1Q84: Book One

1Q84: Book One
Murakami Haruki

Read along partner this is how she fight start describes our current joint project as “briefly awaited and barely anticipated.” That’s probably about right, though I have it on good authority that at least two others are reading, or at least trying to read, along with us. Whether this will result in a flurry of intelligent and witty blog banter remains to be seen. (I advise the gentle reader not to hold his or her breath.) For now, I recommend reading kamo’s first post (linked above), as it sets the stage nicely for what will follow. My own musings are going to follow mostly off of his initial talking points, with some additions as I am further along now than he was then. Though at time of writing I am approaching halfway through, I will also mirror the three volume breakdown of the original Japanese. Note: this post is wholly spoiler free. That may not continue in others, so I will report accordingly in the introduction.

One mundane bit before diving into literary hoo-haw: I have the Knopf hardback edition of 1Q84, a Christmas present from my dad a couple years back. It is one of the most beautiful books I own, with the tissue-like dust jacket, the covers, the mirror-image page numbers, etc. I am most impressed with it. At the same time, I mostly own paperbacks for a reason: Price and weight. Well, two reasons: Price, weight, and storage considerations. Er, among the reasons I have paperbacks are price, weight, storage considerations, and that tacky living-in-mom’s-basement look that comes from a wall of creased and cheap SF editions. At the moment, weight is the big concern. This tome is way too heavy to be taking on buses. I am probably risking nerve damage in my wrists, but such is the price we pay.

On to literature. In many ways, magical realism is the hardest genre to come to terms with for grizzled Hard SF veterans. The author is allowed to drop in whatever surreal weirdness fits the mood, but is under no obligation to provide rigorous underpinnings for any of it. This can be frustrating for a reader trained to expect explanation and logic for whatever handwavium may appear; it is a running battle I face with this sort of story. 1Q84 is arguably the most science fictional book Murakami has written however, with at least a modicum of cause and effect in place. There are reasons why Aomame and Tengo find themselves in the reality that they do and mechanisms that get them there. It’s not Hal Clement, but I find myself more satisfied with the narrative progression than I have in the past.

In fact, I have been impressed with the control Murakami has over this book. I have pretty much loved all of his novels, but admit that there are long stretches where imagination and momentum bridge the gaps between comprehension. I won’t even pretend to understand everything that happens in these books, often closing them at the end and wondering what just happened. (In an interview I cannot now find, Murakami recommends serious rereading and says that, even as the author, he turns up new connections each time he reads his texts for editing. I have yet to try this.) 1Q84 is a bit different. Whether he knows he has the page count to be specific, is making a conscious effort to be more transparent, has honed his skill enough to know exactly how much to say, or is just letting things flow this way, I get the overwhelming feeling that each word, each thought, and each plot point is exactly the way he wants it.

How many times to we read a book and see the seams where the author knows he has to get from Point A to Point B, but doesn’t quite know how? How many endings do we read where the author scrambles to put things together or to escape a self-inflicted jam? How often do we let flair and exuberance cover a plot that is slightly out of control? I’m not trying to be a jerk here – as a musician I freely admit to finessing my way through tight spots and BS’ing tipsy crowds. It happens. But so far in 1Q84, it hasn’t happened. I don’t know why characters speak and act the way they do yet, but Murakami exudes the confidence that everything has a purpose. Yes, even the drunken buggery.

It’s a good thing too, because 1Q84 is an unending parade of bait and switches. It is, for example, supposed to be a love story. Well, that’s easy, one might say, these two characters are obviously going to be it. Wait, now this other person has been introduced and there’s some tension, it must be them! No, well, now it seems the tables have turned. This is the sort of internal dialogue going on through the entire book so far. By the end of Book One, I can already see several paths that things could take, all of them logical, but none more likely than the others. My perceptions of Aomame got flipped on their heads three or four times in the first fifty pages, then again several times after that. Murakami is clearly winding things up, but I can’t tell if they will continue to their logical conclusion, or if he will spin them off in a whole new direction.

This has been a bit vague. Book One largely just sets the stage though, with most of the really crazy stuff dropping in Book Two. Thus, like the novel itself, my reactions are largely laying the groundwork for more detailed posts to come. There will be plenty to elaborate on soon. (Also plenty to spoil, which is another reason I’m not being too detailed right now.) Stay tuned for more.

