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tachyondecay
You know what makes counterfactual fiction work? It’s fiction. Counterfactual history is just an exercise bound to end in tears.
So many histories of the British Empire, and with good reason—it was, in its time, quite a big deal. Many histories of the UK focus on the British Isles, on the monarchs and shenanigans happening in the succession. And that’s all very fascinating, but it’s not what Niall Ferguson wants to talk about here. Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power is a nearly 400-page analysis of how the spread of Britain’s power, and its subsequent waning after World War II, influenced the development of the rest of the world. Along the way, he looks at the “benefits” and “bad things” about the Empire’s existence and tries to show that even though the British Empire was “on the whole a bad thing,” the world might not look the same (and in fact be a lot worse off) if it had never existed.
If that sounds weird to you, don’t worry; I’m a bit baffled by this myself. It’s a stunning contortion of logic, and the ledger-like way in which Ferguson tallies up these benefits/disadvantages of imperialism belies his attempts at sensitivity and self-awareness. I was encouraged when, in the introduction, he describes how in his youth he was misled into thinking the Empire was awesome—because, of course, when you grow up in that atmosphere, you internalize it. Unfortunately, for all the noise Ferguson tries to make about how terrible it was that the British practised slavery, oppressed India, or in some cases just wholesale destroyed the culture of those they colonized, the sheer awe he has for the way Britain shaped the world is something only a recovering imperialist can really muster.
I mean, yes, he has a point: the British Empire literally did what Rome only figuratively did. It stuck its fingers in every continental pie on Earth, and it was a major player in the previous 400 years of Western history. It is impossible to ignore Britain’s rise as a global power—perhaps the first global superpower—in any analysis of world history. But you don’t have to convince me of that fact, Ferguson—it’s why I’m reading this book in the first place.
Fortunately, editorializing and moralizing aside, Ferguson does get around to presenting his history, and it is pretty fascinating. I learned a lot that I didn’t know—not because it’s hidden or covered elsewhere, but just because there is only so much British history one learns in Canadian schools. (And I’m sure the version taught in British history courses is still far tamer and more whitewashed than what Ferguson presents here.) So while Ferguson touches on stuff I was aware of, like the triangle trade, and the various reasons Britain established colonies in the New World where it did, he also discusses vast swathes and nuanced little points I didn’t previously know. For example, he clears up a lot of misconceptions about the Boston Tea Party (the price of tea had actually gone down, but that was kind of bad, because economics is stupid). I was perhaps most interested in the time he spends on India, since that is an entire part of history I’m largely ignorant about.
And I got to reduce my ignorance while looking at pretty pictures! The edition at my library is an oversized, almost coffee-table–style book with gorgeous black-and-white and colour photographs throughout. Seriously, the production quality on this book is intense; if you want to read it and can get your hands on this edition, do it.
Ferguson wouldn’t be Ferguson if he didn’t talk about money and economics, of course. This history of the Empire is heavily influenced by that economic lens. As with a lot of historians, Ferguson tends to ascribe more to economics than might be the case—an economic historian just sees money and trade flows; a military historian sees battles and conquests; a technology historian sees invention and innovation everywhere. So to some extent, your agreement with Ferguson on some of his analysis will depend on how much economics spurs, or reduces, imperialism, versus other factors. One salient point I had not previously considered, however, was the very idea that the imperialist attitude that had done so well for Britain, economically, eventually became a liability over time. The examples revolving around issues of taxation, duties, and trade with the American colonies, and their subsequent revolution, are a good demonstration of this. The Americans like to talk about how their independence movement was a huge paradigm shift in philosophies of liberty and government—but it was more about the economy, and making money, than anything else.
So Empire does pretty well for the majority of the book. It really shines in the last two chapters, which cover the decline during the two World Wars. Economically, Ferguson focuses on how globalization—accelerated by the wars—affected Britain’s ability to rule its colonies. As I’ve mentioned before, my formal history education kind of sputters out around World War II, so I loved reading about things like the Suez Canal and Britain’s mounting debts to the United States following the wars. Much of the history I’ve read of the wars focuses on the strategies and politics and doesn’t really “follow the money,” so even if I’m not quite as economically obsessed as Ferguson, I liked seeing a different perspective.
The conclusion kind of tarnishes this triumphant finale. Ferguson once again attempts to mumble through some kind of not-pology about how slavery and racism were terrible, but hey, you don’t want the Japanese empire being all worse than the British in India, right? So many paragraphs of head-smacking as Ferguson tries to imagine what the world might be like without the British Empire. That’s the trouble with counterfactual history: you can’t. You can roll back the world clock to a certain year, crunch the numbers, and then make some changes before starting the clock again … but the moment you do that, you leave the realm of academic discourse and enter into fiction. You have to start telling a story, informed not only by your facts but by your biases and your narrative decisions. We can argue all we like about what world without the British Empire would have been like—but I bet we could come up with mutually exclusive, yet equally plausible, outcomes.
Still, Ferguson is writing this in the early 2000s, just after September 11 and just around the time the Coalition forces invade Afghanistan (but just before Iraq). His sardonic likening of Blair’s comments to previous imperialist remarks are spot-on and have largely been borne out by the last 13 years. As he remarks, Britain and the UK have had trouble extracting themselves from the Middle East, and even though they continue to attempt to withdraw their troops, their proxy wars carry on through the regimes they prop up. Imperialism might be dead, but shadow imperialism remains a real force.
Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power is a beautifully constructed book and a fascinating history. Ferguson writes clearly, explaining complicated concepts with ease. Despite my dissatisfaction with the odd way he tries to rationalize parts of the Empire’s existence, he does not sugarcoat the things like slavery, racism, colonialism, and oppression. This book does not champion empire … yet, despite Ferguson’s statement otherwise, I don’t think it quite comes off as condemning it either.
Should you read it? I’m not sure if the non-photo version is worth the time, but I admit I am awfully swayed by how nice my edition was. The wealth of information is not to be dismissed if history is at all an interest of yours. Just be prepared to snort once in a while and, on occasion, deliver a hearty chortle or guffaw.
So many histories of the British Empire, and with good reason—it was, in its time, quite a big deal. Many histories of the UK focus on the British Isles, on the monarchs and shenanigans happening in the succession. And that’s all very fascinating, but it’s not what Niall Ferguson wants to talk about here. Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power is a nearly 400-page analysis of how the spread of Britain’s power, and its subsequent waning after World War II, influenced the development of the rest of the world. Along the way, he looks at the “benefits” and “bad things” about the Empire’s existence and tries to show that even though the British Empire was “on the whole a bad thing,” the world might not look the same (and in fact be a lot worse off) if it had never existed.
If that sounds weird to you, don’t worry; I’m a bit baffled by this myself. It’s a stunning contortion of logic, and the ledger-like way in which Ferguson tallies up these benefits/disadvantages of imperialism belies his attempts at sensitivity and self-awareness. I was encouraged when, in the introduction, he describes how in his youth he was misled into thinking the Empire was awesome—because, of course, when you grow up in that atmosphere, you internalize it. Unfortunately, for all the noise Ferguson tries to make about how terrible it was that the British practised slavery, oppressed India, or in some cases just wholesale destroyed the culture of those they colonized, the sheer awe he has for the way Britain shaped the world is something only a recovering imperialist can really muster.
I mean, yes, he has a point: the British Empire literally did what Rome only figuratively did. It stuck its fingers in every continental pie on Earth, and it was a major player in the previous 400 years of Western history. It is impossible to ignore Britain’s rise as a global power—perhaps the first global superpower—in any analysis of world history. But you don’t have to convince me of that fact, Ferguson—it’s why I’m reading this book in the first place.
Fortunately, editorializing and moralizing aside, Ferguson does get around to presenting his history, and it is pretty fascinating. I learned a lot that I didn’t know—not because it’s hidden or covered elsewhere, but just because there is only so much British history one learns in Canadian schools. (And I’m sure the version taught in British history courses is still far tamer and more whitewashed than what Ferguson presents here.) So while Ferguson touches on stuff I was aware of, like the triangle trade, and the various reasons Britain established colonies in the New World where it did, he also discusses vast swathes and nuanced little points I didn’t previously know. For example, he clears up a lot of misconceptions about the Boston Tea Party (the price of tea had actually gone down, but that was kind of bad, because economics is stupid). I was perhaps most interested in the time he spends on India, since that is an entire part of history I’m largely ignorant about.
And I got to reduce my ignorance while looking at pretty pictures! The edition at my library is an oversized, almost coffee-table–style book with gorgeous black-and-white and colour photographs throughout. Seriously, the production quality on this book is intense; if you want to read it and can get your hands on this edition, do it.
Ferguson wouldn’t be Ferguson if he didn’t talk about money and economics, of course. This history of the Empire is heavily influenced by that economic lens. As with a lot of historians, Ferguson tends to ascribe more to economics than might be the case—an economic historian just sees money and trade flows; a military historian sees battles and conquests; a technology historian sees invention and innovation everywhere. So to some extent, your agreement with Ferguson on some of his analysis will depend on how much economics spurs, or reduces, imperialism, versus other factors. One salient point I had not previously considered, however, was the very idea that the imperialist attitude that had done so well for Britain, economically, eventually became a liability over time. The examples revolving around issues of taxation, duties, and trade with the American colonies, and their subsequent revolution, are a good demonstration of this. The Americans like to talk about how their independence movement was a huge paradigm shift in philosophies of liberty and government—but it was more about the economy, and making money, than anything else.
