As this is an entry on my early impressions on Brandon Sanderson’sWarbreaker, I must admit that my first thoughts were not promising. Even before I had the chance to read a single word, the cover disappointed me. Dan Dos Santos crafted a decent, if not exceptional, painting, but the layout felt awkward. The title and author’s name square in the center of the page bother me. I’m not sure what arrangement would have satisfied me, perhaps because I’m employed as an engineer and not a graphic designer; all I know for certain is that this novel sat on my bookshelf for almost two months, even though Brandon Sanderson’s earlier works impressed me. Not an encouraging start.
With that out of the way, reading the first few chapters inspired me to contemplate the delicate balance between introducing characters and creating a memorable setting. In Warbreaker’s prologue, the narrative rushes to establish the magic of Awakening, and I felt the action took a back seat to the world-building. Sanderson is renowned for the elaborate and elegant system of magic he created for the Mistborn trilogy, but The Final Empire’s opening focused on the characters, especially Vin’s rough upbringing on the streets and the mystery of Kelsier’s mission. Even when the setting and history were being explored, they served to further draw in the reader: what could explain this blasted world, this fractured society? Warbeaker’s prose is solid and the magic is promising, although a little less intriguing than the mysteries of metallurgy. Hopefully, the protagonists seize the narrative’s reins, as I know Sanderson is capable of incredible characterization.
I can already tell that Warbreaker won’t take me long to finish, so expect a review this weekend. Until then, enjoy the video below, which features a time lapse of the artist at work, or follow the link for a higher definition version.
Cherie Priest has been writing for most of the last decade, her first published work being the Eden Moore series, a trilogy in the Southern Gothic genre which has received favorable reviews, including a Blooker Prize for the opening entry, Four and Twenty Blackbirds (originally distributed on Priest’s blog before being published by Marietta Publishing in 2003 and released again in an expanded edition from Tor in 2005). Cherie Priest’s latest work, Boneshaker, garnered further critical buzz, including last week’s nomination for the prestigious Nebula Award for Best Novel of 2009. Boneshaker is the second piece in an invented history Priest is describing as the Clockwork Century. While the majority of steampunk works combine anachronous, steam-driven technology with stiff, Victorian society, Cherie Priest instead utilizes the rough-and-tumble late 1800’s of America for her latest novel’s setting. When describing Boneshaker, the most apt label is “fun,” loads and loads of fun; I’m not kidding, readers will grin while reading this novel, it entertains that well. Combining a fascinating world with a population of interesting characters and a pace best described as breakneck, culminating with nail-biting action and a surprising denouement, the first novel in the Clockwork Century grabs your attention and refuses to let go.
Even before cracking open the pages, Boneshaker’s cover is hard at work, creating its own unique brand of steampunk style. Combining an old American newspaper font with beautiful art from Jon Foster, the cover is stylish and distinctive. Inside, a distinctive sepia-toned font and a rustic city map of downtown Seattle continue this theme. The bulk of the story takes place in 1880 Seattle, but in this alternate history, the American Civil War has been protracted by English intervention and the early discovery of oil in Texas, resulting in dangerous technological advancements. After a catastrophic incident involving the eponymous drilling machine Boneshaker, a toxic gas known as “Blight” flooded the streets of Seattle, and exposure resulted in victims transforming into ravenous zombies, affectionately referred to as “rotters.” An immense wall was erected around the city to prevent the spread of contaminants, but a desperate few still call the streets of Seattle their home. Comparisons to Scott Westerfeld’s Leviathan are inevitable: both novels were published in 2009, are set within 20 years of 1900, and utilize incredible steam-driven technology (also, distinctive one-word titles). However, Leviathan and Boneshaker are unique creatures that deserve to be judged on their own. Leviathan is clearly intended for teenagers and focuses on binary conflicts: commoner vs. nobility, biotechnology vs. traditional machinery, the societal roles of men vs. women. Boneshaker strikes off into very different territory. Where Leviathan concerned itself with old European conflicts, Boneshaker encapsulates the very American experience of Manifest Destiny, pioneers carving out an impossible living no matter the odds. The ruined city of Seattle, filled with hostile zombies, airtight underground dwellings, and drug-smuggling airships is a joy to read about, and I only wish I had more time to roam within the walls of this fascinating city.
