Economics is weird. The economy is a social system. Once upon a time, it was based somewhat in reality, with gold standards and natural resources forming a large part of this anchor. At present, it has transformed into a mostly speculative beast, the taming of which is the goal of any number of hedge fund managers, stock market analysts, and economics professors with cushy degrees from Ivy League or wannabe-Ivy League schools. To make matters worse, the economy is based on the behaviour of people.

And people, as a group, are not only irrational but stupid. So the economy is in for a treat.

Makers is to economics what Little Brother is to national security and civil liberties. Cory Doctorow ventures into that curious nexus of technological innovation, outdated corporate laws, dinosaur business models perpetuated by incumbent players, and strong-willed individuals who want to rock the boat. Although definitely science fiction, like Little Brother this book invokes technology that is available in the present day, focusing on the differences such technology is making rather than speculating upon the differences technology will make.

In some sense we have always lived in an information economy, because ultimately it all comes down to information in one form or another. Yet the information economy has never been more obvious in the present era, because technology has removed the barrier to the exchange of pure information. This so-called digital economy threatens incumbent business models—and the corporations that became successful through such models—because digital often turns scarcity into plenty.

Makers uses 3D printers to represent this transition to plenty. But this is more than just making things; it's about what we choose to make. The point of the DIY ("do it yourself") movement is making objects—designing them, constructing them, watching them succeed or fail or adapt to new purposes—is a rewarding effort. Lester and Perry are innovators, and that's what makes them essential to Kettlewell's New Work vision. In a society that tends toward individualism, corporations like Google are succeeding by embracing that individualism, encouraging the creativity of individuals and small groups, then reaping the ideas that result. New Work is the ultimate corporate takeover, harnessing the very bootstraps-entrepreneurial strategy so praised in the United States to generate huge new profits. It is both terrifying and amazing.

Of course, those corporations entrenched in the old paradigms will resist. This is where the law enters the story. Intellectual property law is a morass of complicated statutes, precedents, and procedures. Unfortunately, sometimes corporations will use these laws to eliminate competition. Those corporations want the law to remain as it is—or favour them even more—even as the government faces pressure to change the law in the face of changing technologies and business models.

Disney (somewhat predictably, knowing Doctorow) plays the role of corporate antagonist in Makers. Everything goes swimmingly with the ride until pieces of Disney rides begin appearing in it; then Disney slaps the ride with an injunction and a trademark infringement lawsuit. Although the conflict presents Disney as the Big Bad Corporation out to get the Little Guy, the resolution is more nuanced and realistic in its views. Lester and Perry compromise, make a deal with a Disney executive, in return for personal creative freedom. Makers is not about revolution but evolution. Its tone may sound anti-corporation at times, but really it is only anti-dinosaur. Those corporations that adapt will survive.

I revel in the way Makers chronicles some of the challenges facing corporations and individuals alike. That is about all it is good at doing, however. The characters are flat, and the story meanders through a flow chart of plot points Doctorow feels are essential to his theme. The jacket copy is somewhat misleading; it implies that Lester's "fatkins" treatment causes his falling out with Perry. While fatkins was a contributing factor, Lester and Perry's relationship deteriorates for several reasons, the main one being time and diverging interests.

I don't blame Doctorow for the jacket copy. I do, however, expect deeper stories than what Makers delivers. Every problem the protagonists face can be conquered by a combination of message board posts, blogging, and passing it off to the legal experts. There is one obnoxious antagonist who is a straw man for anti-innovation bloggers (the kinds of sticks-in-the-mud who are unhappy whenever anyone is successful, and usually when they fail too).

To be fair, the characters do change and learn from their conflicts. Lester and Perry's relationship transforms dramatically; Susan's life changes as she follows her dream; Sammy starts off as a suit and discovers he can have his cake and eat it too. So I'm even more puzzled than I usually am, because for all the dynamics in their relationships, these characters have no chemistry.

For example, consider the scene in which Kettlewell admits to having an affair (we saw this coming). There is no drama, no repercussions. Nothing fundamentally changes after this admission. He could have said, "I am going to paint my white picket fence with a different brand of white paint" and engendered the same reader response. I just do not feel invested in these characters or their plights.

But maybe that's just Kettlewell—after all, he is a minor character. Surely we feel more inclined toward drama over Lester and Perry? Not really. Hilda, whom Lester dubs Yoko, becomes an unwilling wedge between the two DIY-ers (we saw this coming). Hilda and Perry just sort of hook up and have a one night stand, and suddenly it's love. But Hilda never really does anything Yoko-ish. Lester is the one who has created a self-fulfilling prophecy, pushing Perry away in response to a stimulus that isn't there, projecting his own desires for distance. Still, the arguments Lester and Perry have do not feel like arguments. They are dialogues from two slightly different perspectives to communicate a point.

Speaking of Perry and Hilda, let's talk about the sex scenes. Or not. Awkward. . . .

Moving on. Makers starts with a bang but ends with a whimper. The quality of the prose remains consistent—consistently mediocre—but while the story starts strong, it soon becomes streamlined and perfunctory, like it's a Disney ride and we're just sitting there, watching it happen. Despite a Big Bad Corporation coming over for dinner and spats among the protagonists about the best way to run the rides, I never felt like the stakes were very high or that anyone had much to lose.

As much as I love the premise and the execution of its ideas, Makers is much ado about nothing as far as I'm concerned. I thought Little Brother rocked hard enough to make it one of my best 10 books of 2009. With that book, Doctorow offers up a polemic, yes, but one that is truly worth the time, even if one disagrees with his argument. Makers lacks that worthwhile attribute.

Move over, Pride and Prejudice. Emma is my new favourite Jane Austen novel, and while Austen may be better known for Pride and Prejudice, this book is what has earned her acclaim in my eyes. At times plodding and predictable, Emma nonetheless won me over with a complex cast of characters, whose changing relationships are the key to the entire story. Austen's ironic hand makes this book a light but real commentary on the class divisions present in her contemporary England, particularly how those divisions influence whom, if anyone, a woman marries.