So Empire does pretty well for the majority of the book. It really shines in the last two chapters, which cover the decline during the two World Wars. Economically, Ferguson focuses on how globalization—accelerated by the wars—affected Britain’s ability to rule its colonies. As I’ve mentioned before, my formal history education kind of sputters out around World War II, so I loved reading about things like the Suez Canal and Britain’s mounting debts to the United States following the wars. Much of the history I’ve read of the wars focuses on the strategies and politics and doesn’t really “follow the money,” so even if I’m not quite as economically obsessed as Ferguson, I liked seeing a different perspective.
The conclusion kind of tarnishes this triumphant finale. Ferguson once again attempts to mumble through some kind of not-pology about how slavery and racism were terrible, but hey, you don’t want the Japanese empire being all worse than the British in India, right? So many paragraphs of head-smacking as Ferguson tries to imagine what the world might be like without the British Empire. That’s the trouble with counterfactual history: you can’t. You can roll back the world clock to a certain year, crunch the numbers, and then make some changes before starting the clock again … but the moment you do that, you leave the realm of academic discourse and enter into fiction. You have to start telling a story, informed not only by your facts but by your biases and your narrative decisions. We can argue all we like about what world without the British Empire would have been like—but I bet we could come up with mutually exclusive, yet equally plausible, outcomes.
Still, Ferguson is writing this in the early 2000s, just after September 11 and just around the time the Coalition forces invade Afghanistan (but just before Iraq). His sardonic likening of Blair’s comments to previous imperialist remarks are spot-on and have largely been borne out by the last 13 years. As he remarks, Britain and the UK have had trouble extracting themselves from the Middle East, and even though they continue to attempt to withdraw their troops, their proxy wars carry on through the regimes they prop up. Imperialism might be dead, but shadow imperialism remains a real force.
Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power is a beautifully constructed book and a fascinating history. Ferguson writes clearly, explaining complicated concepts with ease. Despite my dissatisfaction with the odd way he tries to rationalize parts of the Empire’s existence, he does not sugarcoat the things like slavery, racism, colonialism, and oppression. This book does not champion empire … yet, despite Ferguson’s statement otherwise, I don’t think it quite comes off as condemning it either.
Should you read it? I’m not sure if the non-photo version is worth the time, but I admit I am awfully swayed by how nice my edition was. The wealth of information is not to be dismissed if history is at all an interest of yours. Just be prepared to snort once in a while and, on occasion, deliver a hearty chortle or guffaw.
I’m intrigued, because there are only 4 other reviews of Amriika on Goodreads as I write this, yet the book is over 15 years old. What gives? Is this just not one of M.G. Vassanji’s more popular books? Or did everyone read it back before Goodreads and hasn’t gotten around to re-reading/reviewing it now?
In any event, I’ve really enjoyed some of Vassanji’s other books, but Amriika did not work as well for me. Although the premise and some of the events are interesting, I didn’t get very attached to Ramji. He is very much a reactor rather an an actor in many of these situations, and I find these types of quiet, often male protagonists very tiresome. As much as I like Vassanji’s writing style and his keen awareness of history’s gaze, the characterization in this left me cold.
Amriika takes place over the latter half of the twentieth century. Ramji, of Indian descent but raised in Dar es Salaam by his grandmother, goes to the United States for university in the 1960s. He gets involved with the anti-war movement, falls for a girl who later gets arrested for domestic terrorism, then eventually drifts around until he marries, divorces, remarries (or at least moves in with someone else) and hangs around a magazine/journal that intersects with Middle Eastern and Islamic politics. He ends up talking to the FBI about a bombing, which he was not involved in but where he interacted with someone who was, and that forms the frame story around this narrative.
I often talk about how I “missed out” on the last part of the twentieth century and, as such, have gaps in my historical awareness for this era. So I liked seeing Vassanji’s take on things like the student protests and demonstrations of the 1960s and 1970s. In particular, I love how Ramji is disappointed in the way the privileged, mostly white American students take him up as an almost token symbol of his cause and have very little practical understanding of what it’s like to live in the “third world” countries they are claiming to fight for. He observes that these students only think of the Third World as a concept, of Africa as this abstract notion; they don’t understand or seek to understand the nuances of the cultures and countries that exist beneath these labels.
So Vassanji does succeed in portraying the complexity of politics within Islam. I’m reading this at a time when Islamophobia is increasing in North America, partly because of external factors, but mostly because politicians are unscrupulously fanning these flames in order to get votes. Amriika reminds us that Islamophobia is not new, that this problem has come up again and again over the decades—but in so doing, it also reminds us that vibrant Muslim communities within the United States are not a new phenomenon either. Muslims have lived in the US for a long time now, sometimes in communities that accept and welcome them and sometimes in less welcoming atmospheres. Regardless, it’s important to remember that this is not some new “alien” threat or invasion. I loved the little dig when Basu remarks of a Hindu woman’s groom: “He’s an American!” and someone else retorts, “And she’s not?”
That exchange, of course, illustrates that white Americans are not the only ones who view Muslim and Hindu groups as distinct entities within the broader American society. Contrary to the melting-pot ethos of the 1980s and 1990s, these groups maintain their identities—and they are often just as reluctant to allow their younger members to blend these cultural practises with more mainstream ideas. Vassanji captures, quite clearly, the tension that exists between people who want to preserve “the old ways” at all costs and people who want to question orthodoxy and establish new traditions.
All this sounds fascinating, I know, so it might seem unusual that I didn’t like the book. And that just comes down to the protagonist. Ramji is so bland. Or at least, the way in which Vassanji portrays Ramji and describes his actions makes him seem like a robot at times. He just kind of drifts through events, occasionally making a decision or reacting to someone else’s decision. But we seldom see much emotion from him; Vassanji often has Ramji reflect on his own emotional distance from traumatic events. It could be interesting, and maybe it is to some people, but I found it hard to connect to Ramji.
Amriika is not a bad book, and I see why the other reviews have praised it so much. It shows Vassanji’s typical skill and dedication to the subject matter, and there is a cultural lens here that is different from the way we usually think about these events. For those reasons, it might be worth reading. However, I was not a fan of Ramji, and that made my enjoyment of the book less than it might have been.
In any event, I’ve really enjoyed some of Vassanji’s other books, but Amriika did not work as well for me. Although the premise and some of the events are interesting, I didn’t get very attached to Ramji. He is very much a reactor rather an an actor in many of these situations, and I find these types of quiet, often male protagonists very tiresome. As much as I like Vassanji’s writing style and his keen awareness of history’s gaze, the characterization in this left me cold.
Amriika takes place over the latter half of the twentieth century. Ramji, of Indian descent but raised in Dar es Salaam by his grandmother, goes to the United States for university in the 1960s. He gets involved with the anti-war movement, falls for a girl who later gets arrested for domestic terrorism, then eventually drifts around until he marries, divorces, remarries (or at least moves in with someone else) and hangs around a magazine/journal that intersects with Middle Eastern and Islamic politics. He ends up talking to the FBI about a bombing, which he was not involved in but where he interacted with someone who was, and that forms the frame story around this narrative.
I often talk about how I “missed out” on the last part of the twentieth century and, as such, have gaps in my historical awareness for this era. So I liked seeing Vassanji’s take on things like the student protests and demonstrations of the 1960s and 1970s. In particular, I love how Ramji is disappointed in the way the privileged, mostly white American students take him up as an almost token symbol of his cause and have very little practical understanding of what it’s like to live in the “third world” countries they are claiming to fight for. He observes that these students only think of the Third World as a concept, of Africa as this abstract notion; they don’t understand or seek to understand the nuances of the cultures and countries that exist beneath these labels.
So Vassanji does succeed in portraying the complexity of politics within Islam. I’m reading this at a time when Islamophobia is increasing in North America, partly because of external factors, but mostly because politicians are unscrupulously fanning these flames in order to get votes. Amriika reminds us that Islamophobia is not new, that this problem has come up again and again over the decades—but in so doing, it also reminds us that vibrant Muslim communities within the United States are not a new phenomenon either. Muslims have lived in the US for a long time now, sometimes in communities that accept and welcome them and sometimes in less welcoming atmospheres. Regardless, it’s important to remember that this is not some new “alien” threat or invasion. I loved the little dig when Basu remarks of a Hindu woman’s groom: “He’s an American!” and someone else retorts, “And she’s not?”
That exchange, of course, illustrates that white Americans are not the only ones who view Muslim and Hindu groups as distinct entities within the broader American society. Contrary to the melting-pot ethos of the 1980s and 1990s, these groups maintain their identities—and they are often just as reluctant to allow their younger members to blend these cultural practises with more mainstream ideas. Vassanji captures, quite clearly, the tension that exists between people who want to preserve “the old ways” at all costs and people who want to question orthodoxy and establish new traditions.
All this sounds fascinating, I know, so it might seem unusual that I didn’t like the book. And that just comes down to the protagonist. Ramji is so bland. Or at least, the way in which Vassanji portrays Ramji and describes his actions makes him seem like a robot at times. He just kind of drifts through events, occasionally making a decision or reacting to someone else’s decision. But we seldom see much emotion from him; Vassanji often has Ramji reflect on his own emotional distance from traumatic events. It could be interesting, and maybe it is to some people, but I found it hard to connect to Ramji.
