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tachyondecay
Screw magic. Give me some political fantasy any day, and I'm a happy reader.
I liked Kushiel's Dart. I'm not sure if there's a definite quality improvement or if I'm going too easy on this one, but I loved Kushiel's Chosen.
The Kushiel's Legacy series takes place in a sort of Fantasy Counterpart Culture world where it's Europe, only not. From this starting point, Jacqueline Carey creates a world that, while somewhat similar to our own, nevertheless has unique societies and politics. As she crisscrosses Europe—sorry, Europa—in search of the escaped traitor, Melisande Shahirizai, Phèdre tours many of these societies and inevitably gets involved in her politics. The combination of her stunning beauty, sexual promiscuity, and savvy spy skills can be very persuasive.
Indeed, it's quite possible to label Phèdre a Mary Sue and call it day. That doesn't do justice to Carey's intricate plotting though. Rather, I love Kushiel's Chosen because it teeters on the brink of being contrived; Phèdre balances just on the precipice of Mary Sue-dom. All these people Phèdre encounter tend to help her, for one or more of the three aforementioned character traits she possesses. To put it in perspective: upon escaping from an inescapable island prison (and nearly drowning), Phèdre soon rebuilds her power base, befriending in the process not one but two other nations, and returns to Venice—sorry, La Serenissima—to stop the assassination of her Queen.
What saves the book, and Phèdre, is the difficulty level at which Carey has set her game. Despite her ever-ready allies, despite her shrewdness and knowledge of political intrigue, Phèdre spends most of the book suffering failure after failure. It's like Carey has constructed a giant locked room mystery (where the room is the size of a continent), and Phèdre has interrogated all of the witnesses and suspects, but she still guesses wrongly. Meanwhile, I guessed where Melisande was hiding long before the big reveal (and I never solve those mysteries). But does this make the book bad? On the contrary, it's very smart. By choosing it to do this way, Carey divides the book into two parts that are almost self-contained narratives in themselves, with introduction, rising action, climax, and denouement.
In the first half of Kushiel's Chosen, we're re-introduced to Phèdre, Terre d'Ange, and being a Servant of Namaah. The main focus is on discovering how Melisande escaped custody at the end of Kushiel's Dart (and hence, where she has gone to ground). To this end, we're immersed in the court life in the City of Elua, with Phèdre unsure of who is trustworthy, since someone supposedly beyond reproach had to help Melisande escape. After staging a falling out with Queen Ysandre and relocating to La Serenissima, Phèdre soon discovers where Melisande is hiding. But it's too late, and she's imprisoned in an inescapable fortress on an island.
The second half features Phèdre's lucky escape, several brushes with death, and the befriending and bedding of a pirate. The mystery is over, and now it's all about rebuilding her power base so Phèdre can return to La Serenissima in time to prevent Ysandre's assassination. It's pretty obvious that Phèdre will succeed at this one task, even if she has failed at everything else, so the source of the drama comes from everyone around Phèdre. Who lives and who dies? What's Melisande's fate? More importantly, how do the machinations of a D'Angeline traitor affect Serenissiman politics? Carey constantly impresses me with her ability to effortless manage so many characters. The universe of Kushiel's Legacy is very heavily populated, but not so much so that it's Name Soup.
Kushiel's Chosen is sort of a political/spy thriller set in a fantasy world, albeit only in the sense that slow-moving historical fiction can be a thriller (as the events take place over the course of a year). It's weakest in its characterization, especially with Phèdre and Joscelin's relationship, which is far too prolonged. (Also, of all the exposition that Carey skips in the second book, she doesn't re-explain the nature of the Cassilines, something I had forgotten in the year that managed to elapse between books.)
By far, the most intriguing relationship is the one between Phèdre and Melisande. They are each other's nemesis on both an intellectual and visceral level. Phèdre and I both admire Melisande's aptitude at the game of thrones. She is a delightfully crafty enemy and well a match for Phèdre—in more ways than one, as Phèdre considers Melisande delicious as well as delightful. If her existence as the world's only anguissette isn't conflicting enough, her attraction to Melisande is inconvenient and almost deadly. At first, I didn't entirely understand this aspect of their relationship—it's obvious, after all, that Phèdre would never betray Ysandre and join the dark side.
But it's more than just mere attraction. Phèdre is a lonely heroine, and has been from the start of the series. After the deaths of Alcuin and Anafiel and the loss of Hyacinthe in Kushiel's Dart, Phèdre is more alone than ever. This situation only escalates throughout Kushiel's Chosen as Phèdre alienates Joscelin and loses some of her companions. Moreover, wherever she goes and whatever she accomplishes, she is always still "the anguissette," identified sometimes more by myth than her own personality. (The fact that she saves the kingdom and is commended by Ysandre for this at the end of the book doesn't exactly help.)
As her nemesis, Melisande is a part of Phèdre's identity. She beat Phèdre in the first halves of both books. Although Phèdre was ultimately victorious (twice), Melisande promises that it's not game over. Similarly, Melisande is the only patron of Phèdre's who ever extracted the safe word—sorry, signale—during a sexual exploit. I would go so far as to say that Melisande is the single person who best understands Phèdre, both as an anguissette and as spy—she certainly understands Phèdre better than Phèdre's love, Joscelin. At the best of times he's clueless about the complications of Phèdre's commitments to Namaah's service; at the worst of times he's openly disdainful.
And so, Kushiel's Chosen takes the best aspects of Kushiel's Dart and amplifies them, grafting on a better plot with more sinister intrigue and a stellar cast of supporting characters. More than just court drama (although Phèdre never hesitates to give us a play-by-play of what she's wearing), Kushiel's Chosen is the intimate dance between two like minds conducted with an entire continent as their battlefield. Phèdre and Melisande face off in a conflict that is both deeply political and deeply personal. In so doing, Carey captures the breadth of human expression writ large and writ small.
Returning to Terre D'Ange and Phèdre's Europe—sorry, Europa—was truly a pleasure. I recommended Kushiel's Dart to fans of epic fantasy; now I'll go one step further and say that even straight up historical fiction fans can find enjoyment here. Carey's skill as a writer is something that transcends genre, and while Kushiel's Chosen is fantasy in name, it is fantastic by nature.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
← Kushiel's Dart | Kushiel's Avatar →
I liked Kushiel's Dart. I'm not sure if there's a definite quality improvement or if I'm going too easy on this one, but I loved Kushiel's Chosen.
The Kushiel's Legacy series takes place in a sort of Fantasy Counterpart Culture world where it's Europe, only not. From this starting point, Jacqueline Carey creates a world that, while somewhat similar to our own, nevertheless has unique societies and politics. As she crisscrosses Europe—sorry, Europa—in search of the escaped traitor, Melisande Shahirizai, Phèdre tours many of these societies and inevitably gets involved in her politics. The combination of her stunning beauty, sexual promiscuity, and savvy spy skills can be very persuasive.
Indeed, it's quite possible to label Phèdre a Mary Sue and call it day. That doesn't do justice to Carey's intricate plotting though. Rather, I love Kushiel's Chosen because it teeters on the brink of being contrived; Phèdre balances just on the precipice of Mary Sue-dom. All these people Phèdre encounter tend to help her, for one or more of the three aforementioned character traits she possesses. To put it in perspective: upon escaping from an inescapable island prison (and nearly drowning), Phèdre soon rebuilds her power base, befriending in the process not one but two other nations, and returns to Venice—sorry, La Serenissima—to stop the assassination of her Queen.
What saves the book, and Phèdre, is the difficulty level at which Carey has set her game. Despite her ever-ready allies, despite her shrewdness and knowledge of political intrigue, Phèdre spends most of the book suffering failure after failure. It's like Carey has constructed a giant locked room mystery (where the room is the size of a continent), and Phèdre has interrogated all of the witnesses and suspects, but she still guesses wrongly. Meanwhile, I guessed where Melisande was hiding long before the big reveal (and I never solve those mysteries). But does this make the book bad? On the contrary, it's very smart. By choosing it to do this way, Carey divides the book into two parts that are almost self-contained narratives in themselves, with introduction, rising action, climax, and denouement.
In the first half of Kushiel's Chosen, we're re-introduced to Phèdre, Terre d'Ange, and being a Servant of Namaah. The main focus is on discovering how Melisande escaped custody at the end of Kushiel's Dart (and hence, where she has gone to ground). To this end, we're immersed in the court life in the City of Elua, with Phèdre unsure of who is trustworthy, since someone supposedly beyond reproach had to help Melisande escape. After staging a falling out with Queen Ysandre and relocating to La Serenissima, Phèdre soon discovers where Melisande is hiding. But it's too late, and she's imprisoned in an inescapable fortress on an island.
The second half features Phèdre's lucky escape, several brushes with death, and the befriending and bedding of a pirate. The mystery is over, and now it's all about rebuilding her power base so Phèdre can return to La Serenissima in time to prevent Ysandre's assassination. It's pretty obvious that Phèdre will succeed at this one task, even if she has failed at everything else, so the source of the drama comes from everyone around Phèdre. Who lives and who dies? What's Melisande's fate? More importantly, how do the machinations of a D'Angeline traitor affect Serenissiman politics? Carey constantly impresses me with her ability to effortless manage so many characters. The universe of Kushiel's Legacy is very heavily populated, but not so much so that it's Name Soup.
Kushiel's Chosen is sort of a political/spy thriller set in a fantasy world, albeit only in the sense that slow-moving historical fiction can be a thriller (as the events take place over the course of a year). It's weakest in its characterization, especially with Phèdre and Joscelin's relationship, which is far too prolonged. (Also, of all the exposition that Carey skips in the second book, she doesn't re-explain the nature of the Cassilines, something I had forgotten in the year that managed to elapse between books.)
By far, the most intriguing relationship is the one between Phèdre and Melisande. They are each other's nemesis on both an intellectual and visceral level. Phèdre and I both admire Melisande's aptitude at the game of thrones. She is a delightfully crafty enemy and well a match for Phèdre—in more ways than one, as Phèdre considers Melisande delicious as well as delightful. If her existence as the world's only anguissette isn't conflicting enough, her attraction to Melisande is inconvenient and almost deadly. At first, I didn't entirely understand this aspect of their relationship—it's obvious, after all, that Phèdre would never betray Ysandre and join the dark side.
