It's always a pleasure to read a book about science that's accessible yet still informative. Before the Dawn is a refreshing update to Darwinian evolution using the cutting-edge tool available to scientists and historians: genetics.

Wade begins by giving a brief introduction into the application of genetics in the study of human history (and prehistory). Of particular interest is mitochondrial DNA (which is only inherited from the mother) and the Y chromosome (which a father passes onto his sons unchanged, since, unlike other chromosomes, it never swaps genetic information), through which geneticists can trace lineage, mutation, and genetic drift. Wade presents genetics as an additional tool to help clarify controversies stemming from other methods of dating human development, such as the unreliable method of carbon dating. He's upfront about the limits of genetics, however, which is also something I appreciate about this book. Wade strongly supports his argument but also mentions if other studies support contrary opinions.

I appreciate Before the Dawn more for small, individual aspects rather than its overall flavour or zest. The aforementioned mitochondrial DNA/Y chromosome parts fall under this category, as does Wade's anecdotes about how the body louse helped us learn so much about our distant ancestors. It would never have occurred to me that lice, such pests as they are, would hold the key to our past. As Wade explains in Before the Dawn, however, we can look into the lice genome to see when body lice had to adapt to live in clothing instead of fur and use that to roughly pinpoint when humans began wearing clothes. Examples like that help demonstrate to people why genetics is such a useful new tool in the exploration of our past.

The first six or so chapters chronicles humanity's expansion out of Africa, starting with a discussion on how we differentiated from our ape cousins and evolved into beings with the anatomical and cognitive abilities to expand all the way to Australia and northern Europe. This isn't the same old boring story, however, because Wade's telling it from a genetic point of view, indicating where key mutations in the Y chromosome or mitochondrial DNA reveal when populations split off and to where they emigrated. Wade waffles somewhat when trying to explain what happened when behaviourally-modern humans encountered their predecessors outside of Africa--the Neanderthals in Europe and Homo erectus in Asia. Ultimately it seems that the evidence isn't clear, although he suspects that interbreeding wasn't the prevalent outcome.

Beyond telling the story of our journey out of Africa, Before the Dawn clearly communicates a very important point about evolution: it's random. This gets lost, especially when opponents to evolutionary theory pick up the discussion, but it's an essential point that bears repeating. Evolution isn't working toward some end goal. Wade emphasizes time and again that the mechanisms of genetic drift and natural selection work both helpful and harmful effects upon species; we just usually notice the helpful effects because those who carry harmful attributes tend to die off rather than reproduce. Sometimes evolution's effects can be double-edged: did you know that the same mutation that causes sickle cell anaemia is responsible for boosting immunity to malaria? I didn't. But it just goes to show that if we ever take our genome into our own hands and begin guiding our evolution--something Wade mentions in the conclusion of the book--we need be very careful.

The last six chapters of the book describe human development after we've spread across the globe. These chapters are not as fascinating as the previous six. They come across as somewhat padded, particularly the chapter on "History", wherein we learn about Thomas Jefferson's illegitimate children with a slave. Oh yay. On the other hand, there are a couple of highlights.

The chapter on "Race", of course, is controversial. Wade manages to cleverly seize upon race as a genetic concept but is careful to point out this doesn't translate into a physical concept. Thus, by the guidelines of the scientists Wade endorses, a person's race is defined by his or her genes but has little to do with his or her appearance; someone who is genetically Caucasian may have very dark skin, compared to our classic idea of a Caucasian person as light skinned. Race ultimately tells us about where our ancestors came from, Wade opines, but is not inextricably linked to particular genetic attributes.

Wade also takes on [a:Jared Diamond|256|Jared Diamond|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1205143138p2/256.jpg]'s famous book [b:Guns, Germs and Steel|826651|Guns, Germs and Steel the Fates of Human Societies|Jared Diamond|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1178728108s/826651.jpg|2138852], attacking Diamond's thesis that the environment was the major factor in human development. I applaud Wade for criticizing parts of Diamond's argument I also found weak, particularly Diamond's peculiar insistence on the intellectual superiority of New Guineans. In any event, Before the Dawn is a good companion book to Guns, Germs, and Steel, so I recommend it to anyone who has read the latter.

