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.
I picked up Scott Westerfeld’s Leviathan last night and trail-blazed the first 100 pages before I finally fell asleep. If I maintain my current pace, I should complete the novel before the end of the week (only 434 pages, with plenty of illustrations and large print, to boot). The writing thus far has been serviceable if not spectacular, definitely targeted at a younger audience. My last foray into the young adult genre was Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, which had absolutely breathtaking writing (though I might equivocate if asked to definitively state that His Dark Materials was meant for young teens). After reading 100 pages, I believe the story will be lively and entertaining, and Westerfeld’s replacement history is loads of fun to envision; the more vivid the reader’s imagination, the more exciting Leviathan will be. The art from Keith Thompson, scattered liberally throughout, is stylish and helps to ground the story.
I imagine most of the people reading this site are familiar with Leviathan’s premise, but just in case: the story is set in a fictional 1914, the dawn of World War I. In this alternate timeline, technological progress is far advanced from our own familiar history, in both mechanical and biological sciences. Europe has settled into two recognizable factions: the Darwinists and the Clankers. The Darwinists represent the Allied forces of WWI: Russia, France, and Britain. The English have used the discoveries of Charles Darwin to leapfrog far past our modern understanding of genetic engineering. So far, I’ve seen hybridized wolf-tigers, a hydrogen-breathing jellyfish serving the role of a hot-air balloon, and the massive airship Leviathan, a floating whale, technically composed from a delicately balanced conglomeration of hundreds of animals. On the other side of the battlefield are the Clankers, represented by Germany, the Ottoman Empire, and Austria-Hungary. I haven’t encountered as much of their technology yet, but their military utilizes immense (steam-powered or gasoline-fueled?) mechanical walkers, basically walking tanks. One of the real pleasures of reading this novel is that these marvelous toys feel like authentic parts of the world. One of the reviews I read complained about the genetic engineering, nitpicking at the implausible technology. I mostly say to that: why even read this book? Steampunk, of all the branches of science fiction, has very rarely been about what is realistic. When I think of steampunk stories, the premise always starts with the phrase: “Wouldn’t it have been cool if…” If hard science is your preference, I would advise you to locate a hard science fiction novel, as I doubt serious scientific speculation is ever going to be high on the list of priorities for a young adult, steampunk story.
The last thing I’ll say about Leviathan: the narrative alternates between the fictional son of Franz Ferdinand, escaped in a walker 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. Deryn Sharp: fun, intelligent, interesting. Aleksandar Ferdinand: whiny, spoiled, not interesting. Let’s hope this changes as the storyline progresses.
Paolo Bacigalupi has been making a name for himself in the science fiction community over the last half-dozen years, penning several short stories and collections preoccupied with the same dystopian future (he won two Locus awards for 2008’s Pump Six and Other Stories). In his debut novel, The Windup Girl, Bacigalupi expounds upon his vision of a world dependent on human muscle as its primary energy source. In this grim imagining of Earth’s future, the environment was devastated by global warming and rising oceans; virulent, man-made plagues spread across borders, destroying all indigenous plant life, which in turn obliterated the ancient food chains we depended on for our agricultural needs. Instead of tractors, or even oxen, the world economy is now driven by the most rudimentary of fuels (originating even before fire), the lowly calorie, whether it be massive megodonts (10-ton elephants) harnessed to assembly lines or mere humans turning cranks. Some niches are filled by “New People,” perfect servants carefully crafted in Japanese factories; these New People have been specifically designed to not appear human, some monstrosities with five pairs of arms for picking fruit in the agricultural fields, others more traditionally humanoid but with telltale spasmodic movements to clearly delineate their unnatural ancestry. Thankfully, one of Bacigalupi’s strengths is keeping this captivating setting under close rein; The Windup Girl’s strength lies not in its science fiction, but in the very human characters who inhabit this fascinating dystopia.
