I am ambivalent about how Specials concludes the original Uglies trilogy (yes, I know there's a fourth book, and I shall even read it one day). On one hand, it was much better than Pretties. On the other hand, it is still not as good as Uglies.

Specials just didn't grip me. It fell flat, in a quiet, unassuming sort of way. I persevered, poked and prodded at it, begged it to impress me, but it adamantly refused. Although it eventually coughed up a story that might be better even than Uglies', I remain wary about its themes. As a result, while I hesitate to pan it outright, this is a book I can't really celebrate for its pristine quality.

I can see the appeal of Tally's double transformation, from ugly to pretty and then to Special. Westerfeld incorporates many aspects of adolescence—obsession with body appearance, the use of "cutting" to make oneself "feel something," a sense of a sharp divide between those who are "pathetic" or "random" and those who are special—and creates a potent metaphor for the prison that adolescence can be. Yet Specials suffers from the same problem as its predecessors: rather than revealing its themes through story, the story tends to obscure them, leaving me more annoyed than awed.

Consider Dr. Cable, whose transformation has been almost as drastic as Tally's. In Specials, she is revealed as a Knight Templar who uses Tally's mistake as an excuse to go to take control of the city, institute martial law, and go to war with another city. Granted, the motives Westerfeld ascribes to her are coherent with the rest of the plot and compatible with her character. I just can't help being disappointed that the villain wasn't . . . more formidable. Tally defeats Dr. Cable by curing her—presumably, Cable inherited her attitude from brain lesions put there by her predecessors. For someone who is always one step ahead of Tally when needed, Cable always has a convenient blind spot when Tally has to escape.

The other protagonists are equally unimpressive. None of the relationships among the characters seem real. And I'm not talking about the special slang or the irksome appendage of "-la" or "-wa" to people's names. Shay and Tally continue their frenemy dance. Zane gets killed off in a moment that is genuinely tragic, and Tally picks herself up and moves on with stunning alacrity. And then, at the end of the book, she decides to run off with David! To be fair, the book doesn't tell us if they ever move beyond friendship . . . but let's not kid ourselves. I was on Team David from the start; however, I'm dissatisfied with how these parts of the story felt like they were compressed for time (or in this case, length).

There are some good parts of the book, of course. We get to meet Andrew Simpson Smith again—he managed to escape the reservation using fire. Actually, I had kind of assumed the barrier was immune to fire, since it seems like a rather obvious thing to try. Apparently I was wrong. In any event, Andrew's on the outside now and has met up with the New Smokies. They've got access to helicopters, and they have rescued more of Andrew's comrades from the reservation. This is a mutually beneficial relationship, since the reservationists know more about living in the wild than the New Smokies do.

Just as he does in Pretties, Westerfeld sidelines what I consider a very interesting plot element. I'm far more interested in the consequences of freeing the reservationists than I am in whether Tally ends up with Zane or David. Maybe this is because I'm not the target audience here. Nevertheless, unlike his somewhat interesting role in Pretties, Andrew Simpson Smith is little more than a living sign post in Specials. Yet again, this book acts like an impatient tour guide attempting to rush the reader from exhibit to exhibit.

Fortunately, unlike Pretties, this is not simply a re-telling of Uglies wrapped in shiny new scenery. There is an original story here, and it isn't a bad one. Instead, the problem lies with the way it's told. In its haste to tell its story, Specials fails to create the kind of atmosphere necessary to succeed with its storytelling. There is so much to love about Westerfeld's Uglies universe; this is a rare case of the story getting in the way of the world rather than the other way around.

I said at the beginning of this review that I was undecided about Specials' contribution to the Uglies series. I still am. As a book in its own right, however, I'm convinced that Specials is not special. It is a little random.

Second review, read from June 7-8, 2010.

When I re-read a book I've already reviewed, I tend to write a new review to reflect how my opinion of the book has changed with a second reading. In this case, my opinion hasn't changed much. If anything, my admiration of Small Favor has increased. I stand by my original review, and I recommend you read that for my full thoughts on this book.

Some addenda though.

Reading the series in near succession like this gives me a new appreciation of how Small Favor brings back some of the light-hearted "fun" Harry Dresden. We haven't seen much of him since Proven Guilty. It seems like Harry has more wisecracks this time around, more insolence—although that may be, as Nicodemus observes, merely a function of the insanity of the situations Harry has to face in this book.

Seriously, though. Asking a gruff for a doughnut? Wow.

It occurs to me that my original review did not have a spoiler alert attached. This hasn't happened since Summer Knight, but I suppose I won't break with tradition now. The specific plot of Small Favor is of little importance. What matters is its sheer awesomeness.

Jim Butcher combines so many elements of the Dresdenverse—the Denarians, the Archive, Marcone, Murphy, Thomas, the Wardens, the Knights of the Cross, Summer and Winter courts—and yet the story is still simple and focused. There's plenty of snappy dialogue, wonderful descriptions of battle scenes and magic-working, and new dimensions on old relationships.

On top of that, the Black Council story arc continues. Someone has been manipulating the Denarians, and one of them was involved in the attack on Arctis Tor—the one that left the gates wide open for Harry's little incursion. It looks like the Black Council set up Arctis Tor, and contributed to the developments in this book as well.

I loved Harry's encounter with Uriel and the corresponding development with his powers. Butcher excels at improving Harry as a character and as a wizard without turning him into a Marty Stu. Sure, Harry gets a power boost in this book—but as Bob says, "And [Uriel:] did you a favor. . . . You just know that can't be good!" Nothing comes without a price, and it seems like the more Harry gets involved in these matters, the worse his situation gets.

I love the Dresden Files, and Small Favor is an example of why.


First review, finished on June 22, 2008.

This may be the best Dresden Files book yet.

At this point in the series, there is so much backstory and established "facts" that it can feel confusing to navigate it all, yet somehow Jim Butcher makes it feel easy. The pacing of the narrative, the division of characters' actions and duties, all of it comes together to make the book readable and enjoyable. Butcher has an excellent handle on how to set up a scene, create tension, and leave you in suspense at just the right moment.

It's a shame that Sci-Fi chose to create an "alternate" Dresden Files universe when they adapted these books. Had they stuck with the original storyline, they would have enough material for several seasons, and the show might actually have not sucked. But that's neither here nor there. The book.