Boneshaker’s narrative follows two characters, the first being Briar Wilkes, formerly Briar Blue, once wife to Leviticus Blue, the eccentric inventor responsible for the destruction of Seattle; the other is Ezekiel Wilkes, son to Briar and Leviticus, grandson to the legendary lawman Maynard Wilkes. The pair are trapped in a marginalized life on the outskirts of Seattle, popular targets for those still angry about past events. After years of torment and abuse at the hands of other children, Ezekiel resolves to clear the family name. To this end, he sneaks under the wall surrounding the ruined city, intent on finding evidence within his family’s old home. Of the two, Briar is the more interesting character, a somewhat distant mother, stubborn yet pragmatic, who will go to any lengths to rescue her wayward son, but Zeke moments of growth later in the story establish him as a dynamic character. After discovering Zeke missing, Briar follows. Along the way, the two encounter a myriad assortment of marvelous characters, including drug smugglers, an airship captain or two, a knife-wielding Native American princess, a maimed bartender with a mechanical arm (perhaps a reference to the French film A Very Long Engagement?), and the power-hungry Doctor Minnericht, a mad inventor whose technology makes life within the walls possible. Few of these individuals are who they seem at first, and Cherie Priest creates a challenging balance of positive and negative traits in each person. One of the greatest mysteries of the novel may be, “Why would anyone live in this forsaken place?” But by Boneshaker’s conclusion, many (but not all!) questions have been answered; after seeing their world and the niches they have carved out for themselves, each of the many inhabitants feels authentic and true, if not entirely sympathetic.
Boneshaker begins slowly, with the first eighty pages devoted to introducing the protagonists and establishing the differences in history between the Clockwork Century and our own timeline, but once Briar and Zeke are both within the walls, the danger escalates rapidly. For three hundred pages, the narrative is nonstop, so much so that the remaining 300 pages disappears in a flash. As the novel progresses, all paths lead to Minnericht, the locus for all of the riddles in this wrecked city. A hunger to unravel the secrets of Seattle’s history and Briar’s past hardships guarantees that readers will hesitate to put this novel down, no matter how late they find themselves reading. One of the most impressive aspects of Boneshaker is how many characters and facts are introduced without the action flagging. Once the story is underway, the pace never slows to engage in unnecessary explanations or fanciful world-building. The action ricochets from one exciting set piece to another, whether it be a grappling battle between airships, gun battles in a underground fortress, or fleeing from a horde of flesh-eating zombies (think of the sprinting 28 Days Later zombies, not their sedentary cousins from Evil Dead). At its heart, Boneshaker’s life blood is that of an adventure story, and rest assured, it delivers the adventure in spades.
The boundaries of this recently popular genre are still being defined, so the debate about whether Boneshaker qualifies as “proper” steampunk or some variant of historical fiction is sure to consume some steampunk enthusiasts, but such a debate can only limit the creativity of the genre, discouraging future creative works from artists unwilling to fit in a niche genre. Whether the Wild West qualifies as a steampunk setting or not, Boneshaker exhilarates with its myriad cast of intriguing characters and gripping action that never relents. For myself, I believe the change in scenery from the expected Victorian era to an unrelenting American Civil War is best described as brilliance, and this world is begging to be revisited. Luckily, Cherie Priest’s enthusiasm for The Clockwork Century means plenty more to come; readers should look forward to two additional novels in 2010, Clementine from Subterranean Press and Dreadnought from Tor Books. If these two novels equal the potential demonstrated by Boneshaker, 2010 promises to be an entertaining year indeed for steampunk enthusiasts.
The Internet expands, as relentless as that unfortunate case of foot rot I picked up in the jungle. You’ve got no prayer of reading ALL of it, so if you look at only half-a-dozen pages today, might I recommend these?
Big science fiction news: much rejoicing after the announcement of this year’s Nebula Award nominees! Very happy to see Bacigalupi’s The Windup Girl on the list, as well as Priest’s Boneshaker (my review will arrive later this afternoon). Finch is in my To Be Read pile, hopefully in March.