But it's more than just mere attraction. Phèdre is a lonely heroine, and has been from the start of the series. After the deaths of Alcuin and Anafiel and the loss of Hyacinthe in Kushiel's Dart, Phèdre is more alone than ever. This situation only escalates throughout Kushiel's Chosen as Phèdre alienates Joscelin and loses some of her companions. Moreover, wherever she goes and whatever she accomplishes, she is always still "the anguissette," identified sometimes more by myth than her own personality. (The fact that she saves the kingdom and is commended by Ysandre for this at the end of the book doesn't exactly help.)
As her nemesis, Melisande is a part of Phèdre's identity. She beat Phèdre in the first halves of both books. Although Phèdre was ultimately victorious (twice), Melisande promises that it's not game over. Similarly, Melisande is the only patron of Phèdre's who ever extracted the safe word—sorry, signale—during a sexual exploit. I would go so far as to say that Melisande is the single person who best understands Phèdre, both as an anguissette and as spy—she certainly understands Phèdre better than Phèdre's love, Joscelin. At the best of times he's clueless about the complications of Phèdre's commitments to Namaah's service; at the worst of times he's openly disdainful.
And so, Kushiel's Chosen takes the best aspects of Kushiel's Dart and amplifies them, grafting on a better plot with more sinister intrigue and a stellar cast of supporting characters. More than just court drama (although Phèdre never hesitates to give us a play-by-play of what she's wearing), Kushiel's Chosen is the intimate dance between two like minds conducted with an entire continent as their battlefield. Phèdre and Melisande face off in a conflict that is both deeply political and deeply personal. In so doing, Carey captures the breadth of human expression writ large and writ small.
Returning to Terre D'Ange and Phèdre's Europe—sorry, Europa—was truly a pleasure. I recommended Kushiel's Dart to fans of epic fantasy; now I'll go one step further and say that even straight up historical fiction fans can find enjoyment here. Carey's skill as a writer is something that transcends genre, and while Kushiel's Chosen is fantasy in name, it is fantastic by nature.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
← Kushiel's Dart | Kushiel's Avatar →
Soon after my return to Terre d'Ange in Kushiel's Chosen, I'm back for round three: Kushiel's Avatar. Let's do this.
We begin "ten years later…" with a recap of the previous two books, reminding us who this Phèdre chick is and why we care. Specifically, we recall the contribution of Hyacinthe, a Romani—sorry, Tsingano—prince and lifelong friend of Phèdre. Way back in Kushiel's Dart (remember that? remember?), Hyacinthe saved Phèdre from having to take the place of the cursed Master of the Straits. Ever since then, Phèdre has been scouring all the Yeshuite lore she can lay hands on for a way of breaking the curse. That is, when she isn't busy traipsing around the continent making alliances, smoking out traitors, and—let us not forget—serving Namaah. This woman gets things done.
Phèdre gets a dubious break in her search when she's contacted by aforementioned smoked-out traitor, Melisande Shahrizai. Melisande's son, Imriel, who is third-in-line for the throne of Terre D'Ange, has gone missing. Phèdre, who has serious issues with Melisande, ends up promising to find Imriel. The fact that she's been searching for him for ten years with no success doesn't really recommend her for this job. But apparently, Melisande thinks that if anyone can find Imriel when she can't, it's the one woman whom she's outsmarted for ten years by hiding her son. This bizarre, D'Angeline logic doesn't appeal to me, but it certainly drives the plot forward.
So Phèdre and Joscelin get involved in all sorts of African adventures, and along the way, Phèdre picks up a handy Name of God that frees Hyacinthe. And in the ten years since the last book, everyone's "beauty has deepened" (Carey uses that exact phrase to describe the ageing of both Phèdre and Melisande). Oh, and there's lots of violent sex. And Imriel is awesome. I think that about covers it.
From the somewhat flippant tone of this review, you might get the impression that I didn't find much to like about this book. Nothing could be further from the truth. I could spend 1200 words gushing about Carey's writing and worldbuilding, but I've already done that. So rather than repeat that performance, I'll just refer you to the prior review and save the space here for my criticism.
While Kushiel's Avatar contains all the ingredients I know and like about this series, the proportions are a bit off. What I loved about Kushiel's Chosen (and, to some extent, Kushiel's Dart) was the political intrigue. That sort of intrigue is almost non-existent here. Sure, Phèdre befriends a couple of countries on behalf of Terre d'Ange and overthrows another one, but that's, like, a normal afternoon for her. There's no challenge to it. The worst thing that happens is she sells herself into sexual slavery—and I'm not trying to belittle the emotional and psychological trauma of that experience, but on the political level, there's nothing going on here. I know a lot of people praise Kushiel's Avatar as the best book of the series (they may be correct) and as a fine book in its own right, but it's not exactly what I was hoping it would be.
Kushiel's Avatar is more successful on the personal level. Even then, however, a lot of Phèdre's struggle doesn't have the same gravity as it did in the first two books (which is odd, considering she's going after the Name of God here, which is the most "high stakes" you can get). Carey achieves a nice sense of dramatic symmetry by having Phèdre intentionally sell herself into slavery, recalling the time Melisande did it for her. But I never really feel like she's risking anything. She complains a lot about how hard it is to be an anguissette, the pain-bearer, Kushiel's Chosen . . . but her pain is transitory. In the previous book, Phèdre gambled big and lost big, her mistake costing her the lives of Fortun and Remy. Where are the mistakes Phèdre makes here?
Is it the "kidnapping" of Imriel and forcing his subsequent adoption, losing Ysandre's friendship in the process? Hardly. It's not like that particular rift will last long: we know they'll make up. So what about Joscelin? Does their time in Drujan drive them apart? Again, not by much and not for long. OK, but what about Hyacinthe? Surely with him free, there's a love triangle in the making, yes? Except that he has a girl waiting for him, and they're going off to Alba so he can continue being Master of the Straits, minus the curse. It's happily-ever-after all around.
Which is fine: happy endings have their place, and far be it from me to insist on tragedy. Nevertheless, Kushiel's Avatar lacks that fragile fallibility that made Phèdre so appealing in the first two books. The only event that seems to cost Phèdre anything is the death of the Mahrkagir (and the lives of the guards and women of the zenana who aided in the coup). She rightly resolves to remember that incident, not only for the allies who gave their lives for her, but for her own kill as well. Phèdre pitied the Mahrkagir as much as he loved her, and in her grief we see the nature of her heroism.
Phèdre, more than anyone, sees people for everything they are, not just the most obvious things. It's why she loves Melisande, much to everyone else's concern, and why she insists that Imriel be left free to choose whether to continue a relationship with his mother. Phèdre insists on both sides of a story, not just the convenient side. It's that determination to do what's right, not merely convenient or comfortable, that makes her such a forceful character.
Oh look, I'm gushing. What can I say? Although I feel like Kushiel's Avatar doesn't replicate the high stakes—political and personal—of Kushiel's Chosen, it's still a good read.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
← Kushiel's Chosen | Kushiel's Scion →
We begin "ten years later…" with a recap of the previous two books, reminding us who this Phèdre chick is and why we care. Specifically, we recall the contribution of Hyacinthe, a Romani—sorry, Tsingano—prince and lifelong friend of Phèdre. Way back in Kushiel's Dart (remember that? remember?), Hyacinthe saved Phèdre from having to take the place of the cursed Master of the Straits. Ever since then, Phèdre has been scouring all the Yeshuite lore she can lay hands on for a way of breaking the curse. That is, when she isn't busy traipsing around the continent making alliances, smoking out traitors, and—let us not forget—serving Namaah. This woman gets things done.
Phèdre gets a dubious break in her search when she's contacted by aforementioned smoked-out traitor, Melisande Shahrizai. Melisande's son, Imriel, who is third-in-line for the throne of Terre D'Ange, has gone missing. Phèdre, who has serious issues with Melisande, ends up promising to find Imriel. The fact that she's been searching for him for ten years with no success doesn't really recommend her for this job. But apparently, Melisande thinks that if anyone can find Imriel when she can't, it's the one woman whom she's outsmarted for ten years by hiding her son. This bizarre, D'Angeline logic doesn't appeal to me, but it certainly drives the plot forward.
So Phèdre and Joscelin get involved in all sorts of African adventures, and along the way, Phèdre picks up a handy Name of God that frees Hyacinthe. And in the ten years since the last book, everyone's "beauty has deepened" (Carey uses that exact phrase to describe the ageing of both Phèdre and Melisande). Oh, and there's lots of violent sex. And Imriel is awesome. I think that about covers it.
From the somewhat flippant tone of this review, you might get the impression that I didn't find much to like about this book. Nothing could be further from the truth. I could spend 1200 words gushing about Carey's writing and worldbuilding, but I've already done that. So rather than repeat that performance, I'll just refer you to the prior review and save the space here for my criticism.
While Kushiel's Avatar contains all the ingredients I know and like about this series, the proportions are a bit off. What I loved about Kushiel's Chosen (and, to some extent, Kushiel's Dart) was the political intrigue. That sort of intrigue is almost non-existent here. Sure, Phèdre befriends a couple of countries on behalf of Terre d'Ange and overthrows another one, but that's, like, a normal afternoon for her. There's no challenge to it. The worst thing that happens is she sells herself into sexual slavery—and I'm not trying to belittle the emotional and psychological trauma of that experience, but on the political level, there's nothing going on here. I know a lot of people praise Kushiel's Avatar as the best book of the series (they may be correct) and as a fine book in its own right, but it's not exactly what I was hoping it would be.
Kushiel's Avatar is more successful on the personal level. Even then, however, a lot of Phèdre's struggle doesn't have the same gravity as it did in the first two books (which is odd, considering she's going after the Name of God here, which is the most "high stakes" you can get). Carey achieves a nice sense of dramatic symmetry by having Phèdre intentionally sell herself into slavery, recalling the time Melisande did it for her. But I never really feel like she's risking anything. She complains a lot about how hard it is to be an anguissette, the pain-bearer, Kushiel's Chosen . . . but her pain is transitory. In the previous book, Phèdre gambled big and lost big, her mistake costing her the lives of Fortun and Remy. Where are the mistakes Phèdre makes here?
Is it the "kidnapping" of Imriel and forcing his subsequent adoption, losing Ysandre's friendship in the process? Hardly. It's not like that particular rift will last long: we know they'll make up. So what about Joscelin? Does their time in Drujan drive them apart? Again, not by much and not for long. OK, but what about Hyacinthe? Surely with him free, there's a love triangle in the making, yes? Except that he has a girl waiting for him, and they're going off to Alba so he can continue being Master of the Straits, minus the curse. It's happily-ever-after all around.