I had trouble putting Small Favor down. As I said before, the pacing just makes it so exciting that I needed to know what happened next. The conflicts in this story are also heartbreaking (with what happens to the Archive and, later, to Michael) and compelling--how is Harry going to get out of this one.

Some people may find Harry's wisecracking attitude camp or annoying, but I love it. Okay, "Hell's bells" annoys me a bit. However, I've figured out why I like it so much--it reminds me of John Crichton from Farscape. Anyone who has seen that series knows that Crichton is the only human being in that section of the galaxy. Whenever he is in imminent peril, he makes a cultural allusion (be it pop culture, literature, or just some proverb) that no one--particularly the arrogant, gloating enemy--understands. This forms a bond between him and us, the audience. Butcher does the same thing with Harry, and the first person perspective only amplifies this feeling.

The plot was rich and interesting. After ten books, one may worry that an author is running out of ideas, but Butcher still looks like he has plenty left. He has managed to hew enough detail out of this universe that there are plenty of antagonists to square off against Harry and the good guys--but the moral ambiguity (gotta love moral ambiguity) means that these antagonists almost always try to foil each others' plans.

The blending of mystery with urban fantasy is tangible and potent. Few can do it so well. This novel is great in that respect, because urban fantasy lovers can read it and get exposed to a little mystery they might otherwise ignore; mystery lovers likewise get some urban fantasy. Yet Butcher remembers the golden rule of genre writing: the genre is a setting, not a story. This book is not about faeries, or wizards, or magic, or solving a crime. It is an action adventure with motifs of temptation, redemption, suffering, and all that makes us human. It's a story, set in a world of faerie, magic, and crime. What's not to like?

My Reviews of the Dresden Files:
← White Night | Turn Coat →

My review of Uglies stands for Pretties, because they are pretty much the same book.

Scott Westerfeld further fleshes out his post-apocalyptic adolescent dystopia. We get to see New Pretty Town from "the inside," because Tally Youngblood is now pretty—and vapid, at least until a letter from her past self jogs her memory that there's more to life than flash tattoos, parties, and cliques. Yeah, sounds like high school.

So Tally embarks on a quest to free herself and several other pretties. They plot to escape from New Pretty Town and rejoin the New Smokies. But Special Circumstances is keeping a close eye on Tally. Dr. Cable, our old nemesis from Uglies, drops by and offers Tally a spot in the Specials, revealing how the entire society is designed to control the masses while filtering out intelligent, resourceful people like Tally for work in Special Circumstances. Sinister? Yes. Surprising? Not really.

The first chapters of the book would be interesting were it not for the fact that we already did in the first chapters of Uglies. Once again, Tally starts as a "brainwashed" member of society and struggles to find her own individuality and realize that she needs to rebel. If Tally has to start tabula rasa every book, this will be a very long series.

Also, there's a new love interest. He's better developed (er, character-wise, character development!) than David is. Still, my "love triangle" alarm went off in the second chapter or so, and I was wary for the rest of the book. I'm not sure why I'm so cynical about the relationship; perhaps it's just the speed with which it develops.

The other relationship of note is the one between Tally and Shay. Wait, sorry, no, it's exactly the same as the one Tally and Shay have in Uglies. First they are best friends; then Shay learns/recalls that Tally betrayed the Smoke and "stole" David from her; finally Shay undergoes an operation and returns to Tally, freshly-brainwashed and ready to be friends again. As in Uglies, these transitions are far from believable. Shay is much too quick to turn on Tally. Although I'm sure their feud could happen, what with them being teenage girls and all, but I find it hard to believe that they have one conversation and then Shay starts cutting herself. . . .

That's a demonstration of the parallels between Uglies and Pretties and why I'm being so hard on this book. Successive books in a series need to raise the stakes. I can see that Westerfeld is trying to do so, but I'm not convinced he succeeds. It is possible to view the similarities between these books as an intentional parable against believing "the grass is greener" on the pretty side of the fence: pretties can have problems too. Except that only thinking pretties have problems. So this perspective begs the question, especially because Uglies spent so much time convincing us that being pretty was a bad idea.

Probably the best part of the book is the part that I hated when it was introduced. After escaping from New Pretty Town by hot air balloon, Tally and Zane are separated, and she lands in a "reservation" populated by pre-industrial tribes and separated from the surrounding region by a nerve-shock barrier. The tribes worship the pretties and Specials as gods. They are an anthropological experiment, and through studying them, scientists discovered which parts of the brain to damage to prevent violence and initiative.

My gut reaction was to wonder why this reservation was relevant to the plot. Westerfeld quickly cleared that up, however, and soon I gained even more respect for this world that he's created. The reservation adds another level to the wrongness of this dystopia. So I was disappointed when Tally left, and I really wish we had gotten to see more of it.

Of course, once Tally does escape, she's not long for freedom. Soon enough she's back in the hands of Special Circumstances, and this time she won't be made into a pretty . . . she gets to be a Special. While I love watching Tally's transforming from ugly to pretty to Special, the reasons for those transformations are contrived. Once again, Pretties has a narrative that is rough around the edges.

My evaluation of Pretties is almost exactly the same as Uglies—and that disappoints me. There is little net change between the end of Uglies and the end of Pretties: the Smoke is once again dispersed, Tally is once again in the hands of Special Circumstances, Shay has preceded Tally under the knife, and Tally's about to be transformed to the next level of surgical oddity. We've been here, done this. Time to take it to the next level, please.

When I began re-reading White Night, I wondered why I had previously given it five stars. The plot didn't sound very interesting from the description on the dust jacket; it certainly didn't compare to Proven Guilty, which is now my gold standard of Dresden. Had I slipped into an alternate universe where I mistakenly gave out five star ratings to four star books?

Turns out, no, I was still in my universe (as much as one can say this is one's universe, after all). About halfway through the book, I began to remember why it was good enough to earn all five of those stars. Three quarters through, I was convinced: White Night is great Dresden Files material.