Joe Abercrombie interviews Chris McGrath, the artist responsible for the cover art on recent editions of the First Law trilogy. The artist speaks from an interesting perspective on the decisions artists have to make when trying to capture the spirit of the book while also creating a marketable product. Joe also briefly blogs about listening in on the audio-book recording sessions.
Updates on several anticipated fantasy releases: Brandon Sanderson talks Towers of Midnight, Mrs. Tad Williams on the latest novel in the Shadowmarch series, Shadowheart, and Scott Lynch’s Republic of Thieves will be arriving in 2011, quite the long wait (the second book in The Gentleman Bastard Sequence came out in 2007). Lastly, Patrick Rothfuss and his spawn would like to demonstrate the progress made on The Wise Man’s Fear.
Only vaguely fantasy/sci-fi related, but I saw this video and thought it was pretty neat:
It seems every year a debut fantasy novels electrifies the speculative fiction community. Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind, a traditional but brilliantly executed bildungsroman, combined sharp writing with the protagonist’s fascinating history. The Blade Itself, by Joe Abercrombie, employed black humor and gritty violence to devastating effect. Susanna Clarke worked wonders with the droll yet gripping Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. And Scott Lynch opened a planned seven volume series (The Gentleman Bastard Sequence) with The Lies of Locke Lamora, which arrived in a perfect storm of buzz, excitement, and positive reviews. So did Scott Lynch’s debut live up to the hype, and with the benefit of hindsight, does it compare favorably to other impressive fantasy debuts? I would say yes and no; unlike many reviewers, my reaction to The Lies of Locke Lamora was decidedly mixed. At his best, Scott Lynch conjures up a fascinating world and utilizes exciting action to dazzling effect. However, as might be expected from an author’s debut novel, there are a few frustrating missteps. That said, Scott Lynch’s first novel is flashy, fun, and worthy of excitement.
The Lies of Locke Lamora maintains a tight focus; all of the action transpires in the harbor city of Camorr, strongly reminiscent of Renaissance Venice’s shadowed back alleys, convoluted canals, and opulent displays of wealth. But whenever someone accumulates wealth, someone else lurks ready to misappropriate it. Hundreds of professional gangs populate Camorr, each with their own favored form of thievery, some bludgeoneers and thugs, some robbers or pickpockets, and even a few confidence men. Locke Lamora and his merry gang of thieves fall into the latter category, and this winding tale follows them as they attempt to pull off their most audacious fraud. Even as the story unfolds, Scott Lynch is exploring an entire world and history. Lynch amazes with his ability to create a unique and vibrant fantasy world without getting bogged down by unnecessary information dumping. The characters ignore the fantastic elements of Camorr, treating them much as any citizen going about their daily life would: simple facts of geography and history, rather than something worth paying undue attention to. Too many novels rely upon exposition awkwardly crammed into conversation, giving the characters a ludicrous and unrealistic tilt to their dialogue. In the Lies of Locke Lamora, other cultures are introduced through the false identities the protagonists assume as they work their con or the half-told stories mentioned in passing. The reader can’t help but wonder at missing information, and use their own imagination to fill in the details.
Scott Lynch expertly utilizes a nonlinear narrative to heighten the excitement and tension. The Lies of Locke Lamora tells two tales: the first is the story of Locke Lamora’s childhood, raised as an orphaned thief on the merciless streets of Camorr, and the second is the latest confidence game Locke’s gang is trying to pull off amidst an escalating feud between the mysterious villain known as the Gray King and the city’s underworld overlord. The asynchronous story lines allow Lynch to flesh out Locke’s upbringing and training while the danger and immediacy of the latest confidence game develops, and whenever one portion of the narrative dips into a lull, the other chronology picks up intensity, ensuring that the story never drags. Lynch uses this nonlinear technique very effectively, sometimes skipping to create humor or tension and at other times jumping to emphasize a point of character development or a detail about the world. However, for readers expecting a typical epic fantasy, be warned that this doesn’t fit that mold. The novel’s primary antagonist isn’t introduced in the first 400 pages; in fact, if the reader isn’t reading very carefully, the villain is almost unmentioned. The Gentleman Bastard Sequence looks a lot like epic fantasy (seven volumes, a world populated with wicked sorcerers, various unique countries and cultures, dangerous factions at war, features a troubled youth growing into greatness), but the novel’s unwillingness to introduce a villain may be frustrating for readers trying to comprehend the story’s arc as compared to other epic fantasy novels.