Which is fine: happy endings have their place, and far be it from me to insist on tragedy. Nevertheless, Kushiel's Avatar lacks that fragile fallibility that made Phèdre so appealing in the first two books. The only event that seems to cost Phèdre anything is the death of the Mahrkagir (and the lives of the guards and women of the zenana who aided in the coup). She rightly resolves to remember that incident, not only for the allies who gave their lives for her, but for her own kill as well. Phèdre pitied the Mahrkagir as much as he loved her, and in her grief we see the nature of her heroism.
Phèdre, more than anyone, sees people for everything they are, not just the most obvious things. It's why she loves Melisande, much to everyone else's concern, and why she insists that Imriel be left free to choose whether to continue a relationship with his mother. Phèdre insists on both sides of a story, not just the convenient side. It's that determination to do what's right, not merely convenient or comfortable, that makes her such a forceful character.
Oh look, I'm gushing. What can I say? Although I feel like Kushiel's Avatar doesn't replicate the high stakes—political and personal—of Kushiel's Chosen, it's still a good read.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
← Kushiel's Chosen | Kushiel's Scion →
In The Margarets, the eponymous character finds herself splitting into separate entities at various points in her life, each entity pursuing a different life, gaining different knowledge and experiences, and becoming a separate person. This is not an accident, of course, but all part of a carefully orchestrated plot by some gods to help restore humanity's racial memory so it will stop making war and killing planets.
Why yes, I do have the ability to take any novel's plot and summarize it in such a way that it sounds clichéd and hackneyed even when it's not. It's a gift. Likewise, Sheri S. Tepper has a gift for distilling very complex morals into easily understood and entertaining stories. Nevertheless, I can't help but feel that sometimes she simplifies matters too much. She spoonfeeds the plot in such a way that an avid reader like myself is finished the book long before it's over.
I have a weakness for stories in which the gods interest themselves in the protagonist's quest. What can I say? There's something just so satisfying and kickass about a nearly-omnipotent being taking your side. The gods of this universe are far from omnipotent—in fact, their only powers seem to be immortality and the ability to teleport themselves across long distances. Nor are they omniscient, which is why they need seven Margarets; one person must walk seven roads at once in order to find "the Keeper," an omniscient being who can restore humanity's racial memory. The gods are just as fallible as the humans they seek to protect, and the antagonists have their own gods plotting on the other side.
One would think that these limitations would avert a deus ex machina. Not so! While it's true that the gods don't directly cause the resolution, they essentially provide the Margarets with a step-by-step plan of exactly what to do. This is push-button universe saving, people. It's not compelling at all, and it removes the one element Tepper needs to preserve at all costs: the human factor. Humans don't have to do anything to receive their salvation. In fact, the "problem with humans," as Tepper identifies it, is a lack of racial memory and something that the human species alone cannot solve. To me, this is a disconcerting and defeatist moral, because if humanity can't fix its own fatal flaw, our species doesn't have much of a future, does it?
I interpret Margaret's divergences as a comment on how our choices in life affect how we live and who we become. If I'm correct in this interpretation, then Tepper's use of the gods as the prime movers undermines this theme—what is the point of making choices if all along this was part of some scheme to save the universe? Is Margaret her own people, or is she just a slave to fate? And even if I'm wrong, the revelation that this is all a divine plan doesn't make for very good storytelling. Margaret literally only contributes to the climax by being there. She doesn't make any choices, doesn't actually do anything beyond showing up and following her gods-given instructions. Tepper got seven main characters but a heroine ain't one.
Combine this with repetition that leads to predictability, and you have a narrative that, while eminently logical, isn't very interesting to anyone paying the least amount of attention. Certain parts of the story are entertaining. For example, take Naumi's induction into the Thairy military. As I read, I remember thinking how much it reminded me of [b:Ender's Game|375802|Ender's Game (Ender's Saga, #1)|Orson Scott Card|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1214413570s/375802.jpg|2422333] and how Tepper could easily have expanded that portion into an entire novel. The same goes for Grandma Margaret Mackey on Tercis, who literally lives an entire lifetime and sees grandchildren maturing before we come back to her. There's so much crammed into this single volume that Tepper has to simplify. In simplifying, the beauty of the narrative's complexity, as fragile as a spider's intricate web, falls apart.
I was also a little disturbed by the insistence on a dichotomy of "ethical" and "vile" races, the former possessing racial memory and the latter not. The protagonists and their gods routinely talk about how all K'Famir, all Quaatar, are evil and hate humans and want to wipe them out. When you ascribe such motivations to an entire race (or more accurately, Ms. Tepper, we could call it a "species"), you turn them into stereotypes. Even Star Trek, which has a habit of using entire species as metaphors for cultures or ideologies, doesn't go that far: there are honourable Romulans, devious Klingons, and even rebel Borg. In The Margarets, the mysterious Siblinghood of Silence ends up killing millions of K'Famir and Quaatarians, and no one bats an eye to what is tantamount to mass murder. Apparently, because they are "vile races," they deserve what they get.
If I am acerbic, it's because I'm so disappointed in how The Margarets played out. It has the potential to be a moving story of a quest for identity set against the backdrop of interspecies relations. I loved parts of it, and I was always interested in finishing the book, even by the time I had figured out how it would end. Yet I can't commend The Margarets. It's a book simultaneously too short and too long. This could easily have been a series, if Tepper had given every character and subplot the time it needed to mature and flourish. As it is, however, The Margarets ends long before the story is finished. The themes Tepper uses require a complexity that this book never achieves, which makes it less of a full-bodied vintage and more of a glimpse at what could have been.
Why yes, I do have the ability to take any novel's plot and summarize it in such a way that it sounds clichéd and hackneyed even when it's not. It's a gift. Likewise, Sheri S. Tepper has a gift for distilling very complex morals into easily understood and entertaining stories. Nevertheless, I can't help but feel that sometimes she simplifies matters too much. She spoonfeeds the plot in such a way that an avid reader like myself is finished the book long before it's over.
I have a weakness for stories in which the gods interest themselves in the protagonist's quest. What can I say? There's something just so satisfying and kickass about a nearly-omnipotent being taking your side. The gods of this universe are far from omnipotent—in fact, their only powers seem to be immortality and the ability to teleport themselves across long distances. Nor are they omniscient, which is why they need seven Margarets; one person must walk seven roads at once in order to find "the Keeper," an omniscient being who can restore humanity's racial memory. The gods are just as fallible as the humans they seek to protect, and the antagonists have their own gods plotting on the other side.
One would think that these limitations would avert a deus ex machina. Not so! While it's true that the gods don't directly cause the resolution, they essentially provide the Margarets with a step-by-step plan of exactly what to do. This is push-button universe saving, people. It's not compelling at all, and it removes the one element Tepper needs to preserve at all costs: the human factor. Humans don't have to do anything to receive their salvation. In fact, the "problem with humans," as Tepper identifies it, is a lack of racial memory and something that the human species alone cannot solve. To me, this is a disconcerting and defeatist moral, because if humanity can't fix its own fatal flaw, our species doesn't have much of a future, does it?
I interpret Margaret's divergences as a comment on how our choices in life affect how we live and who we become. If I'm correct in this interpretation, then Tepper's use of the gods as the prime movers undermines this theme—what is the point of making choices if all along this was part of some scheme to save the universe? Is Margaret her own people, or is she just a slave to fate? And even if I'm wrong, the revelation that this is all a divine plan doesn't make for very good storytelling. Margaret literally only contributes to the climax by being there. She doesn't make any choices, doesn't actually do anything beyond showing up and following her gods-given instructions. Tepper got seven main characters but a heroine ain't one.
Combine this with repetition that leads to predictability, and you have a narrative that, while eminently logical, isn't very interesting to anyone paying the least amount of attention. Certain parts of the story are entertaining. For example, take Naumi's induction into the Thairy military. As I read, I remember thinking how much it reminded me of [b:Ender's Game|375802|Ender's Game (Ender's Saga, #1)|Orson Scott Card|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1214413570s/375802.jpg|2422333] and how Tepper could easily have expanded that portion into an entire novel. The same goes for Grandma Margaret Mackey on Tercis, who literally lives an entire lifetime and sees grandchildren maturing before we come back to her. There's so much crammed into this single volume that Tepper has to simplify. In simplifying, the beauty of the narrative's complexity, as fragile as a spider's intricate web, falls apart.
I was also a little disturbed by the insistence on a dichotomy of "ethical" and "vile" races, the former possessing racial memory and the latter not. The protagonists and their gods routinely talk about how all K'Famir, all Quaatar, are evil and hate humans and want to wipe them out. When you ascribe such motivations to an entire race (or more accurately, Ms. Tepper, we could call it a "species"), you turn them into stereotypes. Even Star Trek, which has a habit of using entire species as metaphors for cultures or ideologies, doesn't go that far: there are honourable Romulans, devious Klingons, and even rebel Borg. In The Margarets, the mysterious Siblinghood of Silence ends up killing millions of K'Famir and Quaatarians, and no one bats an eye to what is tantamount to mass murder. Apparently, because they are "vile races," they deserve what they get.
If I am acerbic, it's because I'm so disappointed in how The Margarets played out. It has the potential to be a moving story of a quest for identity set against the backdrop of interspecies relations. I loved parts of it, and I was always interested in finishing the book, even by the time I had figured out how it would end. Yet I can't commend The Margarets. It's a book simultaneously too short and too long. This could easily have been a series, if Tepper had given every character and subplot the time it needed to mature and flourish. As it is, however, The Margarets ends long before the story is finished. The themes Tepper uses require a complexity that this book never achieves, which makes it less of a full-bodied vintage and more of a glimpse at what could have been.
Goodkind continues the extended adventure begun in [b:Chainfire|43887|Chainfire (Sword of Truth, #9)|Terry Goodkind|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1275667967s/43887.jpg|3028732] as Richard struggles to reunite with Kahlan in the face of the approaching Imperial Order. I enjoyed Phantom, because it finally has Richard acting on a scale grand enough to affect the plot in a way I haven't seen since Blood of the Fold. In the intervening novels, Richard usually gets drawn off on a tangential adventure that then loops back into the plot. In this trilogy, Richard's actions directly affect the main myth arc, which is a refreshing change, considering he is the main character.