The first part of the book seems underwhelming because it lulls you into a false sense of normalcy. It seems more like a typical Dresden Files mystery, more reminiscent of Fool Moon than the more arc-oriented later instalments. That's not a bad thing in and of itself, but it did feel like a step backward. While I had faith that Jim Butcher was just waiting to drop the plot bomb on me, that wasn't enough to keep me satisfied.

As the mystery deepens, Madrigal Raith's involvement becomes apparent, and the plot goes from finding a serial killer to defusing a coup in the White Court. That's more like it! Butcher reaches even further back to bring us Helen Beckitt (and I have to admit, I barely remembered who she was, even though I re-read Storm Front a little over a month ago). Like Proven Guilty, White Night reminds us how much Harry has changed. He's made a lot of enemies, and eventually some of them will come back for more.

Still, the plot of White Night doesn't have the same gravity as Proven Guilty or even Dead Beat. Harry does precious little investigation—as the series grows longer, it appears that the length of time between any two consecutive attempts on Harry's life approaches zero. The characters in the Ordo Lebes never felt like more than background noise, fixtures that can serve as victims or obstacles as the plot requires.

White Night also has a lot less fancy magic in it. Aside from some use of Little Chicago—a scene which, I admit, is quite cool—Harry mostly practises evocation. Or, as it becomes in Harry's hands, messy gouts of fire. I love my messy gouts of fire, but the intricate and intense nature of performing thaumaturgy is one of my favourite parts of the Dresdenverse. That being said, we do see some more of Molly's talent, particularly her propensity for veils. Molly's role in White Night way below sidekick, barely even apprentice. While she does appear in few scenes, however, each of them carries with it a deep importance to Harry's character. The lessons he teaches her are the lessons he has learned—or, thanks to Murphy, is re-learning—himself.

If Proven Guilty gave us a glimpse of Harry in the past, White Night shows us Harry struggling with the present. In particular, Jim Butcher makes rare use of a flashback to the previous summer, where Harry is in New Mexico training new Wardens. He tangles with ghouls, who capture and then kill two of the young trainees. Then he loses it, executes one of the ghouls the Wardens had captured, and lets the other one go with a warning: "Never again." That, combined with his sudden ability to speak ghoul (thanks to the shadow of Lasciel), makes Ramirez a little afraid of Harry.

There's a scene even earlier in the book, where Mac asks Harry if he's the one committing the murders. Now, Butcher was stretching a bit here to demonstrate how much Harry has changed in the eyes of the magical community. I'm not sure I believe Harry has gone dark enough to warrant that kind of suspicion. Nevertheless, it's still a tense and very solemn moment.

Even as Harry looks at how much darker he's become, someone else close to him is moving toward the light. She really steals the show in the last part of the book, and I had totally forgotten about it. She is also one of the reasons I decided White Night was worth five stars.

I'm talking, of course, about the Heel Face Turn of Lash (as Harry nicknames the shadow of Lasciel living in his head). Ever since he picked her up in Death Masks, I've been wondering how he gets rid of her, because I knew she wasn't present in the most recent books. Lash's sacrifice and demise is the best thing about White Night, because it says so much about Harry and demonstrates Butcher's ability to write tragic figures.

I don't see Lash's change of heart as unrealistic, despite the fact that she's the shadow of a millennia-old fallen angel who is unspeakably evil. Emphasis belongs on the word "shadow." Lash is not Lasciel but a photocopy, as Harry puts it, and one that will be destroyed if he ever does pick up the blackened denarius that holds Lasciel's consciousness. And if Lash is just a pale reflection of the true fallen angel, stuck in Harry's poor, old, feeble mortal brain, Harry might be capable of changing her just as she is capable of changing him. Watching Lash gradually accept the idea of having an independent existence is a very heartwarming experience. It demonstrates why Harry is the hero: he's trying to save a copy of a fallen angel, which might be as far from humanity as one can get. Sure, he's doing it to save his own skin too, but I have no doubt that he is sincere in the effort.

And then Lash goes and sacrifices herself so that Harry can survive the climactic battle (which otherwise sucks). This was a rather sudden turn of events; I kind of wish Lash had stuck around for another book and continued to ride shotgun in Harry's head. Regardless, this was a great way to remove Lash from the equation but keep Harry's mind (and spirit) somewhat intact.

Harry stumbles on to the mystery in White Night because Madrigal Raith couldn't resist dragging him into it. In doing so, Raith dooms the enterprise and sets back the Black Council's plans (whatever those may be). It is becoming clear that Harry is more of a liability for the bad guys than they could ever have imagined way back in Storm Front. I doubt things will get any easier for Harry—and I wouldn't have it any other way.

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

With Uglies, Scott Westerfeld creates a creepy adolescent dystopia where "pretty" is decided by committee, and everyone at sixteen receives an operation to become pretty. Until then, one exists as an "ugly," good only for learning and playing pranks, banned from the parties and glitz of New Pretty Town. Of course, being a dystopia, there's more sinister workings afoot. Being pretty isn't all it's cracked up to be.

In many ways, Uglies reminds me of The Giver. It has the same type of a dystopia, and the protagonists of both books discover the dystopian nature of their society and rebel. Both Lowry and Westerfeld show us the dangers of enforcing "sameness" to prevent conflict. That's about where the similarities end, however; I'd say that Westerfeld does this much better than Lowry.

Indeed, the dystopian aspects of this book are its best features. Its characters are nothing to sneeze at, and its story is rather bland. Unlike The Giver, however, Uglies has a feature-rich world. Not only do we know what life is like in the city, full of recycling and plenty, but we see the ruins of "Rusty" civilization (presumably contemporary civilization, yes?) and even learn what caused its downfall. As with any post-apocalyptic novel, Uglies isn't about how civilization falls but what happens after (hence the "post-"). And that's where it gets creepy.

Tally and Shay offer contrasting views on the society in Uglies. At first, Tally is pro-society and Shay is the antiestablishmentarian. Tally's attitude and her debates with Shay show us how society indoctrinates children with the idea that there is a biologically-determined standard of attractiveness that is universal for the entire human species. Moreover, making everyone pretty is the only way to enforce equality and peace: "So what if people look more alike now? It's the only way to make people equal."