Critical reaction to this novel may be politicized, as fossil fuel usage and climate change are certainly hot-button topics at the moment. Adding additional wood to the flame, The Windup Girl’s global map has been completely rewritten, or mostly unwritten: China ravaged by ethnic purges, the European Union abandoned, the United States irrelevant, government power usurped by agricultural mega-corporations engaged in an arms race of genetically engineered plagues and biotech crops. Some critics may see this collapse of the “Old World” powers (the novel describes these changes of fortune with more economic terms, the Expansion and Contraction) as a pointed message about the status quo. While there’s a distinguishable intimation to be found on the pages, proselytizing shouldn’t be confused with postulating; the narrative is careful to avoid blame or recriminations, even when individual characters hold their own opinions. Adding to that, whatever personal beliefs the reader may hold are muted by the exceptionally honest world of The Windup Girl. Even within the opening dozen pages, Paolo Bacigalupi paints an amazing portrayal of the streets, the buildings, the people, all vivid and real. I found this impressive, especially considering that the slums and factory districts of Thailand serve as the setting, a country and culture truly unique from my decidedly Western upbringing. In its gripping immediacy, The Windup Girl reminds me of William Gibson’s seminal Neuromancer, which dropped the reader into The Sprawl, the prototypical cyberpunk metropolis, a living, breathing, sweating, dirty environment that oozed danger and excitement.
Although I am neither a genetic or electrical engineer, the science behind The Windup Girl feels plausible. This isn’t a hard science story focused on the nitty-gritty mechanics of how things work; for the greater part, the science fiction serves the demands of the story, instead of the other way around. However, one topic The Windup Girl doesn’t address is alternative fuel sources; I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to nuclear, solar, tidal, or wind power? There may be an implicit understanding that some of these energy sources are never going to be viable without heavy government subsidization or that the return-on-investment for some technologies never supersedes a 1:1 ratio, but it would be nice to have seen some mention of these technologies and how they ultimately failed in this possible future. The other technology quibble I had was with data storage: one of the protagonists struggles to identify an unidentified fruit he discovers in a local market, going so far as to search through photos from crumbling books and newspapers. I would argue that in a future in which companies participate in genetic research on a global scale, computers able to support the massive amounts of data necessary for genetic tinkering should easily be able to support the comparatively small knowledge contained in something like Wikipedia (less than 3 terabytes). A few decades into this grim future, even a crank-powered mini-computer would be able to accommodate this database, and a company employee dedicating their life to tracking down exotic plants would require exactly this sort of device. Setting aside the nitpicking, The Windup Girl describes an eerily believable future that is worth paying attention to, especially given the current uproar over climate change.
The introductory chapters quickly acquaint the reader with the major players, and they are an eclectic and fascinating assemblage: a ruthless “calorie man” in the employ of an agricultural corporation from the West, his Chinese assistant unscrupulously working to reestablish himself as a self-sufficient business owner, two Thai government officers working to protect Thailand from the plagues and predations of the outside world, and the unfortunate clockwork Emiko, a New Person engineered and raised in Japan as an unequaled personal assistant. None of these protagonists are entirely what they first seem, and the affection readers feel for each character will fluctuate from high to low as the stories meet and interweave. In a world this desperate, there are no good guys or bad guys, only people fighting for themselves and occasionally for what they believe in. Through these characters, Bacigalupi explores several contrasting viewpoints: the intersection of imperialistic western thought and the alien (to us) cultures of southeast Asia. The Windup Girl also focuses its lens on the violent collision of different Eastern philosophies. In total, five different cultures are crammed together in close quarters: Thai, Chinese, Japanese, American, and English (although the British mostly stay in their private bars and drink warm whiskey). With the majority of the novel told from a non-white perspective, Bacigalupi simply amazes with his ability to examine these centuries-old racial conflicts while still creating vivid, sympathetic characters.