Here we get a sense of how truly clever Jagang is. Pillars of Creation gave us a better measure of his character, but we spend even more time with him now and watch him through the filter of Kahlan. Even without her memories, she is still tenacious--Jagang likes this. And we begin to see the seeds of his ultimate downfall--naturally, it's pride. He forbears raping Kahlan because he wants her to remember her identity before he rapes her. That's a mistake: delays only cost the bad guy his life. She also notes that his position as an emperor is paradoxical in a society that values egalitarianism and a lack of individual distinction, thus foreshadowing the Imperial Order's eventual demise: it is a paradox, a contradiction, and thus a violation of the Wizard's Ninth Rule.
The first two thirds of the book were somewhat boring and expository (think Stone of Tears). However, the ending made up for that with Richard's decisive actions. The fact that Richard can pass as a nobody among the Imperial Order is one of his biggest strengths. I can't wait for the look on Jagang's face when he sees that the point guard of the Ja'La team playing his team is in fact Richard Rahl. But that's for the next book. Which I have sitting next to me.
Hmm....
Here we get a sense of how truly clever Jagang is. Pillars of Creation gave us a better measure of his character, but we spend even more time with him now and watch him through the filter of Kahlan. Even without her memories, she is still tenacious--Jagang likes this. And we begin to see the seeds of his ultimate downfall--naturally, it's pride. He forbears raping Kahlan because he wants her to remember her identity before he rapes her. That's a mistake: delays only cost the bad guy his life. She also notes that his position as an emperor is paradoxical in a society that values egalitarianism and a lack of individual distinction, thus foreshadowing the Imperial Order's eventual demise: it is a paradox, a contradiction, and thus a violation of the Wizard's Ninth Rule.
The first two thirds of the book were somewhat boring and expository (think Stone of Tears). However, the ending made up for that with Richard's decisive actions. The fact that Richard can pass as a nobody among the Imperial Order is one of his biggest strengths. I can't wait for the look on Jagang's face when he sees that the point guard of the Ja'La team playing his team is in fact Richard Rahl. But that's for the next book. Which I have sitting next to me.
Hmm....
I'd recommend Remix to anyone who creates content, whether as part of their day job or simply as a hobby in their basement. Lawrence Lessig takes the complicated issues surrounding modern copyright and explains them in terms laypeople can comprehend. Moreover, he makes a compelling argument from an economic standpoint as to why less copyright could lead to more profit.
My favourite quotation from this book is:
Lessig succinctly reveals the flawed premise from which most corporations approach the concept of copyright in our digital age. Thanks to the Internet, it's now possible to distribute an infinite number of copies of a digital work. Regulating that work like it's a physical object doesn't work, as we saw empirically through the failed experiment of Digital Rights Management (DRM). Focusing on copying is a doomed tactic. Focusing on usage is a much better way to exercise one's control over one's content.
Never does Lessig advocate the abolition of copyright. I've often struggled with the very existence of this legal quagmire we've constructed. As a content creator in general, I am happy to release as much of my content as possible under a Creative Commons license. I love to let people benefit from my content by reusing it wherever possible. Yet, as a writer, I'm reluctant to do that for everything I produce, since traditional publishing still requires (at least in some cases) a traditional, all rights reserved copyright. So either I must accept copyright in some form, or I must abandon any hope of being published through "traditional" means.
Lessig's stance reassures me that there is nothing wrong with the concept of copyright itself--indeed, so-called "free" licenses, like Creative Commons and "copyleft" are also copyright, just of a different breed--the core dilemma we face is that copyright has become distorted during the twentieth century by increasingly restrictive regulation. Lessig argues that we need new legislation to remove our copyright quagmire and update our laws to reflect current cultural values. But how effective is his argument?
Having never read his previous works, I was in the dark regarding Lessig's rhetorical style, so I went into Remix with no expectations and an am unable to compare it to his other arguments. I found Remix both compelling and accessible. What truly surprised me was the types of premises Lessig used to advance his argument. Although both points of legality and appeals to ethos appear in Remix, Lessig's primary concern is one of economics. Would less restrictive copyright be better or worse for the economy? Is it still possible to derive value (i.e., make money) off a work with a less restrictive copyright? Lessig's answer is an unequivocal yes.
I admire this strategy more than I admire the argument itself, for I think it will go a long way toward convincing economists, lawyers, and business people--anyone concerned with making money from their content or the content of their clients--that less copyright isn't as scary as it seems. Remix is not the manifesto of a copyright revolutionary attempting to storm the Bastille of commerce and tear down the walls of sane legislation. Rather, Lessig points out that sometimes more control is less desirable--for instance, it can often bring unwanted liability to the copyright holder or stifle possible opportunities for fan-based revenue. Although making money is always a concern, it isn't necessarily the only concern--sometimes it's better to build customer loyalty or cultivate what Lessig terms a "sharing economy" than just reap profits.
I won't attempt to summarize all of Lessig's arguments here. Remix is short enough--perhaps my largest complaint about the book--and well-organized enough that anyone should be able to muddle through, and anyone with interest in these issues will derive enjoyment from it. Those of us who agree with Lessig's perspective are lucky to have such an eloquent and sharp voice for remixing. As for our opponents--well, if Remix doesn't persuade you, I at least hope that it opens your eyes as to why why some people promote remixing, beyond a twisted desire to steal profit from other content creators. Copyright certainly isn't a black and white issue; Remix succeeds in showing that it doesn't need a black and white answer.
My favourite quotation from this book is:
Copyright law has got to give up its obsession with "the copy." The law should not regulate "copies" or "modern reproductions" on their own. It should instead regulate uses—like public distributions of copies of copyrighted work—that connect directly to the economic incentive copyright law was intended to foster.
Lessig succinctly reveals the flawed premise from which most corporations approach the concept of copyright in our digital age. Thanks to the Internet, it's now possible to distribute an infinite number of copies of a digital work. Regulating that work like it's a physical object doesn't work, as we saw empirically through the failed experiment of Digital Rights Management (DRM). Focusing on copying is a doomed tactic. Focusing on usage is a much better way to exercise one's control over one's content.
Never does Lessig advocate the abolition of copyright. I've often struggled with the very existence of this legal quagmire we've constructed. As a content creator in general, I am happy to release as much of my content as possible under a Creative Commons license. I love to let people benefit from my content by reusing it wherever possible. Yet, as a writer, I'm reluctant to do that for everything I produce, since traditional publishing still requires (at least in some cases) a traditional, all rights reserved copyright. So either I must accept copyright in some form, or I must abandon any hope of being published through "traditional" means.
Lessig's stance reassures me that there is nothing wrong with the concept of copyright itself--indeed, so-called "free" licenses, like Creative Commons and "copyleft" are also copyright, just of a different breed--the core dilemma we face is that copyright has become distorted during the twentieth century by increasingly restrictive regulation. Lessig argues that we need new legislation to remove our copyright quagmire and update our laws to reflect current cultural values. But how effective is his argument?
Having never read his previous works, I was in the dark regarding Lessig's rhetorical style, so I went into Remix with no expectations and an am unable to compare it to his other arguments. I found Remix both compelling and accessible. What truly surprised me was the types of premises Lessig used to advance his argument. Although both points of legality and appeals to ethos appear in Remix, Lessig's primary concern is one of economics. Would less restrictive copyright be better or worse for the economy? Is it still possible to derive value (i.e., make money) off a work with a less restrictive copyright? Lessig's answer is an unequivocal yes.
I admire this strategy more than I admire the argument itself, for I think it will go a long way toward convincing economists, lawyers, and business people--anyone concerned with making money from their content or the content of their clients--that less copyright isn't as scary as it seems. Remix is not the manifesto of a copyright revolutionary attempting to storm the Bastille of commerce and tear down the walls of sane legislation. Rather, Lessig points out that sometimes more control is less desirable--for instance, it can often bring unwanted liability to the copyright holder or stifle possible opportunities for fan-based revenue. Although making money is always a concern, it isn't necessarily the only concern--sometimes it's better to build customer loyalty or cultivate what Lessig terms a "sharing economy" than just reap profits.
I won't attempt to summarize all of Lessig's arguments here. Remix is short enough--perhaps my largest complaint about the book--and well-organized enough that anyone should be able to muddle through, and anyone with interest in these issues will derive enjoyment from it. Those of us who agree with Lessig's perspective are lucky to have such an eloquent and sharp voice for remixing. As for our opponents--well, if Remix doesn't persuade you, I at least hope that it opens your eyes as to why why some people promote remixing, beyond a twisted desire to steal profit from other content creators. Copyright certainly isn't a black and white issue; Remix succeeds in showing that it doesn't need a black and white answer.
I don't know about you, but I spend an inordinate amount of time meditating upon the far future of humanity. I don't just worry about the future of my generation, or the future of the generation after mine, or the future of a couple of generations down the line. I'm talking one-, ten-, fifty-thousand years into the future. Will humanity still exist—would we recognize it as humanity even if it does? How many times between now and then will civilizations rise and fall? Because if there's one constant across the depths of space and time, it's that nothing lasts forever. Empires and republics alike crumble under the weight of corruption, stagnation, or the simple stress inherent in managing a civilization separated by light-years. If we don't find fancy physics or technology to cast off the shackles of the light-speed barrier, we're looking at a very distorted, relativistic existence indeed. It's this sort of realistic, hard science fiction that promises us no easy answers and makes me wonder if humans are really meant to live in space. With A Deepness in the Sky, Vernor Vinge convinces me that he's a perfect example of that ethos.
I liked A Fire Upon the Deep. Taken together with this prequel, its title always reminds me of "Smoke on the Water" ("Fire in the sky!"). As much as I liked A Fire Upon the Deep, its hard-science-fiction tropes never quite cohere, and the story and characterization suffer as a result. In contrast, A Deepness in the Sky unifies some of the same tropes—as well as new ones—to create a compelling story and pathos for the plights of the characters.
The ideological struggle between the remnants of the Qeng Ho and Emergent fleets is a ripe ground for observations on human society and attitudes toward power. Tomas Nau is in many ways a moustache-twirling villain, complete with the sadistic right-hand minion (Ritser Brughel) and the indispensable trusted lieutenant (Anne Reynolt). He likes to be in control, to use people, like Qiwi Lisolet, and has no compunctions about lying or coercing when necessary. However, he has more depth than your ordinary Snidely Whiplash. He doesn't think of himself as being evil, just as doing what's necessary to survive. He is a product of Emergent society and its values, was raised from birth to be a ruthless and cunning Podmaster. Vinge manages to make Tomas a believable antagonist, one whose defeat comes not from his own incompetence but from a combination of betrayal and skillful planning on the part of the protagonists.
