The intriguingly titled Water for Elephants is everything a good book can be: an absolute page-turner; wonderful characters; and a well-researched, well-written plot.

The narrator Jacob Jankowski tells us the story of his time with a circus travelling the States during the Great Depression. Meanwhile, we also see him as a ninety- (or ninety-three-) year-old man in an "assisted living" home, mulling over his mortality. In both cases, I instantly felt sympathy for these Jacobs, mixed with a little horror.

The events at times are horrible, but the way it fits seamlessly with the plot and the time period--the fact that this is the Depression and people may do anything for a buck--makes it seem all the more realistic. Gruen creates a truly despicable man in the form of "Uncle Al," who cares only for maintaining and expanding his circus without regard for the wellbeing of those beneath him. Likewise, one of the book's antagonists, August the animal wrangler. A paranoid schizophrenic, August can be charming one moment and monstrous the next. His dualism generates a great deal of conflict for Jacob, who deals with it in interesting ways.

I didn't find this book at all predictable--I spent much of it trying to figure out what would happen to Walter, Jacob's dwarfish roommate. I did not foresee that outcome, but I suppose it makes sense. There was little doubt that Jacob would get a happy ending, considering the scenes of him as an old man, but he also received his share of suffering. What Gruen has wrought is a sort of "fairy tale of the Great Depression" in the most classical sense of a fairy tale--dark, sometimes disturbing, and but with a message that can be positive or cautionary.

My only quibble with Water for Elephants is the pacing at the end, which seemed to increase unnaturally. Suddenly events were flying by, the plot was advancing, and it felt somewhat artificial. Oh, I kept turning the pages--I was engaged. It just felt like the book ended too quickly, compared to the lengthy development prior to the climax. The conclusion was somewhat summary. This was jarring compared to the near-artistic perfection of the rest of the book, but it certainly didn't ruin my enjoyment.

The quotation on the back of my edition, "A sawdust-and-tinsel novel reminiscent of Robertson Davies", may be somewhat hyperbolic--I don't know if I would have compared Gruen to Robertson Davies were the quotation not in my mind as I read the book. Water for Elephants does resemble Robertson Davies in at least one respect: it is the sort of book I can recommend to anyone.

I wish I could say I enjoyed this book more than I did. The premise is great, and the first half of the book was interesting. Dan Simmons captures the isolation, desperation, and hopelessness that encroaches when stranded in the Arctic for the winter. Unfortunately, his characters weren't up to the task of carrying that burden, and the plot was even less robust.

The story eventually devolves into a spiritual, pseudo-mythological adventure in which the protagonist comes to accept that his own Eurocentric values aren't going to keep him alive in the inimical Arctic climate. Meanwhile, the eponymous ship is being stalked by a mysterious polar-bear-like creature (and this is where the book takes the mythological turn) that would definitely puzzle Linnaeus.

By the end of the book, I was alternately confused or disappointed by the actions of the protagonist, and I was just ready to put the book down and have a good cup of tea.

My objections to Collapse are nearly identical to the ones I voiced in my review of [b:Guns, Germs, and Steel|1842|Guns, Germs, and Steel|Jared Diamond|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1158959888s/1842.jpg|2138852]. Jared Diamond's thesis that past societal collapses have largely been due to five main factors is a good thesis, and he makes a compelling argument. However, Collapse is poorly written and edited; Diamond reiterates his points so much that it feels somewhat patronizing.

Diamond analyzes the collapse of six past societies: the Easter Islanders, the Pitcairn and Henderson Islanders, the Anasazi, the Mayans, and the Vikings. He then compares these societies to modern societies (both societies that face problems and ones that have solved some problems which previously led to collapses). All of these analyses are very well-thought out, well-presented arguments that support Diamond's overarching thesis (if somewhat belaboured). One of the most useful aspects of these repetitive case studies is how Diamond points out which of his "five factors" influenced each society's collapse. (The five factors, by the way, were: environmental damage, climate change, decrease in interaction with friendly foreigners, increase in hostilities from foreigners, and how the society responds to environmental concerns.) For instance, deforestation played the major role in causing the demise of the Easter Islanders; on the other hand, the Inuit survived in Greenland because they adapted to their environment in a way that the Eurocentric Vikings refused to do. By pointing out these differences, Diamond elevates this book above the typical "well, some societies had problems, so they collapsed" tone of a TV documentary. Each case study is interesting in its own right and well worth further investigation--Diamond provides plenty of suggestions for further reading.