1Q84 Read-Along Starter

Read-Along Starter

It is sometime in the fall of 1998 and I am standing in the M aisle of the fiction wing of the Idaho Falls Public Library. I am recently back from an uninterrupted two-year stint in Northern Japan, my first taste of life outside the I-15 Mormon Corridor. I have missed the start date for fall semester at Utah State, virtually no friends remain in college-less Idaho Falls, and I am brutally homesick for the city of Sendai. This being Eastern Idaho, there are of course no Japanese people to talk to, very limited (and low quality) Japanese food available, and a rental video selection consisting almost entirely of The Seven Samurai and some pornographic anime. The manga/anime boom that kicks off with Dragonball and Pokemon is a couple years away.

Even worse, the internet in 1998 is mostly blinking text and slow-loading jpegs of supermodels. I have yet to learn about chat clients and language input modules. Streaming video is not even a twinkle in someone’s eye; most of us are still on dial-up anyway. My only connections to Japan in these dark, boring days are infrequent emails and letters, some now embarrassing J-Pop CDs that I brought back with me, and whatever books I can rustle out of the library. Unfortunately for me, any knowledge I have of Japanese literature basically starts and stops with James Clavell’s Shogun, which I read within a few weeks of coming home. If there are resources and recommendations online, I haven’t found them.

So there I am in the M’s, because I vaguely remember from somewhere that Murasaki Shikibu wrote something called The Tale of Genji, which seems as good a place as any to start. Instead, I see the name Murakami attached to several books. One, A Wild Sheep Chase, has the sort of name that appeals to me, so I take it home. A day or two later I come up for air, with my brain still sizzling like bacon in a frying pan. Between that day and the beginning of winter semester, I read every Murakami Haruki book in the library.

Over the next few years, I keep up with his new books, build up better Japan networks, and eventually make it back a couple of times. It isn’t long before the pipeline connecting me and Japan is a superhighway rather than a single thread, but I keep reading. I even start buying Japanese copies of the novels. Once I find myself with a string of Japanese girlfriends, I introduce each of them to Murakami’s books. Without exception they are hooked. (This includes my wife, who has long since passed me in total Murakami consumption.) Because I am young and foolish, I project myself into the stories and identify with his often unnamed narrator. For reasons that may be similar, my girlfriends also project me into the books, though never the same ones as me or each other. (Between us, we account for five or six, though memories are hazy of who said what.)

* * * * * *

I bring this up here, at the start of my 1Q84 read, not just because I enjoy talking about myself, but to give some background for what will likely be an obsequious and fanboy-ish post. (Or posts. Not sure yet.) I’m sure I would have enjoyed Murakami’s books whenever I first discovered them, but the combination of his writing, my tastes, Japan, and a particularly impressionable time in my life created a potent literary addiction. Even now, an older, more stable, and more cynical me feels a slight thrill of anticipation knowing that I will start into a new novel tomorrow. I still remember reading Kafka On the Shore and being unable to disengage from that world, despite the demands of work and family.

Now, looking at the 900+ pages waiting for me, there is a whiff of trepidation in the air. This is a big book during a busy time, and I have a history of sinking further into Murakami than is wise. I hope to churn out a couple of backlogged posts in the next week, as well as dealing with the usual family and music duties while I read. We shall see. For now, if I eventually dribble off into the rantings of a half-mad sycophant, please understand the history I have with this author. He was a lifeline in bleak times, so I feel no shame for my craven discipleship.

Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn

Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn
Tad Williams

After getting repeatedly sidetracked, it is time to return to this mountainous bit of fantasy that I finished some time back. As promised in an earlier update, this post is a broader look at the entire trilogy, highlighting bits and pieces that I found interesting. It is not a proper review, but a collection of thoughts and reactions that built up in my overcrowded brain during the almost 3000 pages of story. I will mark spoiler territory accordingly, though we have probably passed the statute of limitations on that sort of thing. In fact, I may be the last SFF fan over 25 to read this.

