elide the difficult reconstruction parts that follow any massive conflict. I had known the Civil War was a thing, and that it had led to Emancipation. Never did I really pause to think what that actually looked like, how the Confederate states were readmitted into the Union, the immediate effects of emancipating slaves in the South, the violence that ensued … but of course, the moment Wineapple starts describing the headaches, problems, and loss of life, it was immediately obvious. Just because the Union had “won” the war didn’t mean everyone in the South was suddenly going to magically be all right with living next to free Black people. Duh.
So Wineapple spends the first part of the book on a brief history of the United States right at the beginning of Johnson’s presidency: Lincoln assassinated, the country still fractured, legislators deeply divided on what an equitable Reconstruction looks like. Wineapple frames this as Johnson essentially being the wrong man at the wrong time, his temperament and ideology inappropriate for the task of Reconstruction. As I mentioned above, lots of this was new to me. I had no idea about Johnson’s political views on secession, suffrage, etc.
Wineapple also covers a lot of the animus and internecine racial conflict in the South. She doesn’t mince words: the Union might have won the war and abolished slavery, but that didn’t end racism any more than Obama’s election in 2008 ended it. White people were lynching Black people (and white allies) quite openly. The overall effect is to belie the comfortable idea that the violence and unrest in the present-day United States of America is somehow a new or different condition than earlier in its history. So many people seem interested in “returning” to the better days, of making America—dare I say—great again. Although Wineapple doesn’t come right out and say it, we can infer that there is a strong possibility America was never “great” in that sense. Indeed, even with the civil war “won,” the idea that the former Confederate states would simply return to the Union was not a foregone conclusion….
So, impeachment trial itself aside, The Impeachers provides such valuable insight into US history just after the Civil War. How does it fare with the impeachment though?
Honestly, there are more details here than I probably wanted. This will be an excellent reference for anyone who is a student of this era. Wineapple is careful to go into the backstories of anyone who might be anything more than a passing player in this drama; there are even photos! Believe me, I’m not criticizing the book for these attributes—but they do add up for a somewhat drier experience than I typically look for in my history books. This is just a case of mismatched book and audience, though, not a reflection on the book’s quality.
When we finally get to the impeachment trial, things feel more anticlimactic. Again, Wineapple wants to recount everything in as much detail as possible, drawing out the inevitable acquittal (uh … sorry, spoilers) that we know must be coming. Again, if detail is what you want, then you will not be disappointed. I really just wanted to know what happened and hear Wineapple’s take on the how and why.
On the other hand, all of the back and forth helps us understand what impeachment is and is not. Firstly, it’s not clearly laid out in the Constitution. This first presidential impeachment was very improvisational and ad hoc. It’s not a criminal procedure—it’s a political one, despite the Chief Justice presiding. Finally, its political origins mean it hangs more on the well-chosen words and backroom deals of political vote-grubbing than it does on any type of evidentiary support. At the end of the day, Johnson is acquitted not because he’s “innocent” of the articles of impeachment but because enough senators had doubts, or professed to have doubts because it was more politically expedient for them to do so.
I understand now better the issues at stake as people call for the impeachment of Donald Trump. It’s not just a procedural but an inherently political decision. And, without meaning to downplay the direction in which the United States is currently heading, this book reminds us that there have definitely been Constitutional lacunae previously in American history. It’s true that we don’t really know what Americans and their government will do if Trump finally crosses some kind of line he hasn’t already crossed with apparent impunity—but the United States has actually been in similar situations before. Now, I don’t say this to be reassuring in any way. Instead, I just want to observe that The Impeachers is a good lesson in why learning one’s history is so important: if we remember where we’ve been, we have a better sense of the precedents that can shape our future.
Anyway, as a non-American who doesn’t often read about American history, this was a pretty OK read. A little too technical/detailed for my history-reading tastes. A student of history might be more appreciative of that kind of thing, though. This definitely improved my understanding of an important period of American history and helped put some current events in a new perspective. If we take that to be part of history books’ purpose, then on that scale, The Impeachers succeeds.