Most of my frustrations with The Lies of Locke Lamora stem from poor decisions Scott Lynch made concerning his characters. The most glaring failure must be the complete lack of female protagonists. Late in the novel, two females play minor roles, but other than that, the story belongs to men. This is an especially glaring omission given the fact that a female member of the gang is referred to several times throughout the novel, but specifically written out of the action. This brings me to my second major complaint: Locke Lamora spends the entire novel stuck in an obnoxious malaise over a woman never even introduced! It feels as if a vital character was removed during editing to trim word count , but Scott Lynch didn’t bother with changing Locke’s behavior to reflect that. I understand that the intent was to introduce this mysterious redhead later in the series, but I found it very frustrating to see a dozen references to a character I won’t meet until another book. That said, the relationship between Jean and Locke is executed in a flawless fashion, and the many pages spent observing their childhood lessons serves to strengthen the bond the reader feels with the protagonists. Some characters seem to have no purpose other than dying to provide motivation, but the characters that Scott Lynch devotes the bulk of the story to are exceptional.
In large part, The Lies of Locke Lamora is a fantastic debut by Scott Lynch and a promising start to what should be an entertaining series. While there are missteps, the novel has many strengths, among them exciting, well-written prose and an intriguing setting; these positives outweigh the negatives, my biggest complaints being the bewildering lack of female characters, unneeded romantic angst, and the uncertainty in regards to a villain or challenge for the protagonists to overcome. The novel spans the entire spectrum of fantasy imagery, from a wondrous but chilling garden of vampiric glass rose bushes to the frightening strength of the merciless Bondsmagi. Lynch has already released the sequel, Red Seas Under Red Skies, and another installment in The Gentleman Bastard Sequence is expected late in 2010. While not without flaws, The Lies of Locke Lamora is an enjoyable read that will have you staying up late to finish it; hopefully, Lynch continues to build upon the strengths of his debut novel and grows into a writer that fantasy readers can appreciate for many years to come.
I cheat, as I’ve only read 88 pages of Boneshaker. Even so, I give my impressions now, when I’ve got a few moments to write them down.
Today, I’m going to talk about presentation. Some readers may think this sounds a bit silly, but the outward appearance of a book influences my reading experience. The heft of it in your hand, the cover art’s style and layout, the binding quality, the choice of font and paper, all of these communicate a theme before you’ve started reading the first sentence. Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell possessed a marvelously evocative cover, with its stark lettering and ragged-edged pages. Boneshaker, specifically, the Sci Fi Essential Books edition (there is only one edition available at present, but I assume variants will arrive sometime in the future), is another gorgeous novel. Combining old American newspaper font and beautiful art, the cover is stylish and distinctive. Jon Foster did a fantastic job, and I recommend you check out his webpage for more examples of his work. Incredible! I’ve included his concept sketches for Boneshaker’s cover. Cracking open the pages reveals a sepia-toned font that is quite lovely, furthering the impression of the Wild West. The choice of a font color other than black is unusual, and I was thrown off when I first saw it; however, it works. Even before I started reading, Boneshaker had impressed me.
That notion of the rough-and-tumble, American Old West of the late 1800s continued after I started reading. Not a coincidence, as that is Boneshaker’s chosen setting, specifically a wrecked Seattle. Cherie Priest conjures up a brilliant (if slightly tarnished) world, not the Wild West of gunslingers or cattle ranchers, but the squat mass of humanity that plopped down wherever gold was found. Many steampunk works choose a Victorian theme, so Boneshaker’s gritty style feels fresh. So far, Briar Wilkes, a world-weary but tough-as-nails protagonist, has piqued my interest. After the mincing politeness of every character in Leviathan, a little down and dirty refreshes. Too soon to say whether I’ll enjoy the entire novel or not, but kudos to the gorgeous design.