Much of the book is a treatise on the fragility of our biosphere. Diamond attempts to convince us that he's unbiased when it comes to environmental concerns, claiming he is neither pro- nor anti-environment. I doubt that any reader would believe this claim after the first chapter, and certainly no one could accept it after the end of the book. However, while Diamond is pro-environment, he demonstrates that he is not necessarily anti-business. In fact, he spends much of his time trying to show that businesses can and will clean up their act if pressured into doing so or shown how it will benefit them. I approve of this stance, just as I approve of the fact that Diamond carefully avoids "environmental determinism"--i.e., that a society's surroundings totally dictate the fate of a society.

After examining past societies, Diamond looks at modern societies, both what's working and what isn't. He takes an excruciatingly detailed look at Montana, but I don't fault him for this, since it's apparently an area with which he has much experience. Once again, he extols Papua New Guinea as an excellent country full of awesome people--I skimmed that part, having read enough such praise in Guns, Germs, and Steel. I actually found the chapter on modern Australia the most interesting; I hadn't reflected before on the problems, which in hindsight are logical consequences, caused by the colonization of this rugged continent. Collapse is a reminder that even so-called "First World" countries have their share of problems; Diamond's framework is universal rather than restricted only to poor or isolated societies.

The last part of the book concerns what we can do to stem the rising tide of problems that could cause future societal collapses. This is particularly important, since Diamond notes that globalization means a collapse affects the entire world, even if it is localized to a single country or even continent. Diamond throws out some suggestions and also refutes common "lines" supplied by opponents to the call to arms he's taken up. After the rousing chapter on Australia, this part was lacklustre at best. If it weren't for the monotonous emphasis on supporting Diamond's thesis, I would think I was reading a novel with a climax and then a disappointing resolution! To be fair, however, the final chapter was interesting if not entertaining.

I'm more pessimistic than Diamond at this time. Then again, as I write this I'm only 19, much less mature and experienced than most people who ruminate upon these problems, particularly Diamond himself. Unfortunately, I've already come to the conclusion that Diamond and others are attempting to communicate now: we cannot continue like this. The Earth cannot support our population with our current methods of managing our resources and the current level of impact we have, as individuals, on the planet. Something's gotta give, and it may just be our quality of life--something we pampered First World citizens are very reluctant to surrender, much less reduce. Diamond finds some hope in the fact that, with better management of our resources, we can sustain both our current population and quality of life while still reducing our impact on the planet itself. It's up to us, the public, to push governments and businesses to take the necessary steps.

Collapse was as interesting an argument as I had hoped, although this comes with the caveat that it's a poorly written book. There are certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon (or in my case, a couple of afternoons), and if you're a fan of Diamond's previous work, you'll find this tolerable. If this is your first Diamond book, I think that Guns, Germs, and Steel was marginally better. However, the subject matter of Collapse is still fascinating, and Diamond does it justice.

Perhaps the best science fiction book I've ever read that so elegantly reverses our contemporary notions of gender. Not so great as a novel, unfortunately.

In Glory Season, David Brin depicts a world with an intensely matriarchal society. The majority of the population of Stratos consists of female clones, "sparked" in winter by male sperm, but genetic copies of their mothers. Men and "variant" girls are born in summer. Designed this way the founders of Stratos, this society is supposedly pastoral and stable, with the clones running the show and the "vars" (men and variant girls) struggling to fit in wherever they can.