Speaking of protagonists, I like this Pham Nuwen much better than his clone in A Fire Upon the Deep. Just as Tomas is a multi-dimensional character, Pham isn't a paragon of goodliness. Since Pham is in the fleet under an assumed name, Vinge milks the irony cow for all it's worth by having Tomas confess his admiration for the historical exploits of Pham Nuwen. Indeed, as we learn from flashbacks and Pham's heavy ruminations, he has done things of which he is not proud. And for Pham, the Emergent slavery known as Focus is a nigh-irresistible lure, a promise that could fulfil Pham's dreams of a true Qeng Ho empire. So Pham has his flaws, and he's lucky that he has an idealist like Ezr Vinh to keep him on the straight and narrow. Because that's the difference between Pham Nuwen and Tomas Nau, despite Tomas' own comparisons to the Pham Nuwen of Qeng Ho legend: Pham knows when to give up his dreams and embrace something new.
In between these two major characters are all sorts of minor allies and enemies and people of uncertain loyalty. These are the fuel for a truly tense, suspenseful conflict. The Qeng Ho, stuck under the thumb of Nau's Emergent control, do what they do best: they slowly, inexorably wear down the stringent Emergent psyche, corrupting it with an underground market. Thanks to an Emergent sneak attack early in the novel, both fleets have been crippled, and they need to work together to survive until the Spiders achieve the technological level necessary to repair their ships. Humans are complex entities, however; even though working together is a rational response to the crisis, it's not going to be easy. Ezr, in particular, is incensed by the idea of Focus and chafes under the Emergent yoke.
Focus is a tamed virus that increases the neurological connections in its victims' brains, causing them to become very competent in one area, like linguistics, at the expense of most of their social and interpersonal skills. It's a form of literal intellectual slavery, a substitute for the lack of high-performance computing that's the legacy of living in the "Slow Zone" of the galaxy, where no artificial intelligence is possible. Focus allows people to achieve remarkable breakthroughs, whether it's in translation or biomechanics; however, as the name suggests, it results in a narrow-minded expert obsessed with a single field of study. This breaks the heart of Qiwi and Ezr, who have Focused loved ones, even as it fires up Pham's mind with the possibilities of what one could achieve, if one is willing to pay the price.
Focus is just one of the medley of technological and social nova that Vinge introduces. Often he is explicit in the consequences for society: for example, the localizers offer the ability to achieve efficient distributed computing, but they might also result in a surveillance society. Nevertheless, like other good science fiction authors, he still develops the society in an organic, natural manner. We see the Qeng Ho and Emergents interact with their technology and draw our own conclusions about how it shapes their lives and mores. Even something like Focus can be controversial and subjective: I've been calling it slavery, but like Pham or Tomas, maybe another person might not see it that way. There are always compromises when new technology pervades society, and that's one of the reasons science fiction is so useful and compelling.
Vinge parallels this problem in the development of Spider society. Their world is the sole planet in orbit of OnOff, a brown dwarf that enjoys 35 years of life-giving brightness before dimming for 215 years (hence its name). So they have 35-year generations, each followed by the Dark, through which they hibernate in deepnesses. As the Emergents and Qeng Ho arrive, that is about to change. A brilliant scientist, Sherkaner Underhill, spurs a scientific renaissance that culminates in the Spiders staying awake through the Dark.
We get a front-row seat to the ensuing turmoil in the fractured Spider society. The natural cycle of Brightness and Dark has had a profound effect on everything the Spiders do. Children are conceived at the end of the cycle (the Waning Years) and grow to adulthood during the next Brightness. Defying this custom results in oophase or "out-of-phase" children, who are ostracized and subject to pejorative stereotypes. But now that the Spiders can live during the Dark, that, like a myriad other things, will have to change. This results in a lengthy and tense conflict between the more liberal Accord kingdom and the traditionalist Kindred, and this conflict culminates with mushroom clouds.
The Spider characters—mostly Underhill's brood, although Hrunkner Unnerby is a lovable old curmudgeon as well—are quite entertaining. The chapters presented from the Spider point of view make them seem so human, despite the references to "eating hands" and "baby welts" and "paternal fur." We watch Underhill's children, notorious for being oophase, grow up and mature. One of them dies during a harrowing kidnapping, and it changes their dynamic forever. Suddenly, they can't afford to be precocious innocents anymore. They are soldiers, even if they aren't enlisted in the army yet, and they have to be prepared. Underhill's family is at the centre of the same kind of social and political turmoil we've seen so often in human society, particularly in this past century. Technological advances allow us to do more, whether it's in vitro fertilization or putting weapons in space. There are always reactionary groups who want to stuff the technology back into its box, suppress it, get rid of it somehow. But you can't. Underhill summarizes this sentiment rather nicely when he talks about wanting to make invention the mother of necessity rather than the other way around: innovations require social change. And sometimes that hurts.
There's a lot of hurt here. Some of the characters, like Ezr or Qiwi, are probably safely labelled as "good guys," but no one is squeaky clean. A Deepness in the Sky is an utterly fascinating, sometimes chilling, always poignant book. It has characters you can care about, conflicts that end in messy and flawed resolutions, and a sense of futility regarding the longevity of human societies tempered by the reassurance that, regardless of era, humans are as wonderful and surprising as they are selfish and destructive. I don't know if we'll be Qeng Ho, or Emergents, or something completely different. In all probability, if we last that long, we'll have experienced a little of everything. No matter how much I try, I can't quite comprehend the time scales involved or the numbers of people who will live and die between my lifetime and Pham Nuwen's. With Vernor Vinge and A Deepness in the Sky, however, I can come close. And that's ultimately what great books do: not only do they show us worlds we can imagine; they show us worlds we can't.
I liked A Fire Upon the Deep. Taken together with this prequel, its title always reminds me of "Smoke on the Water" ("Fire in the sky!"). As much as I liked A Fire Upon the Deep, its hard-science-fiction tropes never quite cohere, and the story and characterization suffer as a result. In contrast, A Deepness in the Sky unifies some of the same tropes—as well as new ones—to create a compelling story and pathos for the plights of the characters.
The ideological struggle between the remnants of the Qeng Ho and Emergent fleets is a ripe ground for observations on human society and attitudes toward power. Tomas Nau is in many ways a moustache-twirling villain, complete with the sadistic right-hand minion (Ritser Brughel) and the indispensable trusted lieutenant (Anne Reynolt). He likes to be in control, to use people, like Qiwi Lisolet, and has no compunctions about lying or coercing when necessary. However, he has more depth than your ordinary Snidely Whiplash. He doesn't think of himself as being evil, just as doing what's necessary to survive. He is a product of Emergent society and its values, was raised from birth to be a ruthless and cunning Podmaster. Vinge manages to make Tomas a believable antagonist, one whose defeat comes not from his own incompetence but from a combination of betrayal and skillful planning on the part of the protagonists.
Speaking of protagonists, I like this Pham Nuwen much better than his clone in A Fire Upon the Deep. Just as Tomas is a multi-dimensional character, Pham isn't a paragon of goodliness. Since Pham is in the fleet under an assumed name, Vinge milks the irony cow for all it's worth by having Tomas confess his admiration for the historical exploits of Pham Nuwen. Indeed, as we learn from flashbacks and Pham's heavy ruminations, he has done things of which he is not proud. And for Pham, the Emergent slavery known as Focus is a nigh-irresistible lure, a promise that could fulfil Pham's dreams of a true Qeng Ho empire. So Pham has his flaws, and he's lucky that he has an idealist like Ezr Vinh to keep him on the straight and narrow. Because that's the difference between Pham Nuwen and Tomas Nau, despite Tomas' own comparisons to the Pham Nuwen of Qeng Ho legend: Pham knows when to give up his dreams and embrace something new.
In between these two major characters are all sorts of minor allies and enemies and people of uncertain loyalty. These are the fuel for a truly tense, suspenseful conflict. The Qeng Ho, stuck under the thumb of Nau's Emergent control, do what they do best: they slowly, inexorably wear down the stringent Emergent psyche, corrupting it with an underground market. Thanks to an Emergent sneak attack early in the novel, both fleets have been crippled, and they need to work together to survive until the Spiders achieve the technological level necessary to repair their ships. Humans are complex entities, however; even though working together is a rational response to the crisis, it's not going to be easy. Ezr, in particular, is incensed by the idea of Focus and chafes under the Emergent yoke.
Focus is a tamed virus that increases the neurological connections in its victims' brains, causing them to become very competent in one area, like linguistics, at the expense of most of their social and interpersonal skills. It's a form of literal intellectual slavery, a substitute for the lack of high-performance computing that's the legacy of living in the "Slow Zone" of the galaxy, where no artificial intelligence is possible. Focus allows people to achieve remarkable breakthroughs, whether it's in translation or biomechanics; however, as the name suggests, it results in a narrow-minded expert obsessed with a single field of study. This breaks the heart of Qiwi and Ezr, who have Focused loved ones, even as it fires up Pham's mind with the possibilities of what one could achieve, if one is willing to pay the price.
Focus is just one of the medley of technological and social nova that Vinge introduces. Often he is explicit in the consequences for society: for example, the localizers offer the ability to achieve efficient distributed computing, but they might also result in a surveillance society. Nevertheless, like other good science fiction authors, he still develops the society in an organic, natural manner. We see the Qeng Ho and Emergents interact with their technology and draw our own conclusions about how it shapes their lives and mores. Even something like Focus can be controversial and subjective: I've been calling it slavery, but like Pham or Tomas, maybe another person might not see it that way. There are always compromises when new technology pervades society, and that's one of the reasons science fiction is so useful and compelling.
Vinge parallels this problem in the development of Spider society. Their world is the sole planet in orbit of OnOff, a brown dwarf that enjoys 35 years of life-giving brightness before dimming for 215 years (hence its name). So they have 35-year generations, each followed by the Dark, through which they hibernate in deepnesses. As the Emergents and Qeng Ho arrive, that is about to change. A brilliant scientist, Sherkaner Underhill, spurs a scientific renaissance that culminates in the Spiders staying awake through the Dark.
