A Shadow in Summer
A Shadow in Summer
Daniel Abraham
Long ago, I blocked out (but never finished writing) a story where a barely disguised me drove down to see a barely disguised friend, the two quietly broke off their relationship, and the guy meekly drove home without really defending himself or fighting for love. At the time, I scorned that character for being such a pansy. A few years and one nasty breakup later, I thought back on the story and decided that the character was worthy of admiration because he didn’t get worked up over things, accepted the inevitable, and didn’t waste his energy fighting for something so ephemeral as romance. I tell this not to wax poetic about my failed literary ambitions, but because one character in A Shadow in Summer recalled my own creation, bringing him to mind a decade or so since I last considered the guy. In some ways, these two are proxies for the book itself; younger me would probably be infuriated by a tale that declines to stride boldly forward, while an older and mellower me found a lot to like in this unconventional fantasy novel.
This interview is a good place to start. I knew nothing of Daniel Abraham until I read James S.A. Corey’s Leviathan Wakes. After that, I knew that he collaborates on blockbuster SF under inexplicable pen names and is part of the Albuquerque writers group in orbit around George R.R. Martin. (I am uncertain why New Mexico, of all places, is a fantasy hotbed. Is it perhaps the green chili cheeseburgers?) Now I know a bit more of his background and what he is trying to accomplish with The Long Price Quartet, of which A Shadow in Summer is the first volume. I was unsurprised to find out that much of what is off-kilter in the book is so by design, as Abraham is purposefully subverting fantasy tropes.
Following are some things I liked about the book. First on the list by a comfortable margin, Shadow is about economics. I realize that this makes me a particularly nefarious kind of nerd, but I really like stories that have a solid political economic base. Abraham’s book is what happens when magic meets Richard Rosecrance’s seminal The Rise of the Trading State. The city of Saraykeht is a trading state, which maintains its position and safety through economic power conferred by magic. The same magic can also protect the city, but its main purpose is to preserve Saraykeht’s competitive advantage in the cotton industry. Galt is a typical military state, maintaining its empire through conquest but dependent on Saraykeht and the other Summer Cities for goods. The core of the story is a Galtic attempt to undermine Saraykeht economically, a much more interesting tale than yet another campaign and siege. This is a forward thinking story, one that couldn’t have been written before contemporary Japan and Germany suggested an alternate path to world domination: buying everything.
Another thing I quite liked is the absence of destiny, prophecy, Chosen Youth, or any such nonsense. There are some people caught helplessly in the middle of the story, a few power players, some unexpected pressure points and pivots, but always, always agency. Each of the central characters chooses a path through the story, often constrained by the situation but never in the service of some overarching, mystical Plan. A couple of younger types come of age, some older characters confront the past, there is love both thwarted and successful. My favorite character, Otah, is mentioned above and acts as a stand in for my own creation, which in turn is a stand in for me. Not to say that Otah is meekly dumped by a woman, just that he has an oblique, idiosyncratic method to his decision making that I identify strongly with.
Finally, I enjoyed the ratio of world building to page count. While it is quite possible that the publisher split the Quartet into four solely to move more copies, Shadow recalls an older style of fantasy storytelling. It is not a long novel, so Abraham is forced to prune extraneous detail and concentrate the most important information into compact and efficient prose. We know from hints and tidbits that there are more Summer Cities, other Empires, and plenty to the world, but we are not party to anything not directly related to the story. We also see how the world works, as Abraham shows rather than tells. For example, The Cities are vaguely Asian, with some groups that resemble Shaolin or Zen in their training, and have a complex social hierarchy that is indicated in part by poses taken and gestures made during conversation. Abraham never explains these poses or describes them, merely states that characters are performing them. He can thus pack several pages of meaning into a short conversation, trusting the astute reader to infer and imagine the rest. 900 page volumes can be entertaining, but there is something to be said for brevity.
And now, in the “Not really a minus but definitely something I thought about” category, Shadow is very much fantasy in the David Brin definition of the word. (ie, looking back to a Golden Age rather than pressing forward into a Bright Future.) Magic is, of course, fading and kids these days just can’t conjure like they used to. Why is it that magic always has to be fading? Why can’t magic be constant, or possibly even getting better? What real life analog is there for magic constantly going away? (Someone might try to toss peak oil out there, or the loss of manufacturing sectors, but these are apples to oranges comparisons, not the least because “magic” is not a tangible substance made from decomposed dinosaur bones. On second thought, that’s a great premise for a novel.) There is also an obligatory scene where a character thinks back to the previous empire, where the ruler was strong and wise, the men good looking, and the children all above average. Midst all of the other trope subversion, I wonder why Abraham decided to keep this one.
A Shadow in Summer isn’t for anyone who requires Dark Lords and farmboys of royal lineage, nor fans of prancing woodlands elves and magical weapons of antiquity. It is not a thinly disguised Dungeons & Dragons campaign. Instead, Shadow is intelligent and ambiguous, without being depressing. Recommended for discerning fans of challenging fantasy who aren’t afraid to leave a few cliches behind.
Rating: Ruud Van Nistelrooy, a legendary goal poacher with a great name. He was efficient and predatory, lacking in wasteful flourish and a reliable source for goals.
Moldy Fantasy: The World of Tiers
The World of Tiers
Phillip Jose Farmer
When presented with the opportunity to read vintage, hardbound fantasy with gloriously impractical Boris Vallejo covers, I can think of few reasons to say no. Just such a chance awaited me at a recent library book sale, as all of the recent, popular books had long disappeared by the time I got there. All that remained were obscure titles published long ago by forgotten presses, likely unread since the Gerald Ford administration. I took one look at the impossibly muscled, very naked, but battle axe wielding warrior and maiden on the front of The World of Tiers and knew that we were destined to meet at that sale. As an added bonus, the author is no other than Phillip Jose Farmer, of whom I had heard much but not yet read. This, dear reader, is what Moldy Fantasy is all about.
The first cycle of The World of Tiers comprises five books, which were later gathered into the two volume compendium that I read. Between the cover art, the publication date, and the first chapter, Tiers gives every indication of being pulpy low fantasy. I fully expected Robert Wolff, our erstwhile hero, to be tramping around a clone of Barsoom or Gor. There is a surfeit of mighty thews, but Farmer also commits world building. We end up with something a bit more sophisticated and, dare I say, scientific than one initially expects. This is appropriate, seeing as how he wrote a foreword, but Tiers feels like low fantasy filtered through Roger Zelazny. The five books split neatly into two narrative arcs. Books one and two are collected into Volume One and feature Wolff, the Earthman who stumbles into the Tiers. The remaining three make up Volume Two and follow Wolff’s guide from the first book, Kickaha. Mr. K comes close to stealing the show in that book, something that Farmer was no doubt aware of. He rewards the nominal sidekick with a bigger part to play in the later books; this is probably a good call. Kickaha is impetuous and bold, Wolff, while admirable, is a bit square.
