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|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 0836218051
| 9780836218053
| 4.65
| 121,919
| 1988
| Sep 1988
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really liked it
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My dad gave me this book Christmas 2009, and I prior to reading it last week, I had not experienced Calvin and Hobbes. Well, that isn't completely tru
My dad gave me this book Christmas 2009, and I prior to reading it last week, I had not experienced Calvin and Hobbes. Well, that isn't completely true. I had read one or two strips, I suppose. Seen other people reading it. But I hadn't experienced it. I had not sat down with a thick, luscious book full of Calvin and Hobbes strips, full of wonderful, pinpoint and intelligent humour. When I did finally sit down, I fell in love. So to all my friends out there: how dare you not kidnap me and force-feed me Calvin and Hobbes? For shame! I fell in love with the way Bill Watterson portrays the truth and beauty of the universe through the cheeky eyes of a young boy. Children, lacking the filters that most adults come to acquire, often say the darnednest things, and Calvin says a lot that falls into that category. Calvin refuses to eat something on his plate, observing wryly that "you know you won't like it when they won't tell you what it is." Calvin, ever street-smart, sneaks out of bed late at night, then phones his house from a pay phone (remember those?) to say, "Hello, Dad! It is now three in the morning. Do you know where I am?" Precocious, clever, and self-aware, Calvin embodies that spark, dare I say that joie de vivre, that we all seek to retain from childhood. I speak with the perspective of a 21-year-old who never wanted to grow up, but in spite of my best efforts, managed to do it anyway. Maturity sneaked up on me, stalked me, and played a game of cat-and-mouse through my adolescent years. Eventually, fortunately or unfortunately, it won. Which is not to say that I have entirely abandoned my childhood glee, my sense of wonder—I do, after all, read science fiction; in November I got involved in an awesome snowball fight with my coworkers. And I know now what I did not know as a child: it is tough to keep your child-like enthusiasm when the world expects you, requires you to be an adult. So I think a child, an adolescent, or an older adult are all going to get something different from Calvin and Hobbes than I will. We all might find the strips funny, but our core enjoyment is going to come from an identification that is different for each of us. Calvin and Hobbes has a broad appeal, but it is not the same appeal to everyone. For me, it is a nostalgic retrospective on the days I have left behind. Not that I was ever a trouble-maker like Calvin, oh no. I did not launch wagons into lakes or trees. I was not a terror of babysitters, and as far as I know, I never flooded the bathroom while struggling against a shark in the bathtub. Nevertheless, there is something universal to the childhood experience about Calvin's exuberance. And now here I am, in my third decade, trying to reconnect with that aspect of my life. The brilliance of these comic strips go deeper than just nostalgia. There is something profound about Calvin and Hobbes. At the same time that these two are cooking up a scheme straight out of—well, the comic books—and we are laughing right along with them, suddenly Hobbes will spring a Big Question on us: Calvin: do you believe in Fate? Hobbes says this last part as the wagon they are in goes careening off a dock into a lake, possibly as part of a crazy Calvin venture to jump across the lake in their wagon. There is just such a broad range of humour and tone to these strips. Watterson takes us from the fantastical Spaceman Spiff sketches to the hilarious and intelligent insults Calvin hurls at his crush, Susie: "I hope you suffer a debilitating brain aneurysm, you freak!" (Which, if an adult uttered this, would be horrible; and in the real world, let's face it, a child might get soap mouthwash. But for me reading Calvin, it's just adorable.) And from these strips, Watterson takes us even further, to ponder those Big Questions of the universe—fun, yes, and funny, but those strips tend to end with a question mark hovering above them. Reading Calvin and Hobbes also affirms my opinion that comics are a sublime form of literature, and those snobs who look down their noses at this form as somehow "childish" or "immature" are poopyheads. Maybe you don't like Calvin and Hobbes—or perhaps, like me, you've merely never experienced it. Still, Calvin and Hobbes demonstrates the power of the comic form, that essential marriage of witty wordplay with evocative pictures, to convey both humourous and serious subjects. This is a medium that can tell amazing stories, stories both vast and magnificent in scope yet intimate and human in significance. From superheroes to supervillains to ordinary, everday kids, comic strips are awesome. They connect us to our imagination in a way few literary forms can manage. Don't get me wrong; I love novels with a white-hot passion. But there is something just so basic—and I think it is this primal element that snobs confuse with immaturity—to the comic form that makes it so versatile and powerful. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 30, 2010
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Dec 31, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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Paperback
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| 1401323588
| 9781401323585
| 1401323588
| 3.56
| 32,268
| Oct 12, 2009
| Oct 12, 2009
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did not like it
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There are some great moments in this book, moments worthy of quotation. There is tea; there are gods; there is Vogon bureaucracy and Vogon poetry. And
There are some great moments in this book, moments worthy of quotation. There is tea; there are gods; there is Vogon bureaucracy and Vogon poetry. And Another Thing... sublimely embraces the h2g2 universe by grabbing hold of it by the scruff of its neck and shaking it vigorously until more characters and random plot events fall out. And I didn't like it. See, h2g2's humorous nexus of improbable events with zany characters is the icing on an already delicious cake. My attraction to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and its sequels revolves entirely around Arthur Dent and his plight as one of the last two surviving humans in the universe. The book is successful because Douglas Adams juxtaposes his profound, dry, British wit with the tragedy of Arthur's situation, both the loss of Earth and his doomed love story with Trillian, then Fenchurch. It makes you laugh, because if you do not, then you will cry. And Another Thing... is not an anomaly among the other books in this regard. Though it has been years since I've read it, Mostly Harmless also has a problem balancing story with humour, which is why I like my omnibus of the first four books just the way it is. And Another Thing..., picking up as it does just after Mostly Harmless, emulates its immediate predecessor too much for my liking. It is, sadly, a shell of an h2g2 novel. The personalities of most of the characters were grating. I did not like the appearance of Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged, nor did I particularly enjoy the animosity between Trillian and Random. Even Arthur, poor, lovable Arthur, can't manage to put much enthusiasm into being upset about the state of affairs. He is much too jaded now; no longer the uninitiated last man from Earth, Arthur has reached the same point I have in this series. We both just want it to stop, even though we know it won't. As I mentioned above, there are some great moments. Some of them are funny, such as when Zaphod's second head—which now controls the Heart of Gold's computer in lieu of Eddie—chides Arthur's drinking habits: "I don't suppose this computer has learned to make tea?" This is a hilarious reference to the last time Arthur asked for a cup of tea from Eddie the computer and froze all of Eddie's logic circuits. Unfortunately, references to the halcyon days of h2g2 are about all this book can muster. And Another Thing... just tries too hard, something demonstrated aptly by the excerpts from the Guide. I'm not about to accuse any part of this book of being particularly inspired, but the excerpts from the Guide are even more forced than the rest of the book. They attempt to replicate that atmosphere of randomness, that sense of tangents and digressions, that is characteristic of earlier h2g2 books. And they fail at that attempt, because the entries are often too unrelated to what's going on. They seem present only because they are an expected part of the h2g2 novel form, not because they actually work at that juncture. The beauty of h2g2 books is that, despite their disparate elements and interruptions, I always want to keep on reading. I had no such impetus here. Hopefully you will have noticed that, until now, I have refrained from comparing Colfer to Adams. I have my reasons for this; while I'm ambivalent about this series being continued by another author, I'm not opposed to it in principle. Furthermore, h2g2 has always had a tradition of transformation. So I am willing to keep an open mind. Colfer's style is quite different from that of Adams, and I think that is part of the reason this book does not resonate as an "h2g2 book" like the others do. Nevertheless, I cannot blame solely Colfer for And Another Thing...'s problems. The series was in decline with Mostly Harmless, if not before that. And Another Thing... is probably described best by its title: this is a postscript, a footnote to the rest of the series, and something I will probably leave forgotten. When I need my h2g2 fix, I'll grab my omnibus from the shelf and read one of the first four books. For all you hoopy froods out there, my recommendation is to read this one—for you should form your own opinion—but do not expect greatness, or even adequacy. For the rest of you, don't bother with this book (at least not yet). Besides, you probably don't know where your towel is, do you? That's what I thought. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 04, 2010
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Nov 06, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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Hardcover
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| 1932416897
| 9781932416893
| 1932416897
| 3.68
| 4,276
| Apr 28, 2008
| Apr 28, 2008
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liked it
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I began this book as a sometime reader of Michael Chabon. I klepped
The Yiddish Policemen's Union
from my dad's shelf, and I've also read
Wonde
I began this book as a sometime reader of Michael Chabon. I klepped
The Yiddish Policemen's Union
from my dad's shelf, and I've also read
Wonder Boys
and
Summerland
at some point. (I actually liked the movie of the former better than Cabon's book, oddly enough.) Chabon is one of those writers who is at the periphery of my awareness, someone whose books I respect even though I only accord them a lukewarm enthusiasm when it comes to the prospect of reading one. He has a way with words, a talent for tone and diction, that I much admire. This skill is apparent in Maps and Legends. The book itself is something of a cipher at first—as a product of McSweeney's, it is bound in a format simultaneously advertising and obscuring the content of the book. The jacket of this edition is alone worth a paragraph. Although the multiple layers can be annoying to handle, they create a beautiful effect that shows a love for the physical form of a book itself, parallel Chabon's tribute to literature and storytelling found between the covers. Often collections of essays make me ambivalent, and Chabon's is no exception. My praise of Chabon's style holds true. He has mastered that heavy, didactic, descriptive method of discourse that makes me unabashedly jealous. Such writing can also be pedantic and quickly outstay its welcome, of course, and Chabon is guilty at times of overindulging his allusive abilities. If his passion for this subject were not so evident from his essays, I pass harsher judgement. As it is, I think it is a matter of taste. Some will endure—and even enjoy—the book; others will cast it aside with a vague sense of distaste or a definite feeling of dismay. Chabon's writing is not for everyone, and this book is no exception. For those who choose to remain, all of Chabon's essays are interesting, but not all are created equal. In particular, I enjoyed: "Trickster in a Suit of Lights: Thoughts on the Modern Short Story", "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes", "Ragnarok Boy", "My Back Pages," and "Diving into the Wreck". In the first essay, Chabon discusses his fascination with transgressing the boundaries defined by genre, likening himself and other authors to the Trickster gods of many mythologies. Likewise, "Ragnarok Boy," celebrates the richness of Norse mythology, a subject on which I have been ruminating since reading Norse Code . I loved "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes" for its exploration of Conan Doyle's motives behind writing Holmes stories—money—and the enduring effect of Holmesian mysteries on the "genre" of mystery and on literature in general. This essay is a true gem of the collection. It sparked in me a desire to re-read Holmes, something that any analysis of a work should do. More than passion, Chabon's