Amriika is not a bad book, and I see why the other reviews have praised it so much. It shows Vassanji’s typical skill and dedication to the subject matter, and there is a cultural lens here that is different from the way we usually think about these events. For those reasons, it might be worth reading. However, I was not a fan of Ramji, and that made my enjoyment of the book less than it might have been.
Hi! Remember me? I’m that guy who drops into one of your favourite series without reading the first book, writes a lukewarm review, and then leaves! Because why should I have any sense of continuity or context before I go on about how the book was “confusing” or “didn’t explain any of its basic concepts??
Actually, I’m not that guy. It’s true I didn’t read Gridlinked, and while I’m wishing I had, it’s not because I found The Line of Polity hard to grok. Rather, I enjoyed this book so much I’m thinking I’ll become a good fan of Neal Asher’s Polity series. Over six years ago, I read Shadow of the Scorpion, but to be honest, I remember exactly nothing of it. My review indicates I thought it was a decent enough but (obviously) forgettable book. So when I found The Line of Polity in a used bookstore for $2 (yes, 2 whole Canadian dollars for a 600 page paperback in good condition!), I took the plunge. I was a little worried, it being the second book in a fairly intricate space opera series, that I would have some trouble. Although the beginning was fairly confusing, as the plot sprawled out into its many facets and Asher flitted between the viewpoints of his ensemble cast, I found myself coming to like the layers of storytelling he provides.
The Polity is a fascinating universe. The obvious comparison is Iain Banks’ Culture: both are posthuman societies where AIs take the role of benevolent dictators not because they conquered us but because they’re just better at it. With AIs running things more efficiently than humans ever could, we’re free to get on with the business of doing more interesting things. It doesn’t eliminate crime, hatred, jealousy, etc.—but it makes for a far more unified and stable government. I find this subtle shift in the role of AI in science fiction very interesting. Robots originated, of course, as slaves and workers who would help automate the boring or dangerous parts of human labour. As they became metaphors for slaves, and as computers became more and more capable, they took on more morally complex and, often, sinister roles in our stories. Now that pendulum is swinging back around: we already use very limited forms of AI to assist us in many areas of life; it’s much easier now to conceive of a future in which beneficent AI and humans work together.
Much of The Line of Polity focuses on what separates artificial intelligence from human intelligence. In addition to straightforward AIs like Earth Central or Cereb, there are straightforward, unaugmented humans like Ian Cormac. In between there is a dazzling array of entities that are not quite human, not quite AI: the AI/human pair Occam/Tomalon; the dead but memory-resurrected Gant within the chassis of a Golem; the cyborg Fethan; and various augmented humans, or humans like Apis Coolant, whose genome has been altered to help them survive in zero G and vacuum. Beyond that spectrum lies the realm of alien intelligences: Dragon, of course, and its progeny, Scar and the dracomen; the Maker (mentioned but unseen in this book); and the Jain (whoever or whatever they are). Through each of these characters, Asher can interrogate the various effects of technology and augmentation on their thoughts, actions, and beliefs.
Despite his sanguine disposition towards AIs, Asher often seems to come down harder on augmented humans. Cormac, our hero, having once been linked too closely to an AI, now prides himself in being totally unaugmented. Indeed, it’s both satisfying and ironic that Cormac, unaugmented and running on zero sleep, still manages to take down Skellor. Granted, he does this by appealing to that last inkling of humanity within the Skellor being—if Skellor had gone full-on alien, then perhaps he would no longer have the need for vengeance that Cormac exploits. Nevertheless, it’s an effective reminder that objective power is seldom the determining factor in these confrontations.
Any time humans start augmenting themselves, the results are questionable at best, disastrous at worst. In particular I’m talking about mental augmentation (Apis, Fethan, and Mika all seem fine so far). Skellor is the obvious example, as the Jain technology (or just the Jain?) corrupts him very quickly. He goes from absorbing the technology and using it to give himself new abilities to absorbing and integrating himself into a subverted Polity ship. Eventually even he becomes aware of the pitfalls of succumbing to its insatiable need for growth. By the end, though, Skellor creates the conditions for his own downfall: he tries to retain his human sensibilities, and his original human goals, even though he is no longer human.
I was intrigued when this seemed to happen on a smaller scale on Masada. Towards the end, just before Skellor approaches, it seems like the Hierarch has delusions of apotheosis. His ability to connect to the Dracocorp augs worn by his troops and issue direct commands gives him a rush; he starts imagining the Theocracy as a single mind—his—acting as one. Well, if that isn’t just the creepiest thing!
And all this reminds me of a recurring idea expressed throughout science fiction (and occasionally fantasy). I encountered it in The Magicians, when Penny explains why the gods are not what we might expect, and where magic comes from. Basically, the more power anyone has, the more obvious the next step becomes. We see that with Skellor: as an ordinary biophysicist with Separatist leanings, he has these grand plans but no way of realizing them. As the Jain corrupts him, Skellor becomes more capable … but increasingly he focuses on one goal, one outcome. He makes decisions almost automatically, because each action seems obvious at the time. Contrast this with Cormac, who has almost no power aside from what allies he brings to the table, and who must scramble to form plan after plan as the previous plan falls by the wayside. There is something about having power or ability, about being able to see on such a grand scale, that begins to compromise one’s sense of self and free will.
When the book is not ruminating on such heady philosophical ideas, it is a strong action story. I’m not sure it needed to be as long as it did—not that I’m complaining I get to spend so much time in Asher’s universe. While I enjoyed all the various perspectives, including a look through the eyes of the antagonists, there were moments during the ground battle on Masada that I had to wonder why we were following some of the minor characters. These quibbles aside, I really can’t fault Asher’s plotting here. There’s some masterful foreshadowing and a very balanced use of coincidence, humour, and twists to keep us entertained.
Actually, I’m not that guy. It’s true I didn’t read Gridlinked, and while I’m wishing I had, it’s not because I found The Line of Polity hard to grok. Rather, I enjoyed this book so much I’m thinking I’ll become a good fan of Neal Asher’s Polity series. Over six years ago, I read Shadow of the Scorpion, but to be honest, I remember exactly nothing of it. My review indicates I thought it was a decent enough but (obviously) forgettable book. So when I found The Line of Polity in a used bookstore for $2 (yes, 2 whole Canadian dollars for a 600 page paperback in good condition!), I took the plunge. I was a little worried, it being the second book in a fairly intricate space opera series, that I would have some trouble. Although the beginning was fairly confusing, as the plot sprawled out into its many facets and Asher flitted between the viewpoints of his ensemble cast, I found myself coming to like the layers of storytelling he provides.
The Polity is a fascinating universe. The obvious comparison is Iain Banks’ Culture: both are posthuman societies where AIs take the role of benevolent dictators not because they conquered us but because they’re just better at it. With AIs running things more efficiently than humans ever could, we’re free to get on with the business of doing more interesting things. It doesn’t eliminate crime, hatred, jealousy, etc.—but it makes for a far more unified and stable government. I find this subtle shift in the role of AI in science fiction very interesting. Robots originated, of course, as slaves and workers who would help automate the boring or dangerous parts of human labour. As they became metaphors for slaves, and as computers became more and more capable, they took on more morally complex and, often, sinister roles in our stories. Now that pendulum is swinging back around: we already use very limited forms of AI to assist us in many areas of life; it’s much easier now to conceive of a future in which beneficent AI and humans work together.
Much of The Line of Polity focuses on what separates artificial intelligence from human intelligence. In addition to straightforward AIs like Earth Central or Cereb, there are straightforward, unaugmented humans like Ian Cormac. In between there is a dazzling array of entities that are not quite human, not quite AI: the AI/human pair Occam/Tomalon; the dead but memory-resurrected Gant within the chassis of a Golem; the cyborg Fethan; and various augmented humans, or humans like Apis Coolant, whose genome has been altered to help them survive in zero G and vacuum. Beyond that spectrum lies the realm of alien intelligences: Dragon, of course, and its progeny, Scar and the dracomen; the Maker (mentioned but unseen in this book); and the Jain (whoever or whatever they are). Through each of these characters, Asher can interrogate the various effects of technology and augmentation on their thoughts, actions, and beliefs.
Despite his sanguine disposition towards AIs, Asher often seems to come down harder on augmented humans. Cormac, our hero, having once been linked too closely to an AI, now prides himself in being totally unaugmented. Indeed, it’s both satisfying and ironic that Cormac, unaugmented and running on zero sleep, still manages to take down Skellor. Granted, he does this by appealing to that last inkling of humanity within the Skellor being—if Skellor had gone full-on alien, then perhaps he would no longer have the need for vengeance that Cormac exploits. Nevertheless, it’s an effective reminder that objective power is seldom the determining factor in these confrontations.
Any time humans start augmenting themselves, the results are questionable at best, disastrous at worst. In particular I’m talking about mental augmentation (Apis, Fethan, and Mika all seem fine so far). Skellor is the obvious example, as the Jain technology (or just the Jain?) corrupts him very quickly. He goes from absorbing the technology and using it to give himself new abilities to absorbing and integrating himself into a subverted Polity ship. Eventually even he becomes aware of the pitfalls of succumbing to its insatiable need for growth. By the end, though, Skellor creates the conditions for his own downfall: he tries to retain his human sensibilities, and his original human goals, even though he is no longer human.