It's rubbish, of course, and Shay points that out. Biology certainly plays a role in attractiveness, but there's no "default" concept of pretty; beauty is very much an artifact of culture. Since everyone is raised to believe otherwise, Tally has difficulty accepting this notion. The entire structure of ugly life, from the dorms to the pejorative nicknames for each other, encourages an individual to view him or herself as ugly. Tally is obsessed with getting the operation because she's been raised from childhood to believe she's ugly. Shay, on the other hand, rejects her idealized self: "That's not me. That's some committee's idea of me." The irony, of course, is that the plot conspires to cause Shay's capture and transformation into a pretty—along with the initiative-robbing brain lesions that come with it.

So we get to see Tally and Shay switch positions, with Tally gradually adjusting to the idea that what she considers "ugly" is in fact "normal," sometimes even "beautiful." It's just diversity. Shay, on the other hand, undergoes a form of mind-alteration to accept her status as a new pretty. It's not subtle, and it doesn't have to be.

As the back cover of the book says, "Everybody gets to be supermodel gorgeous. What could be wrong with that?" The media feeds all of us visions of "ideal body images" that we all internalize (to some degree). Beyond the philosophical squickyness of wanting everyone to look the same, there are more subtle problems inherent in freely-available (indeed, mandatory) cosmetic surgery. Many people elect—by which I mean, pay a lot of money—to undergo such surgery, which uses technology somewhat primitive by Uglies standards. We can argue long and hard about why these people do it, but at the end of the day it's clear that some people, if not many people, want to change how they look on the outside to feel better about themselves on the inside. And for those people, the possibility of technology making that process easier and more widespread must seem awfully tempting.

That's why I appreciated that Westerfeld has no easy answers. When Maddy develops a pill that will cure the brain lesions and pretty Shay refuses to take it, Tally wants to forcibly cure Shay. This is a complex dilemma. On one hand, as Tally argues, the Specials have done something to Shay's mind, altered her being. This would just be a corrective measure. On the other hand, Shay remains a functioning individual, with the ability to think for herself (after a fashion). She chooses to stay pretty; forcing her to take the "cure" would make Tally et al. no better than the Specials.

I always respect a book when it makes me uncomfortable with myself, when it challenges me to examine my values and see if they are truly as open-minded and tolerant as I like to think. Uglies does just that. I admit, I had to resist screaming at Maddy, "Just give Shay the damn pill! She's been brainwashed!" Maddy has a point. Some people want to be pretty. Just because I happen to prefer intellectualism and academic pursuits—read: I am an elitist who loves his ivory tower—doesn't mean any other lifestyle is invalid. As much as it pains me to admit it, maybe some people are truly happier living "pretty" lives that I perceive as vapid. Thus, what's important is not which life one chooses to lead, but that one has the ability to choose in the first place. The true dystopia is not about body image but, as always, about free will.

From this, it's clear that Uglies is more than just a rollicking post-apocalyptic adventure. It's a good example of what science fiction does best: exploring issues of our contemporary society through fictitious ones.

Alas, the story that carries this crunchy nugget of philosophical goodness is not as impressive. It's your standard run away, live-in-the-woods sort of response to learning you live in a dystopia. Then the government finally finds the location of your sanctuary, and you're all captured, so the last remaining free rebels have to find you before you get turned pretty. Would make a great video game, I'm sure. As a book, the plot is solid but unsurprising. Predictable twists and a healthy amount of foreshadowing make for something that, while not exactly formulaic, is quite recognizable.

Also, there is a dearth of characters, with Tally, Shay, and maybe David receiving almost all of the character development. Dr. Cable is hardly a sinister villain. Tally is not a very complex girl, at least not at first—nevertheless, I will concede that she grows and changes as she learns more about the Smoke and the truth behind becoming pretty. Shay begins as an interesting companion, someone who will act as a catalyst for Tally's awakening. Unfortunately, Westerfeld squanders her potential by consigning her to a love triangle along with Tally and David. No one character seized my interest.

Uglies doesn't take enough risks. Its themes, as I've noted, are stellar; but mired as they are in a mediocre plot, I can only appreciate the book rather than admire it. Call it competence, craftsmanship, whatever you will—Westerfeld has it, enough to make Uglies good rather than great, adequate instead of amazing.

Proven Guilty is probably my favourite Dresden Files novel my second-favourite Dresden Files novel, after Small Favor. It has almost all of my favourite parts of the Dresdenverse in it: Murphy, the Carpenters, Faerie, and sticking it to the White Council. Jim Butcher manipulates the relationships he's developed over the past seven books to play on motifs of love, family, and temptation. If Dead Beat showed us how much Harry has changed, Proven Guilty offers us hope, in more ways than one. Butcher reaffirms Harry as a hero even as he reminds us of Harry's fallibility. Magic and shadow of a fallen angel aside, Harry Dresden is, like the rest of us, only human.

Can I let you in on a secret, though? Parts of this book frustrated me.

I know, right? This is the best Dresden Files book thus far, and still I'm complaining. What's the deal? I just have such high standards when it comes to what I really love—and in case you can't tell, much love for the Dresden Files.

When reading this book, it seems to lack the structure that Butcher's formulaic mystery style lends to the previous novels. Although still in Butcher's style, Proven Guilty is slightly more haphazard with its scenes and events, to the point where, near the middle of the book, I had to remind myself what the hell was going on. The mystery is more nebulous—vampires and necromancers the antagonists are not—and the good guys are, at least at first, more disorganized. In summary, something about Proven Guilty felt off. It irked me.

See, I have one weakness (well, two if you count kryptonite, but don't tell anyone that, 'kay?): too often I seize upon a vision of what a book should be, and then I pan it for being something else, even it's still acceptable. Wait . . . now that I think about it, that's not necessarily a bad thing. I guess I only have one weakness—er, I mean, no weaknesses.

But I digress.

As with most brilliant books, Proven Guilty's weakness is actually its strength. We're talking the kind of strength that creeps up on you with ninja-like stealth only to pounce at the last moment with hawk-like precision and rhinoceros-like force. While I was being all shallow and conservative and yearning for "yet another Dresden mystery," Butcher was getting creative on us and writing something innovative.