sense of wonder is infectious and amplifying. He feels like I do: that we are ridiculously, wonderfully gifted with this ability to preserve stories in written form; that a well-stocked library or a cozy, stuffed bookshelf is a treasure trove of adventures just waiting to be read. When I buy or borrow books, I feel like I'm getting away with a crime—this amazing experience cannot be legal! But it is, and I love nothing more. As a reader, Maps and Legends affirmed my feeling that stories are magical. As a writer, it reminded me of the responsibilities I have as a practitioner of this magic. An unwritten story is something with infinite potential; a writer must craft it carefully, honing every plane and edge with only the mind's glimpse of an end product as a guide. The journey is non-trivial, but when done right, the rewards for both the reader and the writer are proportionally spectacular. Chabon claims to loathe the phrase "guilty pleasures", and while I understand his reasoning, I have to disagree. It is true that "guilty pleasure" can refer to something one fears censure over enjoying (much as I enjoy reading young adult fiction targeted toward socially-obsessed adolescent girls). But a "guilty pleasure" can also be something like that extra scoop of ice cream, something so flagrantly self-indulgent that we look both ways before allowing ourselves the moment. Maps and Legends is the latter type of guilty pleasure. At least it was for me, and I think it was for Michael Chabon as well, no matter how much he protests. Sometimes he lays it on thick, but I'm inclined to forgive his exuberance as the self-conscious fanaticism of his inner boy, who can't quite believe he actually achieved his dream. Maps and Legends a self-referential, meta-aware celebration of literature and its role in one's life, from formative childhood through rocky adolescence all the way to adulthood. Because some of us, though we grow taller, do not grow up. Our sense of wonder remains firmly intact, persistently in place, ever guiding us to explore those uncharted places. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jun 27, 2010
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Jun 28, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0802170609
| 9780802170606
| 0802170609
| 3.69
| 3,765
| Jul 01, 2009
| Jul 08, 2009
|
liked it
|
I first approached How I Became a Famous Novelist with some trepidation. Like many other humourous books, this one is very committed to its humour in
I first approached How I Became a Famous Novelist with some trepidation. Like many other humourous books, this one is very committed to its humour in a very meta-fictional way. Everything from the back cover to the epigraphs is part of the commentary the book and author Steve Hely are making on the state of writing and publishing in contemporary North American society. The book and its main character are extremely self-aware and self-possessed. Books like this tend either to impress me or to get on my nerves. How I Became a Famous Novelist averaged out: the book impressed me, but Pete Tarnslaw got on my nerves. Hely's style and the meta-fictional nature of the book remind me a lot of Douglas Coupland. And as a general rule, I consider Coupland a god among men when it comes to witty insights into this postmodern melodrama we call life, so by garnering such a comparison, Hely has both earned implicit praised and set the bar quite high for the rest of the book. Unfortunately, How I Became a Famous Novelist never quite reaches the highs of my favourite Coupland-esque scenes and schemes; for that I blame mostly Pete Tarnslaw, because he got on my nerves. I love the premise of this book. It's simple, and to some extent it feels true (isn't that ironic?). Pete is a disaffected twenty-something, and when he learns his ex-girlfriend is getting married, he vows to become a famous novelist so he can show her up at her own wedding. Having watched a vapid interview with a bestselling author, Pete decides he has figured out the "rules" to writing a bestseller. And he succeeds, for a little while. Then he gets on my nerves. Pete is just insufferably whiny and entitled. And I think that is intentional; when we sympathize with Pete, it's not because he's a nice guy, or even because he's an underdog. Rather, the source of our sympathy comes from Pete's chosen target: the publishing industry. Pete sets out to game the system in a very deliberate, cynical way. In so doing, Hely pokes fun at both the industry, the types of writers Pete is emulating, and the types of writers who emulate Pete. Yet I have a very difficult time enjoying Pete's enjoyment of his success. I have an even more difficult time enjoying Pete's discomfort as Hely subverts his con game to foist upon Pete an epiphany about writing and the meaning of literature. As much as I like Pete's snarky comments and the caricature secondary characters floating around each chapter, very little of this book actually sticks. For regular readers, for book reviewers, and for writers (I am all three), I think this book has a special resonance beyond what the general public may feel. Pete has unkind words for all three categories of individual (more on that later), and of course, all three of these types of people have good reason to be interested in the health and attitude of the publishing industry. How I Became a Famous Novelist really works, especially for this audience, because it is embedded in its time. That is not in and of itself bad—many well-regarded classics benefit from a knowledge of their contemporary period—but it does amplify that transitory quality. Nevertheless, I think this book will remain relevant for a long time, because the Dan Browns and James Pattersons of publishing are not going away any time soon. And wherever you find a thriller writer, you'll find Pete Tarnslaw and Steve Hely, pulling back the curtain. As a voracious reader, who is also a bit of literary snob, and who has made it his mission to review every book he reads for Goodreads, I loved Pete's invective toward book readers. It really captures how good Hely is at representing the ecosystem around book publishing in a Dilbertine way: I try not to hate anybody. "Hate is a four-letter word," like the bumper sticker says. But I hate book reviewers. The above picture, unfortunately, is not at all accurate: I hate mayonnaise. Yet we reviewers often require authors to develop thick skins, so isn't turnabout fair play? Beneath all the jibes and jests, Hely is raising a serious question; this is where the "meta" part of the book comes into play. Firstly, he observes that the way we, collectively, value books is very arbitrary. The books that sell well in their day do not necessarily become literary classics; the converse is also often true. Pete likes to cite Moby-Dick as an example. He also has an interesting conversation later in the book with a professor hired to teach at his old college; the professor is an advocate of judging books based on their "free-market" value, so he only teaches bestsellers of the day. So that is the paradox that readers, writers, and publishers all face: we can't really know what makes a book "good," nor can we predict how long a book will be revered or scorned by the public before the tide turns. This problem appears any time quality is entirely subjective, whether we are talking about books, music, or art. And the reason why this is a big deal is simple: it scares us. This paradox runs counter to the entire individualist philosophy that has permeated the twentieth century. It tells us that we have no power in determining our legacy or the legacy of our culture. Furthermore, this is not just a matter of time, but of individual versus society. Although some individual future critics might shape future public opinion, for the most part that opinion will shift collectively. And because our minds don't have the capability to comprehend such numbers, we don't really understand how our individual preferences contribute to that collective change. It is a little boggling, and thus a little scary. So sometimes it is easier to believe in a conspiracy, to believe that writing is a racket and there are easy rules to follow. Or, equivalently, to believe that the general reading public are predictable sheep who will buy the same formulaic drivel over and over. On some days, days when I see pyramids of Dan Brown novels with "#1 bestseller" stickers plastered over their covers, I truly believe that is the case. But that is the cynic in me rearing his head; I do know better. Or at least, I am smarter than Pete, because this his hamartia: he calls the public ignorant to its face, and the public doesn't like that. We see this during the climactic conversation with Preston Brooks, where Brooks harnesses that discontent with the way Pete baldly insults his audience's intelligence. It is OK to believe the collective is stupid; just don't say it aloud. Or don't say it too loudly; the Internets can hear you! It all works out for Pete in the end, of course, because controversy is great for driving sales. And that's all that Pete wants; he just wants to be a "famous novelist." He has lost his faith in the integrity of literature as anything more than a money-making business. As Preston Brooks put it: "You're always looking for falseness in everything. You're used to falseness. You grew up with that lie machine, the television." While I don't agree with all of Preston's, "Yarr, your generation has never had it so hard; I'm an old man but I believe in writing!" speech that wins over the crowd and hands Pete his ass on a platter, I do like that one line. Just look at the so-called "reality television" on the schedule grid—do you remember the days when TLC was actually "The Learning Channel"? Fundamentally, I don't think the masses have changed all that much through the generations—we are wired, evolutionarily, for spectacle. But television has just made it so easy to deliver spectacle, cheap spectacle, to those masses. And the novel, as a much more ponderous medium, is having a hard time competing. I don't really think it should compete in that sense, and I could digress into a rant about how we should probably be raising our kids as readers if we want them to read more. Or I could talk about how all good things come to an end, and maybe it's true that the novel, as a literary form, has reached its expiration date. But I think it's time we return to the book. How I Became a Famous Novelist is rather funny, very clever, and definitely entertaining if you like reading books about people writing books. The main character got on my nerves, and for that reason alone, this book never quite reaches the heights it could have. Still, I have to admit this book was better than I expected it to be, and Hely's criticism of the publishing industry is both humourous and accurate. The finale is touching, if a little trite, and overall this book made me think more about reading, how I read, and how I write reviews. So not too shabby, Hely. [image] But holy wow, did Pete get on my nerves. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 07, 2010
|
Dec 08, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
|
Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0385665776
| 9780385665773
| 0385665776
| 2.97
| 192
| Sep 06, 2007
| May 12, 2009
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it was ok
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This is perhaps the first time I have condemned a book for its concept but applauded it for its content. Writing a book that examines the integers 1 t
This is perhaps the first time I have condemned a book for its concept but applauded it for its content. Writing a book that examines the integers 1 to 9 on a per-chapter basis is just silly. It's also impossible; the properties of these numbers are inextricably bound up in the properties of all other numbers. Andrew Hodges knows this, and indeed makes no attempt to conceal the fact that the structure of this book is a lie. In each chapter, Hodges gleefully digresses into topics that have only the most tenuous of connections to their titular number. Some of these topics are very interesting and worthy of entire books in their own right. Hodges covers electromagnetism, quantum chromodynamics, Fermat, Fibonacci, and some cryptography too. But One to Nine's incredible breadth is, somewhat predictably, also a weakness. Hodges provides able summaries of these topics, but in his whirlwind tour of the first nine positive integers, he can't cover the topics in much depth. Although Hodges' explanations of some fairly complicated mathematical concepts are accessible, I don't think people would find them very helpful. It doesn't help that Hodges jumps from topic to topic, and even from thought to thought, with the pace of a frenzied beaver on speed. And while I've never been high, reading parts of this book made me feel like I imagine being high would feel: "to consider Two-ness is to confront broken symmetries in a world crammed with them." Um . . . OK, sure. "Two-ness?" Really? Hodges' writing is a bizarre mix of airy and wistful. His attempts to come off as jaunty are merely jarring, owing to his constant transitions from one topic to another. And, oh my, I have never seen so many rhetorical questions in my life. Excess and superfluous much? As a result, Hodges undermines the very effect essential to a popular mathematics text: the sense of wonder that mathematics evokes. He tries for it, and once in a while gets close. But before the monotonous tour guide can say, "And we're moving. . ." Hodges has gone off on a parallel track, and you're forced to catch up rather than stick around and appreciate the beauty of what's just been covered. One to Nine did little to augment my admiration of number (and much diminished any remaining shred of interest in Sudoku). Hodges also makes sporadic references to Desperate Housewives, climate change, and Alan Turing. Alan Turing, I can understand, because his contributions to cryptography, computer science, and mathematics are pretty important. That doesn't quite justify Hodges' obvious hero worship, however. While mathematics has a role to play in answering questions about climate change, Hodges never actually addresses that role. Climate change just gets mentioned, much like Desperate Housewives (allusions to which I am at a loss to explain at all). Then in the last chapter, the book abruptly shifts from its focus on the properties of number into a polemic about mathematics in education and how Alan Turing met an untimely end. In both cases, Hodges makes some good points. Yet I don't appreciate being ambushed by such arguments at the end of the last chapter of the book. All of this makes for a rather dense barrier to the main event. It's clear that Hodges knows what he's talking about. He just didn't convince me of his ability to talk about it well. Nevertheless, despite his meandering through the mathematics, Hodges does make it possible to eke a semblance of erudition from this book. I'm not sure it's worth the effort. One to Nine is by no means a bad book, but it does not excite me or delight me in the way that a book like A Short History of Nearly Everything does. Maybe it needed more Two-ness. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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May 29, 2010