Regardless, I should probably get review-esque language out of the way first. Lest anyone think that I didn’t like the series or am being overly critical, I will say first off that I enjoyed the books a great deal. I don’t believe I have read a better rendition of traditional epic fantasy. (Tolkien doesn’t count, because his is the original. Instead I am making comparisons to other post-LOTR high fantasy.) Williams hits all the right notes, supplies all the necessary heroes and villains, threatens the world in suitable fashion, and brings it all home at the end with good-hearted triumph. There is nothing subversive or ironic here, just young heroes coming of age, spunky princesses, unspeakable evil, and varying degrees of heroism. Not always my thing, but it clears the palate every once in a while.

Casually scouring the internet for reactions to this trilogy, I was surprised at how polarized the opinions are. I’m not sure I read anything that said, “This book is alright.” Instead, it was “THIS IS THE BEST FANTASY EVER YO!” or “holy crap, that was mind numbing and ponderous.” (Here, for example, or here.) It wasn’t usually the length that put people off, fantasy readers being who they are, but the pace. Not everyone, it seems, is willing to mosey with Tad. I guess I’m the opposite: long stuff is not generally my bag, but after a couple years’ worth of poly sci reading, slow is not an issue. (Recent reviews of, say, Kim Stanley Robinson ought to back up my assertions about slow moving stuff.) These biases laid out, it should be no surprise that I take some issue with the length of the whole thing (in particular the decision to smash what should have been volumes three and four together), but am content to mosey.

I’m willing to stay with an author for 3000 pages if (s)he has something to say that justifies the investment. For the most part, Williams keeps his end of the bargain. There are a few side stories that could be cut without any loss to the text (Rachel’s tale and the rescue in the Wran are two quick examples), but nothing is egregiously superfluous. Indeed, Williams manages to tie everything together in the end, without leaving any of a plethora of plot strands dangling. I was genuinely surprised at this and it demonstrates considerable narrative skill. Not everyone could juggle so much. The pace for me was a non-issue, though I was certainly aware of it. These books don’t follow the typical, Hollywood-style three act structure, with pace and tension increasing exponentially each page. It is more of a freight train experience, starting slowly and reaching cruising velocity relatively early on. Like the train though, there is a hidden inertia at work – 60 mph may not seem all that fast until one steps in front of 100 fully loaded boxcars moving at speed. Thus goes the trilogy, steadily barreling along without ever punching the afterburners. I should note that the only other Willams I have read, The War of the Flowers, moved in a similar way.

My earlier posts, indeed the whole reason I picked this set up in the first place, talked a bit about the Tolkien connection. I’ve mentioned some of these before, but the complete list of Tolkien references that I found includes: Eowyn, Gollum (twice), the Nazgul, Elves (of course), Dwarves (to a point), Helm’s Deep, Saruman’s factory, soul-sucking artifacts of power, the Paths of the Dead, and Sauron. More interesting is the way Williams transforms most of Europe into Osten Ard. Starting in the far north, we come across Vikings, Celts, the kingdom of Prester John, Rome, and at least one Italian city-state. The Catholic Church is in full effect as well, though the author is coy on how all the gods fit together. I have no idea if he chose this arrangement as a comment or critique of modern fantasy, but it is fun to think about.

I should mention that one crucial character set, Simon and Dr. Morgenes, owes much more to Star Wars than LOTR. Of course, Star Wars borrows heavily from Joseph Campbell, which is ultimately what Williams is mining, but Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan are the first to float up from my crowded subconscious. Simon in particular reminds me very much of Luke, though it takes Simon a lot longer to pull his head out. (Luke is awesome by Return of the Jedi; Simon is still saying stupid things at the end of the trilogy.) Simon finally grows into his destiny at the end, when the not-so-surprising twist hits, but this is to be expected. He mostly just needed to get laid, I think.

While we’re talking about Simon, we should probably glance at the end. This paragraph will contain massive spoilers. In looking at reactions to the trilogy, opinions about the ending are second only to the pace for divergence and controversy. The trick Williams plays with the swords is clever and unexpected, though it unnecessarily complicates the plot in ways that over-clever bad guys often do. What I really didn’t see coming was the sudden resolution that seemed all too easy. Pyrates, of course, got the horrible end that was telegraphed from early, early in the book, but the Storm King, unbreakable power and all, was undone by the simplest of means. (There was also the matter of a magical backstabbing and an arrow in the heart, but those were sideshows.) I can see what Williams is trying to get at, and I don’t think that this was some sort of deus ex machina, but Simon winning by refusing to hate (and Camaris too, for that matter) was a bit pat. This followed by, holy cow, Simon being the lost descendant of royalty. That said, points to the author for trying something different.