I will warn squeamish readers that The Windup Girl can be quite graphic. Acts of racial genocide are described in gruesome detail, and the windup girl, Emiko, has been sold into slavery, working for a sex club catering to the sadistically perverse. All of the characters live in a morally nebulous environment; survival of the fittest has emerged as the new world order, and the niceties of polite society are far and few between, even in the respectful culture of the Thai. That said, Bacigalupi weaves a potent thread of hope and redemption through his narrative. Parts of the story may feel grim, and the final chapters explode into fantastic violence, but the climax is very rewarding and will keep you guessing until the very last page. This debut novel is a stunner, a singular marvel exploding across the pages. The Windup Girl is easily one of the most exciting, vivid, and gripping stories I’ve read in several years, and I strongly believe that Paolo Bacigalupi will be a powerful voice in science fiction for many years to come. Whatever you’re doing, stop it right now and go read this novel.
Another review coming, most likely on Monday, this time for the very satisfying debut novel from Paolo Bacigalupi, The Windup Girl. But for now, miscellaneous tidbits and morsels from around the web. Bon Appétit!
Any old-school RPG’ers out there? Do you own an iPhone? If so, happy news. SquareEnix just announced that both Final Fantasy I and Final Fantasy II are in development for the iPhone. No word on release date or cost yet, but I can’t wait!
Some of you may not be really happy right now. The economy’s in rough shape. You’re probably upside-down on your mortgage, and that ARM is about to start adjusting. If you’re feeling depressed, everyone would certainly understand. So if you’re considering suicide, but think that pills or a pistol just aren’t glamorous enough, how about jumping off a balloon at 120,000 feet?
Lots of attention right now on mobile computing platforms, especially with the likely announcement from Apple in regards to their iSlate/iPad/iTablet next week. Here’s a fascinating read, focusing on the chairman of Asus, Jonney Shih, in which he discusses their own tablet plans, and some of the devices we may be seeing over the next five years. A wearable computer/watch/phone? Don’t mind if I do.
I just cracked open the pages of Westerfeld’s Leviathan, and I’ll likely be reading Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker immediately after that, so this is going to be a steampunk-y week or two for me. I actually had a different article I was going to post here, about the recent Sherlock Holmes film and how steampunk it is, but now that I’m re-reading it, I don’t really agree. Well, shoot. Now I’ve got no sweet steampunk to show you. Hmm… Got $1500 to spend? How about this cool keyboard?
Science fiction in film flourished last year, but 2010 might give 2009 a run for the money. The Speculative Scotsman is posting a massive preview of the sci-fi/fantasy films to look out for over the next 12 months (Part 1 can be found here). In a similar vein, this one might slip under the radar, but playing this year at Sundance, the very first Kenyan sci-fi film: Pumzi. Not coming to a theater near you anytime soon, but probably worth it to write the name down, and check Netflix for the DVD in a year or two.
Because I am apparently a fanboy, I manage to post something or other about Avatar on a very regular basis, so I’m not going to break that trend now. Here’s an interesting article from a biologist about her observations while watching the film. Nifty. Also cool, this recently released internet video on the making of Avatar. This will probably be a special feature on some edition of the DVD release, but you can watch it now:
After 100 pages of The Windup Girl, exactly 8 chapters, I’m astounded. The buzz around the blogosphere has been very positive for this novel (expect awards now that we’ve reached the end of the year), and I can see why. Paolo Bacigalupi wields his brush brilliantly, painting a grim vision of a dystopian future, an Earth shattered by climate change and the consumption of almost all viable fossil fuels. The entire world has been reduced to using the oldest of fuels, the lowly calorie, whether it be massive megodonts (10-ton elephants) harnessed to assembly lines or mere humans turning cranks. Imagine groups of men running up stairs and jumping onto counterweights that serve as ballast for elevators, or foot pedals generating the electricity required to operate computers. As the age-old food chains dissolved, most flora and fauna utterly disappeared, but now there are “New People,” artificial humans crafted as perfect servants in Japanese factories. Most countries have dissolved: China fractured by civil wars and ethnic purges, the European Union collapsed, the United States no longer united, their power usurped by agricultural mega-corporations engaged in an arms race of genetically engineered plagues and biotech crops (think Monsanto Company times ten, no, times a thousand). This is a very alien future from the comfortable, oil-based world economy we currently consider the status quo. Bacigalupi renders this dystopic vision with exacting detail, and he populates this desolate landscape with an intriguing cast of characters.