Austen puts a good deal of effort into making Emma a three-dimensional character who is patently unlikable. Witty, argumentative, manipulative, and proud, Emma wants for nothing—and as a result, her boredom gets her into trouble. The book tends to present scenes such that Emma does something to someone, rather than the other way around, but ultimately the person most affected by her scheming is Emma herself.

Watching Emma acknowledge her flaws and begin to change is a very satisfactory experience. Near the beginning, she almost comically refuses to recognize her own hypocrisy with regards to Harriet Smith's prospects. She looks down upon Mr. Martin, a worthy farmer, even though Harriet is an orphan and her only status comes from Emma's patronage. With each new target for Harriet's affections, Emma only complicates matters further. First she encourages Harriet to pursue Mr. Elton, who in the process falls for Emma; then she thinks Harriet has feelings for Frank Churchill, only to later learn it is Mr. Knightley who has caught Harriet's eye.

It sounds like a daytime soap opera, and the thought did cross my mind while watching these attractions wax and wane. Enough already, I thought, just marry someone! Such an interpretation is tempting but ultimately quite naive. The only relationship plot device that truly annoyed me was Frank Churchill's secret engagement. I predicted whom he was going to marry but did not foresee when they became engaged (prior to the beginning of the novel, even). This is an exception to the rule, however, and that is what saves Emma. Rather than rely on twists, Austen uses the conflict generated by her own characters to create a remarkable story.

Although certain characters (like Mrs. Elton) can be seen as antagonists, there are not so much antagonists in Emma as people acting on various motivations, working at cross-purposes. I read Mrs. Elton not as a malicious character but as a woman who, having married slightly upward in society, desperately seeks acceptance and validation from the other women in her new circle. Hence, after Emma spurns Mrs. Elton's attempts at friendship, Mrs. Elton becomes cold toward Emma. Likewise, her unwelcome exertions on Jane Fairfax's behalf stem from the same desire to be seen as useful, connected, powerful.

I love Mr. Woodhouse, who can also be quite an obstacle, in a harmless-old-man sort of way. It is no wonder that Emma is so bold and forthright in her planning when her father is disengaged with the world around him. I particularly love how he goes on about marriage as a bad thing, and the book implies that he has always held this view, even as a young man. So how exactly did he end up with not one but two daughters? Perhaps this paradox is the source of his lethargy and hypochondria!

The main conflict comes mostly from the love triangles in which Emma finds herself. First with Harriet and Mr. Elton, then with Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill, then Harriet and Frank Churchill, and finally Harriet and Mr. Knightley. Not all of these triangles are genuine (and in almost every case, Emma denies her feelings for the main in question), which only makes the ensuing complications more comical.

Rather than merely keeping tone light, however, Austen harnesses this comedic energy to take Emma to the next level. After the "incident on Box Hill," as it becomes known, Emma takes a step back and seriously re-evaluates herself. Throughout the novel she talks to herself, her thoughts mingling with those of the third-person narrator. We learn from Emma about how clever Emma is, how kind Emma is, how lucky it is that Emma will never marry. And then, after she snaps and ruins the party for everyone, Emma stops to question exactly why she behaved that way on Box Hill. Was she truly upset with Mrs. Elton and annoyed with Miss. Bates?

The first half of Emma is sugary and sometimes soporific. The second half, however, is deep and full of introspection on Emma's part. Austen has created a character with genuine, interesting flaws and made a story out of the revelation of those flaws. By the end of the book, Emma is not perfect—no one is—but she is happier for having cast aside some of her pretensions and, on some level, changed.

The last chapter of the book felt like a hasty postscript. I suppose Austen felt it necessary to have a quick epilogue that assured us everyone lived happily-ever-after. It was just jarring, because it spanned almost as much time as the rest of the entire novel, if not more.

I began Emma with high expectations. Unlike Sense and Sensibility, Emma lived up to those expectations. This book continued to surprise me as I read further—not, mind you, in the plot, which is fairly predictable. No, this book's virtues lie in the hearts and minds of its characters. Austen does more than write romance in Emma; she creates an entire small village of people and the equivalent set of relationships to match. The result: thoughtful prose and an artful story.

Books create whole other worlds, and nowhere is this phenomenon more explicit than in fantasy and science fiction. More than just telling a story, great books transport the reader to a new setting, one where the rules might be different. It takes impossibilities and makes them possible. The author, then, is more than a storyteller—he or she is an architect, a craftsman executing a careful and intricate design. This is what we often mean when we speak of worldbuilding.

Depending upon how the term is used, worldbuilding can entail praise of an author's mastery of the art, or it can be a consolation prize for a perceived lack of plot. Indeed, many of the reviews I've been reading of Palimpsest use the term, or its equivalents, in the latter way. The city of Palimpsest is a beautiful setting—and character—but the book has a thin plot, thin characters. There is too much prose, too little substance.

It is true that Palimpsest is a very unique and bizarre creation. Catherynne M. Valente's writing is laced with appositive subtleties and allusive similes. As a result, the book itself is of an artistic and literary flavour that favours imagery and metaphor over the straightforward pace of narrative. I found Palimpsest difficult to embrace at first because of this atmosphere. It was too dream-like—too much like an actual visit to Palimpsest, minus the sex gateway—to catch hold of my imagination. Lacking an anchor, I floated aimlessly through the first part of the book, unable to connect with the characters or even understand their plights.

Valente's sexually-transmitted city is a masterful work of fantasy but not something I would consider true worldbuilding. Rather, Palimpsest is like a myth, or perhaps even an entire mythology unto itself. It has an origin myth. It has rituals regarding how to travel to the city, how to recruit new immigrants. There are myths pertaining to permanent residency in Palimpsest, complete with the tragic sense of loss possible when one comes so close to achieving this only to find the gates barred. Palimpsest itself is not much of a world, for we only get glimpses of its structure and society. As an idea, however, Palimpsest is fascinating. Valente hints at the beginning of the book how different Palimpsest is from our own world—clockwork vermin, for instance—but the true scope of the difference only becomes apparent by the very end.