I have little to offer in way of criticism for Wade's arguments. As neither an historian nor a geneticist, I don't feel qualified to offer a technical criticism. As a reader, the book is more accessible than some scientific literature; it can get a bit dense from time to time, but you can just skim over those parts. The well-organized, almost episodic chapters make it easy to read over the course of a few days. If you're like me, you won't find the entire book equally interesting--some parts will be fascinating, while others will let your interest lapse as you wonder how much longer they'll last. Overall, Before the Dawn is a good addition to its field. However, if you aren't already interested in evolution and genetics, I doubt it will ignite a fire within you.

Few books have managed to disappoint me as much as this one has. The captivating premise of History Play--that Marlowe faked his death and wrote all the plays attributed to Shakespeare--belies its overly-pedantic treatment of Marlovian theory (an actual literary theory supported by several leading Elizabethan scholars).

The most interesting part of the book is its foreword, which wasn't even written by Bolt, but instead by [a:Mark Twain|1655|Mark Twain|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1170645482p2/1655.jpg]! It lists the facts we know definitively about the life of William Shakespeare, emphasizing how little we actually know about one considered the greatest playwright of English literature. Academics who favour the mainstream view say this is to be expected; Shakespeare was a commoner, after all, so his life isn't documented as well as the nobility of Elizabethan England. Others take this as a sign that the William Shakespeare of Stratford couldn't have written all those plays we know as his--and that's where Bolt takes up the narrative and presents a fictitious biography of Christopher Marlowe.

I have to admit I was skimming by the time I reached the halfway point of History Play. Its stultifying writing made me want to put it down, but the rational part of me wanted to see how it ended. It probably wasn't worth it, in retrospect. Bolt spends too much time mentioning how he acquired this information ("this was in a letter...") and uses far too many quotations from Marlowe's plays (both those indisputably attributed to him and those we attribute to Shakespeare). His tone is dry, academic, and bored.

If this were a paper in a scholarly journal, I can see how that might work. However, biographies need to be somewhat exciting. I'm not asking Bolt to fictionalize his scenes (any more than they already are...), but as it is History Play is lifeless, limp prose. I was hoping to recommend this book to a couple of other people I know who would enjoy seeing this premise explored, but now I shall forbear--I don't want to inflict this on them!

It's my own fault for having such high hopes, of course, so I won't blame History Play for disappointing me. Unfortunately, I cannot really give it praise.

Faerie Tale is at times delightful urban fantasy and at other times heavy-handed and forced. I really liked it the first time I read it, several years ago, but upon re-reading it I'm forced to pay attention to its flaws as well as its fun parts.

My attraction to and enjoyment of Faerie Tale stems from the atmosphere that Feist creates and sustains through the entire book. The threat of the mischievous faeries to the Hastings family seems real in that dull, throbbing sense of dread one feels about coming home only to find the door ajar. For the majority of the book we get only glimpses and whisperings of the faeries, meeting one once or twice during particularly dramatic moments. Gabbie's encounters with Wayland Smith and the Fool were both charged with a sense of erotic danger, culminating in her near-rape at the hands of the latter. Similarly, in the scene where Patrick is replaced by a changeling, it's very easy to empathize with his terrified twin brother, Sean. Feist's descriptive style and easy way with dialogue makes the book very readable.

Unfortunately, there are deficiencies of plot and character which are hard to ignore. Although the first half of the book is a slow-moving, entrancing and suspenseful narrative, the ending feels rushed and compressed to fit my TV. We barely get to meet the Faerie Queen before she's speaking English to us, telling us we're good kids, and rushing offstage. There's no sense of drama or gravitas here. Thus, in an ironic way, the faeries in Faerie Tale were better plot devices than they were characters--far more interesting when we couldn't see them in the first half of the book! After the climax, the denouement takes all of five pages. Now, I'm not advocating a LOTR-style fifty-page ending ... but I would at least like more than some memory alteration. It just feels tacky.

Most of the characters don't feel right either. First, there's Gloria and Phil, wife and husband. Gloria begins as a sensible mother, but by the end of the book she's an emotional wreck, fraught with concern over her twins. Feist essentially writes her out because he needs Sean and Patrick to confront the faeries alone; it's quite disappointing. Phil, on the other hand, gets assigned the stereotypical role of "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead" father, who huffs and puffs whenever his sons are in danger but actually has no clue what to do.