Brin does a masterful job at creating Stratoin society and instilling it with values that are essentially the opposite of what we might consider "normal" in Western society. For example, in Stratoin society, men don't fight. Almost every man serves aboard a ship as a sailor until retiring; otherwise, they stay in "sanctuaries" during the summer, unless invited by a clan looking to produce some vars. As Glory Season is told from the limited omniscient perspective following a female var, we get a sense of the prejudices that pervade Stratoin culture. These stark differences from the way our society operates are only emphasized by the arrival of the "Outsider", Renna, an advanced scout from the multi-world Phylum.

For his world-building achievement with this book, Brin deserves much praise. It's not easy to construct such a logical, consistent society yet still remain within the bounds of scientific possibility and avoid descending into a lampoon of Amazon-like cultures. Glory Season is neither a cautionary tale about what matriarchy would be like, nor is it an encomium for matriarchal rule. Rather, as Brin explains in his afterword, it's a novel-length answer to "What if?". Any good science fiction story should begin by trying to answer that question.

I was much less impressed with the plot and characterization. Much of the plot was difficult to follow, and the parts I did follow I often found boring or repetitive--Brin had a tendency to render Maia, our stalwart protagonist, unconscious when he needed to end a chapter on a cliffhanger. For the first couple of blackouts, it was effective, but then it became old, even when he lampshades it later on.

I can't decide if I admire or am annoyed by Maia! On the one hand, she's a plucky protagonist, definitively individual in a culture where one strives to be the same as one's clone sisters. On the other hand, she is continually buffeted around among forces she can't control; even when she does reach out to try and seize the day, she's knocked down before she can truly succeed. The end of the book seems to imply that this is part of the story's theme, that Maia's adventure has finally allowed her to mature to the point where she can strike out as an individual and begin making her own way through life.

Unfortunately, there are too many loose threads to leave me satisfied. Maia's twin, Leie, (and this isn't a spoiler, because anyone who reads the book should realize two pages after Leie dies that she really isn't dead) reappears only to disappear about fifty pages later. It's a touching reunion, but one devoid of purpose save for a few plot points during the dry climax of the book. It kind of makes me feel like the end of The Matrix, where they just sort of walk off into the crowd of oblivious pod-happy people.

Brin aims for something lofty, but he overshoots and misses, at least in my opinion. Still, Glory Season is worth a read for its sociological value alone. And the story isn't too bad, just not great.

In many ways delicious, The Queen's Bastard is a well-written, evocative piece of alternate-Elizabethan-era fantasy. Unfortunately, defects in both its plot and its characters detract from the otherwise beautiful prose of C.E. Murphy.

At first I enjoyed the stalwart strength of the protagonist, Belinda Primrose. An unacknowledged bastard of Lorraine (Elizabeth), Queen of Aulun (England), she has been raised and trained as an assassin by her father, Robert Drake (Francis Drake). Belinda is, in essence, the product of two decades of manipulation by her father. Since her first kill at twelve, she has had no identity beyond those she assumes to fulfil her missions. This struggle for identity becomes a key theme in the book and an important aspect of the plot as Belinda finds her will subsumed by the fabricated identity of Beatrice Irvine.

My problem with the book begins when Belinda rediscovers her quelled "witchpower" with the help of the Prince of Gallin (France), Javier, who is also a "witchbreed". This power is inextricably linked to emotion, particularly Belinda's anger and her sexuality. The book takes a sharp turn toward erotica when she wakes up in bed next to her serving maid, whom Belinda has bound and gagged. It wasn't the rampant sex that dismayed me--it was the inconsistency. Up until this point, sex had been a component of the story, but it never took centre stage in such an insistent manner as it did at this point.

Soon I began to despise Belinda and actively cheer for her antagonists, particularly the clever countess Akilina Pankejeff. Unlike Belinda's machinations and her ambivalence over destroying Javier, Akilina was pleasantly cruel. And she actually seemed competent at her job. Belinda, on the other hand, made numerous mistakes and blunders. While I appreciate the lengths to which Murphy goes to give me a flawed protagonist, I just didn't enjoy it very much. It results in a hasty resolution to Belinda's plot, one much less artful than I wanted.