Palimpsest is like that as a whole. It starts off strongly, stumbles, only to recover near the end and improve a great deal. Valente adheres rigidly to a four-chapter, four-intermission structure for each part of the novel. Each chapter/intermission pair focuses on one of the four protagonists and their visit to Palimpsest. After such a strong beginning, the story foundered because the protagonists were not sufficiently connected, and I was not much interested in their isolated, pathetic attempts to return to Palimpsest. The book improves noticeably once November and Ludovico discover the method for emigrating to Palimpsest, find each other, and try to find Oleg and Sei. Suddenly there is a purpose to all this purposeless sex; suddenly, there is plot.

There is so much sex in Palimpsest. It has a functional purpose, and Valente makes it clear that, for most immigrants, this is a matter of need. They need to return to Palimpsest; indeed, those who reject the city find it necessary to self-medicate in order to keep from dreaming about it. Palimpsest is somewhat like a drug, but it is even more generally an obsession. Oleg becomes obsessed with finding the simulacrum of his sister, who died before he was born; Ludovico becomes obsessed with finding his wife, who left him for another woman; Sei becomes obsessed with staying on board a train in Palimpsest that seems determined to adopt her; and November finds a mentor in the mysterious, dangerous Casimira. Their obsession overrides their need for comfort in the real world, hollows them out, makes them shells of their former selves. Oleg loses his appetite, becomes skeletal and even more withdrawn than he was before. Sei's need to have sex with the right people to stay on the train route makes her feel degraded. November sacrifices fingers and her face in order to achieve some form of power, while Ludovico sacrifices his tongue to secure them chance—the merest permission to attempt—to emigrate.

For all of the empty sex and mentions of how New York City is an ersatz vision of itself, Palimpsest seems to lack many real relationships. Lucia leaves Ludovico after nine years; the other three protagonists are recluses to one degree or another. Oleg and Ludovico both accept simulated people as replacements for those they have lost. November and Sei focus their affection on non-human objects, bees and a train, respectively.

In this respect, Palimpsest belies the biggest myth of all, that of normality. There is nothing normal happening in this book, and that is for the best. From its story to its characters to its style, Palimpsest is a bizarre, mythical creation. It pays a price for this artistry, of course; many who are more comfortable with the conventional narrative of a novel will not appreciate this book's unconventionality. It needs someone stronger than me to appreciate it on those terms. For my part, Palimpsest is interesting in execution and effort, but such a very empty experience.

I began this book as a sometime reader of Michael Chabon. I klepped The Yiddish Policemen's Union from my dad's shelf, and I've also read [b:Wonder Boys|16707|Wonder Boys|Michael Chabon|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166740697s/16707.jpg|2045395] and [b:Summerland|16705|Summerland|Michael Chabon|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166740696s/16705.jpg|2741007] at some point. (I actually liked the movie of the former better than Cabon's book, oddly enough.) Chabon is one of those writers who is at the periphery of my awareness, someone whose books I respect even though I only accord them a lukewarm enthusiasm when it comes to the prospect of reading one. He has a way with words, a talent for tone and diction, that I much admire.

This skill is apparent in Maps and Legends. The book itself is something of a cipher at first—as a product of McSweeney's, it is bound in a format simultaneously advertising and obscuring the content of the book. The jacket of this edition is alone worth a paragraph. Although the multiple layers can be annoying to handle, they create a beautiful effect that shows a love for the physical form of a book itself, parallel Chabon's tribute to literature and storytelling found between the covers.

Often collections of essays make me ambivalent, and Chabon's is no exception. My praise of Chabon's style holds true. He has mastered that heavy, didactic, descriptive method of discourse that makes me unabashedly jealous. Such writing can also be pedantic and quickly outstay its welcome, of course, and Chabon is guilty at times of overindulging his allusive abilities. If his passion for this subject were not so evident from his essays, I pass harsher judgement. As it is, I think it is a matter of taste. Some will endure—and even enjoy—the book; others will cast it aside with a vague sense of distaste or a definite feeling of dismay. Chabon's writing is not for everyone, and this book is no exception.

For those who choose to remain, all of Chabon's essays are interesting, but not all are created equal. In particular, I enjoyed: "Trickster in a Suit of Lights: Thoughts on the Modern Short Story", "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes", "Ragnarok Boy", "My Back Pages," and "Diving into the Wreck". In the first essay, Chabon discusses his fascination with transgressing the boundaries defined by genre, likening himself and other authors to the Trickster gods of many mythologies. Likewise, "Ragnarok Boy," celebrates the richness of Norse mythology, a subject on which I have been ruminating since reading Norse Code.

I loved "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes" for its exploration of Conan Doyle's motives behind writing Holmes stories—money—and the enduring effect of Holmesian mysteries on the "genre" of mystery and on literature in general. This essay is a true gem of the collection. It sparked in me a desire to re-read Holmes, something that any analysis of a work should do. More than passion, Chabon's sense of wonder is infectious and amplifying. He feels like I do: that we are ridiculously, wonderfully gifted with this ability to preserve stories in written form; that a well-stocked library or a cozy, stuffed bookshelf is a treasure trove of adventures just waiting to be read. When I buy or borrow books, I feel like I'm getting away with a crime—this amazing experience cannot be legal! But it is, and I love nothing more.

As a reader, Maps and Legends affirmed my feeling that stories are magical. As a writer, it reminded me of the responsibilities I have as a practitioner of this magic. An unwritten story is something with infinite potential; a writer must craft it carefully, honing every plane and edge with only the mind's glimpse of an end product as a guide. The journey is non-trivial, but when done right, the rewards for both the reader and the writer are proportionally spectacular.

Chabon claims to loathe the phrase "guilty pleasures", and while I understand his reasoning, I have to disagree. It is true that "guilty pleasure" can refer to something one fears censure over enjoying (much as I enjoy reading young adult fiction targeted toward socially-obsessed adolescent girls). But a "guilty pleasure" can also be something like that extra scoop of ice cream, something so flagrantly self-indulgent that we look both ways before allowing ourselves the moment.