As for Farmer’s world building, what starts as typical low fantasy quickly spirals into something much weirder. Farmer’s “Lords,” powerful, godlike, humanoid beings, create their own pocket universes. Wolff tumbles into the Lord Jadawin’s universe, which is arranged in tiers. Books One and Three take place in this universe, Four is on Earth, and numbers Two and Five are in other Lord’s universes. Jadawin’s is the most fun because each tier is a completely different environment. There are Native American levels, High Middle Age levels, classical urban levels, and of course the Lord’s fortress. This allows for varied storytelling and a veritable cast of thousands. The other universes are less ambitious, but still mind blowing. Earth is, well, early 1970s Earth. It is perhaps no surprise that the fourth book was the least interesting. With all the talk of pocket universes, impossibly advanced technology, and occasional beam weapons, Tiers is clearly science fiction. Still, a lot of the action takes place in fantasy-like environments with swords and bows, plus there are those naked axe wielders on the covers, so we’ll just keep this in the Moldy Fantasy category for now. It is quite like McCafferey or Zelazny though, in the way that the story wanders in and out of genre.
There is a danger inherent in these Moldy Fantasy posts of the commentary foundering on the rocks of contextual ignorance. A gaggle of writers were active at the time – Bradbury, Ellison, Lieber, Vance to name a few – that I haven’t read sufficiently to highlight the dialogue occurring between them. I am just familiar enough to see that Farmer is part of the conversation without being able to follow all sides, so there are no doubt all sorts of little asides and influences that are going over my head. There’s really no way to fix this, except to read more moldy fantasy, so we’ll have to leave Farmer relatively unexamined for now.
Taken by themselves however, the Tiers novels hold up. There is a bit of residual sexism, despite what appear to be Farmer’s honest efforts to avoid it, and certain moments of plot convenience that are probably more a function of word count than narrative skill. Some parts of the series work better for me (Jadawin’s realm in its entirety) than others (Earth, long stretches in less interesting universes), but I imagine that individual mileage will vary. The books are far more creative and entertaining than I expected, so credit to the author for taking me by surprise. Farmer is from a different era, which may leave fans of contemporary fantasy cold; pace and style have changed drastically. Still, The World of Tiers is worth seeking out. Come for the naked axe warriors, stay for the crazy pocket universes.
Rating: Sven Goran-Eriksson. Like Kickaha, the dour Swede’s travels have covered the globe and taken him to far and obscure corners, to mixed results.
Debris
Debris
Jo Anderton
When looking for something off the beaten path, I can usually count on Angry Robot Books to deliver. They put out a lot of supernatural and/or urban fantasy, but also publish authors like Lavie Tidhar and Aliette de Bodard. I saw Debris first in their eARCs, then later at the library, and something about it piqued my curiosity. It promised to be urban science fantasy, with the potential to rise above cliché.
Immediate kudos go to Anderton for her world building. While there were noticeable echoes of other similar books, she managed to keep things fresh. The first place I thought of was New Crobuzon (China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station), though Movac-Under-Keeper is less grotesque. It also, while possessed of a certain European air, seems less Dickensian-ly British than a lot of the steampunk genre. I actually wouldn’t call Debris steampunk anyway, since a form of engineering magic is at the core of the story rather than boilers or Babbage computing machines. It is a part, however, of the ever growing subgenre of Industrial Revolution Fantasy, with its polluted cities, smoking factories, and Victorian technology. I’m guessing this subgenre was kicked off by Marxists writing fantasy wherein the protagonists fight for the means of production. (I’m only partially facetious with this description.)
This is not to say that Anderton is a Marxist, or at least not to the extent that Mieville, for example, or Eric Flint is. There is a standard level of hand wringing over plight of the huddled masses, the usual oppression from above, and even an oblique indictment of that portion of the middle class who spends too much energy maintaining their lifestyles to notice the suffering going on elsewhere. Nobody really pontificates or declaims though, which is probably just as well. As it is, I spent the first 100 pages or so fearing that this would be another “hero(ine) falls from position of wealth and power, discovers true self in poverty” story. Fortunately, it is not. That particular plot chestnut reached its pinnacle in Pohl and Kornbluth’s Space Merchants and doesn’t need to be touched again until somebody can dethrone that classic. Anderton wisely realizes that more fun is to be had elsewhere and steps onto a more interesting path.
No sooner did I mention the world building than things moved off in another direction. Returning, let’s look a bit more at what’s going on. Tanyana, our plucky heroine, is one who controls “pions.” Pions are all purpose building blocks, the electricity, cement, bytes, steam, and steel of her world. They are molded into buildings, sent throughout the city as power, and turned into almost computer-like objects. Not far into the story, an “accident” causes Tanyana to lose her control of pions and instead makes her into a collector, one who can see “debris.” Debris are the waste products of pion usage and must be cleaned up lest they overwhelm the system and shut down the city. Debris collectors are necessary outcasts, similar to the night soil collectors of Olde Japan. (Readers not familiar with night soil are welcome to google it. Let’s just say that I wouldn’t hang out with someone who spent all night surrounded by it either.) Needless to say, Tanyana’s life changes in many unpleasant ways.
I enjoyed Anderton’s creation. The pion-debris concept provides fertile ground for storytelling and broad flexibility for plot use. Need a 50 story building? Why not? Dingy, polluted ghetto? No problem. Debit cards? Sure. Crazy suits that turn arms into swords and are attached to bone ala the X-men’s Wolverine? In a proverbial jiffy. Her city is also well thought out, with its river, infrastructure and transportation systems, and mix of prosperous neighborhoods and slums. Two reviews I read take opposing views of the completeness of the city, betraying the critics’ respective areas of expertise: Here is a glowing portrait of the world, while this one wonders at the holes in Movac’s political economy. It takes a certain brain to notice and point out flaws in a fantasy world’s government or economic system; unfortunately, I have one. Still, there’s nothing particularly glaring here and most will be satisfied and engaged by the world. Everything beyond the city and the history behind Movac’s present are broadly hinted at, but the details have been left to later books to explore.
And later books there will be. The sequel is slated for this coming summer (2012) and Anderton has left, if not a cliffhanger, plenty of questions unresolved at the end of her first book. This is, I suppose, where my biggest quibbles with the book lie. The story starts out with a literal bang, quickly throwing Tanyana into the world of debris collection. It then feints down the narrative path already mentioned, before correcting itself and heading into conspiracy thriller territory. New plot lines emerge, some romance complications show up, and pretty soon the conspiracy is somewhat abandoned for crises, shadowy (and ineffective) resistance movements, and a prophecy. (?) Finally, near the end, some attempt is made at tying all the threads together, but it’s pretty obvious that we’re going to have to take Anderton at her word and settle for the inconclusive conclusion of the first book. Debris lacks a bit of grace at the end, but I will have to wait for the follow-up to pass full judgment on whether Anderton has things under control, or is spinning tales just slightly beyond her reach.
That said, the book was entertaining and original. Less flowery and demanding than Mieville, fewer brass knobs and goggles than steampunk, less smoggy London than Tidhar, and far more creative than stock fantasy, Debris is a good change of pace for anyone who’s had enough of broadswords or starships. It has the potential to open up into a rare, truly unique world, if Anderton can keep all of her juggling balls in the air through the sequels. Even if the series as a whole isn’t everything it could be, it will still be a worthwhile place to visit.
Rating: Hmm, how about Napoli? This is a team that fell from the highest of heights, albeit gradually, and is slowly working its way back to the top. The city is also famous for its garbage collection, or the lack thereof.