Spoilers are over. My last comment on the whole thing is a bit more flippant, but possibly relevant. Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn really needs to be subtitled A Guide to the Tunnels of Osten Ard. I don’t know why, but people in this series just can’t stop themselves from rooting around underground. The reader can’t spit without hitting somebody digging through tombs, lost in tunnels, exploring underground cities, eating slithering creatures and moss because there is no buffet in the dungeon, and more. With all the underground secret passageways, caves, and cities, it’s a miracle that the entire continent doesn’t collapse, like those sinkholes in Florida that randomly swallow houses. By book three I was hoping for either an automap feature to save the poor characters the trouble, or a grue to eat them all.

These comments don’t magically combine in the final paragraph to form any sort of profound statement about either the books themselves or the genre in particular. In many ways, the series is its own statement on the art of high fantasy, with Williams presenting his version of the ultimate epic. Quibbles about pacing and excessive spelunking aside, Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn is awfully close to the platonic ideal. I feel as though I can go the rest of my life without reading another epic fantasy series, since it’s all likely to be downhill from here. (I probably will read another, and I doubt that everything, without exception, is worse, but one can swear off food after eating too much as well.) Maybe though, I will decide to read the shorter follow-ups to the books. Maybe Williams will find another story to tell and return to Osten Ard. Simon and crew will no doubt be patiently waiting for him.

Rating: The 1994 World Cup final between Brazil and Italy. Straight ahead, by the numbers stuff, but executed at the highest possible level. And very long.

1Q84 Read-Along

May is drawing to a close, so it’s time to get another plan for 2013 in motion. Two Dudes and our partner in crime at this is how she fight start are finally ready to challenge the single most foreboding book on our shelves, one that has glared haughtily down upon us whene’er we sauntered over for something new to read, and long scared the little ones at home. Yes, we are prepared at long last to tackle Murakami Haruki’s 1Q84. (I admit that this is not strictly SF, but we’ve made exceptions for magical realism in the past, and Murakami is one of my favorite writers of all time anyway, so off we go.) We would like to invite any interested readers out there to join us in this poorly planned and totally unstructured project, wherein we read madly through an admittedly heavy and intimidating tome, then post whatever (in)coherent reactions we manage onto various blogs.

I will, once things get under way, prepare a page here cataloguing all posts on any pages that I am aware of. Kamo at fight start and I may elaborate on this plan, but for now we’ll just start reading and writing when the spirit moves us. I have a couple of things to move out of the queue first, so I anticipate a reading start date around June 3-5. If anyone out there would like to join in, please leave a comment and I will know to check in with you as we start. If anyone out there has a particular request or question they would like us to attend to, ask away! I can’t promise interviews or giveaways, but will do what I can for the rest. Finally, if anyone out there isn’t going to participate, but thinks this is something worth spreading the word about, feel free to pass it on!

I’m looking forward to seeing how this turns out. For now, everyone get on the wagon, don’t fall down any wells, and beware women with particularly striking ears.

3.11: Disaster and Change in Japan

[Ed. note: Today's post has nothing whatsoever to do with Two Dudes' avowed SFF mission. However, after attending a presentation and book signing by Japan expert Richard Samuels on the 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami, and then after tearing through his new book about it, I couldn't restrain myself from writing a lengthy reaction. I have personal stakes in both the disaster and its aftermath, so this remains an emotional issue. I don't have any other outlet at the moment for this, so for now it goes here, inappropriate or not. To readers not interested, I recommend skipping this long article. There will be no science fiction today.]