What most amazed me was how quickly this world felt honest to me as a reader. Within 10 pages, I pictured the streets, the buildings, the people, all vivid and real. This was especially impressive considering the setting is the slums and factory districts of Thailand, a country and culture truly unique from my decidedly Western mentality. In its immediacy, The Windup Girl reminded me of William Gibson’s seminal Neuromancer, which dropped the reader into The Sprawl, the prototypical cyberpunk metropolis, a living, breathing, sweating, dirty environment that oozed danger and excitement. Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash also instantly summoned a completely new world: massive private highways, governments ignored in favor of sovereign enclaves founded on corporations or common ethnicity (“burbclaves”), and people connecting to the Metaverse, a re-imagined internet, similar to Gibson’s original vision of cyberspace. However, a story doesn’t need to be dystopian to have that powerful sense of immediacy. Dan Simmons’ Hyperion introduced a very distant future that was impossible, but still plausible. In a completely different genre, J.R.R. Tolkien’s fantastical The Hobbit created an almost unbelievably idyllic life, except that it was believable. I would argue that a large part of The Lord of the Rings’ success has been due to Middle Earth’s authenticity; every reader could believe in Hobbiton, its bustle and simplicity, but also the solemn majesty of the underground dwarven cities, the fey beauty of Lothlorien.
What is it about some stories, how do they grab you so quickly, plunge you into a world that is clearly impossible but that you still find yourself believing in?
Jeff VanderMeer’s City of Saints and Madmen is a sometimes bewildering collection of works related to the fictional city of Ambergris. Almost immediately, it becomes apparent that this is not your typical fantasy; instead, VanderMeer’s literature is a bizarre amalgamation of fantasy, horror, and postmodern literary techniques. This fusion of genres is called “new weird,” described by Vandermeer in the introduction of (surprise, surprise!) The New Weird anthology:
New Weird is a type of urban, secondary-world fiction that subverts the romanticized ideas about place found in traditional fantasy, largely by choosing realistic, complex real-world models as the jumping off point for creation of settings that may combine elements of both science fiction and fantasy.
The first edition of City of Saints and Madmen included the World Fantasy Award Winning “The Transformation of Martin Lake,” as well as “Dradin, In Love,” “An Early History of Ambergris,” and “The Strange Case of X.” These four novellas comprise the “core” of the book; however, more recent editions have added almost a dozen additional pieces, including an “appendiX” that purports itself as belonging to the aforementioned mental patient, “X.” The original novellas are moody, dark, and gripping; unfortunately, the content included in the appendix varies from harrowing to yawn-inducing. Over 700 pages, Jeff VanderMeer spins a tangled and bewildering web, and there are intriguing moments of brilliance that refuse to surrender their hold on the reader, but the collection, as a whole, suffers from an unwillingness to remove material that serves little purpose other than to amuse the author.
City of Saints and Madmen, more than anything, explores a strange metropolis, a shadowy, gruesome, and fungus-infested nightmare, certainly no place I would ever want to inhabit. Actually, I’m not certain why anyone would want to live there; few of the stories give any indication as to why the citizens continue to choose this haunted and dangerous city as their residence (other than the multiple antagonists living in mental institutions, who obviously have fewer decisions to worry about in regards to their lodgings). Regardless, the triumphs and (more often) torments of the city’s residents expose a window through which we see the streets, bookstores, taverns, and museums of Ambergris, a port that evokes both Paris’ bohemian excitement and the mysterious threats of Istanbul’s cluttered alleys. Each of the novellas and stories follow individuals going about their often nightmarish lives, but the true star of the show is the city of Ambergris, an enchanting horror that will occupy your thoughts, and likely your dreams, long after you’ve finished reading.