The Last Light of the Sun
The Last Light of the Sun
Guy Gavriel Kay
I should begin at the end and say right now that I enjoyed and recommend Kay’s tale of Vikings, Welshmen, and Anglo-Saxons. I want to get that out of the way now, because I have an inkling that the following commentary will range far and wide, and perhaps seem overly critical of what is quality fantasy. I’m late to the party, as I often am, but I can now finally say that I’ve dipped a toe into one of fantasy’s best bodies of work and read some Guy Gavriel. I’m glad I finally did, as I have heard many times that he is one of our current masters of the genre. Kay does, however, seem a bit like an archetype for quality fantasy, as such he is going to become a guinea pig for the following thought experiments.
The ideas I have been kicking around since finishing the book are a combination of two recent conversations. The first, here, was the spontaneous State of the Genre discussion that Jose and I conducted last week. My initial comments were triggered in part by finishing Last Light that morning and centered around the dour gravity of so much fantasy. The other was a recent David Brin article, rehashing a long-running commentary of his that divides fantasy and science fiction not by swords and laser guns, but by the author’s attitude toward change and progress. Follow-ups delve further into why people would be so eager to experience and defend a time that involved such wonderful relics as serfdom, pestilence, infant mortality, body odor, and hunks of meat not seasoned with dry rub and barbecue sauce.
I knew from the start that I was in for a very serious book. Within three pages, the reader learns that the Viking men smell like sweat, mead and bear fat. The reader also finds out that someone has stolen a valuable horse, but that the village is on a very small, comparatively inaccessible island. Neither of these revelations comes with even a hint of amusement, despite ample opportunity to mock. I finally chuckled lightly at page 181, but that was the only mirth to be had in the entire book. Not everyone needs to be a comedian, and not everything needs to have a wry, ironic detachment, but still, why so glum, Guy? Why the long face? I realize that life wasn’t great for these people, what with dysentery, Viking raiders, mud hovels, and all, but surely people laughed once in awhile?
I suspect that the tone is a result of the author wanting to say something meaningful in his book and wanting to be taken seriously by readers and critics outside the genre. Kay is hardly alone in this, and I don’t condemn him for it, especially the first. The truly excellent among us are always striving to be better, to create something lasting no matter the medium, so using a book about Vikings and fairies to plumb the depths of human emotion is perfectly acceptable. It may not, however, be quite what I’m looking for in a book, nor do I think it is the reason why people read genre fiction in the first place. Many of us, though I can’t speak for all, read SFF to have our minds blown by something awesome. I’ll go read a Booker Prize winner to level up my humanity and compassion stats. Profound thoughts are a plus, but to me they are the maraschino cherry on top of the ice cream sundae of wild and crazy hijinks. Still, I refuse to dock points for authors trying to do more. I may poke fun at them, though.
This segues semi-gracefully into Brin’s question. I have already suggested that one reason for the somber tone of the book is the nature of life in the period Kay portrays. In spite of this, Last Light is clearly fantasy by Brin’s definition. Change is coming to all of the people in question, both technological and societal. Power is slowly concentrating in the hands of a few wise (or just ruthless) rulers, native religions are succumbing to the Christianity stand-in, the Anglycyns (English) are figuring out ways to remove the Vinmark (Viking) threat permanently, and the “Vikings” are in turn slowly leaving the raiding life behind. Most poignant, Humanity is slowly taming the wild forests and pushing out Faery. Mad props, as it were, to Kay for confronting Change head on, as so much fantasy assumes a static society and goes on its merry way. Like Tolkien, however, a whiff of sadness lingers everywhere, as the characters quietly lament the passing of the old way of life. Things are getting better for all, with education, safety, and health on the up and up, so why the nostalgia? Kay is basically writing an elegy to dysentery.
Two explanations present themselves to me. The first, the simplest and least interesting to talk about, is our own wish fulfillment. The misty past lends itself more to magic, which I’m sure many of us wish we could wield. Magic, for me at least, is all the more romantic and enticing if it is long ago; much moreso than wizards walking through modern day Cleveland. The second, and much more interesting idea, is what seems to be a natural human yearning for the feudal state. This was discussed at length in the comments following Brin’s article and is a vaguely disquieting concept. (I have no background in this sort of thing and make no claims to accuracy, but it is something to ponder.) I can’t explain why we rabid defenders of democracy and freedom seem drawn to this sort of thing, but it’s hard to escape the allure of idealized feudal life.
This is not limited to books. Consider the recent insanity directed towards the British royal wedding. Why on earth should people in the US care? We fought a rather famous war to escape the British royals. For the same reason, why go to Renaissance Fairs or join the SCA? I’m not sure what it says about us that epic fantasy is currently far more popular than its science fiction cousin. I can’t deny the same appeal, though I couldn’t have cared less about weddings. On a trip through Vietnam, we visited the pre-colonial capital in Hue. Standing in the throne room, I felt the allure of the feudal past. Even though the throne was just an uncomfortable looking wooden chair, I was in awe that a king had once sat in it. Then I shook myself and wondered what I was mooning about.
It is time to bring things back from the dizzying precipice of Greater Meaning and return to the book. Last Light is good fantasy. There are no epic quests, no destinies or prophecies, and no Dark Lords taking over the world. Instead, there are a few groups of people, with whom we hold varying levels of sympathy, pursuing their own incompatible ends. There is one truly bad guy, one or maybe two good guys, and everyone else placed somewhere along the black to white spectrum. It is all rather like real life, if a bit lacking in fun. I plan on reading more of Kay’s books when the fantasy urge hits me again, as Last Light is one of the best I’ve read recently.
Rating: Classic British matches with a bunch of old guys talking about how everything was better back when you could hoof long balls down the field and break people’s legs on tackles. (I may have used this example before, so we’ll call it a sequel and be content.)
Jose and Pep Talk Fantasy
Jose and Pep sat down the other day to mull over various mundane topics like work and family. Talk, however, soon turned to books, in a spontaneous State of the Genre conversation about fantasy. None of this was rehearsed, prepared, or planned (though it has been edited a bit), merely a glimpse inside the heads of the Two Dudes brain trust.
Jose: I’m going to take something up for reading on my trip this weekend.
Pep: Have you picked it yet?
Jose: Was thinking about some Glen Cook.
Pep: Good times. Though I’ve only read the first Black Company books. He’s someone I need to read more of.
Jose: Agreed. Also, Steven Erickson has finished up his entire series now. I probably should just buckle down and read the whole damn thing from start to finish.
Pep: I need to read book four, but it’s kind of a long investment of time.
Jose: KARSA ORLONG. I’ve read up to book eight, though he’s never hit quite as good as book three. You’ve read Memories of Ice, right?
Pep: Yes.
Jose: So cool, from start to finish. The crazy artists and their frog? Amazing. “Go eat another clod of paint.” Books 6 – 8 are generally awesome.
Pep: Slowly I will get there. Right now I am about to finish my first Guy Gavriel Kay.
Jose: I like him.
Pep: I wish he would declaim in stentorian tones a little less.
Jose: (laughs)
Pep: His story is good enough without the soap opera narrative asides. Seriously, I smiled once at p. 181 and haven’t since.