Second, there's Jack and Gabbie, a good ol' North Carolina boy and Phil's daughter from his first marriage. They fall in love in about a week and decide to get married by the end of the summer. Feist seems determined to avert the "snotty rich heiress" trope in Gabbie, but as a result she comes off as ... well, not a real sister. There is almost no family discord beyond the mundane, "Answer the phone while I'm in the bath, tweebs" (only they don't use "tweebs" in the '80s, I suppose). Phil and Gloria barely bat an eye when Gabbie announces her engagement to Jack.

The only realistic characters are the twins, Sean and Patrick, who act like ordinary eight-year-old boys. Even the faerie threat is just another adventure--albeit a scary, life-and-death adventure. I like Sean and Patrick. And they're arguably the only people changed by their experience in New York (since everyone else forgets about it afterward). Sean becomes more confident and feels more equal to his adventurous brother. The rest of the family experiences zero character development--in fact, one might say they experience negative character development. I was quite disappointed when Phil decided he would move back to California and write/direct a new movie in his franchise simply because the money was good. At the beginning of the book, he makes it clear he's moved east to get away from Hollywood life and focus on returning to writing novels. But apparently that sort of reasoning can be bought, if the cheque is large enough.

As a final interesting observation, this book is now old enough that it mentions contemporary technology as if it were new. Gabbie and Jack buy Phil a "word processor" for his birthday, on which he plays Zork. When Patrick falls ill, they fly in a neurologist with a "prototype magnetic resonance imaging unit." I don't hold it against the book--after all, as long as technology continues to progress, any book that employs "modern" technology will feel aged. I'm just entertained by it.

After a second reading, Faerie Tale seems more flawed than it did at first. Maybe that's just because I was younger and less critical then. It's a good book, but not a great book, and it could have been something better had its characters been more developed and its plot wasn't so rushed.

On the whole not a bad book, but it didn't strike a chord with me. The story was lacklustre and the writing, while at times good, was also pretty bland. That's Underground's major problem: I couldn't bring myself to love it, nor could I let myself hate it. It's mediocre.

Harper Blaine, the female once-nearly-dead PI with a touch of magic, is a fairly likable character. She doesn't get on my nerves the way some "hard-boiled" PIs can, swooping in and out of the scene like they're always in charge; Harper actually seems to have a sense of restraint. However, she isn't quite as charismatic a character like Harry Dresden. Moreover, she always seems "on the job" even when she's "off the job," and the narrative of Underground is frustratingly linear. We're dragged by Harper from scene to scene as she pieces together every single part of the puzzle, with very little in the way of diversion or even a red herring.

As far as the story goes, the mystery and mystical elements are fine. Richardson uses her native Seattle as a suitable backdrop, tweaking the history when she feels it's appropriate, which I don't mind. I never really got chills; I never felt a sense of suspense or danger for Harper or any of the other characters. Richardson attempts to create a particular atmosphere around her homeless characters, showing us a glimpse of this alternative--not usually by choice, of course--lifestyle and its repercussions. It doesn't quite work, though.

I also couldn't get behind Richardson's pet magic, the Grey. It's an interesting concept; I'll give her that much. However, I don't think she describes it or ascribes enough of a fantastical element to it to make for good storytelling. The Grey is more plot device than an aspect of Harper's world. Now, Richardson comes close--I feel like she chooses to focus on the wrong things. For instance, when Harper pays a visit to her friend, who happens to be a witch, Richardson fails to evoke a particular atmosphere. A witch's house should be a place of power (and this in fact comes up in relation to the plot, but not to the scene).

Although I'm not recommending this series to anyone in particular, I also won't advise against it. Underground has very little to offer me and didn't entertain like I had hoped it would, but others may disagree. It just didn't excite me.

There are many flavours to science fiction, something that omnivorous readers adore and sceptics of sci-fi" forget. Not all science fiction is Star Wars, with action heroes, fast ships, and big guns (or, you know, swords). Not that there's anything wrong with those stories--but those who pan The Left Hand of Darkness for lacking such things tend to miss the point. It's not supposed to be like those stories; instead, it is a highly-faceted intellectual gem.