Maps and Legends is the latter type of guilty pleasure. At least it was for me, and I think it was for Michael Chabon as well, no matter how much he protests. Sometimes he lays it on thick, but I'm inclined to forgive his exuberance as the self-conscious fanaticism of his inner boy, who can't quite believe he actually achieved his dream. Maps and Legends a self-referential, meta-aware celebration of literature and its role in one's life, from formative childhood through rocky adolescence all the way to adulthood. Because some of us, though we grow taller, do not grow up. Our sense of wonder remains firmly intact, persistently in place, ever guiding us to explore those uncharted places.

The cover of Norse Code is misleading. It has a classic "urban fantasy" pose, the woman holding a phallic weapon and looking over her shoulder at the reader. Really, Norse Code is nothing like the cover or the description on the back of the book. Although it begins like other urban fantasy books, it quickly becomes something different. It is an epic tale focused through the lens of postmodern apocalypse, where metaphor becomes literal, and gods are as mortal as men.

When I went through my mythology phase as a child, I gobbled up the Norse myths as much as I did Greek, Roman, etc. In fact, Norse mythology has a special place in my heart. Scandinavian myth has a wonderful knack for the epic. Ragnarok is the best apocalypse myth. Both the Greek and Norse gods are very human in their foibles, but the Norse gods have the advantage of being a part of this epic cycle of song and story . . . they know how they will die (with the exception of Hermod) or survive. They know how their world will end, that this end is inevitable, and that a new world will arise from the ashes.

Greg van Eekhout plays on this theme well, turning Ragnarok into an opportunity for reflection on the mortality of all things. Even gods can die. And encoded in everything's beginning is also its end, or, as Frigg puts it:

From its very first moment, the world has been dying, just as an infant's first breath makes certain its last. I am life in renewal, and I crave the new green world to come after Ragnarok. To tail against the end is merely preserving a corpse.

So here we are thinking the end of the world is a Very Bad Thing—or is it? Perhaps Ragnarok is a time for renewal, a time for the world to be reborn. Suddenly the apocalypse has a moral ambiguity!

The two protagonists sort of fall into the job of stopping Ragnarok. Each has a personal stake: Mist wants to save her sister from Helheim; Hermod is concerned with saving his family from their prophesied deaths. Although both are steeped in the mythology surrounding the apocalypse, neither is very competent in using this as an advantage. In essence, the world's best hope does the job half-assed.

Speaking of which, the cover also presents Mist as the now stereotypical kickass urban fantasy heroine, which isn't accurate either. Mist is a competent fighter and plays a major role in the plot. She does not quite have the skill level to take the title "kickass" though. She is more of a sidekick to Hermod (whom I like better anyway). And there's nothing wrong with this (just as there's nothing wrong with being kickass). For Norse Code, it works.

Hermod, too, is not what one would expect from a god. Van Eekhout is not the first to portray a god as apathetic and a little postmodern in his perspective on life. However, I like how Hermod grows over the course of the novel. At first he is very apathetic, but helping Mist embroils him in Ragnarok and makes him realize that he cannot stand by this time. Hermod's decision to make a role for himself—even as everyone tells him that stopping Ragnarok is hopeless—is an important turning point.

Van Eekhout gives us a lot of background on Hermod. We get a clear sense of his role in initiating Ragnarok and his character as a god, why he avoids his fellow Aesir and "bums around" Midgard. This is one reason I prefer him over Mist, who gets considerably less character development. We learn that she has a sister, that they were both gunned down outside a convenience store, that their parents and grandmother are dead, and that Mist used to be an MBA student named Kathy. That's about it. There are no flashbacks; even Mist's "creation myth," if you will, is told more secondhand than as a proper flashback. As a result, Mist feels like a more ephemeral character than she is.

Norse Code drags its heels in other respects as well. The pacing is problematic, even haphazard. This is especially difficult to ignore during the climactic battle, which appears abruptly and ends just as abruptly. It is very chaotic—but not in a good way—with too many disparate plot elements vying for space on the page. Once again, Mist seems relegated to a supporting role, taking out one of the minor antagonists while Hermod tries (several times) to derail the apocalypse.

Of course, the end of the world is a downer, and as a book ending, it's really a downer. Van Eekhout sidesteps Ragnarok nicely, managing to simultaneously evince the "you can buck destiny" theme without hitting too many clichés. And that impresses me, because I do not think it is possible to avoid the apocalypse in an apocalyptic novel without being some kind of trite. So van Eekhout picked the right kind.

There are some great moments in Norse Code, like this one:

"So Vidar's got the eye," Mist said, "but we've got the sword. As long as Vidar doesn't have both, we're okay?"

"Vidar's not that stupid," Hugin said. "The nothing in the Sword of Seven is a tricky substance to work with, but there's no shortage of nothing."

"In addition to the Sword of Seven," Munin piped in, "he commissioned an Ax of Seven, a Spear of Seven, a Hammer of Seven, a Crude Bludgeon of Seven . . . His backup arsenal of Seven is quite extensive."

I love this subversion of Vidar as a classic villain—he has backup apocalypse-triggering weapons! There are clever bits of dialogue like this throughout the book.

On the flip side, there something high fantasy about Norse Code, and it is very attractive—and obvious, despite the packaging. Yet it seems to be at war with lighter aspects of the book, as if van Eekhout has trouble synthesizing the two sides into a unified voice.

It is a widely accepted fact that our passions and interests are not evenly distributed among the eras of human history. Some prefer tales of neolithic courage; others are interested in ancient Greece, Ilium, Rome. I have a soft spot for medieval and Tudor England; even Victorian England has its allure. Late 19th-century America, not so much. I do not avoid books set in that time, nor do I go out of my way to read them.

The atmosphere of Sarah Canary's time period holds little appeal for me. Asylums and steamboats . . . carnivals and freakshows . . . a time where the frontier of the Wild West has been settled, but not yet successfully civilized. Amid all these distractions, we have a migrant Chinese railroad worker, an escaped asylum inmate, and a woman with no identity, no personality, no intelligible voice.