Proven Guilty is the most character-driven Dresden Files novel yet. Although the lives of the characters have always been important, and Harry in particular tends to drive the plot whichever way he damn well pleases, the effect is amplified here. Rather than a concrete, moustache-twirling villain like we saw in Death Masks, it turns out the original mystery was caused by Molly Carpenter.

I love Molly. A minor character seen on the fringes of Harry's life, Michael's oldest daughter spontaneously becomes a profound person. She offers us a look at Harry when he as a teenager: inexperienced, hormonal, and bursting with magical ability. Harry no doubt sees the resemblance, hence his offer to vouch for Molly. Even as Butcher promotes another character to the main cast, he promises us a relationship that will reveal more about what makes Harry tick—and plague Harry with an annoying teenage student in a quid pro quo to all these years of being a wiseass.

If you want to get metaphorical—and I do—Molly's tribulations represent the struggle of adolescence: defining one's identity, dealing with interpersonal relationships and hardships, gaining independence from one's parents, etc. Similarly, Harry has to struggle with what his magic means for his relationship with Murphy. They both acknowledge a mutual attraction (go Team Murphy!), but there are so many ancillary concerns that they elect not to get involved.

This is the triumph of fantasy. By juxtaposing them with supernatural counterparts, Butcher emphasizes the humanity of his protagonists. Once-human, now-faerie Lily has changed, become bound to Titania despite a desire to help Harry. Thomas, even more amiable to Harry, confesses his weakness that led to joining the Wild Hunt. In contrast, Harry is tainted by the shadow of Lasciel, yet he still tries to do the right thing. Even with all his power—and the accompanying responsibility—he is still only human; if ever that's in doubt, the repeated references to his lack of a sex life remind us of that.

Harry has been a hero, a leader, and a brother. Now he has to be a role model. That's right: it's time for Harry Dresden to grow up. Be afraid! Be very afraid!

And as for the real antagonist, the one behind Molly's role in the mystery, Mab's apparent madness (Mabness?), and the Big Bad who orchestrated everything from the beginning . . . he or she remains in the shadows. Although it's been hinted at in the past, Proven Guilty makes the threat explicit. In a way, this book feels like a culmination of the entire series thus far, a sign that Butcher has an over-arching plan even as each book remains a self-contained adventure. Therefore, while it is not an endpoint, Proven Guilty is an important milestone in the Dresden Files. It's the culmination of seven volumes, and the vibrant promise of much more to come.

My Reviews of the Dresden Files:
← Dead Beat | White Night →

This is perhaps the first time I have condemned a book for its concept but applauded it for its content. Writing a book that examines the integers 1 to 9 on a per-chapter basis is just silly. It's also impossible; the properties of these numbers are inextricably bound up in the properties of all other numbers. Andrew Hodges knows this, and indeed makes no attempt to conceal the fact that the structure of this book is a lie. In each chapter, Hodges gleefully digresses into topics that have only the most tenuous of connections to their titular number.

Some of these topics are very interesting and worthy of entire books in their own right. Hodges covers electromagnetism, quantum chromodynamics, Fermat, Fibonacci, and some cryptography too. But One to Nine's incredible breadth is, somewhat predictably, also a weakness. Hodges provides able summaries of these topics, but in his whirlwind tour of the first nine positive integers, he can't cover the topics in much depth. Although Hodges' explanations of some fairly complicated mathematical concepts are accessible, I don't think people would find them very helpful.

It doesn't help that Hodges jumps from topic to topic, and even from thought to thought, with the pace of a frenzied beaver on speed. And while I've never been high, reading parts of this book made me feel like I imagine being high would feel: "to consider Two-ness is to confront broken symmetries in a world crammed with them." Um . . . OK, sure. "Two-ness?" Really? Hodges' writing is a bizarre mix of airy and wistful. His attempts to come off as jaunty are merely jarring, owing to his constant transitions from one topic to another. And, oh my, I have never seen so many rhetorical questions in my life. Excess and superfluous much?

As a result, Hodges undermines the very effect essential to a popular mathematics text: the sense of wonder that mathematics evokes. He tries for it, and once in a while gets close. But before the monotonous tour guide can say, "And we're moving. . ." Hodges has gone off on a parallel track, and you're forced to catch up rather than stick around and appreciate the beauty of what's just been covered. One to Nine did little to augment my admiration of number (and much diminished any remaining shred of interest in Sudoku).

Hodges also makes sporadic references to Desperate Housewives, climate change, and Alan Turing. Alan Turing, I can understand, because his contributions to cryptography, computer science, and mathematics are pretty important. That doesn't quite justify Hodges' obvious hero worship, however. While mathematics has a role to play in answering questions about climate change, Hodges never actually addresses that role. Climate change just gets mentioned, much like Desperate Housewives (allusions to which I am at a loss to explain at all).

Then in the last chapter, the book abruptly shifts from its focus on the properties of number into a polemic about mathematics in education and how Alan Turing met an untimely end. In both cases, Hodges makes some good points. Yet I don't appreciate being ambushed by such arguments at the end of the last chapter of the book.

All of this makes for a rather dense barrier to the main event. It's clear that Hodges knows what he's talking about. He just didn't convince me of his ability to talk about it well. Nevertheless, despite his meandering through the mathematics, Hodges does make it possible to eke a semblance of erudition from this book. I'm not sure it's worth the effort. One to Nine is by no means a bad book, but it does not excite me or delight me in the way that a book like A Short History of Nearly Everything does.

Maybe it needed more Two-ness.

The Manticore begins by betraying us. Dunstan Ramsay, that incorrigible saint-chasing old man who provided the heart and soul and voice of Fifth Business, is no longer our narrator. Instead, this is the story of David Staunton, the son of Dunstan's lifelong frenemy, Boy Staunton. At the end of Fifth Business, Boy dies, and now David has gone to Zurich seeking the wisdom of a Jungian analyst to make sense of his behaviour since his father's death. Partly an exploration of the psychology of Jung and partly a work of biographical fiction akin to Fifth Business, The Manticore is a journey into David's past and into his psyche.