So much science fiction and fantasy takes either a contemporary or past form of society and transposes it to a futuristic or medieval time period, tweaks the names of people, places, and weapons, and calls it a Story. Again, this model isn't inherently wrong, but really great science fiction asks the question, "Well, what would humanity and human society be like if this were different?" and rebuilds society from the ground up to find an answer. This edition comes with a short introduction from Ursula K. Le Guin wherein she compares science fiction to a thought experiment. She's correct, and The Left Hand of Darkness is a shining exemplar of such an experiment.

There are two major factors that have altered Gethenian society: Gethen's harsh environment and the hermaphroditic nature of Gethenians. Le Guin investigates the consequences of both of these factors from the point of view of a man much like us, Terran Genly Ai.

The planet Gethen--idiosyncratically called Winter by the first Ekumen Investigators--has a far colder climate than temperate worlds like Earth. Additionally, its biosphere isn't very diverse, with little variety in plant or animal life. As Genly puts it: "it's extraordinary that you arrived at any concept of evolution, faced with that unbridgeable gap between yourselves and the lower animals." The Gethenians are, aside from their sexual differences, physiologically human, but they have adapted to survive the harsh and often deadly environment offered by Gethen. The constant need to survive, even in the middle of civilized cities like Erhenrang or Mishnory, is just as different from us as any differences in sexuality. For one thing, it seems to have stunted nation-building; war is less attractive when winter (and even summer) preys upon one's people. However, the hesitation to engage in open conflict may also be a result of shifgrethor, which I'll discuss later.

Of course, far more than the environment of Gethen, the most well-known part of The Left Hand of Darkness is the ambisexuality of the Gethenians. I won't belabour an explanation, since you should probably be familiar with the concept: the Gethenians are gender neutral for most of the month, then enter kemmer (estrus) and become either male or female, with the corresponding sexual organs coming to prominence, depending on hormones. So sex doesn't have the same impact it does on our society, as the Gethenians have no sex drive for the majority of their lives. In part, I suspect it led to the development of shifgrethor; moreover, it's affected how Gethenians view sexuality itself. For instance, incest has fewer restrictions on Gethen. Although monogamy exists, it is not enforced. Finally, the lack of permanent gender means gender roles themselves are nonexistent. This last reason has caused feminists (or anyone involved in issues of gender equality) to pay a lot of attention to The Left Hand of Darkness. I doubt I could truly discuss the subject any better than others already have, so go read their opinions instead. I'll just say I found the theme of gender equality definitely fascinating.

More fascinating, though, is the concept of shifgrethor, which Le Guin never fully explains. Probably it was difficult, since she designed it to be an intentionally alien cultural element. According to Estraven, the word itself comes from an old word for shadow; Genly calls it "prestige, face, place, the pride-relationship, the untranslatable and all-important principle of social authority." Shifgrethor fills the vacuum in society where socialized gender roles and the sex drive hold sway in our cultures.

After all, a huge portion of society revolves around trying to have sex. Members of both sexes spend a good deal of their time trying to impress members of the opposite sex--or their own sex--or entice others to impress them. Advertisers sell products designed to enhance sexual pleasure. Even products not primarily designed for that purpose, such as cars, tend to be advertised in a way that implies your sex life will improve if you buy the product. We are constantly consciously and unconsciously assessing and adjusting our attitudes to take into account the sex and gender of those around us.

The Gethenians don't have any of that. The makers of Axe bodyspray would need to adopt an entirely new marketing strategy for Gethen (although I'm sure their commercials will be just as annoying)! Yet every society needs standards of conduct, guidelines by which the "game" proceeds. Since Gethenians can't react to each other based on notions of masculine and feminine, they use shifgrethor instead.

I've discussed the themes of The Left Hand of Darkness at length; anyone still reading this review may be wondering if I'll ever talk about, oh, the characters or the story. Never fear! However, I saved these for last because they're the least fulfilling parts of the book. The characters are often two-dimensional; only Estraven and Genly Ai really develop beyond their role as plot devices. The story, likewise, is more overtly a vehicle for Le Guin's thought experiment than it is in other, more action-orientated science fiction.