P.S.: For curious readers, there is a webpage dedicated to this setting, worth checking out. Cherie Priest has more to come!
After getting a week off for good behavior (and managing to complete skip the entire Amazon-Macmillan showdown), I return with a few links to educate and entertain. Or waste time. Mostly waste time. You know what? Maybe you should just go outside and get some fresh air. Shoo.
SF Signal did one of those little things they do, this time asking, “What Are Your Top 5 Anime Films of All Time?” Lo and behold, some interesting people answered!
Sam Sykes, the legend, is conducting interviews with the world’s most fascinating. And by world’s most fascinating, I mean the fantasy/sci-fi bloggers too dumb or fat to escape his trap. Unfortunately, I’m one of them. Be forewarned.
Lastly, welcome to the future. The future of augmented reality, that is:
Anathem: (1) In Proto-Orth, a poetic or musical invocation of Our Mother Hylaea, which since the time of Adrakhones has been the climax of the daily liturgy (hence the Fluccish word Anthem meaning a song of great emotional resonance, esp. one that inspires listeners to sing along). Note: this sense is archaic, and used only in a ritual context where it is unlikely to be confused with the much more commonly used sense 2. (2) In New Orth, an aut by which an incorrigible fraa or suur is ejected from the math and his or her work sequestered (hence the Fluccish word Anathema meaning intolerable statements or ideas). See Throwback.
—the dictionary, 4th edition, A.R. 3000
Neal Stephenson established himself in the early 90’s as a science fiction author to pay attention to: the cyberpunk classic/parody Snow Crash was included on Time’s magazine’s list of the 100 best English-language novels written since 1923, and The Diamond Age or, A Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer won the Hugo and the Locus award in 1996. Stephenson hopped genres when crafting Cryptonomicon, which combined real personalities from World War II’s Allied code-breaking divisions with the efforts of present-day characters to establish a data haven (despite being a fusion of historical fiction and modern thriller, Cryptonomicon won the Locus Award for Best Science Fiction Novel in 2000). The Baroque Cycle spanned 3,000 pages and was set from 1660-1714, again following a mixture of real personalities, such as Leibniz, Isaac Newton, and D’Artagnan, and fictional, sometimes fantastic, characters (yet another Locus award winner). Clearly, this isn’t an author for everyone: his novels are dense and can focus more on ideas than on action. Snow Crash includes marvelous comedy, fascinating characters, and exciting action, but expect an explanation of culture being transmitted in similar fashion to viral infection. The Diamond Age features heavy discussion of artificial intelligence and the possible implications of omnipresent nanotechnology. Cryptonomicon examines numismatics, cryptology, and information security. Stephenson’s fixation with conceptual explorations means that sometimes characters are not necessarily the most important part of his novels, and for this, his works have been criticized for their unsatisfying endings. Whether you have voiced this complaint or not, his latest, Anathem, should silence critics on that particular point. This is not to say that Anathem is for every reader; this book is mammoth (the weighty paperback edition is just shy of 1,000 pages), slow-moving, and features extremely lengthy discussions of philosophy, physics, and mathematics. But for the reader willing to set aside their expectations of what science fiction “should be,” Neal Stephenson has delivered a deliberate, affecting, and sometimes harrowing novel that could change the way you approach science fiction.
Anathem’s characters are thoughtful and methodical; when presented with a question or a challenge, they inspect, analyze, and interpret. Part of this novel’s wonder is the process of exploration and discovery, so to reveal too much of the story would be to spoil the marvelous experience of witnessing their problem-solving process. Anathem is an impressive exercise in world-building, describing a population split between mathic sanctuaries (imagine monasteries whose occupants are devoted to studying science instead of religion) and the Saecular world outside their walls. But in times of desperate need, the outside world can interfere with the private studies of the avout; this is one of those times. In part, the novel is a bildungsroman, following the adventures of Fraa Erasmas, a young avout. Erasmas is a Decanarian, having chosen to experience the outside world only once a decade. Others concent-dwellers mingle even less frequently, whether it be once a century or even once a millenium; life in the concent moves to a very slow rhythm. The novel gives a very clear pictures of Fraa Erasmas and his companions, something made easy by the lively conversations they often engage in. These characters are sympathetic and easy to like, being respectful, intelligent, and devoted in their friendships with each other. Instead of skipping from character to character, the narrative never shifts from Erasmas–expect some lengthy explanations from other characters lucky enough to witness certain events–which contributes to the narrative’s strong sense of immediacy and continuity. Anathem’s excellent characterization strongly evokes the reader’s empathy, and the characters’ struggles, worries, and hopes will become your own as the novel continues.