We get a front-row seat to the ensuing turmoil in the fractured Spider society. The natural cycle of Brightness and Dark has had a profound effect on everything the Spiders do. Children are conceived at the end of the cycle (the Waning Years) and grow to adulthood during the next Brightness. Defying this custom results in oophase or "out-of-phase" children, who are ostracized and subject to pejorative stereotypes. But now that the Spiders can live during the Dark, that, like a myriad other things, will have to change. This results in a lengthy and tense conflict between the more liberal Accord kingdom and the traditionalist Kindred, and this conflict culminates with mushroom clouds.
The Spider characters—mostly Underhill's brood, although Hrunkner Unnerby is a lovable old curmudgeon as well—are quite entertaining. The chapters presented from the Spider point of view make them seem so human, despite the references to "eating hands" and "baby welts" and "paternal fur." We watch Underhill's children, notorious for being oophase, grow up and mature. One of them dies during a harrowing kidnapping, and it changes their dynamic forever. Suddenly, they can't afford to be precocious innocents anymore. They are soldiers, even if they aren't enlisted in the army yet, and they have to be prepared. Underhill's family is at the centre of the same kind of social and political turmoil we've seen so often in human society, particularly in this past century. Technological advances allow us to do more, whether it's in vitro fertilization or putting weapons in space. There are always reactionary groups who want to stuff the technology back into its box, suppress it, get rid of it somehow. But you can't. Underhill summarizes this sentiment rather nicely when he talks about wanting to make invention the mother of necessity rather than the other way around: innovations require social change. And sometimes that hurts.
There's a lot of hurt here. Some of the characters, like Ezr or Qiwi, are probably safely labelled as "good guys," but no one is squeaky clean. A Deepness in the Sky is an utterly fascinating, sometimes chilling, always poignant book. It has characters you can care about, conflicts that end in messy and flawed resolutions, and a sense of futility regarding the longevity of human societies tempered by the reassurance that, regardless of era, humans are as wonderful and surprising as they are selfish and destructive. I don't know if we'll be Qeng Ho, or Emergents, or something completely different. In all probability, if we last that long, we'll have experienced a little of everything. No matter how much I try, I can't quite comprehend the time scales involved or the numbers of people who will live and die between my lifetime and Pham Nuwen's. With Vernor Vinge and A Deepness in the Sky, however, I can come close. And that's ultimately what great books do: not only do they show us worlds we can imagine; they show us worlds we can't.
I picked up Kushiel's Dart because I noticed one of the later books in this series at the library, but I wanted to start at the beginning. I'm glad for that. Jacqueline Carey weaves a dense, intricate narrative--I would have been lost had I started in the middle!
Carey's writing was great, although the prose was often indigo-bordering-on purple, and I could have done with a little less exposition. There were times when the world-building was laid on thick. Even though the story was told in first-person, this didn't stop Carey from divulging excess amounts of world history through the mouth of her narrator.
I enjoyed Carey's allegory of western Europe and Judeo-Christian/Norse mythologies. She successfully established the world independently of the narrative while making the motivations and actions of the characters blend with their respective nations' cultures. Although the world of Terre D'Ange lacks overt uses of magic (with the possible exception of the Master of the Straits), there's quite a bit of superstition and religiosity. Overall, the book was very believable.
It took a while to pick up a comfortable pace. The first part was dry, as Phèdre recounts to us her childhood and upbringing in the Night Court. The story gets interesting once Phèdre grows up and becomes a tool for Anafiel Delaunay. Likewise, Phèdre's true mettle emerges during her captivity amongst the Skaldi. She proves herself a complex and worthy character, debating the morality of her actions even as she resigns herself to doing what is necessary to further a greater cause (in this case, the survival of Terre D'Ange). Interestingly enough, Carey has chosen not to make the loss of innocence a motif here (although an argument could be made that Jocelyn loses his innocence over the course of the story). Rather, Phèdre, as an anguissette is far from innocent. It's the fact that she enjoys her suffering that makes Phèdre a conflicted person. And that's a dangerous personality trait, especially for a prisoner to have.
Kushiel's Dart can get fairly racy, although tastefully so--it's not so much explicit as it is frequently suggestive. I didn't know this going into the book, prompting two of my friends, who have previously read the series, to express surprise that I would be reading it. But it's definitely not extraneous sex (unlike, say, the entire Sword of Truth series...). Carey has made sexuality a very prominent aspect of D'Angeline culture, and also of Phèdre's personality, as a "Servant of Naamah" (i.e., a courtesan) and an anguissette.
At the same time, Carey has avoided turning the D'Angeline "Night Court" (servants of Naamah who dedicate themselves to satisfying patrons along the lines of various themed Houses) into a sex trade predicated on the exploitation of women. Indeed, she makes it very apparent throughout the story that both women and men enter the service of Naamah. Similarly, those in the service of Naamah will routinely take both male and female patrons, regardless of their own gender (I'm tempted to label this pansexuality, but I'm not an expert, so I won't). The great thing about epic fantasy, particularly fantasy set in an alternate world, is that authors can construct social sexual identity without having to base that identity on current attitudes toward sexuality.
Carey's world is a very careful blend of slavery and succour, of prostitution and pleasure--servants of Naamah aren't mere whores, but very high class individuals dedicated to what D'Angelines literally consider a holy occupation. Phèdre, even after she "makes her marque", is closer to being a willing slave than any other servant of Naamah in Terre D'Ange. "Cursed" (as she comes to see it) with Kushiel's Dart as she is, even now that she's a free woman--and a countess too--there will always be a part of her that won't just enjoy submitting; it'll desire it. This darkness lurking beneath the surface of the protagonist is fascinating and disturbing at the same time.
I very much enjoyed Kushiel's Dart. After waiting so long to read it and hearing so many good things about it (it's got a blurb on the cover from [a:Robert Jordan|947|William Shakespeare|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1179017891p2/947.jpg]] for heaven's sake!), I really wanted to give it five stars. However, I can't do that--it did have flaws that I felt were significant enough to reduce its standing to only four stars. In places it was too heavy in exposition, slowing the narrative to a trickle. I managed to portage over those moments and get to the other side--which often proved even more interesting and intense than the previous chapters!
Definitely something any epic fantasy fan needs to read.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
Kushiel's Chosen →
Carey's writing was great, although the prose was often indigo-bordering-on purple, and I could have done with a little less exposition. There were times when the world-building was laid on thick. Even though the story was told in first-person, this didn't stop Carey from divulging excess amounts of world history through the mouth of her narrator.
I enjoyed Carey's allegory of western Europe and Judeo-Christian/Norse mythologies. She successfully established the world independently of the narrative while making the motivations and actions of the characters blend with their respective nations' cultures. Although the world of Terre D'Ange lacks overt uses of magic (with the possible exception of the Master of the Straits), there's quite a bit of superstition and religiosity. Overall, the book was very believable.
It took a while to pick up a comfortable pace. The first part was dry, as Phèdre recounts to us her childhood and upbringing in the Night Court. The story gets interesting once Phèdre grows up and becomes a tool for Anafiel Delaunay. Likewise, Phèdre's true mettle emerges during her captivity amongst the Skaldi. She proves herself a complex and worthy character, debating the morality of her actions even as she resigns herself to doing what is necessary to further a greater cause (in this case, the survival of Terre D'Ange). Interestingly enough, Carey has chosen not to make the loss of innocence a motif here (although an argument could be made that Jocelyn loses his innocence over the course of the story). Rather, Phèdre, as an anguissette is far from innocent. It's the fact that she enjoys her suffering that makes Phèdre a conflicted person. And that's a dangerous personality trait, especially for a prisoner to have.
Kushiel's Dart can get fairly racy, although tastefully so--it's not so much explicit as it is frequently suggestive. I didn't know this going into the book, prompting two of my friends, who have previously read the series, to express surprise that I would be reading it. But it's definitely not extraneous sex (unlike, say, the entire Sword of Truth series...). Carey has made sexuality a very prominent aspect of D'Angeline culture, and also of Phèdre's personality, as a "Servant of Naamah" (i.e., a courtesan) and an anguissette.
At the same time, Carey has avoided turning the D'Angeline "Night Court" (servants of Naamah who dedicate themselves to satisfying patrons along the lines of various themed Houses) into a sex trade predicated on the exploitation of women. Indeed, she makes it very apparent throughout the story that both women and men enter the service of Naamah. Similarly, those in the service of Naamah will routinely take both male and female patrons, regardless of their own gender (I'm tempted to label this pansexuality, but I'm not an expert, so I won't). The great thing about epic fantasy, particularly fantasy set in an alternate world, is that authors can construct social sexual identity without having to base that identity on current attitudes toward sexuality.
Carey's world is a very careful blend of slavery and succour, of prostitution and pleasure--servants of Naamah aren't mere whores, but very high class individuals dedicated to what D'Angelines literally consider a holy occupation. Phèdre, even after she "makes her marque", is closer to being a willing slave than any other servant of Naamah in Terre D'Ange. "Cursed" (as she comes to see it) with Kushiel's Dart as she is, even now that she's a free woman--and a countess too--there will always be a part of her that won't just enjoy submitting; it'll desire it. This darkness lurking beneath the surface of the protagonist is fascinating and disturbing at the same time.
I very much enjoyed Kushiel's Dart. After waiting so long to read it and hearing so many good things about it (it's got a blurb on the cover from [a:Robert Jordan|947|William Shakespeare|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1179017891p2/947.jpg]] for heaven's sake!), I really wanted to give it five stars. However, I can't do that--it did have flaws that I felt were significant enough to reduce its standing to only four stars. In places it was too heavy in exposition, slowing the narrative to a trickle. I managed to portage over those moments and get to the other side--which often proved even more interesting and intense than the previous chapters!
Definitely something any epic fantasy fan needs to read.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
Kushiel's Chosen →
This is the first book in the series since Kushiel's Dart that I would really classify as romance. There have been romantic subplots in the interim, but nothing like the romance between Phèdre and Joscelin from the first book. Jacqueline Carey is trying to rebottle that lightning in Kushiel's Justice. It doesn't quite work, but there are some good secondary effects that, in the end, make this book better than Kushiel's Scion.
It's your classic love triangle: Imriel loves Sidonie, who loves him back. But Imriel is the son of a traitor, so it would not do for their affair to become public. Also, Imriel has bartered himself away to marry a Cruithne woman, Dorelei, and beget heirs to the Alban throne. Got that? Good.