Jose: Kay has a problem where he wants to make things dramatic, and it’s a big problem. Fantasy authors need to get away from the concept of serious human interaction. Seriously, they’re not good at it. What we do appreciate is descriptions of some dude hacking millions of crazed cannibals into a house and then setting it on fire and turning into a war god. THAT is what fantasy is for.
Pep: (laughs) It’s true though. I’m not reading these books for insights into human nature. I’ll read Hemingway or something for that. I want something awesome on my way to work, nothing more.
Jose: I enjoy Stephenson’s answer, actually. He shies away from serious human interaction and places all of it within the boundaries of some crazy issue; either crazy complex calculus or ontology [ala Anatheum] or the completely ridiculous. That way he can say whatever he wants and it seems to be relatively legit.
Pep: Agreed. You can say things about people without dripping in sincerity.
Jose: Right. That’s a serious problem. The things in real life where we learn most about people aren’t in some heart felt break down. It’s in the little asides, how they phrase their day to day life. Not some stunning reveal of their emotions.
Pep: Some of these genre writers remind me of Mormons. We so desperately want to be taken seriously by other Christians, and the writers so desperately want to be taken seriously by lit snobs.
Jose: It’s a good analogy I think. And I think you’ll find that, generally speaking, good fantasy only comes in a singular variety. It doesn’t bother so much with character and instead focuses on a world that’s so completely alien that it becomes a fantastic reality. It’s why I hate George R.R. Martin, by the way – his concept of people is totally awful.
Pep: I’ve never tried to get into him, except for about 50 pages of Game of Thrones, which didn’t impress me. I just got the feeling that 1) nothing good is going to happen here and I will just get depressed, and 2) I’ve read all the plot/world details before.
Jose: He’s revered because he doesn’t have a good guy.
Pep: And kills people. Er, characters.
Jose: Right. But the problem is he’s still awful. It’s why I appreciate people like Glen Cook, Erickson, or Gene Wolfe. No attempts at “AWESOME AND DEEP CHARACTERIZATION.” It’s about making a world that’s internally consistent and blows your mind.
Pep: The thing is, Cook nails it with the first Black Company trilogy. I loved some of those people. I even got behind the romance angle, which is unheard of.
Jose: And you never actually get any serious monologues.
Pep: Wolfe is just on another planet. That guy has no peer.
Jose: The problem is, of course, sometimes Wolfe is just on another planet.
Pep: Also true!
Jose: Whether or not that is a good thing is to be determined. But as a general function, Gene Wolfe does things in the Book of the New Sun [not really read much of his other stuff] that I think most fantasy authors should take serious notes from.
Pep: I haven’t read anything either, but need to. Most current fantasy doesn’t appeal to me. I don’t get Martin, never got into Rothfuss, won’t touch Sanderson because he’s a BYU product.
Jose: Fantasy wants to be mainstream. It’s yearning for the accolades of the Protestant pulpit as it were. I think basically Erickson is the sole author carrying the torch right now.
Pep: He might be.
Jose: Pinto was awesome, but his book [s?] descended quickly into “I want to write about gay relationships.” But the first 250-ish pages had a.) people getting killed, b.) weird blood rights, c.) strange fantasy aliens, d.) best of all, opium trips. Then it descended into happy happy homosexual relationship land, which, while not a problem, became sort of preachy.
Pep: I haven’t read those, but Hal Duncan was the same. I’m ok with gay characters, but am not happy with manipulation via gays. I wish I had more fantasy names to throw out there, but I just haven’t read a lot. I get a craving once in awhile, then I end up reading something weird like Hal Duncan and have to get back to space opera for awhile
Jose: I think the perfect mix is always a combination of hard sci-fi and fantasy. You want the ability to manipulate the rules via unobtanium; things like magic do that.
Pep: Midnight at the Well of Souls.
Jose: But it has to be about the environment and the world; NOT some goofy David Eddings rip off. Because let’s be frank, the Belgariad did protagonist-based fantasy better than anyone else.
Pep: Har. THERE’S someone I don’t dare return to. Can’t ruin my childhood memories.
Jose: Actually, it holds up pretty well. You can sort of see the artifice when you return, but it works well and he knows it works well. To this day the 1500-esh page romp of the Belgariad is probably the best protagonist based fantasy I’ve read. The Mallorean is good too, but mainly because it doesn’t suck and it’s fun to watch Belgarion yell at people and throw lightning bolts. Other than that, Eddings is awful,
though the Redemption of Athalus is pretty much the greatest book for the first 500 pages, and then the worst book for the last 300 pages.
Pep: Hmm. You tempt me to retry those sometime. I loved those books like you wouldn’t believe, so I’m scared to touch anything he’s done now. See, Belgarion and the Dragonlance crew pretty much defined my childhood, up until the time (partway through Tad Williams) I gave up fantasy and moved to Hard SF. I knew Dragonlance was silly, so it didn’t hurt to reread it and know that it was bad, but I don’t want to lose those happy memories of Garion, Polgara, et al.
Jose: Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn is amazing. If you haven’t read it, you have to. It’s really that good.
Pep: It’s on my list. That’s the one I gave up partway through. Of course, he wasn’t finished writing it at the time and I just ran out of fantasy steam.
Jose: Its 4,000-esh pages of awesome, though it takes time to get into.
Pep: I do need to sit down with a butt kicking fantasy soon.
Jose: Memory, Sorrow and Thorn is a good choice. Simon has some very good moments, like attacking a dragon.
Pep: It’s been on my list for awhile, though of course I don’t move methodically down that list.
At this point, talk turned elsewhere, then wound down for the night.
Vellum
Vellum
Hal Duncan
Several year ago when I was getting back into SFF, I remember dipping into the community on the interwebs looking for the newest, brightest stuff coming out. At the time, if I recall correctly, Hal Duncan’s name was being thrown around with Joe Abercrombie, and later Patrick Rothfuss, as a Hot New Voice in fantasy. I noted this, then forgot it. During a recent trip to a library branch I usually don’t frequent, I pulled out Vellum (along with Heavy Planet), vaguely remembered the name, and decided to give it a shot, expecting a “gritty” fantasy similar to the other fantasy books out their that have whipped the readership into such a frenzy. I was in for a bit of a surprise.
I am still trying to make sense of Duncan’s vision. I’m not sure I ever will. Vellum is a polarizing book that I don’t think I’m qualified to judge. It is what might happen when Snowcrash and Dhalgren are joined by, I don’t know, Finnegan’s Wake maybe, in a hallucinogenic drug-fueled, ill-advised hookup and produce an offspring to a U2 soundtrack. If this makes sense, I probably don’t need to write anymore. If not, well, I will try to clarify. As I have said, though, because Vellum is, shall we say, experimental, I feel uneasy giving it a yay or nay. I am not well equipped as a reader to deal with books like that (I distinctly remember wishing that The Sound and Fury would just get on with it when I read it for college lit class), so it is entirely possible that I what find to be rambling drivel is actually quite profound. So for today’s post, I will attempt to be Fox News: I will report and You will decide.