So you want to stage a soft-coup and manipulate the succession, but you have one problem: you need some kind of plausible heir. Fortunately for you, about 17 years ago you encountered a baby at the same time there was a royal massacre, and well, you know, one thing led to another, and you ended up stashing her with some super skilled warrior so she would grow up all big and strong. Also, you read this play called Anastasia you found lying around near that weird door that leads to another dimension, and it gave you some ideas….
This is basically the plot of Shadowblade (minus the multi-dimensional shenanigans, sorry to say). Anna Kashina tells the story of a young woman, Naia, manipulated by old, ambitious men (and one old, perhaps even more ambitious woman) to take over the empire—albeit temporarily. Along the way, she has to learn to be more confident in herself. Because as the overarching plan goes awry, Naia finds it necessary to step in and fill the gaps with her own ideas. That doesn’t make anyone happy! And there are fight scenes. And sex too. Thanks to Angry Robot and NetGalley for the eARC.
I’m going to jump right into the things I disliked about this book.
There’s way too much telling versus showing happening here. We’re told that the emperor is a bad dude and that his heir is also a bad dude—but we never actually meet the emperor. Conversely, we’re supposed to take Dal Gassan at his word that he has the empire’s best interests at heart—but aside from knowing that he’s a healer, we only really ever see him interacting with Naia, with some of the Jaihar, etc.
Kashina has created, frankly, an intriguing world here. I like how she weaves together the disparate cultural elements of Challimar, the Jaihar, the Daljeer, etc. It’s creative and fun and interesting, and I want to know more. Yet for all of these ideas, Shadowblade’s narrative scope is frustratingly shallow. The pacing and plot are almost so spare that we seldom get to see the characters do anything other than move the story forward by conversing about politics or having some cool battles. Perhaps the closest we get are some nice scenes between Naia and Karim near the beginning of the book where they spar and then go for dinner and he basically gives her a pep talk while he tries to figure out if she’s worth keeping in the order. For the most part, however, we move forward because a select few people tell us we need to move forward with this secret plot, without ever really giving us much reason to trust them other than the fact the book is following their point of view….
Content notice for somewhat graphic sex scenes as well. The romantic subplot here is predictable; however, Kashina at least makes its development gradual enough to feel more believable. Romance (and especially) sex don’t do much for me personally in these books, though, so I skimmed those parts. Just a heads-up if you’re not a fan of that stuff. I do like, however, that the older character at least attempts to consider the power imbalance created by their age and position (although the power imbalance created by position actually changes by the end of the book, interestingly enough).
Even with regards to that relationship, though, Kashina might have explored more deeply. That’s my overall critique of Shadowblade: it has so many opportunities to get deeper and even more interesting, but it never manages to take the plunge.
So why read this book? Well, Kashina knows how to write combat. She focuses both on what the characters do as well as what they’re feeling. Even though there’s a little bit of magic involved with “iron-sensing,” the characters with this ability also train tirelessly to become skilled fighters regardless of their innate senses. Kashina and her characters also have a keen sense of how storytelling is important to national identity and pride and to any good con. The plot, while predictable, is executed in an enjoyable way.
In other words, Shadowblade was a fine diversion for a holiday Monday afternoon. Alas, I was in the mood for fantasy that would ignite my senses and make me crave more, more, more … and it doesn’t quite go that far.
This is basically the plot of Shadowblade (minus the multi-dimensional shenanigans, sorry to say). Anna Kashina tells the story of a young woman, Naia, manipulated by old, ambitious men (and one old, perhaps even more ambitious woman) to take over the empire—albeit temporarily. Along the way, she has to learn to be more confident in herself. Because as the overarching plan goes awry, Naia finds it necessary to step in and fill the gaps with her own ideas. That doesn’t make anyone happy! And there are fight scenes. And sex too. Thanks to Angry Robot and NetGalley for the eARC.
I’m going to jump right into the things I disliked about this book.
There’s way too much telling versus showing happening here. We’re told that the emperor is a bad dude and that his heir is also a bad dude—but we never actually meet the emperor. Conversely, we’re supposed to take Dal Gassan at his word that he has the empire’s best interests at heart—but aside from knowing that he’s a healer, we only really ever see him interacting with Naia, with some of the Jaihar, etc.