The opening novella, “Dradin, In Love,” follows a missionary returning to Ambergris after sickness and strife deep in tropical jungles. In the window of a street-side business, a woman of heart-stopping beauty captures Dradin’s heart; as the city prepares for the madness of The Festival of the Freshwater Squid, an unstable Dradin himself descends into an all-consuming obsession. “An Early History of Ambergris” is an amusingly cynical and dry recounting of the early horrors of Ambergrisian history. In “The Transformation of Martin Lake,” alternating narratives explore the darker motivations behind artistry, split between a biographical analysis of the successful painter Martin Lake and a recounting of the young, struggling artist’s literal invitation to an execution. The concluding “The Strange Case of X” tells a somewhat clichéd and obvious author-trapped-in-his-own-work fable, and is the weakest of the four original elements. Outside of these four pieces, the quality varies widely. “King Squid,” while humorous at times, is more frustrating than anything else, being an exploration of the behavior and biology of, you guessed it: the King Squid. Particularly annoying is slogging through a 40-page bibliography, interspersed with personal commentary from an increasingly deranged narrator; while vaguely clever, the entire endeavor feels fundamentally pointless. In addition, a 70-page glossary may be delightfully self-referential and cast several of the stories in a new light, but also feels unnecessary. But fear not; all is not lost! “The Hoegbotton Family History,” which I fully expected to be adynamic, was quite moving, with one of the most beautiful finishing paragraphs I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. Likewise, “The Exchange,” “The Cage,” and “In the Hours After Death” all entertained, each of them a unique, slow-motion free-fall into uncertainty and madness. Like all anthologies, some works are going to appeal more than others, and perhaps the vignettes I found drab or uninspired will speak differently to another reader.
However, when the pacing falters, truly extraordinary prose helps to maintain the tension and wonder of Saints and Madmen. Even from the opening passage, it’s crystal-clear that vanilla narrative won’t be enough to satisfy the pressing needs of these stories: “Dradin, in love, beneath the window of his love, staring up at her while crowds surge and seethe around him, bumping and bruising him all unawares in their rough-clothed, bright-rouged thousands.” The language is simply incredible–VanderMeer combines the sensous, the humorous, and the lyrical with ease–and each piece has an inflection and continuity unique to itself. Even in the segments that I found less than satisfying, I was simply stunned by the power of his writing. Ultimately, the postmodern approach may not interest every reader, but I am hard-pressed to imagine that any reader would not be astonished by the clarity of VanderMeer’s voice. Even for readers who might struggle with the compilation’s uneven pacing or sometimes unsympathetic narrators, I would still recommend this novel on the strength of the language alone.
City of Saints and Madmen is a pioneering work of fiction, and I admire VanderMeer’s willingness to go it alone in a strange direction that may not prove to be financially rewarding (not that I am implying that financial success is the only, or even the best, measuring stick), but I have a hard time imagining this anthology will appeal to a broad audience, which is a shame, because there are moments of unbelievable brilliance, moments that left my jaw on the ground and my brain stranded at the last station’s stop. Jeff VanderMeer has obviously devoted an incredible amount of effort to inventing this fantastical city, whether it be merely for pleasure or because Ambergris haunts him as deeply as the stranded author in “The Strange Case of X.” In either case, I am fascinated by the events hinted at throughout and my curiosity seems destined to lead me to Shriek: An Afterword and Finch. While the collection’s pacing is uneven and certain portions seem included only to divert the author and those readers with an interest obsessive enough to pick out every interconnected reference, the fabulous prose and the slavish attention to every nightmarish detail make for a very entertaining read.
More tidbits from around the web, some of it pretty exciting stuff!
One of the more exciting announcement to hit the internet in the last few days: Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn trilogy has been optioned for film. I read Mistborn this fall, and I remember thinking, as I was reading the scene in which the Steel Inquisitors are chasing Vin across the towers atop the Lord Ruler’s fortress, “This would be really fucking awesome as a movie.” I’ll definitely be watching for news on this; huge potential here!