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Jun 2010
|
Dec 25, 2009
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 4.13
| 489,256
| Sep 2002
| Jan 03, 2006
|
liked it
|
So, yeah, I don't really understand this book. It is not often that I admit a book has defeated me intellectually; upon the rare occasion that it happe So, yeah, I don't really understand this book. It is not often that I admit a book has defeated me intellectually; upon the rare occasion that it happens, however, I will admit it. This review is, like any review, a meditation on the unique experience I had reading the book, but it is also ruminations about why I feel that Kafka on the Shore is a mountain whose summit I never reached. I'm starting to suspect that I have a penchant for magic realism. On one hand, the term smacks of genre-snobbery, a label that authors or critics use to avoid consigning a book to the ghettoized fantasy section of the bookstore. On the other hand, the term is seductive. It represents a flirtation with the fantastic that, when done well, forces the mind to reconcile contradictory realities. Think The Enchantress of Florence or The City & The City . Fantasy is the outright alteration of the laws of physics; magic realism is the collision of physics with the other, as well as the appropriation of the laws of narrative for the characters' own purposes. Kafka on the Shore exemplifies the headache-inducing experience of a well-executed piece of magic realism. It seems, unfortunately, that this was a little too much for my poor mind to handle. Wired as it is to unravel fact and fiction, my mind constantly tugs me toward the question of, "How much of what happens in the book is meant to be considered 'real events' and how much is a delusion or metaphor?" But I don't think that question is correct—or at least, the way it is formulated seems to imply a separation of the real from the metaphorical is possible. Maybe it is not; therein lies the headache. Example time. Late in the book, Kafka has a dream that might not be a dream in which he has sex with Sakura, a young woman who might or might not be his long-lost (adopted) sister. Kafka's search for his mother and sister, who left home when he was a child, is a major part of the book, one that deserves heavy discussion itself. This particular scene troubled me. It was more confusing than disturbing. While clearly starting as a dream, the language sometimes made it sound like it was a dream dialogue—Kafka and Sakura were sharing a dream, in which they had sex. I think it's possible to interpret it either way—nothing later in the book seems to contradict either interpretation. What I cannot place is the metaphorical significance of this scene, though I am certain one exists. Central to the problem is the so-called "Oedipal prophecy" handed to Kafka by his estranged (or merely strange?) father, who may or may not be a cat-murdering flute-carver posing as a conceptual imitation of Johnnie Walker. When he leaves home, one of Kafka's objectives is to find his mother and sister, though he has no information about them, no names, just a photograph of the family at the beach. Now, Kafka is fifteen years old and makes it clear that his hormones are right on track for a boy his age. So when he starts entertaining sexual fantasies of Sakura, who is about the right age to be his sister, he has to wonder if she is his sister. Receiving an actual hand-job from Sakura later in the book does not simplify matters. Still, there are mitigating factors: despite his fantasies, we don't actually have confirmation that Kafka ever has intercourse with Sakura. And even if she is his sister, she was adopted, so the incest taboo's squick-factor is lessened. No such comforts exist for Kafka's relationship with Miss. Saeki. Like Sakura, we never find out if Miss. Saeki truly is Kafka's mother (I would argue that the implication for the affirmative is stronger here than in Sakura's case, but I think Murakami deliberately left it ambiguous). Unlike Sakura, Kafka does have sex with Miss. Saeki—first in a dream-like but real episode which Miss. Saeki does not remember, then subsequently in a deliberate episode that they both, at least at first, regret. Although Kafka dreads his father's prophecy, and although his operating theory is that Miss. Saeki is his mother, he still decides to sleep with her. I don't know; thanks to John Irving (particularly A Widow for One Year ), the whole motif of older women having sex with younger men disturbs me. By motif I mean that the actual idea of such of a relationship does not disturb me, but the use of it in literature, particularly as a device for ending a character's innocence, does disturb me. Kafka seems very nonchalant about his relationship with Miss. Saeki—not exactly resigned, but not reticent either. This analytical, calm aspect extends to his personality in general: aside from some notable exceptions, such as when he wakes up with blood on his shirt, Kafka is a mellow individual. He does not rage. He just accepts and thinks. It is fine for a character but odd for a fifteen-year-old boy, and it makes Kafka feel a bit less real. (There I go using those loaded terms again.) Oh, and there is a whole other side to this book that I have yet to mention: Sakuro Nakata. I have to confess that I preferred much of Nakata's story over Kafka's (with the exception of the Johnnie Walker chapter). Nakata and Kafka both have a similar acceptance of events as they happen, but Nakata seems to have more will than Kafka, who spends most of his time moping around the library and listening to a record. Nakata takes up a traditional-style quest, leaves the only home he has ever known, falls in with a companion (some might say disciple) and experiences change. Conversely, Kafka strikes off on his own immediately, but he shies away—leaving the forest—from any final fate. Nakata gains peace; Kafka matures. Nakata's encounter with Johnnie Walker causes me as many headaches as Kafka's dream about Sakura. Are we supposed to equate Johnnie Walker with Kafka's father? I don't know. Johnnie Walker and Colonel Sanders seem like two sides of the same coin, a self-identified concept that can assume forms but not manifest in any physical way. If that is the case, then Nakata could not possibly have killed Johnnie Walker—but perhaps Johnnie Walker is a concept connected somehow to Kafka's father, and killing the concept killed the man. See? Metaphysical dilemmas for which Murakami has no answers. Not that I'm demanding answers. Books that seek to provide an answer to every little question end up laden with excess exposition. Moreover, Kafka on the Shore is not a straightforward narrative, and that is probably for the best. Murakami has taken a standard literary fiction plot, that of the adolescent runaway, but instead of exploring it on the standard plane, he takes it into higher dimensions. Still, there are some questions that really irk me. Exactly what does the "Crow" character represent? Part boy, part bird, all a figment of Kafka's imagination . . . there's probably an essay somewhere in here about "representations of anthropomorphic animals in Kafka on the Shore," if someone has not written one already . . . but I digress. No, the reason I feel somewhat defeated is because I can't seem to settle on any consistent set of interpretations to the symbols Murakami has left in his wake. It is frustrating, because I can recognize the intensity of Kafka on the Shore, but I cannot celebrate it. The metaphors add depth to the story, yet my inability to parse them prevents them from turning the narrative into a coherent whole. In short, I read the book, but I did not really get the book. Nor is it that there is, in fact, nothing to get; Kafka on the Shore is not a con (well, no more than any fiction book is). I get just enough to glimpse enlightenment and know it exists, but I can't quite achieve it. One day I hope I will find more in this book than the first time. I often find that, with difficult books, sometimes multiple readings are the only thing one needs—that and the time to grow, to change, to be a different person from the one who read the book the first time. Future Ben may see the subtleties of Kafka on the Shore with greater clarity than this version of me, and he might life at my incomprehension (or, hopefully, not). So I cannot leave you with my impression of this book's literary merit (what does that even mean?). However, as the parenthetical question in my previous sentence indicates, I can say that, if it did not provide me with many answers, Kafka on the Shore did provoke me into asking more questions. This is not a book that fits into a comfortable niche, either for the purposes of comprehension or for criticism. We need books like that, even if we don't entirely know what to make of them. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jul 10, 2010
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Jul 13, 2010
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Dec 19, 2009
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Paperback
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| 3.48
| 18,945
| Jun 30, 1962
| Apr 2008
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it was ok
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What images do the words "science fiction" conjure in your mind? Do you think of spaceships, lasers, phasers, light-sabres? Rockets, robots, and radon
What images do the words "science fiction" conjure in your mind? Do you think of spaceships, lasers, phasers, light-sabres? Rockets, robots, and radon gas? Green chicks and blue boxes? Science fiction is a genre built upon difference. Science fiction stories are essentially thought experiments in which the author asks what would happen if the world were different in one or many ways. We often (rightly) associate science fiction with fantastic technologies, but that kind of mental picture is a rather poor description of the entire genre. There's so much science fiction that emphasizes the psychological over the physical, taking us on a journey deep into our minds instead of out among the stars. I have to confess to having a bias toward the former type, even though I know that many examples of the latter type are truly outstanding. Perhaps that's the problem though. Perhaps the former type of science fiction, in emphasizing a technological apotheosis, permits us to marginalizing it as a form of acknowledged fantasy, whereas the latter is more "literary," more "mainstream," more "down-to-earth," if you will. The Drowned World is rooted firmly in this camp. The technology seems little different from that of contemporary Earth. Rather, the change comes from the external environment, a result of massive global warming caused by solar radiation. Earth's equatorial regions are reverting to "Triassic age" climates, and the transformation has reached as far north as London. The main characters are at home among an alien landscape, but aside from this change of scenery, the people and their devices are much like that available in the present day, right down to .38 revolvers. The scenery is merely a catalyst for the true source of the science fiction. The Drowned World chronicles three people's attempts to process the genetic memory of the Triassic age, passed down to them by their mammalian ancestors. The similarities in environment stimulate their brains, first causing intense dreams that soon transform into a sort of waking sleep. The minds of the characters are, in some ways, regressing back toward the Triassic, even while their physical forms remain human. In that sense, The Drowned World raises the question—as much of its ilk in this type of science fiction do—of how much of the events in the story actually happen. How much is "real" and how much is a half-remembered, half-hallucinated waking dream of the protagonist? Ballard emphasizes the unreliable nature of the narrative by drawing attention to actions of Kerans' that he questions after the fact, concluding that he has no explanation for why he acted that