I was intrigued when this seemed to happen on a smaller scale on Masada. Towards the end, just before Skellor approaches, it seems like the Hierarch has delusions of apotheosis. His ability to connect to the Dracocorp augs worn by his troops and issue direct commands gives him a rush; he starts imagining the Theocracy as a single mind—his—acting as one. Well, if that isn’t just the creepiest thing!
And all this reminds me of a recurring idea expressed throughout science fiction (and occasionally fantasy). I encountered it in The Magicians, when Penny explains why the gods are not what we might expect, and where magic comes from. Basically, the more power anyone has, the more obvious the next step becomes. We see that with Skellor: as an ordinary biophysicist with Separatist leanings, he has these grand plans but no way of realizing them. As the Jain corrupts him, Skellor becomes more capable … but increasingly he focuses on one goal, one outcome. He makes decisions almost automatically, because each action seems obvious at the time. Contrast this with Cormac, who has almost no power aside from what allies he brings to the table, and who must scramble to form plan after plan as the previous plan falls by the wayside. There is something about having power or ability, about being able to see on such a grand scale, that begins to compromise one’s sense of self and free will.
When the book is not ruminating on such heady philosophical ideas, it is a strong action story. I’m not sure it needed to be as long as it did—not that I’m complaining I get to spend so much time in Asher’s universe. While I enjoyed all the various perspectives, including a look through the eyes of the antagonists, there were moments during the ground battle on Masada that I had to wonder why we were following some of the minor characters. These quibbles aside, I really can’t fault Asher’s plotting here. There’s some masterful foreshadowing and a very balanced use of coincidence, humour, and twists to keep us entertained.
I math for a living. I mathed, both amateurly and professionally, at school. I math quite a bit. And as a math teacher, I like reading "pop math" books that try to do for math what many science writers have done for science. So picking up How Not to Be Wrong was a no-brainer when I saw it on that bookstore shelf. I’ve read and enjoyed some of Jordan Ellenberg’s columns on Slate and elsewhere (some of them appear or are adapted as chapters of this book). And he doesn’t disappoint.
I should make one thing clear: I mainlined this book like it was the finest heroin. Partly that’s because I just love reading about math, but in this case I was also days away from moving back to Canada from the UK when I started this, and luggage space was at a premium, so I was on a deadline to finish this book. I injected chapters at a time into my veins, revelling in that rush as Ellenberg charismatically and entertainingly explores the math behind a lot of everyday concepts and ideas. Unlike similar attempts, however, Ellenberg doesn’t pull the punches. He’s more than willing to go into the higher-concept ideas behind the math, and when it starts getting too esoteric or academic even for this venue, he’s always ready with a book recommendation for those interested in some further reading.
Early in my reading, I tweeted I had already decided to give this book five stars because Ellenberg alludes to Mean Girls in a footnote. (Specifically, he says, “As Lindsay Lohan would put it, ’the limit does not exist!’”) That’s really all you need to know about Ellenberg’s writing style and sense of humour. Actually, I’m not all that enamoured with the footnotes in general; they interrupted the flow of my reading and the symbols used to mark them were slightly too small, so I kept missing them in the text—but that’s a design issue. The content of the footnotes themselves is often informative or, as in the case above, humorous. Ellenberg might be a university math professor, but he also has a sense of humour and an awareness of pop culture that helps to make his writing accessible.
I’m impressed by the way Ellenberg effortlessly straddles pure and applied mathematics. The child of two statisticians, he clearly has a good grasp and appreciation of the way applied math drives so many areas of society. From economics to gambling, he makes passionate appeals for informed perspectives over simplistic analogies or fallacies. His first chapter criticizes analogies that promote linear thinking about taxation when the very same economists writing these analogies know that taxation probably isn’t linear. He doesn’t argue for or against an increase in taxes, but rather he points out that it’s wrong to oversimplify the concept when trying to sell it to the public. Is a curve really all that much harder to understand than a line?
There’s also some great chapters on odds and the lottery, in which Ellenberg recounts how a group of MIT students set up a legitimate operation to bulk buy lottery tickets from a certain game that actually gave them good odds of winning. They made a profit, because they used math to turn a game of chance into a predictable investment strategy (which is more than we can say for the stock market). So, you know, stay in school kids.
But actually, the parts about the lottery that impressed me were more towards the purer end of the math spectrum. Ellenberg started discussing, for example, how best to pick the numbers on one’s tickets so that one could maximize the chance of winning at each tier of prizes. It turns out that it’s possible to represent the way of picking these numbers geometrically (yes, as in pictures) and that it’s related to the way we create error-correcting codes (which allow us to send instructions to spacecraft, and compress data in JPEGs, MP3s, and on discs). He goes into quite a bit of detail about the more advanced concepts behind these ideas. Later, he points out how correlation on scatter plots corresponds to an ellipse—and we know how to deal with ellipses algebraically, which gives us a good toolset for talking about correlation algebraically too.
So, How Not to Be Wrong makes an effort time and again to belie the impression that we often get in school that math consists of a series of discrete topics: arithmetic, geometry, statistics, and the dreaded algebra. We teach it that way because it’s easier to lay out as a curriculum and focus on the essential skills of each discipline. And also because we are boring. If you’re lucky, like me, then as a student you’ll start to see the connections yourself. Circles and pi start showing up everywhere, to the point where suddenly you feel like you’re being stalked, and no amount of infinite series or integration is going to save you. But really, good teachers start showing these connections as soon as possible. We fail students and leave them behind because, in our rush to equip them with the skills we’ve been told they need, we rob them of the idea that math is a creative process, instead fostering this false impression that math is a sterile, difficult, procedural slog. If it is, then you might be a computer.
Ellenberg never demands a knowledge of integral calculus, of set theory, or of transfinite numbers. What he does demand is an open mind, a willingness to be convinced that not only does math have a useful place in life (it’s pretty obvious to most people that someone needs to know how to math; they just don’t see why it should be them) but that a deeper understanding of the roles and uses of math can enrich anyone’s life. One can be a believer in the power of mathematics without necessarily worshipping at its altar, and it’s this quest for adherents rather than acolytes that makes this popular math book successful. It helps that Ellenberg’s style is witty. It helps that he is passionate without sounding too evangelical. He weaves in enough history, anecdotes, and allusions to demonstrate that mathematicians’ journeys and the development of mathematics as a discipline has been just like everything else in life: alternately dramatic and dull, intense, occasionally acrimonious. We don’t like to admit it, but we mathematicians are people too. And occasionally we’re wrong, very wrong (like those nineteenth-century French eugenicists…). The title here is tongue-in-cheek, and How Not to Be Wrong can’t guarantee your future correctness with great certitude. All it can do is help you think more critically, more logically, but more creatively about the problems and questions that you’ll face in the future. Because mathematics is a tool for helping us to do amazing things. You can be a novice, or you can be a proficient user of this tool, but either way you’ll need to pick it up at some point to do a little handiwork. Don’t fear it: embrace it.
Oh, and read this book.
I should make one thing clear: I mainlined this book like it was the finest heroin. Partly that’s because I just love reading about math, but in this case I was also days away from moving back to Canada from the UK when I started this, and luggage space was at a premium, so I was on a deadline to finish this book. I injected chapters at a time into my veins, revelling in that rush as Ellenberg charismatically and entertainingly explores the math behind a lot of everyday concepts and ideas. Unlike similar attempts, however, Ellenberg doesn’t pull the punches. He’s more than willing to go into the higher-concept ideas behind the math, and when it starts getting too esoteric or academic even for this venue, he’s always ready with a book recommendation for those interested in some further reading.
Early in my reading, I tweeted I had already decided to give this book five stars because Ellenberg alludes to Mean Girls in a footnote. (Specifically, he says, “As Lindsay Lohan would put it, ’the limit does not exist!’”) That’s really all you need to know about Ellenberg’s writing style and sense of humour. Actually, I’m not all that enamoured with the footnotes in general; they interrupted the flow of my reading and the symbols used to mark them were slightly too small, so I kept missing them in the text—but that’s a design issue. The content of the footnotes themselves is often informative or, as in the case above, humorous. Ellenberg might be a university math professor, but he also has a sense of humour and an awareness of pop culture that helps to make his writing accessible.
I’m impressed by the way Ellenberg effortlessly straddles pure and applied mathematics. The child of two statisticians, he clearly has a good grasp and appreciation of the way applied math drives so many areas of society. From economics to gambling, he makes passionate appeals for informed perspectives over simplistic analogies or fallacies. His first chapter criticizes analogies that promote linear thinking about taxation when the very same economists writing these analogies know that taxation probably isn’t linear. He doesn’t argue for or against an increase in taxes, but rather he points out that it’s wrong to oversimplify the concept when trying to sell it to the public. Is a curve really all that much harder to understand than a line?
There’s also some great chapters on odds and the lottery, in which Ellenberg recounts how a group of MIT students set up a legitimate operation to bulk buy lottery tickets from a certain game that actually gave them good odds of winning. They made a profit, because they used math to turn a game of chance into a predictable investment strategy (which is more than we can say for the stock market). So, you know, stay in school kids.