I should say at this point that Sarah Canary is not what I expected at all—and that is fine. Actually, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I was not expecting the mix of mystery and magical realism that Fowler delivers. What starts as a slow, almost plodding quest to discover the nature of Sarah Canary metamorphoses into an interstate adventure. Sarah Canary passes through a quixotic chain of custody, and each of her keepers have their own motivations for helping her. Chin thinks that she is an immortal, and thus it is his duty to help. BJ seems to be along for the ride. Harold wants to profit off of Sarah Canary, billing her as the "Alaskan Wild Woman." Adelaide Dixon mistakes Sarah Canary for a murderer.

Sarah Canary is the thread common to all these people's lives, the nexus that brings them together in a grand chase stretching from Steilacoom, Washington all the way to San Francisco, California. Of all the strange characters who populate this narrative, Sarah is perhaps the least well-defined, because she has no voice. Instead, she is like negative space in a painting, her shape defined by those around her. Is she a wild woman? An escaped murder? A poor, innocent, insane woman? Or an immortal, seeking acts of human kindness?

Discovering the truth about Sarah Canary is never the point of this novel. We learn very little that is definite about this woman—if indeed she is a woman—but she has a very definite impact on the characters' lives. Chin travels down the West Coast for her, dragging BJ in his tow. His actions are at times questionable, even illegal, and usually dangerous. Harold, perhaps the most delusional character (bar none), looks to Sarah Canary for quick cash and discovers his own immortality. Adelaide seeks to use Sarah Canary for her own purposes and nearly ends up a tiger's lunch.

So yeah, I'm calling MacGuffin on Sarah Canary. She's a plot device that creates the convergence of characters, the motivation for all the events in the novel. And there is nothing wrong with that, although I wish the characters in question were somewhat more three-dimensional.

By and large I enjoyed Fowler's characterization. Chin and BJ have an interesting dynamic. Both of them are somewhat outsiders from society, and they each have an interesting perspective on the world: Chin's is coloured by his Chinese heritage, full of Confucian metaphor and mythical messages; BJ, high-functioning but still not quite there, liberally mixes fact and fiction. Personality quirks aside, however, the characters never fully rise above the archetypes they represent. In particular, Adelaide is a tireless campaigner for women's rights . . . and that's about all. The characters have personalities but not fully-developed personae.

Sarah Canary didn't leave me awestruck, but it did touch me—especially the ending. Chin's reflection on the nature of story and the role of reader is poignant and true. That being said, what was up with that epilogue?

Halfway through World Without End, I gave this summary: "sex and architecture in the English countryside, 1337." This is not entirely accurate; World Without End is not entirely composed of sex and architecture—just mostly.

I have plenty of complaints about this book. The characters are diverse but flat; the themes are of dubious worth; the conclusion is far from satisfying. Like I said, plenty of complaints. But let me start with something I can't fault: Ken Follett's ability to create conflict.

Conflict is the lifeblood of a story. World Without End sometimes reads like a book without end, but it's bearable, because Follett is constantly introducing new conflict. Although all of his characters can be sorted into "protagonist" versus "antagonist" camps, there is sufficient moral ambiguity that Follett can pit characters on the same side against each other.

Follett seizes upon 14th century English society as the source of much of this conflict. His obsession with architecture can be irksome, but it's also useful, for he furnishes us with rich descriptions of life in Kingsbridge and nearby villages. So much historical fiction is focused around the nobility or life at court that often peasant life gets overlooked. I also appreciate the look at strife between nobility and clergy, between clergy and city, and even among the various levels of clergy. Even without the plague, life in the 14th century was not easy. With the plague, I can see how it would become intolerable.

Wait, does this sound familiar? If so, then you've probably read The Pillars of the Earth. As many other reviewers note, World Without End is far too similar to its predecessor. And unfortunately, the differences are usually unfavourable ones. For example, this book lacks a sympathetic clergyman to compare to Prior Philip, who was such a great protagonist in The Pillars of the Earth.

In fact, Follett's portrayal of the clergy in this book is decidedly negative. There are very few, if any, truly devout clergymen. Most monks are painted as manipulative and self-serving (Godwyn, Philemon) or mindlessly obedient (the nameless monks who go along with those two). The physicians have little interest in progressive medicine. Oh, and most nuns are lesbians!

Come to think of it, that's a good summary of all the characters in World Without End (except the lesbian thing—that's only nuns). Every character is a schemer; knowledge is something to be used for leverage or plotting. When Caris observes Bishop Henri and Canon Claude engaging in some hot XXX Ho Yay, she thinks nothing more of it than, "Oh, you did look funny." There's no deeper analysis, no consideration of the moral or spiritual implications of homosexuality. It's not even important enough to merit a motif; it's window dressing.

This lack of depth is an epidemic among the characters. Most of them don't change over decades: Caris at 10 is just as manipulative as Caris at 20 or 30; Ralph holds a grudge for two decades after being punched in the nose. And don't get me started about Godwyn. It's not a question of believability or realism either; I'm sure that there are people in real life as obstinate as Godwyn or as selfish and brutish as Ralph.

Rather, these characters participate in such shallow introspection. Caris is so focused on what she wants, but she complains whenever she has it. She pushes Merthin away, even though she loves him and wants to have lots of sex with him, because she doesn't want to become a man's property. I acknowledge what Follett is trying to say here about a woman's status in 14th century English society. Nevertheless, by the third or fourth time she and Merthin broke up, I was beginning to wonder if I was reading tragic historical fiction or some form of soap opera.

Then, after declaring for the final time that they can't possibly be together, Caris and Merthin get married. Conveniently Caris manages to renounce her vows and still run a hospital; conveniently the charges of witchcraft against her never rear their ugly heads; conveniently Brother Thomas dies at the right time, and Merthin gets to use the letter Thomas left behind to blackmail the king.