way. Particularly, in one of the most lugubrious and haunting scenes of the book, Kerans has dived to the bottom of a lagoon to explore a deserted planetarium. He secures his air line around a door handle to keep it from dragging in the silt, and when he goes too far, the line snags and chokes off his air, causing him to black out. After being rescued, Kerans realizes he doesn't know if the incident was an accident, foul play by the people on the surface, or a suicide attempt. Constantly questioning his motivations, Kerans always seems to be on the cusp of metamorphosis, striving constantly toward a transformation that eludes him. In contrast, Bodkin's emotional closeness to London, considering it home, seems to maroon him in the near past instead of allowing transcendence toward the Triassic; and Beatrice . . . well, I don't know what to make of Beatrice. Although The Drowned World has much in the way of atmosphere, by its very nature it is somewhat inscrutable, and thus frustrating. It reminds me of the work of H.G. Wells, particularly The Island of Dr. Moreau. Like Wells, Ballard's protagonist is a competent, well-educated male who engages in a struggle for survival in an isolated, technologically-limited setting. Along the way, the book explores environmental and social themes (more environmental in this case). Both books examine the nature of humanity through the nature of mind and memory. And The Drowned World has a similar narrative style—while not first person, it has that same mixture of factual, journalism-like tones and artistic, surrealist overtures. Ballard's capacity for description, whether it is mood or setting, is by and large the strongest part of this book. Not only does he give a good account of the new, lagoon-filled London, but he simultaneously delves into the minds of his characters (or at least, Kerans) and scrutinizes their motivations. It is a good thing too, because the relative isolation of the characters means there is comparatively little dialogue. Ballard's description and narration keeps The Drowned World moving, even when he spends pages depicting the stillness of a scene. Unfortunately, The Drowned World doesn't always sustain the tension it tries to build. Ballard raises intriguing questions, but he never seems to take them to a satisfactory concluding point—or at least, if he does, he does not convince me. At the end, I'm left questioning the point of the journey. How exactly has Kerans changed? What is the significance of this surrender to the pre-uterine memories? The psychology underlying the book is interesting but not as fleshed out as I would want. Likewise, I found the conflicts between Kerans and Strangman lacklustre. Part of the reason I draw the comparison with Wells is because the conflict seems there because it's expected, like Ballard is following a well-tread plot and grafting his psychological themes to the existing structure. This unsuccessful melding is a crack that begins to undermine my confidence in the rest of the book. Suddenly I wonder about Kerans' indecisiveness—he doesn't want to leave, then he does want to leave, then he doesn't want to leave, then he leaves . . . like many stories, it is a difficult—and subjective—call: is this a brilliant illustration of learned helplessness or indicative of great writing married to a mediocre story? Despite its environmental themes, The Drowned World is not post-apocalyptic, nor does it really look at how the rest of society has adapted to the mass exodus induced by global warming. It is, at its core, a look at the psyche of the individual, especially the isolated one. And that's cool. I was expecting something more, though. I was expecting profound—and I got profound. Yet I was expecting something moving, something that professed purpose . . . and that has eluded me here. The Drowned World reads like a classic, channelling the style of H.G. Wells to conjure a different, somewhat eerie atmosphere of otherness. But the style lacks enough substance to support it; ultimately, the story falls flat. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jun 23, 2010
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Jun 23, 2010
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Dec 19, 2009
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Paperback
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| 0345321383
| 9780345321381
| 0345321383
| 4.27
| 10,477
| Apr 01, 1984
| Apr 12, 1985
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it was amazing
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Second review: November 2017 Gosh, has it really been 7 years—nearly 8?—since I read this? Feels like no time at all. Anyway, after not enjoying Who Fea Second review: November 2017 Gosh, has it really been 7 years—nearly 8?—since I read this? Feels like no time at all. Anyway, after not enjoying Who Fears Death, I was struck with a sudden … craving (?) for this book. Just an urge to re-read it. I can’t explain why. I just knew it would help. And it definitely did. I have little to add about the book itself in this second review—my first review stands. I’ll say that I picked up on a lot more of the … uh … sexual stuff this time around. 20-year-old Ben was a precious innocent. Original review: January 2010 I'm starting to get to the age where I'm reading books now and saying, "Why wasn't this published when I was younger?! This is what I've been missing all these years; this fills the gap that, until it was filled, I never knew existed!" Although Bridge of Birds was published before I was born, it still provokes a similar feeling (one of, "Why didn't I know about this when I was younger?"). There's something seductive about fables and fairy tales—the real, often grim fairy tales that lurk in the subconscious of every culture. In showing us "an ancient China that never was," Barry Hughart embraces the atmosphere of a fable and the kernel of darkness it should contain. Reading Bridge of Birds was fulfilling—not only cathartic, but reassuring. The repetitive structure of the plot (quest, then return to the village, quest, etc.) combines with the rhythmic style of the prose to manipulate one's emotions. Although Bridge of Birds has a happy ending, with the heroes vanquishing the villain and freeing the damsel in distress, there's a sinister sense that they got off easy and that more was at stake than was ever apparent. There are books that have happy endings because they are "feel good" books that put little at stake. Then there are books that have happy endings because they have something to say about happiness. Bridge of Birds is the latter. But here I am, talking in vague generalities. One reason I'm doing this is that Bridge of Birds, to me, feels like a complete narrative only when considered as a whole … analyzing the individual parts of the story removes them from the context they need to remain vital. As the ending of the story reveals, it's impossible to understand the quest for the Great Root of Power without understanding the Duke of Ch'in and why he must be deposed. But why believe me? Li Kao, although he has a slight flaw in his character, says it best: This is a fellow who arranged things so that anyone who went after him would have to wander through the landscape of a homicidal fairy tale, which makes no sense if you think of him as a great and powerful ruler, but which makes perfect sense if you think of him as he once was: a cowardly little boy lying in bed at night, staring in terror at every noise and seeing monsters in every shadow. He grew older, but it can scarcely be said that he grew up, because he was so frightened at the thought of death that he was willing to commit any crime, and even to lose his heart if it would keep him from the Great Wheel of Transmigrations. This is a diagnosis of the Duke of Ch'in that strikes me as accurate, not just of the character but of the evils he represents. Hughart is also a master of foreshadowing in this book, and as the Duke of Ch'in's identity falls into place and we learn how he came to be so powerful, we see just how well Hughart laid out the steps leading up to the climax: the myth of the Princess of Birds and Star Shepherd, the scrutinizing powers of the Old Man of the Mountain, the tales of ginseng. It's true that there's an inordinate amount of coincidence in the book, so much so that it becomes almost trite. Yet I'm inclined to forgive Hughart; he takes a gamble, and it pays off. Aside from his above remarks, and his oft-repeated introductory phrase, I most enjoyed Li Kao for his interpretation of why Number Ten Ox and Miser Shen were devoted to Lotus Cloud but he was not. Master Li's "slight flaw" in his character prevented him from attaining the innocence of these other two, and thus prevented him from seeing Lotus Cloud's hidden godly nature. In that sense, I suspect the Duke of Ch'in is guilty of having supernumerary flaws of character. Master Li has lived long and has grown too cynical to stay completely uncorrupted. He has lived well, however, and preserved his sense of adventure and justice. The Duke of Ch'in, on the other hand, has lived too long, and has not lived well. His longevity has made him a more perverted, corrupted, and more cowardly man than he was in his youth. I found the contrast between the Duke and Master Li the most striking; there were many others, such as the brain/brawn pairing of Li and Number Ten Ox, and the transformations of Henpecked Ho and Miser Shen. For such a short book, there's an awful lot to Bridge of Birds. The book's description doesn't do it justice and in fact doesn't let on to what actually takes place in the story. As such, Bridge of Birds is something of a hidden gem: it is far more fantastical, much more magical, than what one would initially expect. Suspend your scepticism along with your disbelief, and Bridge of Birds will win over your heart (just don't put it in a box in the middle of a city at the bottom of a lake). ...more |
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Nov 15, 2017
Jan 21, 2010
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Nov 16, 2017
Jan 26, 2010
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Nov 18, 2009
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 1592405088
| 9781592405084
| 1592405088
| 3.93
| 2,674
| 2006
| Nov 03, 2009
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really liked it
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I must confess that, as a kid and an adolescent, I never shared the ardour for comic books many of my peers did. I collected Archie comics and read th
I must confess that, as a kid and an adolescent, I never shared the ardour for comic books many of my peers did. I collected Archie comics and read the odd Superman comic, but that was about it. So unlike most, who come for the superheroes, I came to The Physics of Superheroes for the physics. As an aspiring teacher, I love to hear about new ways of teaching difficult or boring topics to students. While I don't find physics boring, I can see it being difficult—and, depending on how it's presented, perhaps dull. There's no chance of that happening when the likes of Superman, Iron Man, and the Flash are involved. Even those like me, who aren't diehard comic book fans, will enjoy this innovative approach to freshman physics. I admit I was surprised to see Professor Kakalios derive examples from comic books for every major topic. From a pedagogical perspective, The Physics of Superheroes deserves high praise. Because I am impatient, I powered through this book in three days. I do not recommend you do the same. This is, after all, a physics book—cunningly disguised as a discussion of superheroics, but a physics book nonetheless. There is a reason that freshman physics courses take up the entire school year: the brain is just not meant to absorb so much so fast. My math and physics background allowed me to keep afloat, but I can see many people buying this book for its attractive premise but then panning it for getting too difficult. For the first few sections, Kakalios has no problem. Newtonian mechanics might be daunting at first, but its deterministic nature makes it reassuring: if you put the same variables in, you'll also get the same result. It's the probabilistic, indeterministic nature of quantum mechanics that leaves some people uncomfortable. If you have trouble visualizing an electron as matter wavefunction in a "probability cloud" about the atomic nucleus instead of the simpler "solar system" model we learn in high school, don't feel bad. Many of physics' most brilliant minds objected to quantum mechanics on similar grounds when it was in its infancy. Modern physics is quite complex, and that's reflected in any book on the subject, no matter how well-written. Kakalios does not always succeed in the later chapters, and he often doesn't make enough connections to his superhero examples as he explains a physics concept. I'm willing to cut him slack, however, because this is a survey book. For those interested in more depth, there's a lengthy list of recommended reading in the back. Still, I learned plenty. Certainly I won't forget what Kakalios taught me about the relationship between mass, density, and volume, thanks to the Atom, Ant-Man, and Mr. Fantastic. Density is mass divided by volume, and if you want to shrink yourself or grow larger, you're best to increase your mass and hold your density constant. On a related note, perhaps Kakalios' most impressive feat is one he accomplishes at the beginning of the book. First he calculates how much force Golden Age Superman's legs must provide to allow him to jump 1/8th of a mile in the air. From this, Kakalios deduces the acceleration due to gravity on Krypton and concludes that Krypton likely had matter from a neutron star in its core—hence why the planet exploded! Kakalios' love for his topics, both physics and comics, is obvious in the writing. I should also mention that I went to see Professor Kakalios when he gave a talk at Lakehead University (when I subsequently bought this book). If you have a chance to attend a talk, do so. You can also see some videos on the book's website. Certain examples, and much of Kakalios' humour, are better experienced in lecture instead of literary form. Nevertheless, The Physics of Superheroes joins Bill Nye the Science Guy and The Magic School Bus in teaching science as it is meant to be taught: with levity. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Apr 24, 2010