3.11: Disaster and Change in Japan
Richard J. Samuels

On the morning of March 11, 2011 (Pacific Standard Time), I arrived at the office, logged onto my computer, and absently opened Firefox in a side window while I brought up the day’s work. Then I realized what had happened in Japan and ignored that work for the rest of the day, instead staring in increasing horror at the news playing out on my monitor. I watched the earthquake and tsunami, and later the nuclear meltdown, bring not just my second home to its knees, but the region I refer to as “my Japanese hometown.” (I will spare the personal details, except to say that at least one former residence was assuredly washed away.) Some weeks later, I wondered publicly if this would be my generation’s Black Ships, the event that would finally shake Japan out of its inexorable decline and galvanize the populace to face boldly their problems, as Commodore Perry’s arrival and the end of the Pacific War had done before. I was not the only one.

Richard Samuels is one of the foremost Japan experts of his generation, widely respected and hugely influential in the Asian Studies community. By his own account, he shelved a long running project in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake, arranged a sabbatical to Japan, and commenced his year of research there fully expecting to document the profound change that must inevitably follow a catastrophe of this magnitude. 3.11 is his account of what is actually happening in Japan, detailing the political change, or lack of it, as the Japanese struggle to make sense of the tragedy and define a narrative that both explains the paths leading to the disaster and a way forward. It is not, to me, a hopeful tale, but does contain a few bright possibilities.

Samuels focuses on the three political arenas most affected by the quake: the status of the Self Defense Force (SDF; Japan’s euphemistically named military), energy policy, and the relationship between federal and local governments. The first two were my bread and butter in grad school; the last I hadn’t thought much about. Each of these areas had advocates forming three camps; Samuels labels them “put it in gear,” “stay the course,” and “return to the past.” (In common terms, these are progressive, conservative, and reactionary, respectively.) Undergirding these are three major tropes of Japanese self-image: Leadership (or the lack thereof), Vulnerability (“Japan is a small island nation poor in natural resources yada yada yada”), and Community. If this seems like it could get confusing in a hurry, rest easy. Samuels’ organization and narrative keep everything clear from start to finish.

To illustrate, let’s look at how two people fit into this bracket. First, me. The SDF is one of the few institutions that left Tohoku almost universally praised. Their bravery and reliability in helping the disaster victims were above reproach; I am happy to see the Japanese finally accept that they have a military that can be something other than power-crazed xenophobes. This does not mean that I support further expansion, a move towards more aggressive policies abroad, or any such saber rattling, but I do think that the Japanese can put their troops to good use in peace keeping and relief operations. This puts me firmly in the “stay the course” camp, not advocating any particular change in policy.

Energy is even more complex. I grew up near the world’s first nuclear power plant, so I am pretty sanguine about that sort of thing. I realize that Japan’s industrial might, and thus its economic well-being, is based primarily on nuclear power, with the only reasonable alternative to import and burn more fossil fuels. On the other hand, regulatory failure and corporate malfeasance are as much to blame for the Fukushima meltdown as natural causes; the subsequent disintegration of Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) was both deserved and gratifying. Clearly, Japan needs to fire up its renewable energy efforts by resurrecting policies that self-serving corporate interests have stymied. This puts me just barely into the “put it in gear” crowd, favoring as I do the progressive approach to energy, even as I am comfortable with the reality of nuclear power.

Finally, local governance. I don’t really have a horse in this race, beyond a vague loyalty to the Kansai area in opposition to whatever stupidity Tokyo might be exporting at the time. I’m not much of a States’ Rights advocate, but neither do I deny the relevance of the locals. Toss me into “stay the course” again, since I don’t really know what else to do. (Note that my ambivalence here is not universal. Samuels introduces many people who care very deeply about this, and who have very good ideas. There is a rousing debate about this subject going on, I’ve just never been a part of it.)

For contrast, I will cite my wife. She is in many ways very typical of a large segment of Japan. My wife has no use for violence, weapons, the military, power projection, American bases, the works. The SDF might have been valiant in disaster relief; if so, she might say, let’s turn them into engineers and farmers and send them out to help that way. Article Nine of the Constitution (the part that outlaws war) is basically holy writ and should be held inviolate. These opinions are a text book “return to the past” viewpoint, one that advocates returning the SDF to its pre-Nakasone and/or Koizumi state. The Tohoku disaster is a clear illustration of what the military should be used for, not a case for more cruise missiles and Aegis destroyers.