Funny that I should mention Fox News, considering the twin axes of socialist revolution and gay acceptance that Duncan grinds away at. Though I risk putting thoughts into the author’s head, these two topics appear to be close to his heart and are generally about as subtle as Bono on an overwrought afternoon. Overwrought is a good word for the whole book, in fact, because while I compare it to Snowcrash (more on that later), it has absolutely none of that book’s irreverence. I am struggling to remember a single time I laughed during Vellum and coming up empty. It’s not quite eye-rolling, Dawson’s Creek-esque angst (James Vanderbeek!), but that is mostly a combination of dizzying narrative shifts and Duncan’s virtuoso style, rather than content.
What Vellum has going for it, and it goes in spades, is a mind-blowing setup. Some of it has been done before, connecting legends and archetypes through time, our reality being one of many on some master recording of the multiverse, good and evil blurring the lines between each other, true names and words of power, etc., but Duncan succeeds in putting things together in his own inimitable way. Much of it connects originally to Sumeria, thus the Snowcrash connection. (There is even a moment where a character starts ranting about memes and thought bombs originating in Sumeria that was probably lifted directly from Stephenson’s crazy book.) He tells his tale, however, in perspective hopping, dizzingly nonlinear fashion that jumps in and out of first and third person, skips through a number of genres, and tells three or four separate stories that I assume are connected at some level besides shared character names. The experimental tone is where the Dhalgren comparisons take hold, along with the rampant homoeroticism. Where Dhalgren is an aloof, disengaged narrative though, Vellum is emoting on all cylinders.
But like Dhalgren, the author has taken and intriguing premise and given it over to literary experiment. I am accustomed to untangling political economy tracts and the like, so this sort of fiction holds no fear for me. It wasn’t too difficult to keep up with the different eras, interconnected characters, and overall themes in Vellum, though I confess to probably missing a few bits while trying to read over the deafening rumble of snow chained bus tires on the freeway. Duncan doesn’t go as far as stream of conscious or other such narrative nonsense, so any attentive reader should be fine. However, and again this reminds me of Dhalgren, I’m not convinced that there is a reward for the reader’s hard work. Every time the story finally got going, Duncan would tease a resolution and jump onto another track, forcing me to start all over. Momentum picks up on perhaps three separate occasions, but it takes a long while to get there and is over all too soon.
I will give the author two means of escape. First, there is a second volume in this series. Vellum‘s payoff is partial at best, nearly non-existent at worst; this may be because a lot of the fun is waiting in the second book. Second, the whole book may be oozing greater meaning and I, somewhat insensitive literalist that I am, may just be missing it all. If this is true, fine. I never claimed to like this sort of literary hoo-haw and am happy to leave it to those who do. I won’t condemn the avant-garde, because everything needs to have its boundaries pushed, but I probably won’t buy it either.
So do I like Vellum? I don’t know. Will I read its follow up? I don’t know. I’m curious what happens, but not sure I can slog through another 400 pages of the stuff. If it was a straight up read, I’d be all in, even if I don’t particularly care what happens to most of the characters. I’m curious how he chooses to resolve the craziness he’s set up. If it’s more of the same obtuse storytelling and sincere pleas for the gay and downtrodden, I may stick with exploding spaceships and deny my vague curiosity. Do I recommend the book? Give it a try, if it sounds interesting. The reader needs to be prepared for the road ahead, though. Also, I don’t think there’s any shame in quitting 50 pages in – this one doesn’t get any different as you go.
Rating: Considering the lack of avant-garde soccer play, this is tricky. How about a cubist painting of a match, simultaneously showing all aspects of the sport from all angles?
Dragon Sword and Wind Child
Dragon Sword and Wind Child
Ogiwara Noriko
I am not the target demographic for this book. I checked it out because it’s a Haikasoru book, it’s fantasy based in ancient Japan rather than ancient Europe, and I rationalized that maybe my daughter would enjoy it if I read it aloud to her. My daughter never made it past the first chapter, but I gave it a shot on my own despite my general reluctance to mess with YA fantasy. The bad news is that this is definitely YA and pretty clearly the author’s first book. The good news is that Dragon Sword and Wind Child (DSWC) is not nearly as targeted towards adolescent girls as it initially seems, and that the author manages to be rather inventive with the material at hand.
The big draw here is of course the setting. DSWC is built around Japanese legends, most strongly the story of the Goddess Ameterasu as recorded in the Kojiki, one of Japan’s core historical/ legendary volumes. Ogiwara has naturally changed it around a bit, but the foundation for whole tale lies in a well-known ancient myth. Er, well-known to the Japanese, that is. This isn’t the Japan of Kurosawa samurai movies, nor is it even the time traveling historical fantasy of The Lord of the Sands of Time. In fact, Ogiwara is vague through most of the book as to whether or not the characters are romping through ancient Japan, or just some fantasy world where everybody just looks like they’re from Japan. (Rather like how much high fantasy is in a world named, to pull something out of my behind, Ereboran and all the inhabitants are named Sir Brian of Helmslee and just happen to act like Europeans circa 1257 AD. Ho there churlish knave, and all that.) I think at the end though, she commits herself to Japan’s actual geography, though this raises questions of just who exactly is in danger. Will the whole world be destroyed? Or just a relatively small island part of it? These quibbles aside, Ogiwara’s Japan reminded me most of Princess Mononoke.
DSWC came first, however, so I wonder if Miyazaki isn’t influenced by it (and its sequels). After all, the authors share many common themes: strong young women as protagonists, a deep connection to nature and the environment, backdrops formed from disparate elements of ancient Japan, and complicated views of good and evil. This actually occurred to me just five minutes ago, almost two weeks after finishing the novel, and has just changed the status of Ogiwara’s sequels from “Maybe check out some time” to “I’d better look into this further.”
The next bits are somewhat spoilerific, as I want to dig into the best parts of the story. The heart of the plot is, of course, the eternal struggle between Light and Dark. Light is represented by Prince Tsukishiro and Princess Teruhi, immortal warriors of the God of Light, forever young and beautiful, and tireless generals in the Army of Light. Dark is a ragtag bunch of rebels, hold-outs, frontiersmen, and other followers of Earth Goddess. Light is pure, clean, white, and disconnected from the grubby reality of ancient life. Dark moves with the rhythm of the earth, lives in the forests and fields, and is alright with a little bit of mud. The world is sundered between the two because of the split that came between the God of Light and the Earth Goddess long ago, part of the Ameterasu myth that forms the foundation of the story.
DSWC stands out from the crowd of YA fantasy because Ogiwara doesn’t just flip the identity of good and evil, she detaches these two adjectives from the battling sides. Dark is clearly the sympathetic faction; they are indeed “right,” but neither side is entirely “wrong.” This paves the way for a resolution that is more of a reconciliation than a triumph, since what the two sides need is communication and understanding, rather than subjugation. This, I would argue, is a very Japanese way of approaching a problem, in contrast to a more Western tendency to overcome evil, not negotiate with it. (Which is itself a reflection of the Christian affinity for Manichean conflict, rather than a more nuanced view of clashing ideas which are ultimately connected in ways not readily apparent.)