Kashina has created, frankly, an intriguing world here. I like how she weaves together the disparate cultural elements of Challimar, the Jaihar, the Daljeer, etc. It’s creative and fun and interesting, and I want to know more. Yet for all of these ideas, Shadowblade’s narrative scope is frustratingly shallow. The pacing and plot are almost so spare that we seldom get to see the characters do anything other than move the story forward by conversing about politics or having some cool battles. Perhaps the closest we get are some nice scenes between Naia and Karim near the beginning of the book where they spar and then go for dinner and he basically gives her a pep talk while he tries to figure out if she’s worth keeping in the order. For the most part, however, we move forward because a select few people tell us we need to move forward with this secret plot, without ever really giving us much reason to trust them other than the fact the book is following their point of view….
Content notice for somewhat graphic sex scenes as well. The romantic subplot here is predictable; however, Kashina at least makes its development gradual enough to feel more believable. Romance (and especially) sex don’t do much for me personally in these books, though, so I skimmed those parts. Just a heads-up if you’re not a fan of that stuff. I do like, however, that the older character at least attempts to consider the power imbalance created by their age and position (although the power imbalance created by position actually changes by the end of the book, interestingly enough).
Even with regards to that relationship, though, Kashina might have explored more deeply. That’s my overall critique of Shadowblade: it has so many opportunities to get deeper and even more interesting, but it never manages to take the plunge.
So why read this book? Well, Kashina knows how to write combat. She focuses both on what the characters do as well as what they’re feeling. Even though there’s a little bit of magic involved with “iron-sensing,” the characters with this ability also train tirelessly to become skilled fighters regardless of their innate senses. Kashina and her characters also have a keen sense of how storytelling is important to national identity and pride and to any good con. The plot, while predictable, is executed in an enjoyable way.
In other words, Shadowblade was a fine diversion for a holiday Monday afternoon. Alas, I was in the mood for fantasy that would ignite my senses and make me crave more, more, more … and it doesn’t quite go that far.
Oh boy, I should have checked out the Goodreads rating and reviews before buying this one. But I couldn’t resist! It was on sale at Chapters, and a whole book that seems to be about the history of writing? Sure, I flipped through the first few pages and detected a slightly pretentious tone—but I just thought it meant the author was very passionate and serious about their topic! I was seduced, I say! Seduced!
Palimpsest: A History of the Written Word is an investigation by Matthew Battles into the impetus and actuality of writing throughout human history. From painting on cave walls to computer code and text on glowing screens, Battles asks us to consider whether writing is what makes us human, whether humans inevitably—sorry, or I should say, as Battles loves to, ineluctably—had to write—and if so, why did we invent it when we did? Along the way, he connects writing to a number of social and cultural developments. However, he never really goes too deep into the subject. Indeed, his overall thesis is ultimately somewhat weak, while his writing and prose is cloyingly sesquipedalian. (In addition to the above-noted ineluctably, Battles’ second-favourite word is enjambment).
A small part of me feels mean for criticizing someone’s writing like this. After all, I do enjoy beautiful writing. I enjoy someone who knows what words they want to use and uses them, even if they are perhaps uncommon. I enjoy a good turn of phrase or image skilfully painted with the text.
And then we get passages like this one:
Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope.
There are two important and interesting points Battles manages to make in Palimpsest. First, that writing is linked to control and from there perhaps to slavery. Second, that writing inherently conflicts with the reliability of oral memory. Neither of these ideas are new to me, nor do I think Battles explores them particularly well. (Consider Ted Chiang’s “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling” for a meditation on the latter.) Battles discusses how this book took him over a decade to assemble, and I feel for him: this is a difficult, broad, chaotic topic to grapple with. Yet for all that effort, Battles really only grasps at the edges of what writing is or does for us.