R.A. Salvatore has signed a deal for another SIX Drizzt books. Is this awesome news for fans, or is it time to let the character die?
The fantasy blogs are trumpeting the discovery of a fourth Gormenghast novel, penned by his wife after his death from Parkinson’s. After sitting in an attic for 25 years, several publishers are showing interest.
This has been a great year for science fiction in film (even if we ignore J.J. Abrams’ fun but very Bruckheimer-esque attempt to reboot the Star Trek franchise), with several interesting but very different films all performing successfully. Cinematical has a brief essay talking about thematic similarities between Moon, District 9, and Avatar, shedding some light on why such apparently divergent films are all resonating with audiences. Interesting reading, but be warned, spoilers!
Patrick Rothfuss, with his last interview for the Worldbuilders fundraiser, talks with Peter Brett. This interview has piqued my interest in The Painted/Warded Man, Brett’s first novel (written on his smartphone while commuting to work!), but I also just found out that this series is being brought to film by Paul W. S. Anderson. Hmm.
Have some spare time on your hands now that the holidays have passed? You might want to watch 30 Must-See Geeky Movies. Or take your dog out for a walk. Your call.
That’s all for this week, but check back on Monday, when I’ll be posting my full review of City of Saints and Madmen (hint: if you like fungi, squids, or slowly descending into madness, this just might be the book for you).
Guy Gavriel Kay, a Canadian author with a dozen published manuscripts under his belt, has established himself as an author of “historical fiction,” or at least that’s the description often given to his novels. Tigana, set in a fictionalized version of medieval Italy, continues this tradition. The Palm is a peninsula occupied by nine provinces, led by noble families through decades or centuries of strife and warfare. The entire peninsula was overrun twenty years past by two conquering sorcerers, with only one island country managing to preserve its freedom from the pair’s oppressive rule. The dueling oppressors, Brandin, King of Ygrath, and Alberico, a warlord from the empire of Barbadior, have settled into a uneasy detente after two decades. The story revolves around a diverse cast of characters, dedicated to restoring free rule to the Palm, but the the novel’s true focus is the painful series of events that have cascaded from the death of Brandin’s son in battle; as punishment for the death of his child, Brandin of Ygrath has utterly annihilated the memory of Tigana, the province where his son was felled. Brandin has destroyed Tigana’s history, leveled its cities, exterminated its citizens, and woven an enchantment so immense that even the name of the country can no longer be heard. King Brandin’s ruthless act of vengeance is the backdrop for Guy Gavriel Kay’s moving study of forgiveness, redemption, and freedom.
Tigana combines two very different narratives. The first, following the bard Devin and his adventures with the budding rebellion, is the more action-oriented of the stories and reads more like a traditional fantasy. We meet most of the characters and see most of the world through the eyes of Devin and the others he travels with: most importantly Alessan, Prince of the almost forgotten Tigana, and his trusted companions, the solemn Baerd and the fiery Catriana. Prince Alessan is the leader of the resistance, and the story does an excellent job of showing the depth of his resolve, even when the odds against victory seem ludicrous. I was strongly reminded of the first novel of Brandon Sanderson’s excellent Mistborn trilogy; both novels tell the story of a small band of individuals working to overthrow an impossibly powerful tyrant. The second half of the novel tells the tale of Dianora, another child of Tigana, also fighting for her eradicated homeland. Without weapons or martial strength, Dianora has instead used the only tools she has available, beauty and intelligence, positioning herself in the proverbial lion’s lair of Brandin’s harem. Trapped in an isolated palace life, this half of the novel is less excitement, more intrigue and character interaction; through her eyes, we see Brandin’s world and come to understand his feelings. Guy Gavriel Kay does an excellent job balancing these two unequal halves, but the novel can sometimes feel a bit fractured, especially seeing as the two story lines do not meet until very late in the book.