Genly Ai is the Ekumen's First Envoy to Gethen, a sort of prelude to an ambassador. The Ekumen's custom is to initiate First Contact after a lengthy period of investigation by undercover Investigators. The First Envoy comes alone, as a curiosity rather than a threat. Genly's experience on Gethen emphasizes how dangerous the mission of a First Envoy can be, and also one of the reasons the First Envoy comes alone: he's expected to form a personal relationship with the world rather than just a political one. As the only person on the planet "constantly in rut," as the Gethenians put it, he's also even more alone than most Envoys. The effects of Genly's time on Gethen, from his quizzical reception in Kargide to his trek across the glaciated landscape with Estraven, finally register on the reader when he looks upon his crew mates as they emerge from their spaceship. To them, preserved in stasis while he works on the planet below, it's only been weeks. To him, it's been nearly three years, three years of living with people who have no concept of gender. He experiences reverse culture shock and admits that it's difficult to adjust to what he once considered normal.

The other character with some development is Therem Harth rem ir Estraven. As the book begins, we find him putting Genly in a difficult position, essentially abandoning the First Envoy to the mercy of the unstable King Argaven. Later it becomes clear that Estraven was acting in Genly's best interests, as he already knew that Argaven would soon banish him from the kingdom of Kargide. Due to cultural differences, such as the alien nature of shifgrethor, Estraven's motives aren't always as apparent to Genly as Estraven believes they should be; he laments this thoroughly, and it galvanizes him to go and rescue Genly from a forced labour camp. In their subsequent months spent in environmental isolation as they trek across the ice, both Genly and Estraven feel utterly alone: Genly owing to his obvious anatomical and cultural differences, and Estraven owing to his banishment from Kargide. As the two come to depend upon each other for survival, and even just basic human interaction, Estraven becomes our window into Gethenian culture.

The Left Hand of Darkness is also a tale of first contact. Genly Ai represents the Ekumen, a loose federation of worlds based on economic and spiritual fulfilment rather than any goal toward political unifications. Le Guin has limited space travel to relativistic speeds only but allows worlds to communictate ideas faster-than-light through a device known as an ansible. (It's a measure of Le Guin's influence on the field that other science fiction authors, famous in their own right, have adopted the ansible as a communications device in their works.) As a result, physical travel between worlds is inconvenient at best. Le Guin has a very poignant way of driving home the true impact of relativistic travel: Genly Ai has only been away from Earth for seven years, but 120 years have passed on Earth during that time--everyone he knew is dead. Even if one doesn't understand the physics involved, such consequences make clear the challenges space travel presents.

The most curious and interesting parts of The Left Hand of Darkness are sociological. There's a little adventure, I suppose, but that's not the main aim of the story, and as I said at the beginning of the review, that's the point. Although this is not a dense work of fiction, either in length or in the complexity of its ideas, it is a worthwhile one if you need something to make you think. And that's what makes books great, no? They make you think, challenge your own pre-conceptions, and reconsider the nature of our universe. It's all well and good to read a book just for a little entertainment, a little recreation. Sometimes, though, you want to go deep. The Left Hand of Darkness will take you on a journey: "in the beginning there was nothing but ice and the sun."

In Coyote, Allen Steele demonstrates the versatility of science fiction as a medium for storytelling. There are no advanced alien species (that we know of so far), no ray guns, and no evil battle droids. Instead, Coyote is a pioneer tale set in a very distant, very exotic locale. In fact, it's interesting that I chose to read it, considering my distaste for "pioneer" and "survival" type literature. Nevertheless, Steele's writing and the story kept me interested enough to see it through until the end.

Still, I must confess that my favourite part of the book is the first part, which concerns the take over of the URSS Alabama by her own crew! They do this to escape a totalitarian government that now rules most of what was once the United States of America. There was considerably more tension in this part of the book, at least on a large scale, than in other parts. Once the colonists arrived on Coyote, I was fairly certain their colony would survive, since ... well, otherwise, there wouldn't have been a story. The politics of Coyote are rather two-dimensional, unfortunately; I tolerated them at first because I thought we would leave them behind once the Alabama left orbit. And we did, until the end of the book, where new developments herald the arrival of "social collectivism" on Coyote. I tried to avoid my eyes and read on....

That doesn't mean the rest of the book is a disappointment. Steele continues to inject a sense of suspense and adventure, but after the departure of the Alabama, he narrows the scope to individual characters. First we watch the communications officer, Les Gillis, awaken prematurely from "biostasis" only to find he can't return to stasis--he's stuck on the ship, conscious and alone, for the rest of his life. We watch him go insane, then sane again, then grow old ... and after he is long dead, we are still present to witness the consequences of his residence on the Alabama for the rest of the colonists when they awaken 200 years later.