After making it into such a sinister plot point, Thomas' letter was little more than something to ensure a happily-ever-after for Caris and Merthin. I have to confess I'm somewhat biased against happily-ever-afters, so maybe I'm overreacting here . . . but it doesn't feel deserved. These two characters rejected happiness over and over, and Follett still settled it upon them at the end, even as they kicked and screamed and refused the honour.

World Without End successfully invokes England's rich history, but Follett's execution is clumsy. I say this having fully enjoyed [b:The Pillars of the Earth|5043|The Pillars of the Earth (The Pillars of the Earth, #1)|Ken Follett|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1165517379s/5043.jpg|3359698]; its sequel, unfortunately, is very flawed. Rather than a moving return to Kingsbridge and its inhabitants, World Without End is a cautionary tale that conflict is necessary to a story, but it is far from sufficient.

The title of this book, breaking as it does Jim Butcher's pattern of two words of equal length for each previous title in the Dresden Files, says it all. There are definitely changes; as such, the spoiler warning here is not to be taken lightly.

If you haven't read the book and at all plan to read it, turn back now.

So it's just me, the people who have read it, and the people who won't read it (apathetic people and haters alike), yes? Well come closer, and I shall tell you a tale of one man against a universe that, while humourless, has a fitting sense of irony. Come closer, and I will tell you how the blackest, bleakest, bitterest moments of life reveal the best—and the worst—of humanity.

Butcher alters the Dresdenverse in a legion of ways with Changes; I won't waste time enumerating them here—after all, if you care, you've already read the book, yes? Besides, we'll come to them in due time as we discuss what they mean for Harry and those closest to him.

For the past few reviews, I've riffed a lot on the sweeping themes I see beneath the arc of the Dresden Files. Part of that is pragmatic; re-reading the first eleven books in quick succession depletes the number of ways I know how to say, "Good story! Great characters! Go Harry!" But I do feel that the Dresden Files is more than just formula urban fantasy/mystery. More than delivering a plot, Butcher tells a story, which means there's a theme to accompany it.

Reading the dismissive reviews of Changes, I'm seeing a lot of disappointment over the changes. Complaints that they feel random and unexpected, that the characters are inconsistent, that there are never any big consequences to Harry's mistakes . . . and I can't help but feel like they've missed something. I think all fans feel that way about reviewers who dislike a book. Yet I didn't see the changes in Changes as all that surprising. Almost everything here has been foreshadowed, to some degree or another, much of it for a very long time.

Take one of the major changes, Harry becoming the Winter Knight. (I warned you not to continue reading if you haven't read the book! This is what you get!) Mab has been cackling in that chilly eldritch way ever since the position opened back in book four. Every time she extended her offer to Harry, he would refuse. She would say, "One day," and he would reply, "Not today." And there was a reason for that exchange.

Mab, chilly eldrbitch that she is, knew this day would come. She's untold millennia old and has far more experience dealing with mortals than Harry has dealing with faerie queens. She can afford to be patient; in the end, she was right. All it took was the proper motivation to have Harry seek out a deal.

So, while I can't say I was happy that Harry chose to become the Winter Knight, I am not surprised. Likewise, I'm not surprised at Susan's return—and while Harry's child might have been a surprise until I read the dust jacket, it's a sensible development in the series.
One of the best ways to escalate conflict is to make it more personal; you can't get much more personal than a child in danger. That's called cranking the conflict up to eleven, and it will have serious consequences. When a child's life—your child's life—is on the line, the gloves come off, and rules get broken.

In my review of Small Favor, I compared Harry Dresden to John Crichton, from Farscape. I'm going to do that again, because the parallels are really striking in Changes. Like Crichton in The Peacekeeper Wars, Harry finds himself in an utterly FUBAR situation. With chaos just a couple steps away, Harry is fighting for the life of his child, and he realizes that everything he's done before, everything he can do alone, is not enough, won't be enough.

Consider this exchange from The Peacekeeper Wars:

Aeryn: This is what you want. This is what you want.
Crichton: No, Aeryn, it is not what I want. It's just that fate keeps blocking all the exits. And no matter what I do I just keep circling closer to the flame.
Aeryn: Then pull back. This war is not your responsibility.
Crichton: You and the baby are my responsibility. How am I supposed to protect you from the Peacekeepers and the Scarrans and the Tregans and the lions and tigers and bears? With this? Winona? This gun? No gun is big enough.

Like Crichton, Harry realizes that he has to do more than beat the bad guys this time, and it will take more than one rag-tag wizard and his band of merry men (and women!) to do it. So he makes the classical tragic choice of the hero, sacrifices his purity to save someone he loves. And even though the genre is urban fantasy and the plot is often more like a hardboiled mystery than an epic quest, Changes feels more like epic fantasy because of this tragic, Shakespearean element. Butcher has not consistently impressed me with his writing style, but I remain impressed by his writing ability.

Despite my regard for Changes' theme and consequences for the Dresdenverse, I can't call it an excellent Dresden Files novel. The last portion of the book, including the climactic battle, was amazing. However, the first part was unfocused, messier than the tight plots enforced by the more mystery-oriented books earlier in the series. And this is where the critics do get it right: Harry is literally all over the place, and the one-two action-sequence-then-dialogue-scene formula doesn't hold up under the stress of constant new threats coming out of the woodwork.

For example, at one point Harry is on the run from the Eebs, a crazy Red Court vampire husband-wife hit team. He stumbles into the stronghold of the Erlking, lord of the goblins and leader of the Wild Hunt. If you recall, Harry got on the Erlking's bad side in Dead Beat. The subsequent dialogue was entertaining, but it was followed by a rather dull battle sequence that didn't seem necessary.

While Thomas is involved in the story, we don't see much development in his relationship with Harry after the events in Turn Coat. Aside from the resolution to Harry's relationship with Susan, about the only thing we do see is Harry finally making a move on Murphy. About time! As I'm firmly Team Murphy, I was happy with this turn of events—and should have known what would happen on the next page. Just when I thought Butcher had delivered every twist he had prepared, he slapped down the ultimate change.