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Apr 26, 2010
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Nov 17, 2009
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Paperback
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| 0765312794
| 9780765312792
| 0765312794
| 3.72
| 5,868
| Oct 27, 2009
| Oct 27, 2009
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it was ok
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Economics is weird. The economy is a social system. Once upon a time, it was based somewhat in reality, with gold standards and natural resources form
Economics is weird. The economy is a social system. Once upon a time, it was based somewhat in reality, with gold standards and natural resources forming a large part of this anchor. At present, it has transformed into a mostly speculative beast, the taming of which is the goal of any number of hedge fund managers, stock market analysts, and economics professors with cushy degrees from Ivy League or wannabe-Ivy League schools. To make matters worse, the economy is based on the behaviour of people. And people, as a group, are not only irrational but stupid. So the economy is in for a treat. Makers is to economics what Little Brother is to national security and civil liberties. Cory Doctorow ventures into that curious nexus of technological innovation, outdated corporate laws, dinosaur business models perpetuated by incumbent players, and strong-willed individuals who want to rock the boat. Although definitely science fiction, like Little Brother this book invokes technology that is available in the present day, focusing on the differences such technology is making rather than speculating upon the differences technology will make. In some sense we have always lived in an information economy, because ultimately it all comes down to information in one form or another. Yet the information economy has never been more obvious in the present era, because technology has removed the barrier to the exchange of pure information. This so-called digital economy threatens incumbent business models—and the corporations that became successful through such models—because digital often turns scarcity into plenty. Makers uses 3D printers to represent this transition to plenty. But this is more than just making things; it's about what we choose to make. The point of the DIY ("do it yourself") movement is making objects—designing them, constructing them, watching them succeed or fail or adapt to new purposes—is a rewarding effort. Lester and Perry are innovators, and that's what makes them essential to Kettlewell's New Work vision. In a society that tends toward individualism, corporations like Google are succeeding by embracing that individualism, encouraging the creativity of individuals and small groups, then reaping the ideas that result. New Work is the ultimate corporate takeover, harnessing the very bootstraps-entrepreneurial strategy so praised in the United States to generate huge new profits. It is both terrifying and amazing. Of course, those corporations entrenched in the old paradigms will resist. This is where the law enters the story. Intellectual property law is a morass of complicated statutes, precedents, and procedures. Unfortunately, sometimes corporations will use these laws to eliminate competition. Those corporations want the law to remain as it is—or favour them even more—even as the government faces pressure to change the law in the face of changing technologies and business models. Disney (somewhat predictably, knowing Doctorow) plays the role of corporate antagonist in Makers. Everything goes swimmingly with the ride until pieces of Disney rides begin appearing in it; then Disney slaps the ride with an injunction and a trademark infringement lawsuit. Although the conflict presents Disney as the Big Bad Corporation out to get the Little Guy, the resolution is more nuanced and realistic in its views. Lester and Perry compromise, make a deal with a Disney executive, in return for personal creative freedom. Makers is not about revolution but evolution. Its tone may sound anti-corporation at times, but really it is only anti-dinosaur. Those corporations that adapt will survive. I revel in the way Makers chronicles some of the challenges facing corporations and individuals alike. That is about all it is good at doing, however. The characters are flat, and the story meanders through a flow chart of plot points Doctorow feels are essential to his theme. The jacket copy is somewhat misleading; it implies that Lester's "fatkins" treatment causes his falling out with Perry. While fatkins was a contributing factor, Lester and Perry's relationship deteriorates for several reasons, the main one being time and diverging interests. I don't blame Doctorow for the jacket copy. I do, however, expect deeper stories than what Makers delivers. Every problem the protagonists face can be conquered by a combination of message board posts, blogging, and passing it off to the legal experts. There is one obnoxious antagonist who is a straw man for anti-innovation bloggers (the kinds of sticks-in-the-mud who are unhappy whenever anyone is successful, and usually when they fail too). To be fair, the characters do change and learn from their conflicts. Lester and Perry's relationship transforms dramatically; Susan's life changes as she follows her dream; Sammy starts off as a suit and discovers he can have his cake and eat it too. So I'm even more puzzled than I usually am, because for all the dynamics in their relationships, these characters have no chemistry. For example, consider the scene in which Kettlewell admits to having an affair (we saw this coming). There is no drama, no repercussions. Nothing fundamentally changes after this admission. He could have said, "I am going to paint my white picket fence with a different brand of white paint" and engendered the same reader response. I just do not feel invested in these characters or their plights. But maybe that's just Kettlewell—after all, he is a minor character. Surely we feel more inclined toward drama over Lester and Perry? Not really. Hilda, whom Lester dubs Yoko, becomes an unwilling wedge between the two DIY-ers (we saw this coming). Hilda and Perry just sort of hook up and have a one night stand, and suddenly it's love. But Hilda never really does anything Yoko-ish. Lester is the one who has created a self-fulfilling prophecy, pushing Perry away in response to a stimulus that isn't there, projecting his own desires for distance. Still, the arguments Lester and Perry have do not feel like arguments. They are dialogues from two slightly different perspectives to communicate a point. Speaking of Perry and Hilda, let's talk about the sex scenes. Or not. Awkward. . . . Moving on. Makers starts with a bang but ends with a whimper. The quality of the prose remains consistent—consistently mediocre—but while the story starts strong, it soon becomes streamlined and perfunctory, like it's a Disney ride and we're just sitting there, watching it happen. Despite a Big Bad Corporation coming over for dinner and spats among the protagonists about the best way to run the rides, I never felt like the stakes were very high or that anyone had much to lose. As much as I love the premise and the execution of its ideas, Makers is much ado about nothing as far as I'm concerned. I thought Little Brother rocked hard enough to make it one of my best 10 books of 2009. With that book, Doctorow offers up a polemic, yes, but one that is truly worth the time, even if one disagrees with his argument. Makers lacks that worthwhile attribute. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jul 04, 2010
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Jul 07, 2010
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Nov 15, 2009
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Hardcover
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| 0765318415
| 9780765318411
| 0765318415
| 3.52
| 33,757
| Jun 01, 2009
| Sep 29, 2009
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really liked it
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Cherie Priest comes highly recommended to me from many people whom I respect; Boneshaker has been lauded most of all of her books. I couldn't fathom F
Cherie Priest comes highly recommended to me from many people whom I respect; Boneshaker has been lauded most of all of her books. I couldn't fathom Fathom, and that made me apprehensive about my next Priest experience. Boneshaker had two difficult tasks: it had to live up to the expectations heaped upon it by so many others, and it had to be better than Fathom. In both respects, it succeeded, and I have no reservations about declaring Boneshaker a fine novel. There's a certain fullness to the story that makes it a perfect sort of cozy fireplace read. Priest accomplishes this by setting a deeply personal story—Briar searching for her son—against the backdrop of the intense, altered Seattle after the Boneshaker has unleashed the Blight upon the settlement. The former plot keeps us grounded in the now and interested in what's happening to people instead of just an impersonal place, but it's supported by the rich narrative potential Priest creates with the latter plot. The eponymous machine makes only a minimal appearance in the actual story, but its name pervades the atmosphere of the entire novel. Everything that this world of Seattle, inside and outside the wall, has become what it's become because of the Boneshaker. At the same time, however, Priest gives us yet another example of a situation where humans have adapted to survive the most inimical environments. So much of what the commentary on Boneshaker focuses on its steampunk side, but I'm more interested in this theme of perseverance. I'm willing to grant that the two aren't mutually exclusive, and one could even argue that there's a quality to the practical, heavily mechanistic philosophies embodied by steampunk that make it useful for this sort of theme. Boneshaker goes deeper than mere machines and mad scientists, however. It bears similarity to post-apocalyptic fiction not only because it has zombies but because it's about the communities that emerge during the struggle for survival. As Zeke and Briar penetrate the wall, they encounter the people left behind when Seattle was partitioned. Hence, it's frustrating that Priest never fully develops the "underworld of Seattle" that exists inside the wall. We get a vague understanding of the society forged through the uneasy piece between those who seek power, like Dr. Minnericht, and those who respect "Maynard's peace." Then there's the transients, like the airship captains, and the inscrutable and aloof Chinese. We don't get a clear idea of the interactions among these groups. Nevertheless, Priest manages to draw our attention to some interesting individuals. I particularly liked Jeremiah, your typical big guy with the big gun and suit of armour. Captain Cly deserves a mention as well. But Lucy is probably the most enduring member of the supporting cast, for she serves an important role as Briar's companion on her journey to meet Minnericht and confront him about the whereabouts of Zeke. I liked the parallel narrative structure, where we see Zeke and Briar alternatively exploring their section of ruined Seattle. Their respective perspectives were interesting: Zeke has the somewhat naive attitude of an overconfident teenager; Briar quickly finds herself in more trouble than she was expecting but soon forges alliances based on who she is and, more importantly, what she does. For of course, both are fighting against the reputations society has saddled upon them: Zeke as son and grandson, Briar as wife and daughter. The legacies of two very different men have landed upon them, and they must decide when to be their own people and when to play the role—for as both discover, sometimes it's useful to be related to Maynard Wilkes. Those two men also form a knot in the relationship between mother and son, a point of contention around which Briar and Zeke dance for much of the novel. Briar doesn't want to reopen that chapter of her life, wants to protect her son and shelter him from what she perceives as the mistakes of her husband and her father. However, she realizes that her own reticence means others can step in and put whatever spin they like on the lives of Leviticus Blue and Maynard Wilkes. It's a credit to Zeke's character that he remains as sceptical as he does. The book slows down toward the end, after Briar encounters Minnericht and the rotters begin assaulting King Station. I was somewhat disappointed in how the narrative began to coalesce around this point. While I saw the resolution to the question of Minnericht's identity coming, it felt tangential to the main conflict. And for all the drama over Briar going over the wall to find Zeke, she doesn't encounter much difficulty once everything goes pear-shaped. The narrative just slows down, much like a clock in need of winding (see what I did there?). Boneshaker left me wanting more, yes, but I'm not sure if that's because my appetite is whetted or because I feel like there's too much left unfinished. Whatever the reason, I do anticipate future books. I'd love to see more about life aboard airships, even if that trope is getting rather thin. I want to know more about the source of the Blight, and how the American government is going to react when they eventually stop fighting their little war and decide to make Washington a state. However, I've saved mentioning this enthusiasm for upcoming books until the end of the review, because I want to emphasize that Boneshaker is a good read in its own right, sequels or no. You can curl up with this novel and sink your teeth into the emotional journey of Briar and Zeke Wilkes. When the Boneshaker came, it didn't just necessitate the remodelling of a town; it meant the rebuilding of myriad lives. And no one was affected more than the widow of the man behind the Boneshaker. This is her story, as much as it's Seattle's story. It's about the mistakes we make, and what we do to make amends, and the people we try to become along the way. And it's about humans, doing what we always do: building, fighting, loving, and if we're lucky, sometimes learning, over and over again until we die (or become zombies). ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 03, 2010