As much as Coyote is a novel of exploration and colonization, toward the end there's less discussion of the state of the colony as Steele shifts focus to individual characters' exploits. The small size of the colony magnifies the smallest of conflicts. We grow close to Wendy and Carlos, teenagers when the Alabama leaves Earth who eventually mature into adults. Everyone on Coyote is flawed; Wendy and Carlos are no exceptions. Both of them lose their parent(s) in separate accidents shortly after the Alabama arrives at Coyote; perhaps inevitably, they grow closer and have a child. Yet Wendy seems burdened by the death of her father and a lack of close relationships with her peers and adults--she seems close only to her surrogate mother, the colony's doctor, and Carlos himself. Carlos, on the other hand, traumatized by the death of his parents and a few others close to him, sets off on an ill-advised solo journey along Coyote's unexplored equator. I enjoyed Carlos' journey as a parallel story to that of Gillis on the Alabama. However, I think I like Wendy better. She always seemed more mature.

Coyote contains great storytelling with a fascinating alien setting and interesting characters. It's not perfect--its politics are somewhat shallow, and I found the first part of the story more interesting than any adventures that followed. However, it's certainly good enough that I'll read the next instalment in the series. Anyone interested in "a novel of interstellar exploration," as the cover of my edition proclaims itself, would do well to try this book.

I'd like to love Coyote Rising more; Allen Steele has created a very original tale of interstellar colonization. Unfortunately, I found the plot and the characters lacking the substance required to truly distinguish a novel, no matter how original its premise.

The first book in the series, [b:Coyote|686344|Coyote|Allen Steele|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1177192185s/686344.jpg|373645], depicted a fantastic new world, Earth-like in so many ways yet also devastatingly alien. Even as the original colonists began to settle the planet, more ships from Earth arrived, bringing with them a social collectivist philosophy that threatened to undermine the existing colony's stability. Thus, Steele sets the stage for Coyote Rising, tagged as "a novel of interstellar revolution."

Therein lies the problem: Coyote was interesting by virtue of the world the colonists were exploring and the challenges they had to face; Coyote Rising is almost purely driven by plot, and I enjoyed that far less. There are still some environmental elements to the conflicts faced by our protagonists, most notably a volcanic eruption that cools Coyote's climate, but they seem secondary to Steele's need for the original colonists to revolt against the tyrannical administration of the "Western Hemisphere Union," personified by the irrational Luisa Hernandez.

In the first book, we meet Hernandez only briefly toward the end. As the leader of the second wave of colonists, she seems to honestly believe that social collectivism is the best form of government, and Robert Lee's decision to abandon the original colony and take the original colonists into hiding is prudent. Yet in Coyote Rising, any hint of depth in Hernandez's character is gone. She's a scheming, shallow antagonist whose only desire is total oppression and control. Where's my complex villain who agonizes over her actions, questions whether her morals are correct, then decides her course of action is the only just one?

The antagonists also suffer from an unfortunate tendency to go rogue. Over the course of Coyote Rising, a significant number of people in positions of power with the WHU colony switch sides and join the original colonists (this doesn't count the droves of people fleeing to the original colony because the new colony is a slum). On the surface, this makes sense. Steele's emphasizing how collectivism has failed the colony in the face of the challenges of settling Coyote. Yet the very fact that the collectivist stance seems so indefensible has two unfortunate consequences: firstly, it makes the actions of die-hard antagonists, like Hernandez, even more unconvincing; secondly, it undermines the threat of the antagonists. Steele's trying to make a big point about how humans will fight for freedom, even if it means death, but his protagonist's easy philosophical success undermines his efforts to advance this theme.

If I seem overly negative, it's only because Coyote Rising was so good that it could have been so much better. The book isn't beyond redemption: it has great action scenes, as well as truly moving ones. My favourite scene, the most touching one, occurs near the end of the book, as Robert Lee confronts Luisa Hernandez. I read it as if it were in slow motion, knowing what would happen, and it still moved me. That's why I'm critical of this book: it had potential. Here's hoping [b:Coyote Frontier|365975|Coyote Frontier|Allen Steele|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1174150630s/365975.jpg|356001] improves my opinion of this series' literary merits.