The analysis is both more and less than a framing device. It allows Davies to depart from some of the entrenched conventions of the modern novel, rendering David's narration in the form of journal-like entries interspersed with script-like dialogue between himself and Dr. von Haller. The events intersect tangentially with those of Fifth Business, providing at times a different perspective on characters familiar from the first book. Probably the most interesting differences are David's thoughts on Ramsay himself, of course, as well as how David perceives his father's character. However, this is not just a retelling of Fifth Business; after all, David was a minor player in that book, barely on the reader's radar and notable only, really, because he happens to be Boy's son. The Manticore gives David his own history, fleshing him out as a person, and also gives him his own voice, one quite distinct from Ramsay's.

Though this is the "Deptford trilogy," the return to Deptford in this book is brief and not all that notable. The village is not depicted here so much as mentioned as a milieu for some of David's boyhood experiences with his grandfather and his ever-present nanny/housekeeper/maternal figure, Netty. Indeed, places and locations are much less prominent in The Manticore than they were in Fifth Business. I'll hazard that this is because David, telling this in the form of his analytic journey, is focusing on the people of his past, not the places. The characters, though always at arms-length from us, are much more important than where they are or what they're doing. And in this case, because we are interested in learning how David projects his own thoughts and feelings onto other people, the somewhat surreal quality of the other characters is not a problem but an advantage. This is one of the few times where a character is actually allowed to be an archetype rather than a three-dimensional person.

As von Haller guides David through his analysis, she points out how the people in his life have assumed various aspects within his conscious and unconscious mind. His sister, Caroline; Netty; his mother, Leola; his stepmother, Denyse; and his first and only love, Judith, have all at times carried the role of the Anima. His law professor, Pargetter, is the Magus, and onto Netty's brother David projects his own Shadow. The characters in The Manticore morph from people into Jungian archetypes before our very eyes.

I'm hesitant to comment on how Davies incorporates Jung, because all I've learned about Jungian philosophy has been through the Deptford trilogy. So it's entirely possible Davies has gotten something wrong. With that caveat in mind, however, I quite enjoy the Deptford trilogy as a vehicle for Jungian philosophy. I imagine alone the subject might be rather dry, whereas this is a kind of "case study" that provides more suitable material. Davies also includes a subtle tension between Jungian and Freudian methodologies: he overtly pans the latter at certain points, but one of the "subplots," if you will, concerns David's ongoing sexual abstinence. If The Manticore were written using Freudian analysis instead, this would likely be the centrepiece of the entire book. And while David's sexual life is important to understanding him, it's only one part of the puzzle.

I have to admit that I find Jung's psychology more appealing than Freud's, as much as I find any psychology appealing (which is not very). I mean, it asks us to look at the people in our lives in terms of archetypes and deconstruct how we project our desires upon them, interpreting them to fit into roles we define. This is very literary way of viewing the world, and hence appeals to me, a lover of literature. Archetypes are always very mythological, which recalls Ramsay's syncretism of history and myth and his obsession with saints. Just as, in Ramsay's view, history consists of repeating patterns of myth, each person's life consists of repeating patterns of archetypes, as we project these archetypes onto our new acquaintances. There's a very comforting dualism at work here between the psychology of the individual and the psychology of the society. Not being a student of psychology or well-versed in Jung's theories and his critics, of course, I don't know how well they stand up to further scrutiny. For the purposes of a novel, however, they are quite compelling.

For all his endorsement of Jungian psychology, though, I think Davies injects a healthy amount of psychological agnosticism into The Manticore as well. By that I mean, he rather slyly advocates for making one's own decisions and having the courage to analyze oneself when appropriate. He reminds us that Freud, Jung, Adler, et al all had to begin somewhere:

Davey, did you ever think that these three men who were so splendid at understanding others had first to understand themselves? It was from their self-knowledge they spoke. They did not go trustingly to some doctor and follow his lead because they were too lazy or too scared to make the inward journey alone. They dared heroically. And it should never be forgotten that they made the inward journey while they were working like galley-slaves at their daily tasks, considering other people's troubles, raising families, living full lives. They were heroes, in a sense that no space-explorer can be a hero, because they went into the unknown absolutely alone. Was their heroism simply meant to raise a whole new crop of invalids? Why don't you go home and shoulder your yoke, and be a hero too?

That's from Liesl, who reprises her role as sceptic and Devil's advocate. Jung's archetypes did not just spring forth from the head of Zeus fully-formed; no, he developed them over time through his own reflection and introspection. Hence, any psychology theory is not the end of the framework of one's analysis; it's only the beginning. It provides tools and training to start an individual down the long road, where the journey lasts a lifetime and the destination is always beyond the horizon.

If The Manticore has one flaw, it's that it's not Fifth Business. Such is my admiration for the first book in this trilogy: I have a hard time giving The Manticore five stars, though I think it's quite worthy of each and every one. I understand why Davies chose to depart from the voice of Ramsay in this book, and David is a competent replacement—but he's not Ramsay. He can't be. And though I know it's not rational, this not-being-Ramsay is a stumbling block in my enjoyment of this book.

But I got over it. I had to. The Manticore is both a companion and a sequel to Fifth Business: it revisits and continues events from the previous book, while providing a whole parallel biography that's rich in its own way. While it's not necessary for you to have read Fifth Business to read The Manticore, I don't see why you would skip the first book. Similarly, if you read Fifth Business it's possible to stop and never open this book—but in that case, I think you would be making a mistake. It's not that they are meant to be read together, but the books of the Deptford trilogy are like the movements in a single, encompassing symphony. Each is its own piece, exquisite, but it's the sum total of all three books that elevates them from excellent to truly remarkable. The Manticore builds upon the themes begun in Fifth Business, and all the while it tells us the story of another man attempting to make sense of the death of his father.

My Reviews of the Deptford Trilogy:
← Fifth Business | World of Wonders →

There's a word often bandied about when people discuss books, particularly fantasy and science fiction books, which often involve the creation of worlds unlike our own. That term is (perhaps unsurprisingly) worldbuilding. And if ever there were a paradigm case for worldbuilding, Ringworld would be it. The eponymous structure is not a planet but, for all intents and purposes, functions as one. With a simple concept and a little bit of physics, Larry Niven has a striking novum that's brand, setting, and mystery all in one. If only Ringworld lived up to that potential. . . .