Looking over what I’ve written, it occurs to me that, while I may not be giving Ogiwara too much credit per se, I am certainly reading more into the story than its intended audience would. This is still YA, there’s still a lot of fluttery hearts and the discovery of true love, a gaggle of youth bearing some grave destiny that they can’t run away from, and teens learning to be happy with who they are, even if that identity happens to include a homicidal dragon or the power to quell angry nature gods. I have long since learned to love me for me, so large portions of The Message induced eye rolling rather than productive introspection. To the author’s credit, though, every time I started to cringe at the teen girl conversations, Ogiwara pulled back from the precipice of cattiness and returned the story to more respectable topics, like war or angry gods.
DSWC shows many of the signs of a first novel. There are some questionable pacing decisions, visible seams between parts of the plot, and an ending that feels a bit too pat. In fact, I am starting to realize just how difficult a solid ending is to write. Rhythmic irregularity and coherent plot strand connections are challenging for a veritable plethora of more experienced authors, so I don’t fault Ogiwara too heavily here. Still, everything seemed a little too happy for me, considering the violence and drama leading into the finale. I am also baffled somewhat at her reluctance to pull the trigger on certain characters that deserved worse, while others got the ax in jarring fashion, but that may just be a reflection of the injustice of real life. Technical issues aside, it’s probably just as well that I didn’t read this to my daughter – Wind in the Willows it is not. At least, not unless I missed some violent deaths, suicidal harem maidens, and a fleeting moment of icky incest on my last read that particular classic.
Trying to condense all of this into a recommendation paragraph is tricky. DSWC would be a good place for anime fans to first dig into Japanese writing, since that group is likely more forgiving of the technical flaws and general adolescent vibe, but would enjoy the Japanese-ness of it all. (Shrine maidens! Kimonos! Koi ponds!) Sci-fi and fantasy grognards like me will probably look askance at the emoting and Destiny, but appreciate the unconventional (by our standards) setting and mythical foundation, as well as Ogiwara’s willingness to toy with our expectations of Good and Evil. John Ringo fanboys should probably move on down the line; there’s nothing to see here.
Rating: A U-17 championship match. Some quality and a lot of potential on display, but ultimately limited by the players’ age and experience.
Dragonflight
Dragonflight
Anne McCaffrey
This is my second post in the morbid series “This Person Just Died So I’d Better Read Something of His/Hers and Write About It.” (The first was Komatsu Sakyo’s unforgettable Espy.) It also fits neatly into Moldy Fantasy, but I don’t want to overburden myself with titles. For now we’ll stick with the Recently Deceased Author tag, but quietly subtitle this Moldy Fantasy Part 2. It may be the inaugural post in a third series, but more on that later. And so without any further explanatory ado, Two Dudes delves into the worlds of Anne McCaffrey.
I’m not totally certain what to expect from the Pern series. I read the first six books (Dragonriders of and The Harper Hall of Pern) long, long ago, and remember liking them, even if they didn’t make as big an impression on me as some of my (unfortunate?) early favorites. (*cough* Dragonlance *cough*) I never got around to anything else until a few years ago, when I picked up The Rowan completely at random. I put it down very quickly, but I’m not sure if that is a reflection of the writing quality, or just the fact that I should never have chosen a book for and about telepathic teenage girls. Teen Witch in space anyone? Regardless, with Ms. McCaffrey’s recent passing, it seemed appropriate to give one of her classics another spin.
Any sort of plot summary is no doubt utterly superfluous, but just in case, here we go. The Pern books are an ancient and perhaps pioneering example of science fantasy. People on Pern were once colonists from Earth, but have been beaten back into feudal tech levels through the depredations of a rogue planet that careens through the solar system every two hundred years or so. When it passes close to Pern, the so-called Red Star flings out Thread, a non-sentient but implacably hostile life form that devours all biological mass it encounters. The Pernese combat this with dragons, bio-engineered to fly, breathe fire, and psychically bond with their riders. These riders form a privileged warrior class charged with protecting the planet. This is technically fantasy, because there are swords, suits of armor, nubile damsels, brave warriors, and of course dragons, but it is science fiction because there is a reason and an explanation for all of it. A delicate walk on the tightrope indeed. The story follows Lessa, our plucky but delicate heroine, and F’lar, the stern but just dragon rider, as they save everyone and spite their antagonists.
A few initial positive thoughts to begin with. McCaffrey manages to combine, in one novel of just a couple hundred pages, pretty much everything I dislike in SFF. Dragons and their riders have telepathic powers, time travel becomes a factor later in the story, and romance is comparatively prominent. This is a true recipe for disaster, and yet it worked. I finished the book and had fun doing it, which means that all three of these irritants were just barely subordinate enough to the cool stuff (dragons flying around burning stuff). There was never really any question that (SPOILER ALERT!) Lessa and F’lar would triumph and find true love along the way, but that’s not really why anyone reads this sort of thing. So points here for fun and for keeping potential absurdities under control.
Frequent readers who don’t enjoy my penchant for wandering off on political and economic tangents may want to skip the next paragraphs. Several questions bubbled up when reading Dragonflight. I realize that some of these are no doubt endemic to fantasy, but since I don’t read a lot of fantasy I will ask them here. Pern’s feudal structure was rather surprising. Because the dragons have to be raised in the mountains, the dragon riders are forced to depend on the castles and towns for their sustenance. This is fine when the Thread are falling and the dragons are necessary, but the Red Star only rolls into town every two hundred years or so. Orbital irregularities mean that in the story, it has been roughly four hundred years since the dragons were last useful. This means that for four hundred years, the dragon riders have been a useless top of the food chain. Four hundred years! We are supposed to hate the unwashed masses for rebelling against the taxes, but that’s an awful long time for people to expect subservience. Apparently nobody ever thought of taking up farming during the multi-generation interludes, but instead just wondered why resentment festered on every side. Lessa often complains in the book about people being too hidebound and narrow minded, not realizing what a bizarre economic rut her society is stuck in. Surely creatures that fly, can travel instantaneously between two points, and breathe fire have some other economic use. If nothing else, think what UPS could do with this sort of thing, beyond flaming duels with FedEx carriers. (“UPS: We get it there faster, and set the competition on fire. Literally.”)
This odd stasis goes for technology as well. Characters spend a lot of time bemoaning lost technologies and long extinct techniques, everything from Thread fighting devices to proper storage of written materials. I understand the initial tech loss, when the colony faced extinction, and I understand one or another Thread countermeasure disappearing over the generations, but what have these people done for the last four hundred years? Is the whole planet full of uncreative and boring people? I’m not sure how other fantasy worlds justify static tech levels, except by claiming that magic somehow nullifies the desire to research, but it baffled me that everything just stayed the same for so long. I suppose there is some historical precedent in Chinese civilization, but the whole setup from the economy on struck me as odd. Perhaps I am thinking too much? Though according to the almighty Wikipedia, later Pern books take the technological concern into account somewhat.