A lot of “hard science fiction” deals with rocketry, artificial intelligence, or some advanced version of the Internet. Okay, virtually all of it. Anathem’s focus is definitely hard science, but a different sort, concerned with the philosophy and history of scientific thought as opposed to the gadgetry. Anathem spends more time discussing Platonic ideals than quantum mechanics. As a world, Arbre fascinates, complex yet believable. The population speaks a different language than our own, quite similar but varying enough that you will find yourself referring to the glossary on a regular basis. Not content to stop with just a new language, Stephenson conjures up an entirely new history of scientific discovery that mirrors our own: Protas replaces Plato, Adrakhones replaces Pythagoras, and Gardan’s Steelyard replaces Occam’s Razor. Much of the novel is devoted to explaining the familiar but not quite the same history of the world of Arbre. I found myself asking why Neal Stephenson had gone to so much work to create a world so similar to our own (Arbre even has their own sci-fi television show, featuring a starship with a cold but logical second-in-command, Dox, presumably with pointy ears), but the latter half of the novel has an explanation that sensibly rationalizes the narrative’s efforts. Anathem may seem to be all history and backstory, but the excitement builds gradually and Erasmas’s world-spanning enterprise leads him to an extraordinary locus.
Some readers may struggle with Anathem’s pacing. The prose is dense; exhaustive descriptions and lengthy conversations are the norm. These dialogues may describe lessons between scholars and students, alternate versions of Earth’s philosophical theories, or explorations of a character’s motivations and thinking. In addition, the novel includes three “calcas” after the glossary, example lessons used to demonstrate the analytical thought espoused by the avout. Neal Stephenson’s use of language has always been somewhat baroque, but with this latest novel, he hopes to introduce his readers to a unique brand of science fiction, less flash and bang, more thought and substance. In many ways, Anathem’s prose shares common ideals with the mathic culture it describes: thorough analysis, calm argument, sensible applications of logic. For those worried that this leaves no room for action, rest assured that there is plenty, and it will have you white-knuckled as you flip through the pages. However, this isn’t an adventure story; Neal Stephenson helps the reader to learn a new style of thinking, and hopefully to apply that same analytical process when encountering new ideas and new stories in the future.
Anathem is a novel that refuses to play by the usual rules of science fiction. While definitely falling in the genre described as hard science fiction, this story isn’t enraptured with the miracles of technology. Too often, the fiction has become more important than the science. Speculative fiction isn’t merely space battles and blue-skinned aliens and laser rifles; it should also assist the reader in thinking about the world in a different way, a new way. Anathem is not an easy read, unless you happen to a mathematician with a solid understanding of scientific thought’s evolution and the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics. My advice to you when reading Anathem: the journey is just as important as the destination, so make sure to savor each word on every page. Not all science fiction stories are built in the same fashion, and readers who are willing to accept Anathem’s unique style and intentions will be well rewarded.
Really, I should say this is my first impressions after 350 pages of The Lies of Locke Lamora, as I stayed up until 4:15 AM this morning, glued to its pages. Clearly, that provides some sort of hint as to my opinion of the novel.
The Lies of Locke Lamora describes both the childhood and adult career of a thief, the eponymous Locke Lamora. Instead of being a linear story, Scott Lynch ricochets the narrative back and forth from future to past, similar to Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind except with much more action in the present. This allows him to explore Locke’s upbringing and training while still describing the intrigues and danger of Locke’s adult jobs. Lynch uses this nonlinear technique very effectively, sometimes skipping to create humor or tension and at other times jumping to emphasize a point of character development or a detail about the world. He tends to scatter his information dumps throughout, and the info-dumping tends to be localized to a piece of history or information immediately pertinent to the action. On Lynch’s writing style, I would say: interestingly done, and very readable.