But actually, the parts about the lottery that impressed me were more towards the purer end of the math spectrum. Ellenberg started discussing, for example, how best to pick the numbers on one’s tickets so that one could maximize the chance of winning at each tier of prizes. It turns out that it’s possible to represent the way of picking these numbers geometrically (yes, as in pictures) and that it’s related to the way we create error-correcting codes (which allow us to send instructions to spacecraft, and compress data in JPEGs, MP3s, and on discs). He goes into quite a bit of detail about the more advanced concepts behind these ideas. Later, he points out how correlation on scatter plots corresponds to an ellipse—and we know how to deal with ellipses algebraically, which gives us a good toolset for talking about correlation algebraically too.
So, How Not to Be Wrong makes an effort time and again to belie the impression that we often get in school that math consists of a series of discrete topics: arithmetic, geometry, statistics, and the dreaded algebra. We teach it that way because it’s easier to lay out as a curriculum and focus on the essential skills of each discipline. And also because we are boring. If you’re lucky, like me, then as a student you’ll start to see the connections yourself. Circles and pi start showing up everywhere, to the point where suddenly you feel like you’re being stalked, and no amount of infinite series or integration is going to save you. But really, good teachers start showing these connections as soon as possible. We fail students and leave them behind because, in our rush to equip them with the skills we’ve been told they need, we rob them of the idea that math is a creative process, instead fostering this false impression that math is a sterile, difficult, procedural slog. If it is, then you might be a computer.
Ellenberg never demands a knowledge of integral calculus, of set theory, or of transfinite numbers. What he does demand is an open mind, a willingness to be convinced that not only does math have a useful place in life (it’s pretty obvious to most people that someone needs to know how to math; they just don’t see why it should be them) but that a deeper understanding of the roles and uses of math can enrich anyone’s life. One can be a believer in the power of mathematics without necessarily worshipping at its altar, and it’s this quest for adherents rather than acolytes that makes this popular math book successful. It helps that Ellenberg’s style is witty. It helps that he is passionate without sounding too evangelical. He weaves in enough history, anecdotes, and allusions to demonstrate that mathematicians’ journeys and the development of mathematics as a discipline has been just like everything else in life: alternately dramatic and dull, intense, occasionally acrimonious. We don’t like to admit it, but we mathematicians are people too. And occasionally we’re wrong, very wrong (like those nineteenth-century French eugenicists…). The title here is tongue-in-cheek, and How Not to Be Wrong can’t guarantee your future correctness with great certitude. All it can do is help you think more critically, more logically, but more creatively about the problems and questions that you’ll face in the future. Because mathematics is a tool for helping us to do amazing things. You can be a novice, or you can be a proficient user of this tool, but either way you’ll need to pick it up at some point to do a little handiwork. Don’t fear it: embrace it.
Oh, and read this book.
This will be a short review. I don’t have a lot to say about Time Now for the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange. If you are familiar with the Vinyl Cafe, then you know what the Story Exchange is. If not, then while you might still enjoy this book, it probably won’t have the same resonance for you.
There are some gems of stories in this book. I’ve heard most of them (because I’ve listened to The Vinyl Cafe for that long, and some have been re-broadcast because they are just that good). Reading them, however, is a treat. I do enjoy Stuart McLean’s voice and his storytelling habits; however, some of these stories shine simply through the power of their writers’ words. Not all of these stories are equally funny or touching; a few seem merely silly or elicit a bit of a shrug from me. But there are more than enough in here to make the book worth reading. Plus, the stories really are short. Reading this in little spurts, one or two stories at a time, is very easy.
In fact, I’d say breaking up your reading of this book isn’t just easy but almost required. I slammed this back over two baseball games (I read between innings and during pitching changes, of which we have lots in this college league). You try paying attention to a baseball game when you’re holding back tears! Not all of these stories are heartbreakers, but there are enough in here to routinely make my eyes water. That includes my all time favourite story exchange story (and there are many I’m overly fond of), titled here “A Proposal of Hope” from Michael Gallagher.
I’ve previously mentioned how I would listen to the Vinyl Cafe when walking through the country market while I lived in England. One day, this very story was featured. I listened while picking out fresh fruits and veg for my week … and then I started crying. In the middle of the Bury St Edmunds marketplace. Because seriously. I’m not an overly-sentimental or soppy person, although I do cry at the end of a fair number of romantic movies (or the series finale of Chuck). Nevertheless, of all the stories that made me tear up in this collection, “A Proposal of Hope” is the one that sucker punches you. It’s the happy ending, I think, that twist that makes you realize good things do occasionally happen.
Those of you who have heard this story will understand why. If you haven’t, you can listen to Stuart’s telling of it in an episode from July 2014—it starts at the 11:30 mark and is about 6 and a half minutes long; it is well worth that time.
This is, of course, what the Story Exchange is all about. If Stuart McLean and the Vinyl Cafe are a celebration of the best qualities of Canadian culture, from storytelling to music to the history of our country, then the Story Exchange is a celebration of the stories within all of us. We may not all be writers; we may not all have the talent, time, or inclination to record our words. But all of us have stories within, experiences worth sharing. McLean offers an outlet for that, a wonderful outlet, and this book collects some of those worthy tales. In this digital age there is much talk of “curating content”. Well, this is curated content at its very best.
While I don’t want to give the impression that every single one of these stories is uplifting or positive, that is the general tone I get from this collection. The few stories that have a sense of wistfulness or regret are worthy and interesting. And, in general, there is much to be said for books that make us meditate on the darker parts of life. Overall, however, this is a nice way to balance out those books. Time Now for the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange is a repository of bright moments in the lives of Vinyl Cafe listeners all over Canada and the States. It’s just a really nice book to read.
There are some gems of stories in this book. I’ve heard most of them (because I’ve listened to The Vinyl Cafe for that long, and some have been re-broadcast because they are just that good). Reading them, however, is a treat. I do enjoy Stuart McLean’s voice and his storytelling habits; however, some of these stories shine simply through the power of their writers’ words. Not all of these stories are equally funny or touching; a few seem merely silly or elicit a bit of a shrug from me. But there are more than enough in here to make the book worth reading. Plus, the stories really are short. Reading this in little spurts, one or two stories at a time, is very easy.
In fact, I’d say breaking up your reading of this book isn’t just easy but almost required. I slammed this back over two baseball games (I read between innings and during pitching changes, of which we have lots in this college league). You try paying attention to a baseball game when you’re holding back tears! Not all of these stories are heartbreakers, but there are enough in here to routinely make my eyes water. That includes my all time favourite story exchange story (and there are many I’m overly fond of), titled here “A Proposal of Hope” from Michael Gallagher.
I’ve previously mentioned how I would listen to the Vinyl Cafe when walking through the country market while I lived in England. One day, this very story was featured. I listened while picking out fresh fruits and veg for my week … and then I started crying. In the middle of the Bury St Edmunds marketplace. Because seriously. I’m not an overly-sentimental or soppy person, although I do cry at the end of a fair number of romantic movies (or the series finale of Chuck). Nevertheless, of all the stories that made me tear up in this collection, “A Proposal of Hope” is the one that sucker punches you. It’s the happy ending, I think, that twist that makes you realize good things do occasionally happen.
Those of you who have heard this story will understand why. If you haven’t, you can listen to Stuart’s telling of it in an episode from July 2014—it starts at the 11:30 mark and is about 6 and a half minutes long; it is well worth that time.
This is, of course, what the Story Exchange is all about. If Stuart McLean and the Vinyl Cafe are a celebration of the best qualities of Canadian culture, from storytelling to music to the history of our country, then the Story Exchange is a celebration of the stories within all of us. We may not all be writers; we may not all have the talent, time, or inclination to record our words. But all of us have stories within, experiences worth sharing. McLean offers an outlet for that, a wonderful outlet, and this book collects some of those worthy tales. In this digital age there is much talk of “curating content”. Well, this is curated content at its very best.
While I don’t want to give the impression that every single one of these stories is uplifting or positive, that is the general tone I get from this collection. The few stories that have a sense of wistfulness or regret are worthy and interesting. And, in general, there is much to be said for books that make us meditate on the darker parts of life. Overall, however, this is a nice way to balance out those books. Time Now for the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange is a repository of bright moments in the lives of Vinyl Cafe listeners all over Canada and the States. It’s just a really nice book to read.
Almost a year ago (has it been that long? gah) I read Master Thieves: The Boston Gangsters Who Pulled Off the World’s Greatest Art Heist. As you will know, I am a sucker for heist stories. That book led me to The Art of the Heist: Confessions of a Master Art Thief, Rock-and-Roller, and Prodigal Son. Myles Connor was (still is) a primary suspect in the Gardner heist, despite the fact he was in jail at the time. Although Connor and coauthor Jenny Siler discuss aspects of the heist (from a purely hypothetical standpoint), the bulk of this book traces Connor’s origins as a thief, bank robber, and art collector. At times captivating and at other times too sugarcoated for my tastes, The Art of the Heist tries to convince you there is such a thing as a thief with a heart of gold. Whether or not you agree comes down to your stomach for an unreliable narrator, tales that might be taller than they are deep, and how much you—like me—love a good heist story.