I think what I'm trying to say is that The Queen's Bastard sacrifices political intrigue for character drama. For that reason, it's a good book--people who like character drama will enjoy it. But a great book, like [b:Dune|234225|Dune (Dune Chronicles #1)|Frank Herbert|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1172968533s/234225.jpg|3634639], manages to reconcile both politics and character drama to create a moving, profound story. Instead, the political trappings fall away as the book becomes more about romance, forbidden love, and the price of power.

I'm sad to say I was disappointed by The Queen's Bastard; I don't yet know if I'll read the sequel. Maybe I'll try some of Murphy's other works first. She has a wonderful talent for description; the book contains excellent similes and lyrical depictions of the scenes. The delectable prose makes it all the more unfortunate that I didn't enjoy the narrative more.

This is my first Pride and Prejudice sequel (indeed, I was unaware up until now of the cornucopia of books in this sub-genre!).

Any reviewer would be remiss if he or she failed to remark on Linda Berdoll's diction, so let's address that first: yes, the prose is a deep, deep shade of purple. What many other reviewers seem to have missed is that this is an intentional device that Berdoll employs to mock Jane Austen's style (and indeed, the general diction of the Victorian era). I can understand how a reader can misinterpret this as a serious attempt to emulate Austen; Berdoll walks the line between parody and failed faithful sequel too closely for my tastes. However, in my opinion at least, Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife is an obvious parody of Jane Austen's style, both in it is diction and its characters. I am invoking the principle of charity, because to assume otherwise would mean that this book is a crime against humanity not even I would commit.

Oh, the characters. Oh, the sex. Not only does Berdoll delight in bombarding us with numerous intimate scenes between Elizabeth and Darcy, but she uses Regency slang like it's going out of fashion (which it has). I tended to skim through these scenes, but if that's what you enjoy, then by all means peruse them in as much detail as you would like.

Criticize Berdoll's style if you will, the two main characters are probably more complex than they were in Austen's original novel. We get to experience Elizabeth's burgeoning love for Mr. Darcy and her own trepidation about assuming the role of wife to a man of such high station. In time, we see her take a stand against her husband when she believes he's in the wrong, and fret over his absence overseas during a war, all the while struggling to do what she considers her "wifely duty" and bear Darcy a son. Likewise, Mr. Darcy is torn between his passion for Elizabeth and his lifelong learned attitude of aloofness in society. His new marital status shakes up the status quo at Pemberley somewhat.

I certainly cheered for our two protagonists, especially in their moments of contrived heroics. I cheered when Darcy rescued Elizabeth, and when Elizabeth rebuked Lady Caroline. I blinked in dismay when Major Wickham crossed the line dividing cowardice from villainy. All in all, Berdoll weaves a captivating narrative that, if utterly predictable, is still enjoyable.

The book is perhaps somewhat longer than it should be. Part of this is because Berdoll insists on retelling certain events from the limited third-person perspective of another character. This was interesting at first, and useful a couple of times, but it quickly became redundant. Likewise, certain aspects of the plot might have been condensed--does Bingley really need to father a bastard child? Do Jane and Lydia really have to have so many children? I realize that there's a theme in there somewhere about fidelity, but buried beneath the layers of (what I'm hoping is) irony, it will not soon see the light of day.

In addition to its ponderous length, there were a few glaring errors I found disturbing. For instance, when did Darcy's mother's name become "Elinor"? A quick stop at Wikipedia, of all places, would inform anyone who hasn't read Pride and Prejudice that Mr. Darcy's mother's name was, Anne. This is a classic example of Did Not Do the Research--ironically, according to the Author's Note, this book was originally going to be titled The Bar Sinister, which is the name of a sub-trope of that ilk.

Overall, I suspect that one's attitude toward Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife will be influenced by two factors: whether or not one perceives this as parody rather than straight romance, and whether or not one enjoys Regency romance in general. In both cases, the key to enjoying this book is to not take it seriously (at all). Failure to do so may result in a hernia.

A blend of semi-hard, semi-sweet science fiction with historical fiction, Eifelheim comes across as intelligent yet smug. Michael Flynn concocts a "perfect storm" of coincidences, particularly for the two present-day main characters, to carry his narrative. While every story will rely on coincidence in some fashion or another, Eifelheim's plot resembles a meticulously constructed house of cards built in the windiest location on Earth (a quick Google search turns up no consensus on this point).