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Feb 05, 2010
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Sep 29, 2009
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Paperback
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| 4.12
| 2,560,601
| Apr 26, 1993
| Aug 01, 1994
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it was ok
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**spoiler alert** The world of The Giver, Jonas' world, is one without sunlight, without colour, without anger or love or indeed any strong feelings a
**spoiler alert** The world of The Giver, Jonas' world, is one without sunlight, without colour, without anger or love or indeed any strong feelings at all. Sexual urges are a suppressed by a daily pill. Jobs are assigned by the community's Council of Elders. The only one who remembers—whose job is, in fact, to remember—what life was like before humanity went to "Sameness" is the Receiver of Memory. And Jonas is the lucky new recruit for the job. As a reader of hardcore fantasy, I noticed that Jonas' relationship with the Giver is as an apprentice's relationship to a wizard. The apprentice often does things he's not supposed to do, and as he learns, he begins to question the world around him, often with the encouragement of the wizard. Likewise, the Receiver's position in the community is as a sort of shaman, offering counsel based on what wisdom the "spirits," the memories he holds, can give him. That's the key to the world in which Jonas lives. Despite their retention of advanced technology, people have chosen to live in a too-stable society, have deliberately engineered their world and themselves so as to ensure that society remains stable and "same" for as long as possible. The mentor/apprentice relationship of the Giver and Jonas exists for the benefit of the reader, so we can understand why this world is an undesirable one. And Lowry fleshes out this world in a subtle way, through Jonas' interactions with his friends and family, as well as a little exposition here and there. The result is a dual-layered story that makes The Giver young adult fiction adults can still enjoy. I saw "release" for the euphemism for euthanasia that it was long before Jonas learns about it, but one doesn't have to be quick to connect the subtextual dots to get something out of this book. I suppose that's why it deserves all these awards and whatnot. It makes kids think. I can go for that. The Giver earns high marks for its depiction of a utopia. Almost from the first page, I was stuck in a cringing expression as every sentence went against the very core of my being, went against my ideas of what it means to be free, to be an individual, and to be happy. Upon closer scrutiny, her society isn't as seamlessly functional as Lowry tries to make it, but she still deserves praise. It was truly terrifying and a strong reminder of why I would never want to live in a perfect world. But I can't shake the feeling that The Giver is missing something, something essential for me to rave about a book's quality. Was it the fact that Lowry doesn't explain why everyone chose to go to "Sameness"? Plenty of post-apocalyptic fiction never bothers to explain How We Got Here. Well, what about the lack of any real conflict until the end of the book? But that's part of the utopian vision Lowry's examining. No, it's the ending that bothers me. And here's why. Utopian fiction often consists of an act by the rebellious protagonist designed to change society or at least make people "realize" that life can be different. Still, the outcome of the act can be ambiguous, with society remaining unchanged and the protagonist often defeated—the idea being that the author's intention is to provoke thought in the reader. (The former, "happier" approach seems more prevalent in movies. I think the studios think it sells more.) In The Giver, Jonas succeeds in his rebellious act. We never really learn if it has the effect on his community that he hopes it will. (The fact that we don't learn what happens to Jonas doesn't bother me at all.) My issue, however, is that I had a "So what?" moment during the ending, because Jonas appears to be doing exactly what the previous, failed Receiver trainee did: leaving the community to deal with its memories itself. Granted, Jonas is going fugitive instead of euthanizing himself, but the goal is the same. After spending so much time explaining how the previous Receiver trainee's actions didn't have much of an impact, I was underwhelmed that Lowry's master plan was "more of the same, try it again." With worthy themes and an interesting look at utopia, The Giver deserves some of its constant praise. Nevertheless, there's a weakness in its final act that undermines the book's narrative. Yes, The Giver is a powerful reminder of how much we like our sunshine. But it also makes me hope that if you ever have the chance to take down a utopian society, you come up with a better plan than Jonas does. The Giver sets the stage but is always grasping at ideas that seem beyond its reach or ability to convey. This is good utopian literature, but there is much better utopian literature, for kids and adults alike. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 09, 2010
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Jan 09, 2010
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Sep 27, 2009
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 0385504225
| 9780385504225
| 0385504225
| 3.75
| 619,084
| Sep 15, 2009
| Sep 15, 2009
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did not like it
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Here we go again. I had no intention of reading Dan Brown's new Robert Langdon novel; torturing myself twice was enough. However, my mom gave it to me
Here we go again. I had no intention of reading Dan Brown's new Robert Langdon novel; torturing myself twice was enough. However, my mom gave it to me for my birthday last year—and my birthday is in a week, so I have delayed long enough. I'm not going to apologize for this review, and if you like Dan Brown's novels in any way, you might well be offended. When considering how I would review this, the question that I had to conquer was: why so much vitriol? What makes other factually-inaccurate thrillers excusable while I crucify Dan Brown thrillers? There must be some reason that The Lost Symbol is exceedingly bad, even by the standards of people who believe a book can just be a "beach read." If no such reason exists, then I'm just hating on Dan Brown to be cool, and that's . . . not cool. Fortunately, there are plenty of reasons for my vituperation of The Lost Symbol. Let's start with those so-called "facts" and "research" that are supposed to elevate this thriller into some sort of work possessing "culture" (whatever that is). No matter how you weigh this book, even if it's to ten decimal points, most of it is exposition. And dull exposition at that. Yes, some of Langdon's explanations about Masonic history are relevant to the plot. But most of these "facts" are just Dan Brown trying to show off how much research he did. For example, when a woman recognizes Langdon by his trademark turtleneck-sans-tie, Dan Brown mentions for our edification: Neckties had been required six days a week when Langdon attended Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite the headmaster's romantic claim that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk fascalia worn by Roman orators to warm their vocal cords, Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived from a ruthless band of "Croat" mercenaries who donned knotted neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To this day, this ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in daily boardroom battles. This paragraph might be defensible as character development, but Dan Brown is still showing off. There's really no reason to include it. At least he gets the etymology correct here—later, Langdon will ruminate on how we sign our letters "sincerely" because sincere comes from the Latin sine cera, "without wax." The OED tells me: "there is no probability in [this] old explanation." I won't try to list all the factual errors in The Lost Symbol. That would bore both of us. The necktie is my paradigm case. Suffice it to say, Dan Brown's claims about factual accuracy annoy me, because they are so obviously false. The denouement of The Lost Symbol, once the thriller part of the plot is over, exists only so that Dan Brown can go on for another fifty pages about the Masonic secrets of Washington and how they promulgate a New Age syncretic philosophy. As a result, people who read this book looking for didactic fiction will come away with a wildly-skewed view of history and philosophy. People who want a thriller, on the other hand, should stop after chapter 125. People who want a good thriller should just stop, period, because they won't find one in this book. Let's talk about philosophy now, as well as facts. The Lost Symbol focuses on Noetics. Dan Brown's lamentable and laughable author's note, titled "Fact," claims that "All rituals, science, artwork, and monuments in this novel are real." This is technically correct, in the sense that Noetics does exist . . . but it's not really a science. This is apparent at the end of chapter 7: "The truth was that Katherine was doing science so advanced that it no longer even resembled science." If your science no longer resembles science, then you aren't doing science any more. (Also, if your science lasts longer than four hours, please call a doctor.) No, contrary to his lip service to factual accuracy, Dan Brown is content to repeat misconceptions and misrepresentations of science and philosophy if it fits his purposes. Now, if this were a work of science fiction, and Noetics was presented as some future development of human science, then I could go with it. However, Dan Brown is claiming Noetics is credibly a science in the present day. It's pseudoscience, or more appropriately, philosophy. The distinction between science and philosophy is, admittedly, somewhat vague, especially the further back in time we go. However, this does not support the tiresome myth that The Lost Symbol repeats. As Peter puts it, "The scientific wisdom of the ancients was staggering . . . modern physics is only now beginning to comprehend it all." Two paragraphs later, we get a horrendously inaccurate explanation of quantum entanglement followed by a claim that this phenomenon is equivalent to the universal sense of "one-ness," that all things are interconnected, espoused by innumerable ancient philosophies. Even if such an equivalence were evident, it does not follow that "the ancients" (a laughably broad label) understood quantum entanglement theory in the sense that we do today. Dan Brown is being very sneaky here in his support for this argument. Just prior to the entanglement theory discussion, Katherine says, "you already told me that the Egyptians understood levers and pulleys long before Newton." This sentence makes an implicit connection between the Egyptian use of levers and pulleys and Newton's explanation of how levers and pulleys function according to his laws of force and motion. Yet applying technology is very different from explaining why that technology functions. The Greeks also knew how to use pulleys and levers, but Aristotle's explanation for gravity was that all things want to return whence they come, hence everything falling back to Earth. This explanation is wrong, but it didn't preclude the continued use of pulley-and-lever technology. (For that matter, Newton's theories are also "wrong" in the sense that they have been superseded by Einstein's theory of general relativity. But Newton's formulas are much simpler and usually accurate enough for anything being done at a local level.) If I sound didactic, it's because I'm trying to undo some of the damage done by The Lost Symbol. You might not think its portrayal of science matters, but when millions of people read a book that claims "all science presented here is real," perpetuating a mistaken view of how science functions is irresponsible. It's also lazy, because then it leads to remarks like this: Katherine's work here had begun using modern science to answer ancient philosophical