It is refreshing to hear about heists from the mouth of someone who pulled them rather than a journalist or a former investigator. Setting aside questions of sympathy and credibility, I definitely enjoyed listening to Connor spin his tales. He puts different emphasis on his jobs than a detective might, and that makes for very interesting reading. He describes his thefts in practical terms, admitting that sometimes what he stole was influenced simply by whether or not he could get it out of the building. Connor also describes the way allegiances shift depending on self-interest or differences of opinion over how to handle a crime. He parallels this with the shifting allegiances and loyalties within law enforcement. As television shows remind us (even as law enforcement tries to minimize it), inter-agency rivalry is a big source of tension. It was interesting to see various detectives, police officers, and lawyers lining up to try to get a piece of Connor or even work with Connor’s interests if it aligned with their own priorities.
The Art of the Heist reminds me somewhat of Making a Murderer. This might seem strange, in that I haven’t actually watched the latter—but I’ve read enough reviews of it to understand what its makers have tried to do. Both of these shine a light on critical flaws in the criminal justice system, flaws that allow innocent people to be framed and railroaded for crimes while guilty people go free. The Canadian system is no picnic and probably too close to the American system for comfort, but at least we don’t do stupid things like have elected judges and district attorneys. Seriously, America: why?? Connor corroborates what other sources have long said: at every level, the system that is supposed to protect us from criminals while also rehabilitate them pretty much just exists to sustain itself, to generate profit, and to let law enforcement do what it wants. From transferring Connor to a facility where they hope he will be murdered by the other inmates to framing him for murders with the help of lying witnesses, certain law enforcement agents give that entire sector a bad name.
For that alone I’m glad I read The Art of the Heist. I’m less enthusiastic about Connor’s voice. The writing isn’t bad, but he doesn’t manage to charm me the way he so obviously wants to. I’m a pretty big bleeding heart liberal, and I’ll be the first to admit I think a lot of “criminals” are simply people caught up circumstances thrust upon them by a harsh and oppressive system. Yet Connor’s constant reminders that he doesn’t like people getting hurt, that he’s only stealing this art because he really wants it, that he’s oh-so-intelligent but just misunderstood by a society hung up on ideas of personal property … these all ring hollow. He might consider art theft a victimless crime, in the sense that he tries not to hurt people in the process and he steals from institutions that are insured or families rich enough to take the financial hits. But he also freely admits to trafficking in cocaine and heroin. Because that stuff is totally victimless too, right? I believe Connor believes he is an “honourable thief” but I can’t really apply that label to him. And while I wouldn’t call him an outright liar, it’s important to view this book as one with an ultimately unreliable narrator: he wants to come off looking good, so take that into consideration.
Reliable or no, Connor’s voice provides another interesting perspective on the world of Boston crime, art theft, and the justice system. Although not as engrossing as I had hoped, The Art of the Heist was at least informative and often interesting.
It is refreshing to hear about heists from the mouth of someone who pulled them rather than a journalist or a former investigator. Setting aside questions of sympathy and credibility, I definitely enjoyed listening to Connor spin his tales. He puts different emphasis on his jobs than a detective might, and that makes for very interesting reading. He describes his thefts in practical terms, admitting that sometimes what he stole was influenced simply by whether or not he could get it out of the building. Connor also describes the way allegiances shift depending on self-interest or differences of opinion over how to handle a crime. He parallels this with the shifting allegiances and loyalties within law enforcement. As television shows remind us (even as law enforcement tries to minimize it), inter-agency rivalry is a big source of tension. It was interesting to see various detectives, police officers, and lawyers lining up to try to get a piece of Connor or even work with Connor’s interests if it aligned with their own priorities.
The Art of the Heist reminds me somewhat of Making a Murderer. This might seem strange, in that I haven’t actually watched the latter—but I’ve read enough reviews of it to understand what its makers have tried to do. Both of these shine a light on critical flaws in the criminal justice system, flaws that allow innocent people to be framed and railroaded for crimes while guilty people go free. The Canadian system is no picnic and probably too close to the American system for comfort, but at least we don’t do stupid things like have elected judges and district attorneys. Seriously, America: why?? Connor corroborates what other sources have long said: at every level, the system that is supposed to protect us from criminals while also rehabilitate them pretty much just exists to sustain itself, to generate profit, and to let law enforcement do what it wants. From transferring Connor to a facility where they hope he will be murdered by the other inmates to framing him for murders with the help of lying witnesses, certain law enforcement agents give that entire sector a bad name.
For that alone I’m glad I read The Art of the Heist. I’m less enthusiastic about Connor’s voice. The writing isn’t bad, but he doesn’t manage to charm me the way he so obviously wants to. I’m a pretty big bleeding heart liberal, and I’ll be the first to admit I think a lot of “criminals” are simply people caught up circumstances thrust upon them by a harsh and oppressive system. Yet Connor’s constant reminders that he doesn’t like people getting hurt, that he’s only stealing this art because he really wants it, that he’s oh-so-intelligent but just misunderstood by a society hung up on ideas of personal property … these all ring hollow. He might consider art theft a victimless crime, in the sense that he tries not to hurt people in the process and he steals from institutions that are insured or families rich enough to take the financial hits. But he also freely admits to trafficking in cocaine and heroin. Because that stuff is totally victimless too, right? I believe Connor believes he is an “honourable thief” but I can’t really apply that label to him. And while I wouldn’t call him an outright liar, it’s important to view this book as one with an ultimately unreliable narrator: he wants to come off looking good, so take that into consideration.
Reliable or no, Connor’s voice provides another interesting perspective on the world of Boston crime, art theft, and the justice system. Although not as engrossing as I had hoped, The Art of the Heist was at least informative and often interesting.
I signed up for NetGalley last week (as of the time I’m writing this review). I’ve been aware of NetGalley for a while but never gave it much thought because I have enough books to read as it is. Lately, though, I’ve been getting excited about more and more new releases and thought this was a good opportunity to try to snag ARCs for some of them before they come out. In this case, Conjuror has been out for a little bit now, but I still got an ARC! However, as I began reading, I genuinely started to wonder if there had been a mix-up and I’d been sent the wrong book—that or the Goodreads description was wrong. Because the Goodreads description talks about twins named Matt and Em being “Animare” and therefore able to “animate into” paintings, but this book is about a guy named Remy who can sing. Matt and Em do show up, but only about eighty pages in. So colour me confused until then, and that confusion is a thread running through my entire experience with this book.
It’s cool that John Barrowman and his sister, Carole, are writing YA fantasy. I know Barrowman also makes music; polymaths are awesome! I haven’t read their Hollow Earth trilogy, which apparently features a younger Matt and Em, but I hope it’s better than Conjuror. This is a book with its heart in the right place but is in dire need of editorial assistance. The characters, the plot—the pieces are there, but they are disorderly. The whole novel feels very sloppy, sorry to say.
As I mentioned above, it takes far too long for the people billed as the protagonists by the cover copy to show up. Maybe this is just a marketing miscommunication, an attempt to sell this book based on its connection to the previous series. It’s all very confusing, though. Worse still, the Barrowmans never really get into what it means to be an Animare. The twins and other Animare can “fade” into paintings and somehow use these for travel. The rules behind this are left very ambiguous. Matt and Em join a secret organization dedicated to protecting and policing the Animare, but we don’t get a sense of what that organization is like. It seems to be run by one dude. It would have been nice to see some more typical operations before Remy and the Camarilla show up.
I like Remy and his origin story. The idea of magic powered by song and music is nothing new, of course, but the Barrowmans pull it off very well. The Barrowmans weave his personal history into the political history of the slave trade, acknowledging Remy’s African American identity and making it part of the reason he has these powers. Unlike the Animare issue noted above, we get a better idea of what Remy can do with his powers and what his limitations are.
The bad guys, the Camarilla headed up by Don Grigori and the Grand Inquisitor, are a nebulous threat. I like the sense of danger that follows Grigori as he tears up his henchmen while going after the twins and Remy. The omnipresent flies that he controls are a gross and sufficiently disturbing image. Unfortunately, we never really learn the nature of the threat that the Grand Inquisitor represents. We just get frustrating eschatological hints that he’s some kind of demon who wants to bring about the “Second Kingdom”. I assume this is supposed to be groundwork for future instalments of the series, so I’m willing to forgive. Nevertheless, it detracts somewhat from the punchiness of Conjuror as an introductory read. If you scrub these mentions, if you ignore the prologue (which is superfluous), and you focus solely on Matt, Em, and Remy’s fight against Grigori, you get a better and more straightforward narrative—almost too straightforward. A lot happens in this book, but at the same time, not much happens.
There is a fun story in here. I genuinely enjoyed the characters. I like their interactions, the way that Matt and Em don’t always get along like siblings do (obviously the Barrowmans are drawing on their own experience!). Remy’s arc feels very true, very significant. Conjuror has small moments, glimpses of brilliance. But these are embedded in an all-too-familiar cloud of confusing plot twists and seemingly-unrelated scenes, resulting in a book that confounds itself as much as its reader.
It’s cool that John Barrowman and his sister, Carole, are writing YA fantasy. I know Barrowman also makes music; polymaths are awesome! I haven’t read their Hollow Earth trilogy, which apparently features a younger Matt and Em, but I hope it’s better than Conjuror. This is a book with its heart in the right place but is in dire need of editorial assistance. The characters, the plot—the pieces are there, but they are disorderly. The whole novel feels very sloppy, sorry to say.