Harry Dresden is dead, but the Dresden Files are not over, and this isn't the last we've seen of Chicago's only professional wizard. Changes is not perfect, but for its tapestry of human behaviour, it is emblematic of why I so adore the Dresden Files.

My Reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Turn Coat | Side Jobs → (anthology)

The Evolution of God comes close, in many ways, to my ideal Platonic conception of a "non-fiction book." It is thick and weighty (all the better to use against zombies, should the apocalypse happen while reading it). It is organized into a series of logical parts, which are in turn each organized into a series of logical chapters, providing convenient stopping points for a respite. Last, but not least, it has endnotes. Pages upon pages of endnotes. I loves me my endnotes.

And Robert Wright's endnotes aren't just about quantity; they have quality too (some might say too much). Wright's recounting of the genesis of Abrahamic religion is far from objective—and I didn't expect objectivity, since Wright makes it clear that he has a thesis, and therefore an agenda when it comes to interpreting the texts. Nevertheless, Wright mentions dissenting views, and he often has alternative interpretations in the endnotes, complete with page references to books that disagree with him. That is the kind of scholarship I appreciate in my non-fiction!

I quite enjoyed the historical parts of The Evolution of God. Wright makes a good case for development of religion going hand-in-hand with the transition from hunter-gatherer society to agrarianism. While religion-as-social-control is a motif that appears throughout philosophy, Wright offers up interesting historical anecdotes that help reinforce the point. Later, Wright connects this to his brainchild notion of "nonzero-sumness" and how human interaction can be best explained by game theory.

I don't quite buy into the entirety of Wright's nonzero-sum thesis, and I kind of which he didn't say "zero-sumness" and "nonzero-sumness" every second page. It got annoying! However, much of his thesis does make sense. For instance, if two neighbouring cities have a mutually-beneficial trade relationship (Wright's "nonzero-sumness"), then it makes sense that each would tolerate the other's god(s). Shouting, "Death to you infidels!" followed by, "Oh, may I please have some cabbage?" does not quite work in the marketplace.

Indeed, Wright's decision to look at the development of religion as a reaction to the sociopolitical situation at the time (the "facts on the ground," as he so repetitively puts it), is compelling. If we try to analyze the growth of, say, Christianity purely from a theological standpoint, it is easy to get confused. There is a lot of contradictory stuff in the Bible, and inventing a theological explanation for all those contradictions is precisely that: invention. Instead, the political climate at the time (we think) each book of the Bible was written gives us insight into why that book has a certain tone and takes a certain theological stance.

Although I've long been aware that the Bible is one of history's oldest mash-ups, The Evolution of God drove this point home. Wright draws attention to the differences between the Gospels, as well as the larger change in God's behaviour between Old and New Testaments. Whether one agrees with Wright's explanations for these differences, The Evolution of God presents them in historical context (rather than simply saying "oh look, these are contradictory!"), something I found helped me better understand how diverse the authorship and themes of the Bible are. Moreover, Wright definitely has an agenda when it comes to explaining these differences, but he's quick not to insinuate that the Bible's various editors have been manipulating the text for outright nefarious purposes.

While the title is somewhat worrying, it's rather obvious within the first few pages that Wright's goal is not to debunk religion as an anomaly of evolution. Quite the opposite: Wright sees the development of religion, its growth in a moral direction, as an indication that there is a "moral force" to the universe. And, if we like, we can call this moral force God.

I balk a bit at this argument, especially when Wright begins comparing God to an electron. Wright makes several good points, but the argument just rests on too many assumptions that are, in my opinion, unfounded. Even if one thinks that humanity is becoming "more moral" (which I don't), why does there need to be any mechanism beyond evolution? The afterword is called "By the Way, What Is God?", but the better question is "By the Way, What Is Morality." Then again, that question is worth another entire book, and I didn't expect Wright to tackle it here. So while Wright's argument is interesting, some of its premises seem dubious to me.

Fortunately, most of Wright's discussion of God as the universal moral force is confined to the last part of the book. It runs through The Evolution of God, as a thesis ought to do, but Wright's historical analysis, while influenced by it, is still useful without it. I loved reading about the origins of Yahweh, the networking of Paul, and the doctrine of Jihad. That's what I want to emphasize about this book: I found its history useful, and its philosophy interesting—stimulating, but not necessarily persuasive.

The Evolution of God is well-written, precise, and detailed. Even as he advances his own thesis about the moral growth of the Abrahamic religions, Wright shows us how conceptions of God (and Gods) have changed as the politics and economics of a region changed. Believers and non-believers (I belong to the latter category) might come away from this book with very different opinions, but it behoves both categories to read it. For I do think Wright correct in this: if we want to understand the religions of today, we must understand how they came to be. The development of religion is a large part of the history of human civilization; The Evolution of God addresses my ignorance in that area in an academic yet readable style.

Second review, read from June 10-11, 2010.

As with my review of Small Favor, I will refer you to my first review for this book. I'm not even going to add many notes, because I like my original review that much, and I doubt I could improve upon it significantly.

The only thing I have to say is that re-reading the series in quick succession has given me a better context in which to appreciate Turn Coat. Even though I only gave it four stars, it's still better than some five star books I've read, and it's an excellent instalment in the series.

Having just finished reading Turn Coat for a second time, I am more moved by a book than I have been in a long time . . . I don't think even Proven Guilty affected me in this way. Butcher alters irrevocably so many of Harry's relationships in this book. There is a death that is unexpectedly tragic and all the more potent. And there are so many more questions coming up from the past about the island, Harry's mother, the Gatekeeper, etc. Anyone who accuses this book of lacking complexity, of being just another volume in a mystery series, needs to take a second look.

First review, finished on August 31, 2009.

Following the disappointment that was The King's Grace, I needed a book that I knew I'd love. So naturally, I turned to the latest Dresden Files novel sitting on my shelf. After eleven books, only two types of people will be left reading a series: those who love it and those who hate it. The former will read it because they are addicted to the endorphins the books release and drool with eager anticipation prior to each new iteration. The latter will read it because they are addicted to the endorphins released when they write snarky reviews. Don't get me wrong: I love writing snarky reviews—that being said, you'll notice I'm firmly on "Team Dresden."