The dilemma, then, is whether Imriel remains in Alba with Dorelei or leaves—with or without impregnating her—and tries to make things work with Sidonie in Terre d'Ange. To further complicate matters, an ancient Alban tribe has placed a curse on Imriel, because they have visions that predict his son by Dorelei will bring a D'Angeline army to Alba and conquer. That doesn't put Imriel in a good mood.
The outcome isn't (or shouldn't be) surprising. After all, it's Sidonie on the cover, not Dorelei, so true love has to win in the end. I have to admit, I did not foresee Dorelei's death—which goes to show how little romance I read—but it's certainly an expedient way of reducing the love triangle to a love line. With Dorelei dead, Imriel is a widower, and he can absolve himself of any guilt over the matter by avenging her death. He cashes in on this future absolution a bit early when he reunites with Sidonie: at every meeting, they tend to have intense and passionate sex. This does put Imriel in a good mood.
Let's review: after his pregnant wife is killed, one of the first things on his list, above even "getting better" from his own wounds, is to have sex with the woman he was thinking about ever since he got married. Excuses and rationalizations abound: he just can't help himself, they fit so well together, Dorelei would have wanted him to be happy . . . but it just feels cold. I was really invested in the emotional significance of Dorelei and Imriel's relationship: she was a good woman, and he was beginning to envision a life for himself that, if not passionate, was at least contenting. By resuming his affair with Sidonie so quickly, Imriel does nothing but remind me that Dorelei's only purpose was to be an obstacle between him and his princess. It cheapens, for me, Dorelei as a person, and does nothing to further my enjoyment of Imriel and Sidonie's happiness (which I did enjoy).
I'm being glib here, and to be fair, Imriel does spend a large proportion of this book moping about one thing or another. Before Dorelei's death, he moped about Sidonie and the Alban curse subplot. After Dorelei's death, he moped about Sidonie and how he failed Dorelei. And the rest of the book following his brief reunion with Sidonie is devoted to his quest for revenge. So don't get the impression that his marriage to Dorelei is a brief episode that then gets shunted aside. (Dorelei suffers from this fate.)
I could almost overlook these flaws, because Kushiel's Justice finally sees a return to Alba. Of all the alterna-Europe countries in Carey's world, Alba is the most fascinating. Thanks to the Master of the Straits, it remains isolated after the fall of the Roman—sorry, Tiberian—Empire. So no Angles, Saxons, or Jutes get to invade. It's a very different Alba from the invasion-prone British Isles we grow up learning about.
But Carey squanders this opportunity with the curse. The Maghuin Dhonn are the worst antagonists we've yet to encounter in this series. They are worse, by far, than the Unseen Guild, although the two groups share a predilection for shadowy manipulation. And do not get me started about Morwen. She and Berlik partake of the most tired and clichéd excuses for their actions: they had no choice, they saw what they saw, they would do it differently if they had seen another way. I hate fatalistic villains who believe they're carrying some sort of burden placed upon them by the future. They're so smug in a self-righteous way, their voices tinged with a haughty sort of sadness over the protagonist's inability to see their side of the story. All too often, as is the case here, such fatalism is just a smokescreen to disguise a lack of deeper characterization. The Maghuin Dhonn are a pitiful excuse for a plot device to set up Dorelei's death, which itself is a plot device to reunite Sidonie and Imriel and let him get his vengeance on.
Judging from all this vitriol, it seems unlikely that I could prefer Kushiel's Justice to Imriel's first adventure. Yet, perhaps paradoxically, this still emerges the better book. Its pacing is much better, and even if the plot is a tangled, mangled mess of illogical intrigue, it still has better characterization. Prior to her death, Dorelei went from unknown princess bride to a sweet, caring wife determined to make the best of her political marriage. Imriel doesn't deserve her. And if Carey surprised me with anything in this book, she did so with Maslin de Lombelon. I was really expecting Maslin to be an irrational foe of Imriel's long after he and Sidonie get together. Sure enough, he vehemently objects to Imriel's association with her at every turn—then he shows up and helps Imriel effect an escape from Vralia! Carey keeps it realistic, and Maslin honestly tells Imriel that he will always hate Imriel a bit—but they aren't enemies any more. That was a very interesting and unexpected development; I wonder of the extent to which Maslin will be an ally when Imriel and Sidonie resolve the political ramifications of their relationship in the next book.
I am looking forward to finishing this trilogy. If you desire a blanket statement, then look to those people who pronounce the first trilogy superior to this one. They are correct. There are plenty of things to enjoy about Imriel's trilogy, especially in Kushiel's Justice. But the plot is just so heavy-handed, forcing the characters, particularly the antagonists, to act out of expediency instead of natural motivations. This is a book that talks the talk but doesn't walk the walk, at least not when it comes to conflict. The romantic subplot, if that's more your area of interest, is slightly better, although it doesn't capitalize on the depth Carey is perfectly capable of putting into her characters. Kushiel's Justice is OK, maybe even good, but it seems blatantly obvious that it could have been so much better.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
← Kushiel's Scion | Kushiel's Mercy →
It's your classic love triangle: Imriel loves Sidonie, who loves him back. But Imriel is the son of a traitor, so it would not do for their affair to become public. Also, Imriel has bartered himself away to marry a Cruithne woman, Dorelei, and beget heirs to the Alban throne. Got that? Good.
The dilemma, then, is whether Imriel remains in Alba with Dorelei or leaves—with or without impregnating her—and tries to make things work with Sidonie in Terre d'Ange. To further complicate matters, an ancient Alban tribe has placed a curse on Imriel, because they have visions that predict his son by Dorelei will bring a D'Angeline army to Alba and conquer. That doesn't put Imriel in a good mood.
The outcome isn't (or shouldn't be) surprising. After all, it's Sidonie on the cover, not Dorelei, so true love has to win in the end. I have to admit, I did not foresee Dorelei's death—which goes to show how little romance I read—but it's certainly an expedient way of reducing the love triangle to a love line. With Dorelei dead, Imriel is a widower, and he can absolve himself of any guilt over the matter by avenging her death. He cashes in on this future absolution a bit early when he reunites with Sidonie: at every meeting, they tend to have intense and passionate sex. This does put Imriel in a good mood.
Let's review: after his pregnant wife is killed, one of the first things on his list, above even "getting better" from his own wounds, is to have sex with the woman he was thinking about ever since he got married. Excuses and rationalizations abound: he just can't help himself, they fit so well together, Dorelei would have wanted him to be happy . . . but it just feels cold. I was really invested in the emotional significance of Dorelei and Imriel's relationship: she was a good woman, and he was beginning to envision a life for himself that, if not passionate, was at least contenting. By resuming his affair with Sidonie so quickly, Imriel does nothing but remind me that Dorelei's only purpose was to be an obstacle between him and his princess. It cheapens, for me, Dorelei as a person, and does nothing to further my enjoyment of Imriel and Sidonie's happiness (which I did enjoy).
I'm being glib here, and to be fair, Imriel does spend a large proportion of this book moping about one thing or another. Before Dorelei's death, he moped about Sidonie and the Alban curse subplot. After Dorelei's death, he moped about Sidonie and how he failed Dorelei. And the rest of the book following his brief reunion with Sidonie is devoted to his quest for revenge. So don't get the impression that his marriage to Dorelei is a brief episode that then gets shunted aside. (Dorelei suffers from this fate.)
I could almost overlook these flaws, because Kushiel's Justice finally sees a return to Alba. Of all the alterna-Europe countries in Carey's world, Alba is the most fascinating. Thanks to the Master of the Straits, it remains isolated after the fall of the Roman—sorry, Tiberian—Empire. So no Angles, Saxons, or Jutes get to invade. It's a very different Alba from the invasion-prone British Isles we grow up learning about.
But Carey squanders this opportunity with the curse. The Maghuin Dhonn are the worst antagonists we've yet to encounter in this series. They are worse, by far, than the Unseen Guild, although the two groups share a predilection for shadowy manipulation. And do not get me started about Morwen. She and Berlik partake of the most tired and clichéd excuses for their actions: they had no choice, they saw what they saw, they would do it differently if they had seen another way. I hate fatalistic villains who believe they're carrying some sort of burden placed upon them by the future. They're so smug in a self-righteous way, their voices tinged with a haughty sort of sadness over the protagonist's inability to see their side of the story. All too often, as is the case here, such fatalism is just a smokescreen to disguise a lack of deeper characterization. The Maghuin Dhonn are a pitiful excuse for a plot device to set up Dorelei's death, which itself is a plot device to reunite Sidonie and Imriel and let him get his vengeance on.
Judging from all this vitriol, it seems unlikely that I could prefer Kushiel's Justice to Imriel's first adventure. Yet, perhaps paradoxically, this still emerges the better book. Its pacing is much better, and even if the plot is a tangled, mangled mess of illogical intrigue, it still has better characterization. Prior to her death, Dorelei went from unknown princess bride to a sweet, caring wife determined to make the best of her political marriage. Imriel doesn't deserve her. And if Carey surprised me with anything in this book, she did so with Maslin de Lombelon. I was really expecting Maslin to be an irrational foe of Imriel's long after he and Sidonie get together. Sure enough, he vehemently objects to Imriel's association with her at every turn—then he shows up and helps Imriel effect an escape from Vralia! Carey keeps it realistic, and Maslin honestly tells Imriel that he will always hate Imriel a bit—but they aren't enemies any more. That was a very interesting and unexpected development; I wonder of the extent to which Maslin will be an ally when Imriel and Sidonie resolve the political ramifications of their relationship in the next book.
I am looking forward to finishing this trilogy. If you desire a blanket statement, then look to those people who pronounce the first trilogy superior to this one. They are correct. There are plenty of things to enjoy about Imriel's trilogy, especially in Kushiel's Justice. But the plot is just so heavy-handed, forcing the characters, particularly the antagonists, to act out of expediency instead of natural motivations. This is a book that talks the talk but doesn't walk the walk, at least not when it comes to conflict. The romantic subplot, if that's more your area of interest, is slightly better, although it doesn't capitalize on the depth Carey is perfectly capable of putting into her characters. Kushiel's Justice is OK, maybe even good, but it seems blatantly obvious that it could have been so much better.
My Reviews of Kushiel's Legacy:
← Kushiel's Scion | Kushiel's Mercy →
David Brin's Uplift Trilogy has not been the easiest series for me to read. I enjoyed Sundiver as a mystery set within a much larger universe. Brin left me hungry for more, but Startide Rising left me bitter and disappointed. What had started with so much potential seemed encumbered by flawed storylines and a myriad of unwanted characters. Hence, I was doubtful of The Uplift War's ability to mollify me.