As I mentioned above, it takes far too long for the people billed as the protagonists by the cover copy to show up. Maybe this is just a marketing miscommunication, an attempt to sell this book based on its connection to the previous series. It’s all very confusing, though. Worse still, the Barrowmans never really get into what it means to be an Animare. The twins and other Animare can “fade” into paintings and somehow use these for travel. The rules behind this are left very ambiguous. Matt and Em join a secret organization dedicated to protecting and policing the Animare, but we don’t get a sense of what that organization is like. It seems to be run by one dude. It would have been nice to see some more typical operations before Remy and the Camarilla show up.
I like Remy and his origin story. The idea of magic powered by song and music is nothing new, of course, but the Barrowmans pull it off very well. The Barrowmans weave his personal history into the political history of the slave trade, acknowledging Remy’s African American identity and making it part of the reason he has these powers. Unlike the Animare issue noted above, we get a better idea of what Remy can do with his powers and what his limitations are.
The bad guys, the Camarilla headed up by Don Grigori and the Grand Inquisitor, are a nebulous threat. I like the sense of danger that follows Grigori as he tears up his henchmen while going after the twins and Remy. The omnipresent flies that he controls are a gross and sufficiently disturbing image. Unfortunately, we never really learn the nature of the threat that the Grand Inquisitor represents. We just get frustrating eschatological hints that he’s some kind of demon who wants to bring about the “Second Kingdom”. I assume this is supposed to be groundwork for future instalments of the series, so I’m willing to forgive. Nevertheless, it detracts somewhat from the punchiness of Conjuror as an introductory read. If you scrub these mentions, if you ignore the prologue (which is superfluous), and you focus solely on Matt, Em, and Remy’s fight against Grigori, you get a better and more straightforward narrative—almost too straightforward. A lot happens in this book, but at the same time, not much happens.
There is a fun story in here. I genuinely enjoyed the characters. I like their interactions, the way that Matt and Em don’t always get along like siblings do (obviously the Barrowmans are drawing on their own experience!). Remy’s arc feels very true, very significant. Conjuror has small moments, glimpses of brilliance. But these are embedded in an all-too-familiar cloud of confusing plot twists and seemingly-unrelated scenes, resulting in a book that confounds itself as much as its reader.
This book landed on my to-read list in 2009, and I remembered nothing about it when I finally tracked it down at my library. (For a while, I actually owned a used copy in the UK, but it went missing. Very mysterious. I suspect the AIs had something to do with it.) As I started reading Seeds of Earth, I wanted to dislike it. I wanted to find faults with it. Disappointingly that didn’t happen; frustratingly I found myself drawn into the story and Michael Cobley’s intricate depiction of a multiverse-spanning war of ages.
It’s hard to fault a book in which the backstory is so rich. Cobley crafts a universe in which aliens devastate Earth and humanity launches colony ships in a last ditch effort at survival. As a result, we find ourselves entering an interstellar civilization of dazzling complexity. But this galactic-political struggle is actually just the foreground of a much longer conflict, the players of which are more long-lived: AIs, cyborgs from past universes, and a mysterious AI-like entity known as the Construct.
Either of these two stories alone would have been enough for an interesting novel. It’s the way Cobley combines them that makes for such an interesting book. At the basic level, there are events that happened in the deep past—like, before the birth of this universe—or that happened millennia ago, when humanity was just struggling to master fire. Cobley reminds us that if we begin to engage with issues of interstellar space, we must necessarily confront issues of interstellar time. And so Seeds of Earth is similar to books like Alastair Reynolds’ Revelation Space series, in which our human (predominantly, at least, in this book) main characters take up banners in conflicts begun long before they were born.
That being said, while the tropes Cobley invokes are going to be familiar and comfortable to space opera fans, where Seeds of Earth falters is in attempting any sort of originality. The history, the nature of the conflicts, even the large-scale development of the present plot is not all that fresh. Substitute “Forerunners” for “Progenitors” or any other generic name for people who came before us and perhaps gave rise to us, and you’ve got the foundations of what Cobley is hinting at here. This is not revolutionary new space opera, just the same ol’, same ol’ competently executed.
Similarly, I can’t be as enthusiastic for the characterization as I am for the backdrop. Cobley uses a lot of different points of view, and that keeps the narrative interesting. But there is only one POV female character—the token woman scientist who is sensitive to the ecological needs of the alien flora and fauna—compared to swathes of men who gallivant across the galaxy, across Darien, or merely gallivant in general. Now, pretty much every other minor character who is a woman happens to be capable and admirable; I don’t think Cobley is being deliberately sexist so much as unthinking in how he has distributed his POVs.
Seeds of Earth is set roughly 250 years into the future, but Cobley doesn’t show us a very altered human society, either on Darien or within the Earthsphere. Even though our Earthsphere representative Robert Horst has an AI companion, he seems very human. So this book isn’t posthuman in the sense that it examines how humanity changes as comes to rely on AI. Instead, the AIs merely become the generic villains to the plot. And that’s a little disappointing.
On balance, I enjoyed Seeds of Earth. It’s an entertaining story. It isn’t particularly new or breathtakingly thoughtful in its use of science-fiction tropes. But if you are in a space opera mood; if you’re looking for an SF adventure that doesn’t require a lot of concentration or cultural adjustment, then this book will probably satisfy your craving. Cobley knows how to plot, knows how to pace, and even if he doesn’t always delve as deep as I’d like, he has a respect and love for the genre that enhances his setting and storytelling.
My reviews of the Humanity's Fire series:
The Orphaned Worlds →
It’s hard to fault a book in which the backstory is so rich. Cobley crafts a universe in which aliens devastate Earth and humanity launches colony ships in a last ditch effort at survival. As a result, we find ourselves entering an interstellar civilization of dazzling complexity. But this galactic-political struggle is actually just the foreground of a much longer conflict, the players of which are more long-lived: AIs, cyborgs from past universes, and a mysterious AI-like entity known as the Construct.
Either of these two stories alone would have been enough for an interesting novel. It’s the way Cobley combines them that makes for such an interesting book. At the basic level, there are events that happened in the deep past—like, before the birth of this universe—or that happened millennia ago, when humanity was just struggling to master fire. Cobley reminds us that if we begin to engage with issues of interstellar space, we must necessarily confront issues of interstellar time. And so Seeds of Earth is similar to books like Alastair Reynolds’ Revelation Space series, in which our human (predominantly, at least, in this book) main characters take up banners in conflicts begun long before they were born.
That being said, while the tropes Cobley invokes are going to be familiar and comfortable to space opera fans, where Seeds of Earth falters is in attempting any sort of originality. The history, the nature of the conflicts, even the large-scale development of the present plot is not all that fresh. Substitute “Forerunners” for “Progenitors” or any other generic name for people who came before us and perhaps gave rise to us, and you’ve got the foundations of what Cobley is hinting at here. This is not revolutionary new space opera, just the same ol’, same ol’ competently executed.
Similarly, I can’t be as enthusiastic for the characterization as I am for the backdrop. Cobley uses a lot of different points of view, and that keeps the narrative interesting. But there is only one POV female character—the token woman scientist who is sensitive to the ecological needs of the alien flora and fauna—compared to swathes of men who gallivant across the galaxy, across Darien, or merely gallivant in general. Now, pretty much every other minor character who is a woman happens to be capable and admirable; I don’t think Cobley is being deliberately sexist so much as unthinking in how he has distributed his POVs.
Seeds of Earth is set roughly 250 years into the future, but Cobley doesn’t show us a very altered human society, either on Darien or within the Earthsphere. Even though our Earthsphere representative Robert Horst has an AI companion, he seems very human. So this book isn’t posthuman in the sense that it examines how humanity changes as comes to rely on AI. Instead, the AIs merely become the generic villains to the plot. And that’s a little disappointing.
On balance, I enjoyed Seeds of Earth. It’s an entertaining story. It isn’t particularly new or breathtakingly thoughtful in its use of science-fiction tropes. But if you are in a space opera mood; if you’re looking for an SF adventure that doesn’t require a lot of concentration or cultural adjustment, then this book will probably satisfy your craving. Cobley knows how to plot, knows how to pace, and even if he doesn’t always delve as deep as I’d like, he has a respect and love for the genre that enhances his setting and storytelling.
My reviews of the Humanity's Fire series:
The Orphaned Worlds →
Maybe a dog person would find Chad Orzel’s attempts to talk quantum mechanics in the language of a pet and her owner more endearing. How to Teach Physics to Your Dog is Yet Another Pop Sci look at quantum mechanics, albeit one from a more technical than, say, historical perspective. Orzel frames each chapter within a conversation with his dog, Emmy, grounded in the context of something a dog would do, like hunt bunnies or eat treats. Unfortunately, the writing tries too hard to be cutesy and funny. I found this device far too distracting and cheesy for my tastes, and it adds very little to Orzel’s explanations.
As far as the quantum mechanics go, the development is fairly standard. It’s hard for me to approach books like this from the eyes of a first timer, because I’ve read so many—I don’t pretend that means I know a lot about quantum mechanics, but you do start to hear the same stories over and over. We are quite fortunate to live during a renaissance in books about quantum mechanics, so really, you are spoiled for choice. I don’t think How to Teach Physics to Your Dog is going to make it onto my list of recommended physics reads, though.