I'm a fan of Neil Gaiman: I read his books, read his blog, and follow his Twitter feed. So when he starts mentioning this Amanda Palmer chick, links to her music videos, and extols both her talents as a musician and her creative nature in general, I decided I should pay attention. I did a little research of my own, learned more about Miss Palmer, but ultimately I was still left with the one question we all have, the only question that matters: who killed Amanda Palmer?

This book is beautiful in a very dark, sometimes disconcerting way. Palmer and Gaiman may be two of the people most suited to creating works of twisted fantasy, where everything reminds you of classic or urban myths but is just a tiny bit off, just a little skewed. They've teamed up, along with talented photographers, to create a book that's breathtaking and eerie.

It's easy to say, "Let's do a whole book of photos of me, only dead." In fact, it's downright narcissistic. Yet the sheer variety of ways in which Amanda Palmer dies is disturbingly fascinating. Some of them are conventional, others are highly improbable; all of them look real. This book confronts that essential part of our humanity that's dark, the part of us that scares us--not everything is sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.

Gaiman's accompanying text is, as always, imaginative. My favourite, accompanying a photo of Amanda Palmer killed by a typewriter falling on her head, is the conversation between a novelist and his companion in a hot-air balloon.... Interspersed with Gaiman's short tales are the lyrics to the album of the same name. Although I haven't bought the album yet, anyone who has will treasure this book, if only as an illustrated lyrical companion. It is, of course, so much more.

I think the best phrase to summarize my review would be this: I bought it for the Neil but stayed for the Amanda.

In the sequel to [b:Hidden Empire|898232|Hidden Empire (Saga of Seven Suns, #1)|Kevin J. Anderson|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1179283380s/898232.jpg|883419], Kevin J. Anderson offers us glimpses of the galaxy's past even as we look to its future. Dark secrets of the Ildirans,the hydrogues, and even the worldforest on Theroc are revealed throughout A Forest of Stars, and soon humanity realizes it isn't alone in this galactic conflict. That's really what the second book of the Saga of Seven Suns is about: ramping up the scope.

The natural question to ask would be: well, how can Anderson ramp up the scope of a novel that spans the galaxy and takes place from the viewpoint of several different characters? How can he broaden the scope of a novel that encompasses the machinations among and within various cultures of humanity and the stagnant Ildirans? At first it seems impossible, but Anderson has a trick up his sleeve: yes, the hydrogues aren't in fact new enemies, but old ones.

As alluded to by Sirix when he turns against the Colicoses, the hydrogues haven't arrived; they've returned. In the far past, the hydrogues were embroiled in a conflict with three other elemental races: the faeros, the wentals, and the verdani. It sounds a bit like science fantasy, because Anderson plays fast-and-loose with science here; this is definitely soft science fiction. But as a narrative device, it works, and the discovery that the hydrogue war is suddenly much bigger, and perhaps much more important, than humanity realized is the focal point of A Forest of Stars.

This book contains a fair amount of betrayal and hostility within various groups. King Peter, formerly Raymond Aguerra, finally decides he's tired of being a figurehead for Chairman Basil Wenceslas. This was probably one of my favourite plot lines in this book; Peter acts courageously and honourably and offers a great leadership counterpoint to the scheming Chairman. Similarly, Mage-Imperator Cyroc'h is dying, and he reveals to Prime Designate Jora'h the sordid secrets of the Ildiran empire: the truth about their history with the hydrogues, as well as the secret human-Ildiran breeding program going on at Dobro. Jora'h vows to put an end to this duplicity. Yet once he becomes Mage-Imperator, we're left with the unfortunate impression that he now sees the galaxy differently....

To Anderson's credit, he manages to keep his massive cast of characters from becoming too disparate or confusing. There is a glossary at the end of the book to help identify characters, planets, etc., but I barely glanced at it. For a story of such "epic" scope, it's quite easy to follow; for the most part, it's enjoyable too. My only real complaints are that it lacks depth in its characters, most of whom are shallow or two-dimensional at best. I've mentioned this before about Anderson's writing, however, and I'm not going to belabour the point.

I never thought this day would come. Ladies and gentlemen, I have found a book that rivals [b:The Art Thief|1600407|The Art Thief|Noah Charney|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1185700124s/1600407.jpg|1593603] for the title of "Worst Book I Have Ever Read [and Finished:]." What begins as innocuous conspiracy-orientated historical fiction ends up becoming a delusional and boring dissertation on the "truth" behind Mary Magdalene.