Nuclear power fares similarly. My wife was galvanized by the anti-nuclear protests and wants to see the whole program shut down. When I explained that Japan can’t power itself any other way, she responded that maybe it’s time for Japan power itself down. To her, if Japan must import power or rely on obviously dangerous technology, maybe the Japanese need to find a quieter lifestyle that can be sustained purely by native resources. Again, “return to the past.”

Her opinions about local governance are about as strong as my own, but the idea that the communities have gotten too big, too spread out, and have lost that Special Something that binds a neighborhood together seems to hold a certain allure. I’m not sure that she goes far enough to join the “return to the past” crowd, but she’s certainly not on the front lines of change.

The genius of 3.11 is the way Samuels maps this grid over a vast array of actors, through politics, business, the non-profit sector, the media, and everyday people. Veteran Japan observers will have no trouble keeping up, but newcomers will also be fine if they trust in Samuels’ narration. The Japanese political continuum is baffling if one comes at it from a US left-right perspective (the two might as well be mutually incomprehensible), thus the necessity of the three tropes of Leadership, Vulnerability, and Community to act as guideposts along the way.

The very heart of the book is also clearly illustrated by the examples here. My position on each issue is almost exactly what it was before the earthquake. My wife’s is too. In fact, Samuels finds only one person in the entire book, Prime Minister Kan, who changes his mind on anything. Certain voices have been amplified and certainly some positions have evolved, but by and large, everyone in Japan is precisely where they were before any waves crashed down on Tohoku. In the end, when all of the power vectors are added, subtracted, and averaged out, Samuels finds that Japan is firmly in the “stay the course” camp for each issue. To many of us hoping for so much more, it is a discouraging conclusion, but after reading cover to cover, I don’t see how it could be any other way.

In spite of all, Samuels is consistently upbeat. (This holds true for his other writing as well.) Where I see a country utterly bereft of leadership, an educational system incapable of producing bold thinkers, and an electorate too self-absorbed and apathetic to take action, Samuels sees incremental change and gradual progress. I wish I could share his optimism, but we may yet both be right. The Tohoku disaster nudged public opinion and catalyzed some action, but its greatest effects appear to be in those topics Samuels covers. The biggest problems facing Japan, a looming demographic implosion and the social institutions exacerbating it, will only be changed by a grassroots-based tidal wave of opinion, not an actual tidal wave. It is my own fault that I got carried away in my initial exuberance for progress.

3.11 is not a theoretical or conclusive work. It is not here to put forth analytical frameworks or give authoritative answers. (Too soon for both, though for different reasons.) I consider it an essential book in 2013 however, because I doubt there is any other English source that even approaches the stupendous amount of research and information that Samuels marshals. For the time being, it is the definitive account of post-quake Japan; any book challenging for 3.11‘s crown in the near future will be hard-pressed to survive even the first round. It is a must read for anyone even remotely interested in Japan.

Moms in Science Fiction and Fantasy

Moms in Science Fiction and Fantasy

I took a random and perfunctory look at lists of mothers in SFF, what with today being Ma Day and all. (My grandma’s term for the holiday.) Below are the three that I found. I even dove into the comments sections, hoping to avoid the usual twits and get some more ideas, but there were more of the former than the latter. Unfortunately, most of the lists start with Star Trek and end with Harry Potter, usually with a stop in between at Sarah Connor and/or Eleanor Ripley. Not a lot beyond a very superficial and commercial collection. I will give credit for those that suggest Lady Atreides (Dune) and the Wired list that includes Cordelia Naismith (The Vorkosigan series).

This got me to thinking, “What other moms are there worth mentioning?” I couldn’t think of very many. This may be a reflection of my reading habits, or it may be that SFF is low on moms. I have a lurking suspicion that fantasy might have more than science fiction, especially the Hard SF and space opera that I favor. It may just be that the sorts of epic adventures SFF tends to focus on are generally undertaken by those without a reason to stay at home. Perhaps I can revisit this question on Ma Day 2014 and see if my list has expanded. For now:

1) Hiroko in Robinson’s Mars Trilogy – While there were plenty of moms in that one, Hiroko and her brood may have had the greatest influence.