Characterization is definitely Tigana’s strongest point, and the characters shine. Each person’s motives are interesting and every character, whether they serve as antagonist or protagonist, will take actions that will give the reader pause. The only exception to this general rule is the warlord Alberico, mostly portrayed as a vicious and unsympathetic tyrant. Almost all of the characters are a difficult-to-absorb blending of blacks and whites, kindness and cruelty. Especially with the care given to show the duality of Brandin (and believe me, the measures of both his nobility and his depravity are fully explored as the novel progresses), Kay’s decision to present Alberico as a purely villainous character is a bit puzzling. That said, the steady unveiling of each character’s true motivations is marvelous and never feels forced simply for the plot’s convenience, especially Dianora, struggling with her lifelong hatred of Brandin as a tyrant and her growing love for him as an intelligent and deeply emotional man. If Dianora’s half of the story can feel a bit underweight when it comes to action, then Devin’s story is the half that weighs lighter in terms of characterization. Perhaps because the reader sees Dianora’s surroundings so intimately, Devin feels a bit like an outsider for the greater part of the novel (something Guy wisely includes in Devin’s own thoughts), but the relationships he forms with his companions helps to maintain the balance.
Guy Gavriel Kay keeps the reader interested until the very last page; Tigana’s plot is complex, and the characters’ decisions are never as certain as you’d like to imagine. The action may be a bit start-and-stop, given the split between two very different circumstances, but once the story begins rolling, the novel is difficult to put down. While following the two narratives, the nine provinces’ populations and traditions create a rich tapestry that is quite intriguing, and I wonder where medieval Italy’s culture ends and The Palm’s begins. Guy uses powerful foreshadowing while escalating to climactic scenes–there are several heart-stopping moments–which can ratchet up the tension, even when moving through a slower portion of the tale. At times, Tigana feels a bit melodramatic, especially with the focus on the characters’ emotions, but it never descends to the level of soap opera fantasy, and Guy Gavriel Kay is not weaving an epic fantasy tale; this is a character-driven, emotional journey, and Guy allows each character’s internal conflicts to be reflected in an accurate manner. This is not Kay’s first novel: after assisting Christopher Tolkien with the editing of his father’s unfinished The Silmarillion, he wrote the Fionavar trilogy. His experience is apparent, as the strong writing helps to iron out any uneven spots in Tigana’s 700 pages, leaving a story that is both thoughtful and exciting, even when tying together very disparate elements.
Guy Gavriel Kay’s novels are commonly categorized as historical fantasy, and having read Tigana, I would disagree. While he has certainly drawn from the history of medieval Italy to form the Palm’s warring provinces, Kay is not tethered to a historical Europe in the way that a novel like Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell: A Novel or Westerfeld’s Leviathan would be; instead, he has used Italy as a thematic inspiration in creating a completely original setting. Anyone hoping to read about medieval Italy, only with dragons / sorcerers / faeries, is going to be sorely disappointed. That said, Tigana is a powerfully moving (heart-wrenching, at times) window into the lives of people driven by the entire gamut of human emotion, whether it be hatred or hope, revenge or redemption, sorrow or joy. Clashing armies and desperate combats have their place in this story, but at its core, Tigana concerns itself with the human spirit and the fickle needs of the human heart. Highly recommended.
Another book-reading challenge for 2010 rears its bookish head, and this contest has the added bonus of obscure categories, which should help me branch out a bit when it comes to selecting my reading; I’m especially fond of the “new in 2010″ category, and the “recommended by another blogger” category. This challenge is courtesy of Bart’s Bookshelf. For the original challenge (including the specific details on all of the categories), check out his original post.
Neuromancer by William Gibson (science fiction, cyberpunk, winner of the Hugo, Nebula, and Philip K. Dick awards)
American Gods: A Novel by Neil Gaiman (fantasy, winner of Hugo, Nebula, Locus, SFX magazine, and Bram Stoker awards)
Clearly, this is a very rough list. A lot of these I’ve not yet decided or purchased yet, but I’ll be filling in all of these categories over the next few days. Anyone have any recommendations?
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.