While certainly superior to Startide Rising, The Uplift War lacks the central protagonist that made Sundiver so compelling. If the first book was a murder mystery and the second a siege story, this one is about living under occupation by the enemy. As such, the span of the story is somewhat larger than Startide Rising's, which at least gives the much-inflated cast something to do for six hundred pages.
Maybe my expectations are just skewed here, but I'm in this series for the answer to one question: who, if anyone, Uplifted humanity? After such tantalizing promises in Startide Rising, Brin shelves that question once again. Instead, we get another look at the sociological implications of Uplift and the stringent codes of Galactic warfare.
I don't mean to make The Uplift War sound boring. For the most part, it's interesting to watch the resistance crystallize in the mountains outside Port Helenia. It's fun to wonder who among the three Gubru Suzerains will achieve the dominance required to become the triumvirate's queen. As usual, Brin's depiction of a truly alien species and its leadership structure is second to none.
Even a species closely related to humanity, the neo-chimpanzees, can seem alien at times. Brin raises the question of whether neo-chimps have sentience or are merely "aping" their human patrons. Although it seems obvious that chims like Fiben and Gailet are sentient beings, the behaviour of those like Irongrip makes one wonder. It's scary to think that other creatures, the Gubru and the various Uplift examiners, are watching, judging whether another species is sapient. Imagine what would happen if humanity were declared the clients of another species!
We walk a thin line between being animals and thinking beings. Brin's obsession with comparing Richard Oneagle to Tarzan makes that clear. That being said, I'm not sure how much of that subplot was Brin's enthusiasm for the rugged wilderness adventurer and how much was a conscious statement about how environment shapes us. It's this exploration of what divides us from animals, thinking beings from non-thinking beings, at which the Uplift Trilogy excels. And of the three books in the trilogy, The Uplift War emphasizes this best.
So I've got a lot of complaints about The Uplift War. It just didn't satisfy me in the way I had hoped. Try as I might, however, I can't dismiss the book as "bad" or even "poor." Brin's execution is not flawless, but it's enough to convey a powerful theme about humanity and our role at large in the universe. I can't condemn the Uplift Trilogy—but I can't go so far as to celebrate it. You'll have to make up your own mind.
My Reviews of the Uplift series:
← Startide Rising | Brightness Reef →
While certainly superior to Startide Rising, The Uplift War lacks the central protagonist that made Sundiver so compelling. If the first book was a murder mystery and the second a siege story, this one is about living under occupation by the enemy. As such, the span of the story is somewhat larger than Startide Rising's, which at least gives the much-inflated cast something to do for six hundred pages.
Maybe my expectations are just skewed here, but I'm in this series for the answer to one question: who, if anyone, Uplifted humanity? After such tantalizing promises in Startide Rising, Brin shelves that question once again. Instead, we get another look at the sociological implications of Uplift and the stringent codes of Galactic warfare.
I don't mean to make The Uplift War sound boring. For the most part, it's interesting to watch the resistance crystallize in the mountains outside Port Helenia. It's fun to wonder who among the three Gubru Suzerains will achieve the dominance required to become the triumvirate's queen. As usual, Brin's depiction of a truly alien species and its leadership structure is second to none.
Even a species closely related to humanity, the neo-chimpanzees, can seem alien at times. Brin raises the question of whether neo-chimps have sentience or are merely "aping" their human patrons. Although it seems obvious that chims like Fiben and Gailet are sentient beings, the behaviour of those like Irongrip makes one wonder. It's scary to think that other creatures, the Gubru and the various Uplift examiners, are watching, judging whether another species is sapient. Imagine what would happen if humanity were declared the clients of another species!
We walk a thin line between being animals and thinking beings. Brin's obsession with comparing Richard Oneagle to Tarzan makes that clear. That being said, I'm not sure how much of that subplot was Brin's enthusiasm for the rugged wilderness adventurer and how much was a conscious statement about how environment shapes us. It's this exploration of what divides us from animals, thinking beings from non-thinking beings, at which the Uplift Trilogy excels. And of the three books in the trilogy, The Uplift War emphasizes this best.
So I've got a lot of complaints about The Uplift War. It just didn't satisfy me in the way I had hoped. Try as I might, however, I can't dismiss the book as "bad" or even "poor." Brin's execution is not flawless, but it's enough to convey a powerful theme about humanity and our role at large in the universe. I can't condemn the Uplift Trilogy—but I can't go so far as to celebrate it. You'll have to make up your own mind.
My Reviews of the Uplift series:
← Startide Rising | Brightness Reef →
At first, I couldn't decide if I liked Sundiver or this book better. The former has a superior mystery, and arguably a superior plot. Startide Rising, on the other hand, is more satisfying on the subject of "uplift" itself and better portrays the multitudinous horrors of Galactic society.
After considering my quandary further, I decided to throw in behind Sundiver. My fellow Goodreads reviewers seem split on this question, but the more I think about it, the more I'm certain. As much as I like what Startide Rising does to further the uplift concept central this series, its story and characters are muddled and dull.
We get a very sparse look at Galactic society in Sundiver, with singular representatives from a few species. Startide Rising rectifies this by showing us entire fleets from a variety of species, all of them pursuing the Streaker in attempt to take the information it has discovered. We get to meet the matriarchal Soro; the vicious Tandu and their reality-altering client species, the Episiarchs and the Acceptors; the Jophur, the Thennanin, etc. Brin's quite creative when it comes to species names and behaviours. But if Sundiver was a drought, then Startide Rising is a deluge: there are just too many aliens, and we don't spend enough time with any one of them. The results are thin, one-dimensional antagonists like Krat, fleet-mother of the Soro contingent. The Galactics are once again bogeyman instead of credible players.
This tendency of Brin's to overindulge is obvious planetside as well. There are just too many characters, too many points of view. At times this results in a total breakdown of the coherence of the story; I found myself unable to tell what was happening any more. Primal Delphin, Trinary, Anglic, whatever language the Karrank% spoke . . . too many symbols, and all very surreal. This is not an easy book to read, and while that's no disqualification on its own, it means the reward for reading it should be proportionally greater.
Yet I found Startide Rising lacklustre in its resolution. Once again, Brin explores what it means to be human by showing us how aliens (in this case, Uplifited dolphins) adopt human-like behaviour, including belligerence. Takkata-Jim's mutiny is a perfect example of this. The dolphins' journey toward sentience has been one away from the "Whale Dream" that prevents cetaceans from logical, abstract thought so critical for tool use (and thus spaceflight). While many of Takkata-Jim's mutineers revert to more primal instincts, Takkata-Jim himself behaves more and more human as the story progresses (not always to the benefit of our protagonists).
No matter how great its themes, however, Startide Rising is still burdened by its story. As with the antagonists, the main plot points begin multiplying until it's hard to tell what matters any more. There are metallic life-forms, pre-sentient aboriginals, voices telling Captain Credeiki what to do, etc. It just happens that after stumbling on a derelict fleet—setting off this great galactic chase—Streaker hides on a planet that has more mysteries than anyone could have imagined! Alas, we do not learn the ultimate fate of the Streaker crew or the inhabitants of Kithrup! This book provides many questions but precious few answers.
And so the moral of Startide Rising comes not from its themes but its execution: less is more! David Brin's "uplift" concept is so intriguing, so deliciously seductive in its shiny science fiction package, that it's enough to sell me on the series. But I'm finding the experience less fulfilling than expected, because the books just try too hard. Keep it simple Startide Rising does not.
My Reviews of the Uplift series:
← Sundiver | The Uplift War →
After considering my quandary further, I decided to throw in behind Sundiver. My fellow Goodreads reviewers seem split on this question, but the more I think about it, the more I'm certain. As much as I like what Startide Rising does to further the uplift concept central this series, its story and characters are muddled and dull.
We get a very sparse look at Galactic society in Sundiver, with singular representatives from a few species. Startide Rising rectifies this by showing us entire fleets from a variety of species, all of them pursuing the Streaker in attempt to take the information it has discovered. We get to meet the matriarchal Soro; the vicious Tandu and their reality-altering client species, the Episiarchs and the Acceptors; the Jophur, the Thennanin, etc. Brin's quite creative when it comes to species names and behaviours. But if Sundiver was a drought, then Startide Rising is a deluge: there are just too many aliens, and we don't spend enough time with any one of them. The results are thin, one-dimensional antagonists like Krat, fleet-mother of the Soro contingent. The Galactics are once again bogeyman instead of credible players.
This tendency of Brin's to overindulge is obvious planetside as well. There are just too many characters, too many points of view. At times this results in a total breakdown of the coherence of the story; I found myself unable to tell what was happening any more. Primal Delphin, Trinary, Anglic, whatever language the Karrank% spoke . . . too many symbols, and all very surreal. This is not an easy book to read, and while that's no disqualification on its own, it means the reward for reading it should be proportionally greater.
Yet I found Startide Rising lacklustre in its resolution. Once again, Brin explores what it means to be human by showing us how aliens (in this case, Uplifited dolphins) adopt human-like behaviour, including belligerence. Takkata-Jim's mutiny is a perfect example of this. The dolphins' journey toward sentience has been one away from the "Whale Dream" that prevents cetaceans from logical, abstract thought so critical for tool use (and thus spaceflight). While many of Takkata-Jim's mutineers revert to more primal instincts, Takkata-Jim himself behaves more and more human as the story progresses (not always to the benefit of our protagonists).
No matter how great its themes, however, Startide Rising is still burdened by its story. As with the antagonists, the main plot points begin multiplying until it's hard to tell what matters any more. There are metallic life-forms, pre-sentient aboriginals, voices telling Captain Credeiki what to do, etc. It just happens that after stumbling on a derelict fleet—setting off this great galactic chase—Streaker hides on a planet that has more mysteries than anyone could have imagined! Alas, we do not learn the ultimate fate of the Streaker crew or the inhabitants of Kithrup! This book provides many questions but precious few answers.
And so the moral of Startide Rising comes not from its themes but its execution: less is more! David Brin's "uplift" concept is so intriguing, so deliciously seductive in its shiny science fiction package, that it's enough to sell me on the series. But I'm finding the experience less fulfilling than expected, because the books just try too hard. Keep it simple Startide Rising does not.
My Reviews of the Uplift series:
← Sundiver | The Uplift War →