Jim Butcher has managed to create a sustainable fantasy environment and avoided jumping the shark. He's got a solid cast of supporting characters who keep the plot moving, and his system of magic is well thought-out but not so complicated as to make my head hurt. Finally, Butcher's writing has a rhythm that, while obviously formulaic, always feels fresh and exciting. Every Dresden Files book summons forth laughter as well as tears, making me cheer for Harry's wisecracks and cry for the price he—or more often, those around him—pay for his half-baked schemes to save the day.

At this point, I'm about to do something that may earn me the enmity of certain people, as I shall assume a level of presumption the likes of which we have not seen since the Dyson corporation decided Skynet was a good idea. Yes, that's right: I'm going to compare Harry Dresden to the Doctor (of Doctor Who fame).

Now, these two heroes obviously aren't synonymous; I see Dresden as more of a glimpse at who the Doctor might have been when he was younger and far more inexperienced. One striking parallel, however, is that both Dresden and the Doctor use people as weapons. The Doctor has his companions; Dresden has Murphy, Michael and Molly Carpenter, his werewolf buddies, his Pizza Guard of Little Folk, etc. Although Dresden is almost always the mastermind behind incredibly complex and improbable attempts to foil the current villain, his plans usually carry considerable risk for his comrades. To be fair, Dresden also sustains injuries in the line of duty; his badly burned hand is just one example. But it's this knowledge that people get hurt because he's doing the right thing that weighs most heavily on Dresden.

Dresden is not the single-handed bastion of awesomeness that the Doctor is. His companions all contribute their own form of awesome to the mix. I can't help but enjoy the plucky Molly Carpenter, who's just beginning to come to grips with her abilities (both magical and mundane) as she struggles with the consequences of her past and normal, human growing pains. In Turn Coat, not only does she perform ably as an apprentice, but I loved how she uses her sex appeal to charm a Private Investigator into giving up the name of his employer. Because, honestly, I have zero interest in seeing that particular duty fall to Dresden.... Likewise, we get glimpses of Karrin Murphy as both a tough, kick-ass cop and a friend of Dresden who genuinely cares about his wellbeing, even though he's generally a pain. Even as he narrates the book from the first person view of a witty wizard, Butcher manages to assemble an ensemble cast that's the core of everything good about Turn Coat and its fellow Dresden Files novels.

Having spent so much time establishing Dresden as an underdog, Butcher takes the Dresdenverse and turns it on its head: the eponymous turncoat is none other than Warden Donald Morgan. Arguably the most loyal wizard of the White Council, Morgan has spent the past 10 books looking for any reason to turn Dresden in on charges of violating the Laws of Magic. He's sure he's been framed for the murder of a member of the Senior Council, and he's come to Dresden for help. As much as Dresden is loath to help his former enemy, he knows that Morgan's innocent; moreover, he suspects this is the latest move by a traitor in the White Council. What starts as an internal matter threatens to weaken the White Council in the eyes of its powerful enemies, and Dresden, as usual, is in the thick of it.

For the most part, I'll confess that I found the political intrigue less satisfactory than in previous Dresden books. There's a big deal about the fact that someone's a traitor, leaking information to the White Council's enemies and influencing the decisions of the Senior Council. Yet when the big reveal comes, it's disappointing. Likewise, not much else seems altered in the political status quo—"Gentleman" Johnny Marcone doesn't appear in Turn Coat at all. Butcher puts out some strong foreshadowing that the next book will be a gamechanger, but I would have liked to see something more substantial in this book.

The unintriguing intrigue relegated Dresden's family matters to a back-burner, but they're more shattering than the politics. Thomas, Dresden's White Court vampire half-brother, has been making his living (literally for him) by nibbling on the life energies of his hairdressing clients. In Turn Coat, a malevolent skinwalker, of Navajo mythology, kidnaps Thomas because it wants to trade him for Morgan. The skinwalker tortures Thomas while he's in its clutches, and the consequences of the torture drastically alter Thomas and Dresden's relationship, as well as Thomas' lifestyle. I'm looking forward to seeing how this plays out in future books.

In addition to Marcone, Molly is the only Carpenter who appears in Turn Coat. I see the wisdom of eschewing Michael and Charity, since we've been Carpenter-heavy for the past several books, and Butcher has written a short story about Michael. It would have been nice for Harry to pop by and say, "Hi, your daughter and I might be executed for aiding a fugitive from the White Council. Have a good week!" Wait, OK, I can see how that would not go well....

As usual, Dresden is at his best when he's at the end of his rope and has about three hours left to live. His enemies consistently overestimate Dresden's reliance on magic to get the job done: almost all of Dresden's Turn Coat triumphs are a result of using technology (by proxy) or non-magical means of foiling the enemy. Magic serves a direct combat and defencive role; beyond that, Dresden thinks outside the box. And that's why I love this series: Butcher's protagonist is a problem solver who actually creates plans to beat the bad guys beyond "fight until they're all down for the count" (although I admit that might enter into the plan under 'Plan B' at some point...).

Turn Coat's another fine addition to the Dresden Files series, and any fan should be pleased. I have some qualms about it, mostly owing to the understandably increasing complexity of the Dresdenverse and Butcher's ability to balance a compelling narrative with his bevy of characters and continuity. The book lives up to a label like "action-packed thrill ride", but after the heavy-hitting consequences of White Knight and Small Favor, I expected more than Turn Coat delivered.

Pay close attention, however, when you read the book. Butcher continues to scatter subtle clues as to the texture of an overarching narrative that spans the series and extends into Dresden's past: the mysterious Gatekeeper continues to be a fickle friend, and Ebenezar McCoy's journals reveal that Dresden's mother had something to do with the powerful island featured in the climax. Clearly, Butcher's playing a long game. These hints at a grander scope to which we're not yet privy will always keep me reading, because they promise us that no matter how much trouble Dresden finds ... it's eventually going to get much, much worse. And I can't wait.

My Reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Small Favor | Changes →