Finally, the rest of the Pern books may start a new list: Books the Internet Ruined for Me. I started poking around some commentary the other night, purely at random, and it may have scared me off the rest. As I have written before, I’m not particularly sensitive to feminist concerns, portrayal of women, etc., but a couple of articles really crystallized uneasy feelings that kept lurking in the background when I read Dragonflight. Maybe because the books are written by a woman, I assumed there would be less creepy patriarchy. Instead there are female characters who are strong until some defined point when they get all quivery and need a strong Man to set things right. These women are also in weird semi-abusive, vaguely rape-y relationships with guys that are otherwise heroic. Any time our nominal Good Guy is musing in a mildly regretful way that sexytimes with his partner are awfully close to rape, and the female author seems totally alright with this, my alarm bells start to tinkle a bit. There is also the matter of all desirable women being childlike, innocent waifs, but living in Japan has desensitized me more to pederasty than the author’s apparent desire to be dominated roughly by stern, muscular men. And Dragonflight doesn’t even get into psychic gay trysts between riders whose dragons are in heat, which is apparently dealt with at length in later books. Young adult fiction indeed.
So my critical reappraisal of Pern settles on: good fun until I started thinking about it too much. Dragonflight was a fast, entertaining read, the Pern setup is intriguing and well thought out, and while there may not be many surprises, it was a happy triumph for our heroes. Unfortunately, I’m less eager to keep reading for what I hope are obvious reasons. Perhaps a later book in the series, or another of McCaffrey’s works (but not The Rowan!) would suit my fancy more. Stay tuned.
Rating: Socrates. Not the Greek, of course, but the iconic, bearded Brazilian who helped bring his team back to prominence in the early 80s. Like McCaffrey, he recently left behind numerous fans when he went to The Great World Cup in the Sky.
Moldy Fantasy
Empire of the East
The Complete Book of Swords
Fred Saberhagen
The Book of the Wars
Mark Geston
Tales of the Dying Earth
Jack Vance
In a past post about the infamous NPR Top 100 SFF list, I noted that, if the list is to be trusted, most of the best science fiction was written before 1980, while most of the best fantasy was published in the last fifteen years or so. This is obviously not the case, but begs the question of why fantasy readers seem ignorant of, or indifferent to, the tradition. Well, here at Two Dudes, we pride ourselves on taking stands against ignorance! Today’s article is a survey of old, moldy stuff that was written before one of the Two Dudes was born. (The older Dude predates the most recent additions by just a few years.) More importantly, these books were written before the epic fantasy boom and are a look back at a different way of writing, before Dragonlance, Shannara, and Robert Jordan scrambled everything.
Length is the obvious difference between yesteryear and the new century. Most of today’s fantasy can’t seem to say anything in under 600 pages, and that’s just for one book in a (long) series. Without criticizing authors who love to write lots of words, I will merely point out that each of the four listed above is a complete trilogy within the page count of a contemporary introductory volume. The other major difference is thematic: each takes place in a fantasy version of the post-apocalypse sub-genre and is, while perhaps not free of Tolkein’s influence, not beholden to the archetypal fantasy land of merry elves, gruff dwarves, and fat halflings. These stories are also shot through with ambiguity and ambivalence; the line between good and evil is faintly drawn, if at all. This is not to claim that today’s fantasy is different, except that anyone praising one or another high profile series for being gritty and/or dark and implying that it is somehow groundbreaking is obviously out of touch with the classics.
Saberhagen’s might be my favorite of the books under the microscope today. The Empire and Swords books all take place in the same world, but thousands of years apart. Both are, on the surface, fairly typical fantasy storytelling. In Empire of the East, brave but oppressed peoples rise up in revolt against their evil tyrants. In The Complete Book of Swords (which includes the main Swords trilogy but none of the supplemental novels), the gods toy with humanity and distribute magical swords for their own amusement. The humans, of course, use the swords for mayhem and goodness, and try to thwart the gods. So far, so standard, but there is magic in the telling. In particular, the world building stands out, especially considering the amount of space available, as do some of the characters. Many of the men and women are somewhat stock, but the gods and other entities are all kinds of fun to read about. By combining nuclear holocaust with fantasy, we get bizarre combinations of Cold War technology, magic, bioengineering, and divinity.
Geston mines similar territory in The Book of the Wars. I found out about this series from a David Drake interview, wherein he credited Geston’s books from helping Drake stay sane in Vietnam. I had never heard Geston’s name before, but a David Drake endorsement is enough for me. I was at the library the next day picking this up. All three books in the trilogy are operatic tragedies, filled with an over the top pathos that could only come from the mind of a young man who is obsessed with the fall of civilization and is spending his college days at an isolated, exclusive, all-male institution. This is not the quiet, poetic mourning of a single broken heart, but rather the deaths of doomed millions, the end of planets, and worlds with no hope. If it seems a bit heavy and overwrought, Geston makes up for it by coming at these stories from an off-kilter angle. His settings, story lines, and characters are all his own; things may be bleak in the stories, but they are definitely not derivative. The first two stories are vaguely connected and talk about a post-holocaust world that is trying to finish itself off. The third tells of a war between science and magic. It’s hard to say who the good guys are, since the magic half is power-crazed, self-absorbed, and probably tyrannical, but the science end is cynical, dry, and emotionless.
Tales of the Dying Earth is perhaps the oddest of the bunch, though it may have had the greatest genre impact of the three. Vance’s world may or may not have enjoyed a nuclear exchange, but the sun, or the Earth, or both, are in their final days. Technology has gone and magic haunts the land, as things sputter down towards the end of the world. The books take a bit of getting used to. Everyone speaks in a stilted, formal style and uses a lot of big words. Once I decided that Vance wanted the people in his world to speak this way and wasn’t just being pompous, I started to enjoy it. Another required adjustment is the complete lack of ethics in the Dying Earth. Apparently altruism burned out with the sun, because not a single character in the stories spares a thought for surrounding people. Again, at first I was taken aback by this. Then I figured out that since everybody in the story is a jerk, nobody expects kindness in any situation. Once this made sense, things became funny, rather than appalling. In a way, the “hero” of two books even learns an Important Life Lesson. He fails, hilariously at times, until he finally starts to – gasp – work with someone. Kids! Cooperation works!
Oddly enough, however, Vance’s greatest legacy is not his worlds, his words, or his characters. It is instead his magic system that has bedeviled D&D players for decades. Yes, the system of spell memorization that is such a bane to gamers comes from the Dying Earth. In the books, it makes sense. Why exactly Gary Gygax thought it would be a fun addition to a game is beyond me however, as D&D magic has always been a dumpster fire.
So to sum up without making any deep, literary conclusions, each of these is worthy of a look. Empire of the East is probably my favorite, but any of them offer a window into pre-TSR / Robert Jordan fantasy. I can only imagine what the NPR Top 100 would look like if more fantasy fans dug into the archives before disgorging their opinions.
Rating: Brazilians from the 1970s, doing crazy soccer things that wow fans today.
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell
[Ed. note: While there are a couple of big articles in the hopper, nothing was ready for today's publishing deadline. Fortunately, the soon-to-be-promoted Brad was waiting in the wings, ready to step up at a moment's notice. Another big thanks to Brad, who will soon be getting his own photo and byline.]
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell
Susanna Clarke
Let me be frank: I loved this novel. I mean, I really loved it. I know a lot of folks say they loved Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, but for me my love of this book goes to an altogether higher level of affection and respect than may be typical for the hackneyed expression, “I loved it.” Sort of like, Susanna Clarke would be my #2 choice[1] for telling me stories late at night on a chilly evening, in front of a blazing fire, with hot chocolate, roasted marshmallows, and snuggling. Or like, the amazing feeling when you find Mr. or Ms. Right and discover this person feels the same way about you. Or in guy terms, your favorite football team crushes its most hated rival in the Super Bowl, and your favorite band pulls of a dynamite halftime show with no bad notes and all the songs you loved as a kid, and Beyonce has a major wardrobe malfunction lasting more than 1 second. Yeah, the novel is that wonderful!