The present-day chapters are tiresome, their characters flat and largely uninteresting. Flynn hints at relationship strife between Tom and Sharon when Tom begins spending more time with a librarian, Judy, who joins him on a quest to research the mysterious disappearance of Eifelheim. However, there's no resolution to what I considered a very interesting aspect of the plot. In the epilogue, Tom and Judy visit the site of Eifelheim, with only a passing mention that Sharon is "busy" elsewhere. Both characters seemed too self-absorbed to ever have entered this relationship in the first place--not that we would know about that, since Flynn provides scant details on their pasts.

In contrast, the historical setting of Eifelheim (then known as Oberhochwald) and its protagonist, Pastor Dietrich, are at least more complex. The conflict over Oberhochwalds unexpected extraterrestrial tenants becomes tense and heated toward the end, as the Black Death descends upon the village. Dietrich's fondness for logic and dialectic invoked fond reminders of [b:The Name of the Rose including Postscript to the Name of the Rose|119073|The Name of the Rose including Postscript to the Name of the Rose|Umberto Eco|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51x1bfe82DL._SL75_.jpg|3138328]!

Both the contemporary and the historical segments share a common flaw: the entire book is too didactic for my tastes. Now, the aforementioned The Name of the Rose was also didactic. It, however, was carried by a truly interesting mystery. The "mystery" of Eifelheim is mysterious only for the dullest reader. As such, all we're left to observe is the book's smugness as coincidences converge upon Dietrich in Oberhochwald and Tom and Sharon in the present.

Flynn's treatment of science fiction is supposedly "hard", but its edges are kind of squishy. I don't begrudge him the squishiness. He attempts to mate physics with medieval natural philosophy--it's an interesting comparison undercut by the weakness in the story and its characters. Those interested in logic and medieval philosophy are better off reading The Name of the Rose. [a:Arthur C. Clarke|7779|Arthur C. Clarke|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1193516744p2/7779.jpg] has a treasury of short stories, and some of them include pre-20th century first contact, if I remember correctly. In short, Eifelheim is far from a terrible book, but there are many other books that do more justice to its themes.

Although it contains a promising theme, The Forgery of Venus lacks a compelling story. Its characters are largely shallow and uninteresting; its plot is overly-complicated; the pacing suffers from an overabundance of exposition. While I'm sure Gruber had the best of intentions, his poor technical execution leaves much to be desired. Ultimately, I found The Forgery of Venus unsatisfactory.

For reasons that later become clear (unreliable narrator), Gruber chooses to wrap the story in a frame narrative told from the point of view of the protagonist's former college buddy. The scenario goes as follows: the protagonist, Chaz Wilmot, has recorded his narrative on a CD, which he then hands to the frame narrator at a party celebrating the sale of a 17th century painting that Wilmot may or may not have painted. For the first few chapters, Gruber dazzles us with exposition, in which our cardboard characters get shellacked with various traumas and emotional baggage--daddy issues, mommy issues, commitment issues, etc.--and the structure works! But then the story proper begins, and suddenly it doesn't sound like Chaz is dictating his story anymore. However, the "suspension of disbelief" sign has turned on, and I've fastened my seat belt, so apparently I'm going along for the ride.

And this is an important point: why is it necessary to justify a story told from the first-person perspective. If it isn't a frame narrative, it's a weak Call-Me-Ishmael chapter. In the specific case of The Forgery of Venus, I have the misfortune in that the only character I dislike more than Chaz Wilmot is the frame narrator. While Gruber can justify Chaz's painful expository chapters as consistent with the structure of the narrative, the frame narrator has no such crutch upon which to lean: the exposition in the introduction is anaemic and unnecessary. Just to set the record straight, most Canadians don't say "eh" at the end of their sentences; while I'm sure there are some who do, the very idea that you mentioned the stereotype offended me. The frame narrator's explanation of why Chaz is talking to him is weak at best: he suddenly switched his major from acting to pre-law because of a painting Chaz did while he was in costume? And somewhere along the way he picked up enough art history to appreciate the significance of Chaz's adventure from a scholarly perspective?