questions. Does anyone hear our prayers? Is there life after death? Do humans have souls? Incredibly, Katherine had answered all of these questions, and more. Scientifically. Conclusively. The methods she used were irrefutable. Even the most skeptical of people would be persuaded by the results of her experiments. If this information were published and made known, a fundamental shift would begin in the consciousness of man. This is a classic example of Dan Brown's personal style of hyperbole, which dates back to the anti-science conspiracy at the core of Angels & Demons. There are three problems with the above passage. Firstly, the claim that science can ever be "conclusive" or that a scientist's methods result in "irrefutable" evidence. That's not how science is, at least right now, is wired. Scientists love to design hypothesis and then try to falsify those hypotheses, because proving something wrong means you can cross it off the list (and learn a lot during the investigation). Moreover, we are constantly tinkering with and tweaking scientific theories. No theory emerges spontaneously from the (nonexistent) ether, and no theory remains unchanging. Secondly, scientific discoveries do not change the world overnight. New results have to be confirmed, reproduced, reviewed . . . it takes time. Fundamental changes happen, but they take time. Finally, it's not the "most skeptical of people" Katherine has to worry about convincing. It's the irrational people. Aristotle might have opined that human beings have a rational principle, but I'm tempted to say he was wrong about that too (Aristotle was wrong about a lot of things!). It doesn't matter how "irrefutable" her evidence is; there will still be certain people who reject science in favour of . . . yeah. It's just bad, OK? Dan Brown has no respect for science and no respect for research, since he lazily puts in whatever exposition he wants, accurate or not, and then claims it's all real anyway. In attempting to be sensational, Dan Brown succumbs to laziness, both in his research and his presentation of that research. And that's really all The Lost Symbol is: a tedious, lazy presentation of research about Masonic symbolism. I'm not certain how I can properly convey how much of this book is exposition and how little is actually plot. If you have read my reviews of Angels & Demons and The Da Vinci Code, then you'll know that my primary complaint is that the two books are the same book, with some names and places changed. The Lost Symbol almost succumbs to this problem, although there are some notable differences. For instance, the erudite character with a physical disability is not the evil mastermind this time. Also, Dan Brown decided to skip any kind of intelligent puzzle in this book, opting instead of cheap tricks with boring reveals ("Oh, I was looking at the tattoo upside down. D'oh!"). Somehow, The Lost Symbol manages to be even worse than the preceding Robert Langdon books. Langdon continues to be a transparent author avatar—if you have any doubt of this, just compare Langdon's turtleneck-tweed ensemble from any of this three books with the author photo. Katherine Solomon is a transparent hot female scientist—sorry, pseudoscientist. The Lost Symbol is perhaps the worst book I have read, worse by far than The Art Thief and perhaps worse than The Expected One . I don't know what Dan Brown's next novel is, but I don't want to read it. It disappoints me that The Lost Symbol is so successful, but I don't want to be one of those literature snobs who shakes his fist, saying, "Why can't the public see they're reading crap?!" But there is a big difference between popularity and literary quality. I'll conclude with a shout-out to Umberto Eco. Eco is a semiotician and author of Foucault's Pendulum . If you're interested in conspiracies, that's the book you should be reading. Intelligent and sublime, it is not merely a conspiracy thriller. Unlike Dan Brown, Eco does not display contempt for his readers by including lazily-researched "facts." Instead, he creates a fable that is part conspiracy, part literary criticism, part philosophy, and wholly entertaining and enchanting. It is everything Dan Brown's novels are not, and if you have read this review prior to reading The Lost Symbol, I sincerely urge you to put down the Dan Bron novel and pick up an Umberto Eco one instead. My Reviews of the Robert Langdon series: ← The Da Vinci Code [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Sep 13, 2010
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Sep 15, 2010
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Sep 22, 2009
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Hardcover
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| 0345481399
| 9780345481399
| 0345481399
| 4.00
| 11,329
| 2002
| Jun 28, 2005
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it was amazing
|
**spoiler alert**
Read an updated review from 2018!
If I continue reading books this good, then 2010 will be a hard year for reviewing indeed. I ha **spoiler alert** Read an updated review from 2018! If I continue reading books this good, then 2010 will be a hard year for reviewing indeed. I had trouble capturing my appreciation for the scope of Anathem, and it took what seemed like forever to formulate a half-decent review of Bridge of Birds. Now Elizabeth Moon has gone and delivered what might be the most complex piece of fiction I've read in months (I'm counting Anathem here too). It's infuriating! When I read a great book, I want to write a great review. The pressure is on! I don't doubt the veracity of Moon's portrayal of autism in the form of Lou Arrendale. However, her character sketch is far more powerful than that: she portrays someone who is inescapably different from the majority of his society. This is something with which we can all identify, even if we have very little idea of what it would it feel like to be autistic. We all have moments where we feel the uneven walls of society close in, where we question the obviously insane rituals society has inculcated on us. Watching Lou grow and change even over the short time for which we know him is a rewarding experience. Every relationship, every interaction brings something new to the table and makes the reader look at quotidian events in a new light—sometimes with wonder, perhaps, and often with consternation, but always with an appreciation of how fragile a construction "normal" is. As well-developed a character as Lou is, few of the other characters in the book approach his level of detail. The two major antagonists, Crenshaw and Don, were both one-dimensional. Although Moon justifies their antagonism fine, as people they didn't feel very real. In particular, Crenshaw lacked the guile to make him a believable villain. I could see him bullishly pursuing his disastrous plan for section A, but behaving that way in front of the police? In front of Aldrin? He should have been somewhat sneakier. Likewise, Don's fate is inevitable from the moment we see him set against Lou. The relationships of the people in Lou's life are interesting, but the people themselves are not. I have similar feelings about the Lou at the end of The Speed of Dark. I cannot countenance his decision to undergo the treatment, but I recognize that Moon was making a statement about it being an individual's choice—pressuring Lou or anyone else to undergo a treatment to become "normal" is wrong, but if Lou elects to have the treatment . . . can we really justify denying it to him? Nevertheless, some part of Lou was lost—he himself admits this, but it does not bother the new Lou. Had we more time to get to know the new Lou, maybe I would feel different. On this more abstracted level, the ending's flaw is apparent: even if one agrees with Lou's decision to undergo the treatment, the ending is too rushed to allow us a fair evaluation of his adjusted character. We get a glimpse at the new Lou and exposition of his future, but a very shallow sense of the man. This is all the more disappointing when compared to the deep and detailed exploration of Lou's mind for the first 330 pages. The Speed of Dark reaches a dazzling, virtuoso crescendo for its crisis moment, as we wonder if Lou will undergo the treatment and what it will mean for him—and for us. And then it fizzles. The Speed of Dark is a paradigm case of science fiction that isn't science fiction. By that I mean: science fiction that lacks the overt trappings commonly associated with works of science fiction, the type of conventions that deter non-science fiction fans from reading the genre. Set slightly in the future and occasionally mentioning technology we don't have (like anti-aging treatments), The Speed of Dark's "science fiction component" seldom intrudes on the narrative and almost never intruded on my consciousness. I'm not knocking more overt works of science fiction, but I have to laud Moon for her ability to tell a story with such precision of her artifice. I set out to write this review with every intention of giving The Speed of Dark four stars. I wanted to give it five stars, I really did, but as nearly perfect as the book may be, there are parts that I just wish were different. There were characters who didn't work, and I did not enjoy the ending as much as I enjoyed the journey toward it. And if it weren't for the fact that I did enjoy the majority of the book so much, I could let most of its flaws slide—then again, if that were the cause, it probably wouldn't be worthy of a five-star rating anyway, and I wouldn't have this problem. The fact is, that five-star rating you see attached to this review was inevitable. I tried to fight it, I did. But the book made me! Despite its flaws, despite my ardent discomfort with the book's ending, The Speed of Dark is just that good. And I need to emphasize that in a way only four stars never could. This is not a perfect book—few books, even ones that I give five stars, are—nor does it approach perfection in any asymptotic sense. The Speed of Dark is a necessary book. It's one of the few books I would venture to say everyone should read. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 26, 2010
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Jan 28, 2010
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Sep 14, 2009
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 1593080891
| 9781593080891
| 1593080891
| 4.05
| 907,212
| Dec 23, 1815
| Apr 15, 2004
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really liked it
|
Move over,
Pride and Prejudice
. Emma is my new favourite Jane Austen novel, and while Austen may be better known for Pride and Prejudice, this boo
Move over,
Pride and Prejudice
. Emma is my new favourite Jane Austen novel, and while Austen may be better known for Pride and Prejudice, this book is what has earned her acclaim in my eyes. At times plodding and predictable, Emma nonetheless won me over with a complex cast of characters, whose changing relationships are the key to the entire story. Austen's ironic hand makes this book a light but real commentary on the class divisions present in her contemporary England, particularly how those divisions influence whom, if anyone, a woman marries. Austen puts a good deal of effort into making Emma a three-dimensional character who is patently unlikable. Witty, argumentative, manipulative, and proud, Emma wants for nothing—and as a result, her boredom gets her into trouble. The book tends to present scenes such that Emma does something to someone, rather than the other way around, but ultimately the person most affected by her scheming is Emma herself. Watching Emma acknowledge her flaws and begin to change is a very satisfactory experience. Near the beginning, she almost comically refuses to recognize her own hypocrisy with regards to Harriet Smith's prospects. She looks down upon Mr. Martin, a worthy farmer, even though Harriet is an orphan and her only status comes from Emma's patronage. With each new target for Harriet's affections, Emma only complicates matters further. First she encourages Harriet to pursue Mr. Elton, who in the process falls for Emma; then she thinks Harriet has feelings for Frank Churchill, only to later learn it is Mr. Knightley who has caught Harriet's eye. It sounds like a daytime soap opera, and the thought did cross my mind while watching these attractions wax and wane. Enough already, I thought, just marry someone! Such an interpretation is tempting but ultimately quite naive. The only relationship plot device that truly annoyed me was Frank Churchill's secret engagement. I predicted whom he was going to marry but did not foresee when they became engaged (prior to the beginning of the novel, even). This is an exception to the rule, however, and that is what saves Emma. Rather than rely on twists, Austen uses the conflict generated by her own characters to create a remarkable story. Although certain characters (like Mrs. Elton) can be seen as antagonists, there are not so much antagonists in Emma as people acting on various motivations, working at cross-purposes. I read Mrs. Elton not as a malicious character but as a woman who, having married slightly upward in society, desperately seeks acceptance and validation from the other women in her new circle. Hence, after Emma spurns Mrs. Elton's attempts at friendship, Mrs. Elton becomes cold toward Emma. Likewise, her unwelcome exertions on Jane Fairfax's behalf stem from the same desire to be seen as useful, connected, powerful. I love Mr. Woodhouse, who can also be quite an obstacle, in a harmless-old-man sort of way. It is no wonder that Emma is so bold and forthright in her planning when her father is disengaged with the world around him. I particularly love