Conspiracy theories attract us because they appeal to our innate need for order and relationships; they draw connections among disparate elements of society and history. It's no wonder, then, that the historical fiction market is flooded with novels expounding every possible permutation of every possible conspiracy theory. Being a popular religion, Christianity draws more than its fair share of those theories. And nothing is more popular than an account of what "really" happened two thousand years ago at the dawn of Christianity.

The Expected One actually isn't that bad at first. Maureen Paschal begins experiencing visions of Mary Magdalene and investigates them with her journalistic abilities. Soon she's in the middle of one of the oldest conspiracies, the focal point of a conflict between two rival secret societies, the heir to Mary Magdalene. It all sounds intriguing, which is part of the reason the book is so disappointing. It sets the bar high and then fails to meet expectations.

As with many conspiracy novels, The Expected One falls victim to the temptation to make every character a part of the conspiracy. In fact, I don't think we meet one "innocent" person in this entire book; even Maureen's best friend and closest confidante are both "in the know" before Maureen herself becomes involved! When everyone has an angle, it's hard for the protagonist to assert herself. As a character and a heroine, Maureen suffers as a result--she's used by the various parties involved in this conspiracy. I never felt like Maureen had any input or any control over what was happening.

Once she uncovers Mary Magdalene's lost gospel, McGowan begins including chapters told from the perspective of Magdalene, specifically regarding her marriage to John the Baptist and then Christ's crucifixion. At least [b:The Betrayal|2521024|The Betrayal The Lost Life of Jesus A Novel|Kathleen O'Neal Gear|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51zVYslVBXL._SL75_.jpg|2528422] established the dual time period setting from the beginning. While I realize there's a reason for the sudden new narrator in the narrative itself, it is still a bit jarring.

Beyond the revelation of Magdalene's gospel, however, there's very little in The Expected One. The best thing I can say about it is that Maureen definitely changed, so she's dynamic; I'll give McGowan that. Otherwise, nothing in the modern day world seems to change with the discovery of Mary Magdalene's own perspective on Christ. While I realize that this is just "book one" of what will obviously be a series (next up: finding the gospel of Jesus himself!), the lack of any meaningful consequences in this book left me unfulfilled.

I finished the book nonetheless and then, as always, read the author's afterword. This usually consists of notes regarding the historicity of the events in the book--what's real and what isn't. Warning sirens went off when I read this:

I began to experience a series of haunting, recurring dreams that centered on the events and characters of the Passion. Unexplainable occurrences, like those that Maureen experiences.... I would come to understand that most of my life had been lived in preparation for this specific journey of discovery.... The ultimate shock came with the revelation that my own birth date was the subject of a prophecy related to Mary Magdalene and her descendants ... many of my protagonist's adventures and virtually all of her supernatural encounters are based in my own life experiences.

That's right: this novel is semi-autobiographical, which makes Maureen a Canon Mary Sue. It gets worse:

I must be circumspect about the primary source of the new information presented here for reasons of security, but I will say this: The content of the gospel of Mary Magdalene as I interpret it here is taken from previously undisclosed source material. It has never been released to the public before.

In my need to protect the sacred nature of this information and those who hold it, I had no choice but to write this, and the subsequent books in this series, as fiction.

Reading this just made me shudder, because it feels so self-righteous and ... earnest. I'd much rather have an author just tell me, "Well, most of this is made up," or, "This is historically accurate, according to these non-mainstream sources: [list here:]." But no, McGowan feels the need to extrude the conspiracy in her book into real life, and it all gets way too meta for me....

Lest you think I'm panning this book solely because I'm leery of its author's proclamations, let me finish my review by returning to criticism of the book itself. If The Expected One were truly fascinating, if it presented McGowan's ... "experiences" in a suitably satisfying story, then I'd be OK with it. Instead, The Expected One is empty; the story, its inspiration aside, is poorly written. A good book should appeal to the reader even if he or she disagrees with its themes. The reader should be entertained by the quality of its writing and its story. When a book becomes limited to an audience of approval, there's something wrong.

I need to begin listening to my library instincts more. When I picked this book up off the New Books shelf, a little tingle warned me I should put it back. I ignored it, and look at what happened. The unfortunate drawback to my goal of being less picky about what books I read is that occasionally bad books get past my defences.