The first half of the book wasn't bad. Watching Nessus recruit Louis, Speaker To Animals, and Teela was a fascinating look at Niven's far future. I can't say I was able to visualize the puppeteers very well, but I got the idea of transfer booths, cat-like Kzinti, hyperdrive, etc. This is my first science fiction book by Larry Niven, and it instilled in me a good opinion of Niven's ability to balance carefully hard science fiction concepts (like an adherence to relativistic travel) with soft science fiction (an emphasis on the sociological effects of spaceflight and unexplained plot devices like hyperdrive). Specifically, I loved his sociological asides, such as Louis' speculations about how much Nessus and other Puppeteers have interfered with human and Kzinti development. Niven makes good use of the time it takes to reach and explore the Ringworld itself to show us his version of the future.

Alas, once the action is restricted to the Ringworld and the new goal is to discover any remaining pockets of Ringworld Engineer civilization, the only thing remarkable about the story is the alacrity with which it becomes unremarkable. It's apparent that something happened to cause civilization to "fall" on the Ringworld. Louis' speculation about a microbe that ate away at complex compounds eventually proved correct (and very cool, I'll admit). That isn't enough to save the book from a mediocre trip from the crash site to an abandoned city, where they meet up with a surviving Engineer (who is more like a prostitute, posing as a god). Along the way, we had to endure torturous talk about how Teela was "bred for luck". As a result, she has almost zero free will, because nearly all her actions result from chance. I'm sceptical about accepting this whole "breeding for luck" idea, but suspension of disbelief compels me to shelve the matter and ignore Niven's incessant speculations. If only Niven hadn't similarly ignored the most interesting part of Ringworld itself: its inhabitants!

I'm talking about the fallen descendants of Engineers, of course, not the original inhabitants. Louis himself, near the very end of the book, reflects on the fact that the Ringworld is so vast as to support a great diversity of cultures. And Nessus makes a valid point that, because it isn't a planet and the Engineers could just transmute matter from one form to another, the Ringworld has no metal ores to mine. The only way to make tools is to scavenge what's left from abandoned cities. It would have been interesting to see how those diverse cultures and see how they've adapted to the unique challenges of living on a ring (which they think is an arch). Aside from a few scenes where Louis and the others pose as gods and meeting Seeker, we don't get a lot of face time with the natives. Niven and his characters are more obsessed with what happened to the Ringworld Engineers and (understandably) getting off the Ringworld.

It might seem strange that I didn't share their obsession. After all, I'm a technophile. The Ringworld is an awesome idea, and I was curious to discover who had built it. Nevertheless, I'm jaded enough that I was sure—especially after learning that civilization had fallen—that the answer wouldn't be very satisfactory. I was right.

After shrouding it in so much mystery, Niven reveals that the demise of Ringworld civilization wasn't nearly so mysterious. Louis was right about the microbe. The Engineers are dead, mad, or integrated into the fallen societies scattered around the ring. Only Pril is left to tell her story. But because Louis and Nessus had already unravelled much of that story on their own, there wasn't much left to serve as a surprise or a twist.

But it's the journey, not the destination, right? Aside from my complaints about not showing us more Ringworld culture, it's true that Niven gives us plenty of episodic events on the way toward the rim wall. We get killer sunflowers, a massive storm, and a floating castle with a holographic map. Ringworld would be an awesome place for a roleplaying game, just because it's such a wonderfully built world.

So in case I haven't browbeaten you enough yet, I'll be explicit: Ringworld is great because of its worldbuilding and sucks because of its story. If you're one of those people who likes reading about intriguing hypothetical constructions like rings, Dyson spheres, etc., then you should probably read this book. However, one cannot draw much satisfaction from the mystery of the Ringworld or the characters who try to solve it. Unlike the Ringworld, they aren't built nearly so well.

My Reviews of the Ringworld series:
The Ringworld Engineers →

My golden standard when it comes to stories of genetic manipulation and its effects on society is Gattaca. I've only seen it twice, I think, yet its impact on my consciousness (and conscience) remains clear in my mind. Growing up concurrently with the Human Genome Project and watching the advancements in genetics that are happening in my lifetime, I am wary of what will happen if governments, corporations, and people do not reach a social contract on how we will treat this new capability. Corporations are patenting our genes; insurance companies jump at any chance to discriminate based on a "pre-existing condition;" and it is only a matter of time before athletic organizations must deal with "enhanced" participants. We're nearing that threshold; I can feel it, and I really don't want to see the world become something like that depicted in Gattaca.

Beggars and Choosers doesn't follow exactly the same route as the movie, but it does meet my Gattaca standard. The United States has not quite gone apocalyptic on us yet, but it's getting there. Society has fractured into a 20/80 split of "donkeys" and "Livers." The donkeys do the administrative work, governing, running businesses, building and inventing new technology, etc. The Livers engage in "aristo" activities (including often-deadly scooter races), trading their votes to those donkeys who promise them the best services. In a very Gattaca-esque way, donkey families purchase the best genemods they can for their children. Livers do not engage in genemodding. And in orbit above Earth, the Sleepless still live in Sanctuary, though it did not quite manage to secede. Their SuperSleepless children have returned to Earth but sequestered themselves on a newly-made island, Huevos Verdes. And the trouble has only begun.

This book departs notably from Beggars in Spain. Fortunately, I think most of the changes are for the better. Kress elects to tell the story from the first-person perspective of several narrators. Interestingly, Miranda Sharifi, the SuperSleepless protagonist from the first book, is not one of them—nor is the original protagonist, Leisha Camden, whose role is much reduced. Kress very visibly passes the reins on to the next generation, and we get to see inside the heads of Diana, a donkey; Drew Arlen, the Lucid Dreamer and Miranda's lover; and Billy Washington, an old Liver who vaguely remembers what life was like back before such distinctions became meaningful. I liked, though not equally, all of these characters and their perspectives. Each of them undergoes experiences that challenge his or her beliefs and leads to a distinctive arc of character development. So not only is Beggars and Choosers a deep science-fiction novel about the repercussions of genetic engineering, but it is also a very good story. This is something I couldn't say about Beggars in Spain, and I am pleased to return Nancy Kress to the pedestal she deserves in my personal Authors Hall of Fame.