2) Eunice Akinya in Reynolds’ Blue Remembered Earth – Technically a grandma by the time of the book, Eunice overhauled science, built a commercial empire, and made at least two or three of the biggest discoveries of that book’s era.

3) Chrisjen Avasarala in Corey’s Caliban’s War – Another grandma here, but grandmas were moms once too! Avasarala is a foul-mouthed, high-ranking UN officer from South Asia who holds the fate of billions in her hand, but is also a very nice grandma.

4) Several characters in Aliette de Bodard’s short stories – a number of these count, so I recommend picking up pretty much anything out there. Any Nebula nominee list from the last couple years will have a few.

So there’s an assortment of mothers that stood out in my recent reading. I’ll have to think more deeply about this next year, as I’m sure there’s an actual worthwhile post buried in here somewhere. Finally, the other lists I found:

http://www.wired.com/geekdad/2012/05/top-10-mothers-in-science-fiction-and-fantasy-wayback/

http://buzzymag.com/top-10-sci-fi-moms/

http://www.lbgale.com/2012/01/20/best-science-fiction-fantasy-mothers-not-defined-by-motherhood/

 

To Green Angel Tower

To Green Angel Tower
Tad Williams

I have finally finished the last book of Memory, Sorrow and Thorn. My brain is still processing the entirety of it all; it doesn’t seem fair to post a lengthy examination until everything settles. At the same time, the reading list waits for no man, so I feel like I should say a few things about this before some other book takes over that space in my brain. Looking back over past writings, the questions I asked of Stone of Farewell are equally valid for To Green Angel Tower. With just a couple of adjustments, these should tide us over until I push out a more detailed reaction.

1. Is Simon still a pantywaist?
2. Does the third book maintain the momentum of the first two?
3. Does Williams wander off on too many tangents for his own good?
4. Can we still spot the ghost of J.R.R. Tolkien marauding o’er the land?
5. On a scale of Errrrghgh to Magically Fabulous, how does this hold up?

1. Surprisingly, yes. Much better by the end, of course, but he is still a surly teen. To Simon’s credit, he is usually only a donkey’s behind when the ladies are involved, so I guess we can forgive some of it.

2. If by “momentum” we mean a similar pace to the rest of the series, the answer must be yes. Even at the climax, I would still consider things to be stately rather than hurtling, but the inexorability of the prose does drag the reader along. I have to wonder whose idea it was to split this book into two parts, and whose idea it was to put them back together. Did the trilogy format have some magical power back then? Was it unthinkable to have four books? At over 1000 pages, and with a convenient break midway, this really should have been two separate volumes.

3. Well, to be honest, Williams pulls everything together at the end in a way I can only admire. Every Chekovian gun gets fired properly, every jot and tittle of the prophecies are fulfilled, and none of the characters are red herrings or filler. More than one side story could have been trimmed with no loss to the whole, but basically everyone has a reason for being there, a specific piece of the plot to carry out, and a proper resolution to the respective personal conundrum. I remain surprised that I can’t tease out more loose ends or irrelevant digressions.

4. Yes, and it gets stronger the closer we get to the cataclysmic battle. While Simon remains more Luke Skywalker than Frodo, Gollum analogues pop up, the swords weigh heavily on their bearers, something quite like the Nazgul appears, Saruman’s factories make an cameo, and so on. There are of course massive departures, distinctions, and elaborations, as well as liberal borrowing from other sources. Williams gets credit from me for his world building and plotting, because I feel like he owns these books fearlessly. The echoes are there though, and inescapable.

5. If I loved fantasy, I would love these books. If I was Younger Me, before I burned out on fantasy (oddly enough in the middle of this very trilogy), I would love these books. Older Cynical Me was impressed and moved by the series; I would recommend it without reservation. I’m a little too crusty to be enchanted by much, but I recognize quality when I see it and I admit to feeling a certain melancholy when I knew that I would never read about Simon, Miri, Josua and crew again. The fact that I get up more for spaceships and cyberpunk is not Willams’ fault, so I don’t ding him in my ratings. It’s the highest, epic-est of fantasy, for those who are into that sort of thing, but readers should expect sore arms and wrists unless they get an ebook edition. This sucker is heavy.