Not only is it a great novel of magic and fantasy, set in an alternative England of the early 19th century, it is a superb work of literature that also just happens to be a great novel of magic and fantasy, set in an alternative England of the early 19th century. And it has an oddly compelling love story as well. Even grumpy old guys like me can have our hearts softened once in a great while, and the winsome Ms. Clarke does that quite well; the reader ends up caring very much about Jonathan and Arabella, the fictional lovers. Summary: There’s nothing in Jonathan Strange that I didn’t find absolutely wonderful, with one major exception. The book checks in at a hefty 782 pages, causing me to offer up this one complaint: It’s far too short! And it cries out for a sequel. No, for sequellae.
Those who haven’t read it may ask, “What’s so cool about this book?” Imagine Harry Potter meeting up with Charles Dickens; the two of them then amble down the road to the home of the redoubtable Jane Austen, there concocting amongst themselves an epic tale of history, chivalry, valor, love and betrayal, all with a magical overlay. Toss this tale into a witchery cauldron of your choice, throw in a dash of Oscar Wilde, a pinch of 21st century postmodern skepticism, and bring a very competent author—prepared to invest about 10 years in a labor of love—who pours in a thorough knowledge of English history from the late 18th and early 19th centuries (the kind you’d only get in an English public school). Then skew your plot just enough so it’s charmingly cockeyed in places. Bring this concoction to a slow boil, stirring constantly for about ten years; violá!–you have the finest work of alternative history it’s ever been my privilege to read. There’s real history mixed in: For example, the mad King George gets his moment in the limelight; and the English war to stop Napoleon Bonaparte form much of the novel’s sub-text. In the richness of its world, Jonathan Strange is on a par with Lord of the Rings; better, deeper, more compelling than the aforesaid Harry Potter series. In fact, Jonathan Strange very much resembles Charles Dickens’ finest work in this regard—those who have read any Dickens will find themselves in familiar literary territory. The only modern historical novels I’ve read recently to which I can compare it in terms of depth and intricacy are Iain Pears’ An Instance of the Fingerpost, and Charles Palliser’s The Quincunx.[2]
But like LOTR and the later Harry Potter novels, Jonathan Strange—though it deals with rare magic, cunning fairy princes, inaccessible castles, and damsels in distress—is no kid’s book.[3] In creating its own world, a world that hangs together throughout, it’s equal to LOTR and to the Dune mythos as well, as well as more outre works of science fiction or fantasy like Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast Trilogy[4] or Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun (works which remind me of each other—but that’s a subject for another—as yet unwritten—review).
This glorious novel is set in an England where magic exists but has gone dormant. In a wonderful scene, conjuring up something oh-so-typically-English, the book opens with a meeting of the City of York Society of Magicians. But the Society’s members don’t actually do magic. In proper English fashion, they present to each other lengthy scholarly disquisitions about magic as it once existed, complete with footnotes, arcane quotes from foreign languages and obscure reference works (all of which Ms. Clarke duly cites in footnotes of her own, set out in proper scholarly fashion), and good old 18th century English stuffiness. What could be more blue-blooded?
It takes Mr. Norrell (we never learn his first name) to show the York Magicians what real magic is. And he creates a sensation. Riding on the crest of his fame, he moves to London, where he becomes the toast of the town. Reluctantly, he takes Jonathan Strange as a pupil, a pupil who will finally become the master (and where have we found that plot device before?). Norrell and Strange complement each other, but also become rivals, because each has a different magical ethos. That difference forms the heart and soul of this riveting book. I won’t give away more than that—no spoilers here! If you haven’t yet read the book, go for it. (As a bookseller, I have it on good authority that new or like new copies of the hardbound edition can be found in many remainder bins or on-line at reduced prices. You really have no excuse not to read this wonderful book!)
From now on, when we talk about the fictional worlds that mean something to us, that shape our personal identities, that resonate with our “real world,” we must add to Middle Earth, Dune, Hogwart’s, “a galaxy far, far away,” and 221B Baker Street, that achingly beautiful England chockablock full of strange magic, inhabited by Messrs. Strange and Norrell. We must hope that Jonathan can dispel the Darkness and return to his beloved Arabella. We must hope the good Ms. Clarke comes up with a true sequel to Jonathan Strange, one that has a happy ending. Finally, we must believe (as all good children know in their heart of hearts) that magic is real, and can heal us like, well, like . . . magic.
Rating: The World Cup finals! I cannot recommend this magical book highly enough. Buy it, read it, read it to your older kids, re-read it, immerse yourself in Susanna Clarke’s wonderful world of magic, and regret that our oh-so-skeptical age has marginalized magic—the magic that exists in each person. Invite Messrs. Strange and Norrell into your home; they will be very good, polite, English guests, and you will enjoy their odd company immensely.
Musical inspiration: No metal here, death or otherwise. I wrote the first draft this review listening to Pat Metheny’s The Way Up; and did the re-write listening to Metheny’s magical and heartbreakingly beautiful song “Más Allá” (“Beyond”), from an earlier album, The First Circle. I especially recommend the version with Argentinian vocalist/bassist Pedro Aznar performing with the Aca Seca Trio, found on You Tube at this URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWKPK-mZZWE&feature=share. Aznar was Metheny’s vocalist for a time, and wrote the Spanish lyrics for this haunting tune.
[1]The #1 choice for this difficult duty is Brad’s significant other, since even grumpy footie coaches need lovin’.
[2]The Quincunx and An Instance of the Fingerpost are not a fantasy or sci-fi novels; they’re historical fiction. Moreover, they are very good historical fiction. When you, gentle reader, tire of either sci-fi or fantasy (assuming something so horrible could ever occur!), I highly recommend either book (or both) as worthy of your consideration. (NB: The OED defines “quincunx” as “an arrangement of five objects in a square or rectangle in which four occupy the corners and one the center.” Such a pattern is the key to understanding Palliser’s multi-leveled novel, as well as a worthy metaphor for the novel itself.) Much as I’d like to do so, I won’t ask Pep for leave to review either fine work in this esteemed blog, having exhausted my visitor’s privileges on non-fantasy/sci-fi by reviewing The Club Dumas a few weeks ago. And I won’t even bother to ask José; he would simply utter an unintelligible growl, or try to poke my eyes out. (Second NB: If you find well-done historical fiction enjoyable, I understand Hilary Mantel’s Man Booker Prize-winning novel Wolf Hall is also worth the time and effort. I have the book, but have not yet had time to read it—too many cheesy vampire novels, too little time!)
[3]Thankfully, J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit is a great children’s book! Read a chapter a night to your kids. All of you will be glad you did. They’ll find LOTR on their own when they’re ready for it.
[4]Which Pep swears he will someday review on this esteemed blog—if he doesn’t, I’ll either do it myself or send José and his “magic fingers” after Pep.