The unbelievable plot, in addition to the unbelievable, paper-thin characters, is what ruined this book for me. The themes that Gruber attempts to evince are worthy. The book improves toward the end, so I'm glad I persevered, and I understand Gruber's message about the mutability of our reality. Unfortunately, any redeeming aspects of The Forgery of Venus are crushed by its poor plotting and weak writing. It's, in some ways, an anti-[b:The Da Vinci Code|968|The Da Vinci Code|Dan Brown|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1233010738s/968.jpg|2982101]--Dan Brown's research was weak, but as a writer he managed to create a compelling story. Conversely, Gruber's research and themes are strong, but the story lacks life and substance. The number of acceptable scenarios in which one can say, "Dad had a little problem" are few. I think that's the point where I gave up on the book's quality and resolved merely to finish it so I could give it a complete (notice I didn't say "fair") review.

I eked very little enjoyment from The Forgery of Venus. As romantic and attractive as the art forgery scene may seem, Gruber manages to quash that feeling in his drug-induced insanity plot. Had I any sympathy for the protagonist after the first few chapters (which I didn't), in which he whines about how unfortunate his life has been, it would have slowly bled out of me while I watched Chaz firmly refuse to take any responsibility for his own life. He's a passive protagonist.

The Forgery of Venus is a dead-on-arrival story burdened by its author's prose. I feel sorry for it, but not for its characters. I look forward to cleansing my reading palate with something more tasty next.

In The Engine's Child, Holly Phillips has created a rich and interesting world where everyone quite literally lives on an island in a vast ocean. The intrigue among the three main factions--the conservatives who insist on keeping with traditional ways, those who want to find a way back to the land of their ancestors using magic portals, and those who want to master the ocean and find new land--is what fuels most of the story. Unfortunately, the end result left me feeling like Phillips failed to exploit the full potential of her beautiful world.

It's not the unfamiliar terms--mostly honorifics--that fazed me; Phillips handily included a glossary. Rather, there are some unfamiliar concepts that never get explained in a satisfactory manner. The protagonist, Moth, is uniquely attuned to the mystical force called the mundab, which also happens to be the name of the unending ocean that surrounds the island. She works with an expansionist group to build an engine that somehow channels this mundab into energy to power a vessel. The nature of the mundab and the shadowy manifestations associated with it remains vague, at least to me, for the entire book.

Similarly, Phillips' descriptions of the setting never satisfied me. Although I'm interested in the social structures of this world she's created, I have a very poor idea of how it looks and is geographically organized. While I'll never say that maps are essential to fantasy books, I wouldn't turn one down, especially not for this book. How big is the island? Where are these towers located in "the bay"? A simple map showing me the relative locations of various settings, such as the bastion and the tidal, would have gone a long way toward drawing me into the events in the book. The lack of sufficient description detracted from my enjoyment of the drama taking place in those settings.

Few of the characters held my attention for very long. None are well developed beyond a few of the main characters, such as Moth and her mother. I never got a clear sense of who the antagonists were supposed to be, and even the characters who I thought were the antagonists, such as Lord Ghar, had pretty flimsy motivations, at least from what I learned about them.

Indeed, the deficiencies of The Engine's Child all stem from what seems like a lack of depth from Phillips. Where we require specificity and analysis, we get only surface details. Exposition, which is deadly when overused, is fatally underused, and the story suffers as a result. Lacking any real history beyond a rebellion vaguely relevant to the plot, the world stands only in the present, which makes me care much less about its future.

By far the most interesting part of The Engine's Child is the world in which it is set. The island's society exists because of a tenuous and brittle social contract, and the machinations of various characters threaten that social contract's survival. I want to be immersed in this world and experience the hardships of the poor in "the tidal" and the farmers in the hadras (countryside). Ultimately, however, Phillips failed to draw me into her world; I felt always like an outsider, watching shadows of characters acting out a pantomime on the cave wall.