The Supers, under Miranda's guidance, are "up to something." Billy Washington lives in East Oleanta, a small community in New York State. The technology on which his community relies is degrading, a result, we learn later, of a genetically-engineered organism that digests "duragem," a phlebtonium substance present in most advanced technology. With everything from kitchen bots to gravrail trains breaking down, the Livers are having a hard time, well, living. At first it seems like a plot by the Supers to force the Livers to take responsibility for their own wellbeing rather than relying only on the donkeys they vote into office. Drew Arlen's inspirational Lucid Dreaming performance, "The Warrior," which leaves Livers with a desire to take risks and help each other, seems to confirm this suspicion. Yet as the story progresses, Kress reveals that the truth is far more complex. Someone else is responsible for the duragem plague, and while the Supers are not happy about it, they aren't entirely unhappy with it either, for it does play into their plans.

This ambiguity is a welcome change from the stark and opposing ideologies from Beggars in Spain. Since we do not get exposed to any Super perspectives, we are left in the dark as to what they are actually planning—kept guessing, actually, which I enjoyed to no end. The closest we get are glimpses through Drew Arlen's eyes, which mostly serve only to confirm to him, and us, how much of an outsider he remains despite his relationship with Miranda. So unlike in the first book, where the Supers' decision to undermine Jennifer and her supporters is clearly a good thing, the morality of what the Supers are doing is not so obvious here. Indeed, watching Drew's faith in Miranda falter, dim, and eventually gutter out is poignant and moving. Toward the climax, when Drew has to choose whether to call on Miranda for help or betray her to the GSEA, I really felt like I was reading a tragedy about these two main characters. Kress hasn't just written a book about the effects of genetic engineering on the wider society. Beggars and Choosers is an intensely personal story.

That doesn't change with Billy Washington. He begins to wake up to the fact that not all is right with the donkey/Liver dynamic, especially when he encounters the enigmatic Miranda and her laboratory hideaway, stylized "Eden." Billy is driven almost wholly by concern for Angie and her daughter, Lizzie, who is quite intelligent for a Liver. As tensions in the community run high, Billy risks his life for them, finally breaking out of the traditional Liver mould to take up the mantle of, essentially, a hero:

There was a confusion in the crowd. But a surprising number of Livers followed their new leader, burning to do something. To be heroes, which is the true hidden driver of the human mind.

That commentary comes from Drew after one of his performances of "The Warrior." I've always believed that the "greatest" people are those who inspire us to be better people ourselves (which is why I'm such a fan of the Doctor, from Doctor Who, but that's neither here nor there). Kress seizes on something true: beyond that basic need for survival, we yearn for connection, for community. We yearn to act, to accomplish, and yes, to be heroes, if not in the eyes of others than in our own personal tales. And Drew is resurrecting and reinforcing this aspect of human nature, releasing it from wherever society's emphasis on social and genetic engineering has banished it. That's what stories and storytellers do.

The third narrator, who is actually the first one in the book, is Diana Covington. She is an atypical agent of the Genetic Standards Enforcement Agency (guess what they do!) who gets involved with the situation in Billy's community. She befriends Billy and Lizzie, supporting the latter's drive to learn by exposing her to more opportunities for education, much to Angie's disapproval. Gradually, Diana herself shifts from a rather listless donkey who doesn't quite know what she wants in her life to a convicted person who has a much better appreciation of how Livers live and how fragile American society has become. While she begins the story as an opponent of the Supers and their plot, whatever that is, eventually she has no choice but to find succour in Miranda.

The climax of Beggars and Choosers is nothing short of a gamechanger. We eventually learn what the Supers have been planning, and it involves a transformation of the body that they consider beneficial and liberating. Central to the climax is the question of whether the Supers have the right to decide for all humanity whether such a dramatic change is "right." They do not force it upon humanity in the sense that they release a pathogen, but they distribute vials that cause the transformation—and, as far as Kress tells it, there are no side effects, no fatalities for the change. As much as the changes themselves might be a great boon, however, the deeper moral issue remains: what right do the Supers have to dictate such a change? Drew and Diana both struggle with this, and in a sense the question becomes largely academic once the deed is done. Nevertheless, it's both thought-provoking and dramatically effective, for this is the final wedge in the relationship between Miranda and Drew. Although already tragic, the coda to Beggars and Choosers provides a pithy, ringing note to end both their story and the novel as a whole:

Oh, Miranda … I'm sorry.

I never intended…

But I would try to stop you again. And I don't expect you to understand.

What, exactly, does this mean? It seems like Drew eventually decides that the Supers are so different they cannot be considered human; their thought processes and ethics are just alien. I'm not sure if this is the case—and of course, the underlying theme here is that the difference is subjective rather than genetic. We cannot draw a line between "human" and "non-human," "posthuman," or "more than human" by dint of modified genes alone. But once a technology is developed and released, it cannot easily be retracted or redacted. In the book, one of the characters notes that nuclear weapons seem to be an exception, citing the two strikes to Japan as the only time they were used in war. Further consideration should belie this example: certain countries continue to use nuclear devices to this day, albeit not in open warfare; and the capability to construct those devices remains.

Really though, the comparison is rather inaccurate: a nuclear weapon is a weapon of mass destruction and inherently dangerous. The danger with genetic engineering is that it is all too easy to fail to perceive the danger. What's wrong with preventing terminal diseases and congenital defects? What's wrong with lengthening the life-span and banishing cancer? What's wrong with attempting to give one's children an advantage by tweaking intelligence, ambition, or compassion? Beggars in Spain develops that theme, showing how concern for one's children—for our future—can have unexpected consequences. Beggars and Choosers continues this, but its philosophy is now accompanied by a great story and believable characters. Instead of focusing on the question of children, Kress explores the dynamics between genetics and class and asks who should be in charge of regulating scientific advances and deciding, for humanity, what constitutes appropriate genetic manipulation.

I try not to define too rigidly what I consider "good SF," because sometimes "good" anything just defies rigid definitions! As far as such definitions go, however, Beggars and Choosers must meet them, for it depicts not necessarily what our society will be or even what it could be but some of the moral and social dilemmas we will face as we push science and technology faster and more furiously than ever before.

My Reviews of the Sleepless trilogy:
← Beggars in Spain | Beggars Ride →