Orzel’s explanations, while admirably complete, also tend towards a level of technical complexity that belies the book’s pop science label. This is, of course, always the difficult balancing act these writers face: the more you lean on analogy or sacrifice detail, the less accurate your rendition of quantum mechanics becomes—but the more you strive for accuracy, the harder it is to comprehend. The former scenario makes for better reading, but it also introduces the potential for more misconceptions. As Orzel points out in the second chapter, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle is well known even in popular culture—but it is also often misinterpreted as a statement about measurement rather than a statement about reality. I liked his explanation of that, as well as his explanations of the Copenhagen interpretation versus the many worlds theory. I was less enamoured whenever he started talking about photons as waves and interference patterns … the way he was explaining it ended up confusing me and doubting my knowledge of quantum physics rather than honing it!
The last chapter is a curious kind of addendum, in which Orzel debunks some of the abuses of the word “quantum” to promote healing scams or free energy scams. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I really like it when scientists take on these kinds of claims and explain why they are bunk and should be viewed sceptically. Also, Orzel does a pretty good job with those explanations. On the other hand, the tone is somewhat different from the rest of the book, so this last chapter feels less connected to what comes before.
All in all, this is a competent work of popular science. It has some good explanations and some confusing ones. I think Orzel demands or assumes a level of comfort with math higher than one might expect from the audience that would be drawn to the book’s framing conceit. That is to say, if you’re reading this because you like physics talk involving dogs, you might not be so happy with the equations and symbols Orzel occasionally throws your way. I can totally see there being a sweet spot, though, an audience for this book both dog-happy and math-friendly—but I just don’t belong to that, and I have plenty of other physics books I still need to read.
As far as the quantum mechanics go, the development is fairly standard. It’s hard for me to approach books like this from the eyes of a first timer, because I’ve read so many—I don’t pretend that means I know a lot about quantum mechanics, but you do start to hear the same stories over and over. We are quite fortunate to live during a renaissance in books about quantum mechanics, so really, you are spoiled for choice. I don’t think How to Teach Physics to Your Dog is going to make it onto my list of recommended physics reads, though.
Orzel’s explanations, while admirably complete, also tend towards a level of technical complexity that belies the book’s pop science label. This is, of course, always the difficult balancing act these writers face: the more you lean on analogy or sacrifice detail, the less accurate your rendition of quantum mechanics becomes—but the more you strive for accuracy, the harder it is to comprehend. The former scenario makes for better reading, but it also introduces the potential for more misconceptions. As Orzel points out in the second chapter, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle is well known even in popular culture—but it is also often misinterpreted as a statement about measurement rather than a statement about reality. I liked his explanation of that, as well as his explanations of the Copenhagen interpretation versus the many worlds theory. I was less enamoured whenever he started talking about photons as waves and interference patterns … the way he was explaining it ended up confusing me and doubting my knowledge of quantum physics rather than honing it!
The last chapter is a curious kind of addendum, in which Orzel debunks some of the abuses of the word “quantum” to promote healing scams or free energy scams. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I really like it when scientists take on these kinds of claims and explain why they are bunk and should be viewed sceptically. Also, Orzel does a pretty good job with those explanations. On the other hand, the tone is somewhat different from the rest of the book, so this last chapter feels less connected to what comes before.
All in all, this is a competent work of popular science. It has some good explanations and some confusing ones. I think Orzel demands or assumes a level of comfort with math higher than one might expect from the audience that would be drawn to the book’s framing conceit. That is to say, if you’re reading this because you like physics talk involving dogs, you might not be so happy with the equations and symbols Orzel occasionally throws your way. I can totally see there being a sweet spot, though, an audience for this book both dog-happy and math-friendly—but I just don’t belong to that, and I have plenty of other physics books I still need to read.
Wow, this one was rough. I had to borrow the audiobook version from my library/Hoopla because that was the only format available, and it is the abridged audio edition. I normally avoid abridged editions. What’s the point in missing out on a bunch of the book? In the case of Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus, however, I think I’ll make an exception. This is just a terrible, even actively harmful book, and judging from the Banging Book Club video where they talk about things that weren’t present in the abridgement, I’m very, very lucky.
Yes, this is the October pick for the Banging Book Club, a monthly club that reads books about sex, sexuality, and gender. This month’s pick is a doozy. Apparently this was an influential book in the 1990s and started the eponymous saying, so I get the reasons for wanting to read it. But it is just so bad.
As you can guess from the title, John Gray thinks men and women are very different creatures. But it gets worse. He frames the book in an extended metaphor, setting for us a scenario in which men came from Mars, women from Venus, and started living together here on Earth until they forgot their origins. It’s tortured and overwrought and would be the first thing on the cutting room floor if a half-decent editor had their way.
It probably goes without saying, but this book is incredibly cis/heteronormative. Not once does Gray entertain the idea that you're in a relationship with anyone who is of the same sex as you; not once does he entertain the notion that there might be more to the performance of gender than “man” and “woman”. So though there is advice in here that makes sense (I mean, “listen to your partner” is always good advice), it is so wrapped up in harmful assumptions that it becomes useless.
The idea that men and women are somehow fundamentally different, especially when it comes to something like romance, is hard for us to shake. Even feminists often have trouble with this notion, especially at first. And observationally, yeah, men and women often do act differently or in stereotypical ways—but it is very difficult to pinpoint whether those observed differences are biological or cultural in origin. Very often, sex-linked or gender-linked differences turn out to have both biological and cultural elements to them (e.g., hormonal and social cues influencing when we feel ready to pursue a new romantic relationship). Like most science, this type of science is hard. So I don’t need Not-a-Real-Doctor Dr. John Gray to tell me it’s so simple he can teach me in an hour and a half. (Wikipedia tells me he isn’t a real doctor, making Gray about as reliable as Wikipedia.)
So Gray pretty much ignores anyone in the LGBTQIA+ constellation of gender and sexual identity. And this, in a book written in the early nineties! It sounds to me like something rooted more in the 1960s or 1970s—I was picturing the Jetsons for all his examples. His assumption that a romantic relationship is monogamous and heterosexual and that both parties are cisgender erases anyone who is different. Plus, it’s boring.
Beyond this, so much of Gray’s advice is just so facile. It’s either so simple as to be obvious—communicate better—or it’s stereotypical and peculiarly specific. In addition to the Martian/Venusian metaphor, Gray decides to talk about women being like waves and men being like rubber bands. Sure, I guess? Can I be like a disco ball with a bow-tie? Do we get to pick our similes, or are they all assigned at birth?
Look, if you read this book and it helped me, I’m not saying that’s not real. But I think it’s important that we differentiate between pop psychology and actual science, and that when we make decisions, we base them on the latter. And we need to call out bullshit when we see it, particularly when it makes restrictive assumptions about the type of people living our society. Men aren’t from Mars and women aren’t from Venus, and attempting to reinforce the gender binary and gender norms does no one any favours.
Yes, this is the October pick for the Banging Book Club, a monthly club that reads books about sex, sexuality, and gender. This month’s pick is a doozy. Apparently this was an influential book in the 1990s and started the eponymous saying, so I get the reasons for wanting to read it. But it is just so bad.
As you can guess from the title, John Gray thinks men and women are very different creatures. But it gets worse. He frames the book in an extended metaphor, setting for us a scenario in which men came from Mars, women from Venus, and started living together here on Earth until they forgot their origins. It’s tortured and overwrought and would be the first thing on the cutting room floor if a half-decent editor had their way.
It probably goes without saying, but this book is incredibly cis/heteronormative. Not once does Gray entertain the idea that you're in a relationship with anyone who is of the same sex as you; not once does he entertain the notion that there might be more to the performance of gender than “man” and “woman”. So though there is advice in here that makes sense (I mean, “listen to your partner” is always good advice), it is so wrapped up in harmful assumptions that it becomes useless.
The idea that men and women are somehow fundamentally different, especially when it comes to something like romance, is hard for us to shake. Even feminists often have trouble with this notion, especially at first. And observationally, yeah, men and women often do act differently or in stereotypical ways—but it is very difficult to pinpoint whether those observed differences are biological or cultural in origin. Very often, sex-linked or gender-linked differences turn out to have both biological and cultural elements to them (e.g., hormonal and social cues influencing when we feel ready to pursue a new romantic relationship). Like most science, this type of science is hard. So I don’t need Not-a-Real-Doctor Dr. John Gray to tell me it’s so simple he can teach me in an hour and a half. (Wikipedia tells me he isn’t a real doctor, making Gray about as reliable as Wikipedia.)
So Gray pretty much ignores anyone in the LGBTQIA+ constellation of gender and sexual identity. And this, in a book written in the early nineties! It sounds to me like something rooted more in the 1960s or 1970s—I was picturing the Jetsons for all his examples. His assumption that a romantic relationship is monogamous and heterosexual and that both parties are cisgender erases anyone who is different. Plus, it’s boring.
Beyond this, so much of Gray’s advice is just so facile. It’s either so simple as to be obvious—communicate better—or it’s stereotypical and peculiarly specific. In addition to the Martian/Venusian metaphor, Gray decides to talk about women being like waves and men being like rubber bands. Sure, I guess? Can I be like a disco ball with a bow-tie? Do we get to pick our similes, or are they all assigned at birth?
Look, if you read this book and it helped me, I’m not saying that’s not real. But I think it’s important that we differentiate between pop psychology and actual science, and that when we make decisions, we base them on the latter. And we need to call out bullshit when we see it, particularly when it makes restrictive assumptions about the type of people living our society. Men aren’t from Mars and women aren’t from Venus, and attempting to reinforce the gender binary and gender norms does no one any favours.