My complaints so far: women? Are there any female protagonists? And what about a villain, of any gender? What’s the obstacle to overcome? I’ve plowed through 350 pages and I’m still not certain if there even is someone to root against. I recently read the Mistborn trilogy, which also described a thieving crew planning a heist, but that novel had a very clear antagonist: a tyrannical emperor. Lynch’s narrative has established Locke’s motivations and experiences, so I’m curious to see what’s in store for him and his gang. Expect a review early next week!
Scott Westerfeld cut his teeth on the popular science fiction series, The Uglies, describing a not-quite-perfect future in which adolescents are surgically modified to be beautiful, but stupid. Demonstrating that he is definitely not afraid to switch gears, Westerfeld has leapt from the future to the past for his next creation, commencing with Leviathan, which the author describes as “Edwardian biotechnology versus Teutonic machinery. With airships.” This bizarre fusion of improbable technology and Victorian-era culture is known as steampunk, a genre originally pioneered by H.G. Wells and Jules Verne and popularized in the early 90’s by William Gibson’s seminal The Difference Engine. Steampunk, closely related to the cyberpunk genre, has largely been an adult field for the last two decades, but several prominent releases in 2009 promise to bring this exciting subgenre of science fiction to the teenage market’s attention. Leviathan is a vivid imagining of a fantastic history, and serves as an encouraging beginning to Westerfeld’s latest series. While the protagonists are somewhat underwhelming, the fast-paced action and brilliant setting ensures that Leviathan is a boisterous read, quick but very memorable.
Easily the strongest point of the novel is the fascinating premise: Leviathan opens in Europe during the summer of 1914, the dawn of World War I. However, in this alternate time-line, scientific progress advanced much faster than our own familiar history, in both mechanical and biological sciences. Westerfeld explains the factional divisions of WWI Europe as technological in origin (see the map I’ve attached below). The Allied forces of Russia, France, and Britain comprise the Darwinists. English scientists have used the discoveries of Charles Darwin to leapfrog far past our modern understanding of genetic engineering; in Leviathan’s version of events, Darwin discovered DNA, called “life threads,” sometime in the late 1800s, instead of the actual discovery of DNA’s structure in the middle of the 20th century. The British military is assisted by chimerical creations: hybridized wolf-tigers, hydrogen-breathing jellyfishes serving as hot-air balloons, and massive airships, such as the eponymous, whale-like Leviathan, actually a cleverly balanced aggregation of hundreds of species working in tandem. On the other side of the battlefield are the Clankers, represented by Germany, the Ottoman Empire, and Austria-Hungary. Their military utilizes immense, diesel-fueled, mechanical walkers, with different models using two, six, or even eight legs. One of the real pleasures of reading Leviathan is that these marvelous contraptions feel like authentic parts of this world. Westerfeld postulates a history filled with futuristic toys beyond our wildest dreams, a world in which flocks of flechette-spitting bats do battle with machine-gun-wielding zeppelins and the British navy uses a real-life kraken to attack German vessels. Put simply: genetically engineered monsters battling diesel-fueled aeroplanes and walking tanks? Yes, please!
The narrative alternates between the fictional son of Franz Ferdinand, escaped in a military Stormwalker after his noble father was assassinated, and the girl Deryn Sharp, disguised as the boy Dylan Sharp so she can serve in the British Air Service. Of the two children, Deryn is the more interesting; she is driven, intelligent, and has an intriguing past that is never fully explained. Aleksandar Ferdinand begins the novel as a whiny, spoiled child, very frustrating to read, but as Aleksander struggles with the burden of his noble heritage and his desire to do the right thing, he gradually becomes more sympathetic. Still, the children feel a bit like cookie-cutter templates and their interactions are often awkward or predictable. The protagonists are assisted and guided in their adventures by, respectively, a noble fencing instructor, Count Volger, and a Victorian lady scientist, Dr. Nora Barlow. At times, I wished the narrative lingered longer on the tutors, who are clever, intelligent, and cunning, not to mention properly well-mannered. However, the characters in Leviathan really aren’t the stars of the show; Deryn and Aleksander get the job done, even if they don’t quite feel fully realized.