Each of the chapters has its highlights. Battles dives deep into Chinese writing for a while. His chapter on holy texts (but mostly just the Bible) contained some things I already knew about the authorship of the various Bible books. However, he also points out that how the Bible mentions or doesn’t mention writing, particularly in Paul’s letters, can give us a lot of information about literacy and cultural ideas about writing at the time those books were written. This kind of archaeological sleuthing is highly appealing to me. Similarly, when Battles discusses the printing press, he avoids swooning over its revolutionary nature but instead points that it was part of a larger, ongoing development in writing, that people seized upon the printing press as one of many new technologies and ideas with which to spread their words across continents.
So you see, it isn’t actually his style that disappoints so much as how that style, combined with the futility of the book, disappoints me. I never returned to Palimpsest excited or eager for the next chapter of this quest; I slouched back towards it with a sense of dread. Why didn’t I give up? Well, I was learning some things. Battles has done his research, and he cites a lot of interesting ideas. It just never quite coheres into a full, rich, rewarding experience for the reader. I wish I could endorse this book and tell you about how I luxuriated in the richness of the prose for hours on end. Alas … reader, I ineluctably did not find my elation in the enjambments of word and idea reified by the ink-on-paper of this tome.
Palimpsest: A History of the Written Word is an investigation by Matthew Battles into the impetus and actuality of writing throughout human history. From painting on cave walls to computer code and text on glowing screens, Battles asks us to consider whether writing is what makes us human, whether humans inevitably—sorry, or I should say, as Battles loves to, ineluctably—had to write—and if so, why did we invent it when we did? Along the way, he connects writing to a number of social and cultural developments. However, he never really goes too deep into the subject. Indeed, his overall thesis is ultimately somewhat weak, while his writing and prose is cloyingly sesquipedalian. (In addition to the above-noted ineluctably, Battles’ second-favourite word is enjambment).
A small part of me feels mean for criticizing someone’s writing like this. After all, I do enjoy beautiful writing. I enjoy someone who knows what words they want to use and uses them, even if they are perhaps uncommon. I enjoy a good turn of phrase or image skilfully painted with the text.
And then we get passages like this one:
The nineteenth century was the Age of the Letter, the soot-colored ink of the press seeping like coal fire into every corner of public and private life. In Europe and America, men dressed like letters: their woolens dyed in inky tones, their top hats erect like the ascenders of the letters b, d, and h, their coattails and boot heels turned like serifs.
Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope.
There are two important and interesting points Battles manages to make in Palimpsest. First, that writing is linked to control and from there perhaps to slavery. Second, that writing inherently conflicts with the reliability of oral memory. Neither of these ideas are new to me, nor do I think Battles explores them particularly well. (Consider Ted Chiang’s “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling” for a meditation on the latter.) Battles discusses how this book took him over a decade to assemble, and I feel for him: this is a difficult, broad, chaotic topic to grapple with. Yet for all that effort, Battles really only grasps at the edges of what writing is or does for us.
Each of the chapters has its highlights. Battles dives deep into Chinese writing for a while. His chapter on holy texts (but mostly just the Bible) contained some things I already knew about the authorship of the various Bible books. However, he also points out that how the Bible mentions or doesn’t mention writing, particularly in Paul’s letters, can give us a lot of information about literacy and cultural ideas about writing at the time those books were written. This kind of archaeological sleuthing is highly appealing to me. Similarly, when Battles discusses the printing press, he avoids swooning over its revolutionary nature but instead points that it was part of a larger, ongoing development in writing, that people seized upon the printing press as one of many new technologies and ideas with which to spread their words across continents.
So you see, it isn’t actually his style that disappoints so much as how that style, combined with the futility of the book, disappoints me. I never returned to Palimpsest excited or eager for the next chapter of this quest; I slouched back towards it with a sense of dread. Why didn’t I give up? Well, I was learning some things. Battles has done his research, and he cites a lot of interesting ideas. It just never quite coheres into a full, rich, rewarding experience for the reader. I wish I could endorse this book and tell you about how I luxuriated in the richness of the prose for hours on end. Alas … reader, I ineluctably did not find my elation in the enjambments of word and idea reified by the ink-on-paper of this tome.