Westerfeld’s writing is clean and simple, more serviceable than spectacular. The entire story is told from the points-of-view of the two children; a lot of back-story and explanation that I would have enjoyed is glossed over. The narrative is action packed and easy to follow, with the story starting on a fast note and never bothering to slow down. I imagine that younger readers will appreciate the simple plot structure; nevertheless, as an adult reader, I found myself wondering what was going on behind the scenes. Where was Dr. Nora Barlow when she wasn’t peppering Deryn with endless questions, and what exactly was happening in the querulous Count Volger’s head? During an aerial battle between Clanker aeroplanes and the Leviathan, what was occuring around the airship, not just topside, but in the command room, or the engine room? With half-a-dozen characters and only two viewpoints, the lack of detail was sometimes frustrating. In terms of length, Leviathan (the novel, not the airship) weighs in at 440 pages, but the print is quite large–I’m not kidding, really large, maybe 200 words per page–with lots of illustrations, so this is a deceptively short novel. The art from Keith Thompson, scattered liberally throughout, is stylish and helps to illustrate the fanciful inventions described in the prose. Leviathan is fast-paced and exhilarating, but as a veteran of epic fantasy and mind-bending science fiction, I couldn’t help but wish Westerfeld had provided additional complexity within his rousing tale.
Ultimately, Leviathan is a brief but entertaining tale that will surely appeal to younger readers with vivid imaginations. Even those of us experienced with more elaborate constructions are sure to acknowledge the marvelous artistry necessary to fabricate this clever history. I especially appreciate the work that Scott Westerfeld dedicated to ensuring this historical world felt plausible and accurate; while clearly a fantasy, any novel that starts younger readers speculating about world history or evolutionary science can’t be a bad thing. Additional themes for a younger read to chew on include the conflicting history of men and women in the military, the condemnation of certain branches of science, and the disconnect between the aristocracy and the citizenry (a particularly sharp line reflected on the irony of the prince being elegantly fluent in several languages, but basically unable to speak with the common folk of his own country). While the plot was mostly foreseeable and the protagonists a bit stereotypical, the novel was still loads of fun. Westerfeld ends his tale satisfactorily, and the denouement leads directly toward the next volume. As a gift to an imaginative younger reader interested in history or science, I can’t recommend Leviathan enough, and for an older reader looking for a break from epic, ten-volume series filled with dark portents and grim struggles, Westerfeld has crafted a light-hearted and exhilarating jaunt that will surely entertain with its fantastic imagery. I can’t wait to see what inventions await in Behemoth, the sequel arriving later this year.
A relatively quiet week, maybe because I was busy with the real world and didn’t have an opportunity to invest time for the internet.
Grim news in the literary world: Neil Gaiman’s cat, Zoe, passed away earlier this week. Also, J.D. Salinger died. The New York Times has a nice obituary. Like any other English-speaking reader born in the last fifty years, I was tremendously impacted during my Formative Years by The Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield. From what I’ve read over the last day, Salinger spent much of his life struggling to find peace and quiet, so hopefully J.D. has finally found what he was searching for. As for myself, I might locate a certain dog-eared paperback this weekend and, if only for an afternoon, recapture those distant years of teenage rebellion.
The other big news this week is Apple’s long-awaited announcement of an internet device that doesn’t work on the same internet that websurfers actually use. I am a big fan of my iPhone, but the iTouch Maxi’s (oh yes, pun intended) announcement was disappointing, to say the least. So I’m going to plug two alternatives to the iPad, coming out later this year: MSI’s Android-based tablet and the Notion InkAdam.
One of my favorite novels from the last year is available as a free ePub! Check out io9’s Book Club for more information on getting a free (as in beer) copy of Paolo Bacigalupi’s The Windup Girl. Go read this book, seriously!
Cherie Priest, author of last year’s Boneshaker, blogs about things an author controls. An informative read, and witty. I have a bit of a crush, I think; I’m looking forward to reading Boneshaker, hopefully in February.
The last link of the day: previously, I mentioned Pumzi, a Kenyan sci-fi feature at Sundance. I managed to track down a trailer, so check it out.