how he goes on about marriage as a bad thing, and the book implies that he has always held this view, even as a young man. So how exactly did he end up with not one but two daughters? Perhaps this paradox is the source of his lethargy and hypochondria! The main conflict comes mostly from the love triangles in which Emma finds herself. First with Harriet and Mr. Elton, then with Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill, then Harriet and Frank Churchill, and finally Harriet and Mr. Knightley. Not all of these triangles are genuine (and in almost every case, Emma denies her feelings for the main in question), which only makes the ensuing complications more comical. Rather than merely keeping tone light, however, Austen harnesses this comedic energy to take Emma to the next level. After the "incident on Box Hill," as it becomes known, Emma takes a step back and seriously re-evaluates herself. Throughout the novel she talks to herself, her thoughts mingling with those of the third-person narrator. We learn from Emma about how clever Emma is, how kind Emma is, how lucky it is that Emma will never marry. And then, after she snaps and ruins the party for everyone, Emma stops to question exactly why she behaved that way on Box Hill. Was she truly upset with Mrs. Elton and annoyed with Miss. Bates? The first half of Emma is sugary and sometimes soporific. The second half, however, is deep and full of introspection on Emma's part. Austen has created a character with genuine, interesting flaws and made a story out of the revelation of those flaws. By the end of the book, Emma is not perfect—no one is—but she is happier for having cast aside some of her pretensions and, on some level, changed. The last chapter of the book felt like a hasty postscript. I suppose Austen felt it necessary to have a quick epilogue that assured us everyone lived happily-ever-after. It was just jarring, because it spanned almost as much time as the rest of the entire novel, if not more. I began Emma with high expectations. Unlike Sense and Sensibility , Emma lived up to those expectations. This book continued to surprise me as I read further—not, mind you, in the plot, which is fairly predictable. No, this book's virtues lie in the hearts and minds of its characters. Austen does more than write romance in Emma; she creates an entire small village of people and the equivalent set of relationships to match. The result: thoughtful prose and an artful story. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jun 28, 2010
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Jul 03, 2010
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Sep 07, 2009
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Mass Market Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0345459407
| 9780345459404
| 0345459407
| 3.98
| 71,485
| Mar 2000
| Aug 2003
|
really liked it
|
**spoiler alert** Perdido Street Station is a supersaturated story. The city of New Crobuzon teems with life as weird as China Miéville can imagine it
**spoiler alert** Perdido Street Station is a supersaturated story. The city of New Crobuzon teems with life as weird as China Miéville can imagine it—and he has a very flexible imagination. This is one of those touched cities so often the focus of a fantasy or science fiction novel: the city where anything can—and does—happen, sometimes with shocking regularity. In New Crobuzon, there's the law enforced by the militia, and then there's the law observed by everyone who isn't important enough for the militia to bother. There are probably more exceptions than rules. We figure out those rules, and exceptions, as the story progresses. Many reviewers pan the complexity of Peridido Street Station, accusing Miéville of creating something so dense and haphazardly interconnected as to appear frustratingly random. It's an understandable charge. However, that alone is not a sufficient strike against the book. And I think it's a mistake to attempt to absorb everything that happens in a single reading—this a book that withstands multiple readings precisely because there is so much to it. Of course, before one even considers re-reading a book, one must read it once. So any book so complex as to invite multiple readings should be comprehensible in the first reading, right? Again, I think it's a bad idea to go into Perdido Street Station with the expectation of comprehending every part of the plot and how it all fits together. Nevertheless, you can comprehend enough of the plots and their connections to enjoy a full story. It helps if you look at the novel from a particular perspective, which is what I'll do for the rest of this review. At the risk of sounding reductionist, I'll look at how alliances relate the various plots of Perdido Street Station. This is an apt choice, because one of the book's themes is about the somewhat unfortunate necessity of betrayal. Our protagonists are not the most savoury of moral characters; Isaac regularly deals with criminals and engages in petty thievery. By watching the shifting alliances among the characters of the book, we get a sense of their morality, their goals, and how they affect the overall plot. Trace the flow of power, and you'll see how that power affects the story. Isaac makes and breaks several alliances in the book, most notably with Yagharek, Lemuel Pigeon, the Weaver, and the Construct Council. His alliance with Yagharek drags the exiled garuda into the main adventure and also provides the impetus Isaac needs to invent his crisis engine. Lemuel Pigeon is Isaac's link to the underworld of New Crobuzon; it's his involvement that results in Isaac raising the slake-moth that frees its fellows and begins a reign of terror over the city. The Weaver is an ineffable entity that can literally alter reality to suit its perception of the "worldweb" of patterns. Both Isaac and Mayor Rudgutter seek the help of the Weaver, but Isaac is more successful in forging a lasting alliance, and the Weaver's participation at the climax is crucial to Isaac's plan to destroy the slake-moths. Finally, Isaac's alliance with the Construct Council is one of the most interesting alliances in the book. At first it seems like a miracle: a nascent artificial intelligence, immune to the slake-moths' hypnosis, willing to help because it wants to preserve the city as a fount of information. Yet Isaac perceives a hunger in the Construct Council that is unbridled by morality or empathy, and so he has to use the Council and cast it aside at the last moment. Isaac's betrayal of the Construct Council is but one of many betrayals of the alliances he makes. We're conditioned to see betrayal as something vile, but often Isaac's betrayals take the form of what he sees as necessary moral decisions. The Construct Council is one such betrayal, but it's even more explicit in how Isaac breaks his contract with Yagharek. After learning about Yagharek's crime, we see Isaac try to rationalize continuing to help Yagharek. He's caught between betraying a comrade who helped save the city and save his lover or sanctioning what, in Isaac's mind, he can only call rape. This may seem like an easy decision in the abstract, but Isaac's hesitation reveals the depth of his character, for he is human—and thus fallible. This makes Isaac a strong protagonist, especially considering all that Miéville inflicts upon him, especially considering that he gets no happy ending. It's the harshness of the ending that causes Perdido Street Station to crystallize into a single, coherent entity. After finishing the book, I couldn't see it with a happy ending. I wish Lin had survived; I wish there was a happy-ever-after, with Isaac making lots of money and somehow enjoying his life again. But it couldn't happen. Isaac can't be the Hero of New Crobuzon, because he's not a hero. He never will be; he's too flawed. Moreover, there are no heroes in New Crobuzon. Isaac lost everything in his battle to save his city, including the life he could lead in that city, and the woman he loved. I do regret what happens to Lin. She begins as a powerful character, just as important and as interesting as Isaac. After Mr. Motley captures her, however, her role is reduced to next to nothing. Again, in terms of alliances, Isaac and Lin's is important. They establish each other as meaningful, thoughtful characters who can see past their own species when it comes to love. They contrast each other in terms of science and art, obsession and passion, etc. Isaac would be a much weaker character without Lin, and the story itself is weaker for her absence for much of it. On the other side of the power divide, we have the city of New Crobuzon, its government personified by Mayor Rudgutter and Secretary Stem-Fulcher. They make a shady alliance with crime lord Mr. Motley, resulting in the sale to Motley of the slake-moths—they are as much responsible for the subsequent tragedy as Isaac is. They also try to stop the slake-moths, albeit without any success. We're not supposed to like Rudgutter, of course, but we can admire him as a character, as a depiction of a corrupt city bureaucrat. We don't get a full exploration of Rudgutter's machinations, unfortunately. We do learn that New Crobuzon has an embassy of Hell, and Rudgutter seeks demonic aid in destroying the slake-moths. This part seemed more extraneous than anything else, as the ambassador from Hell neither deigns to help Rudgutter nor has any other effect on the plot. With Hell struck off the list, Rudgutter turns to other potential allies, some even less savoury. There's almost as many creatures and species in New Crobuzon as there are streets, and it seems that the less conventional they are, the more we see them. Take, for example, the Cactacae. Living cacti? Weird! And wonderful! Much like the plot structure, it can be hard to follow the plethora of physical permutations Miéville explores in Perdido Street Station, but it's rewarding. One advantage of Miéville's voluminous verbosity is that he always chooses the most interesting words to describe physical appearance. Perdido Street Station is a delectable book in terms of diction and vocabulary. Whether you condemn or celebrate Miéville's worldbuilding, it's clear that the city of New Crobuzon is not your typical science fiction or fantasy setting (even if it does have zeppelins from another world). It's the details that matter, and not just the amount of detail. I focused on only a sliver of the thoughts and emotions Perdido Street Station evokes for me. There's so much to consider, when it comes to the motivations of the characters and the consequences of their actions, that Miéville deserves credit for his storytelling as much as for his worldbuilding, if not more. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 05, 2010
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Feb 11, 2010
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Sep 04, 2009
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 0385523327
| 9780385523325
| 0385523327
| 3.81
| 3,879
| Sep 15, 2009
| Sep 15, 2009
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really liked it
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**spoiler alert** As with my review of Acacia, this review is a literary minefield of uber-spoilers and links to TVTropes. Acacia's ending left a sinis **spoiler alert** As with my review of Acacia, this review is a literary minefield of uber-spoilers and links to TVTropes. Acacia's ending left a sinister taste in the air. The shining prince, Aliver Akaran, is dead. In his place his sister Corinn has retaken the throne. Nine years pass, and Aaden, her son by Hanish Mein, is growing into a fine young prince at his mother's side. Corinn herself has been busy studying The Song of Elenet, a sorcerer's handbook of sorts. She's had to make hard decisions to stay in power and quell the unrest following the defeat of the Mein. It shows. If the Corinn of latter Acacia days was reserved and calculating, The Other Lands sees her transform from High Queen to Knight Templar, and it's really scary. Corinn is desperate for a replacement for the mist, and she commissions an alternative drug consumed through wine. It's more addictive than mist and has fewer side-effects. Sounds perfect, but since almost everyone drinks wine, it would be really easy to get a significant proportion of the population addicted—oh, and no one bothered to test what happens when someone is deprived of the drug indefinitely. But that doesn't bother Corinn as much as the possibility that some people will disagree with her. Don't let my flippant tone mislead you, however; Corrin is not merely a caricature of the queen who goes too far. We also get to see the woman behind the queen. Corinn regularly expresses her doubts—almost regrets—about how she has to behave in order to maintain control. Her only joys in life come from Aaden and learning sorcery. And this isn't entirely her fault: Corinn has trust issues. Her mother, to whom she was especially close, died. Her father died. Her first love died. She fell in love with her enemy, Hanish Mein, then learned he was planning to kill her (should have seen that one coming, Princess). In this book, she permits herself a flirtation with King Grae, only to learn that he's involved with some peasant rebels. I can't wait to find out how she reacts when she learns that her amateur attempts at sorcery are endangering Acacia more than the league or the Auldek! Speaking of the Auldek, Dariel's voyage to the Other Lands is the other half of this book. It's not quite as interesting as Corinn's machinations, because it offers less of an emotional purchase for the reader. Dariel is the Akaran who gets the least amount of development, almost as if Durham doesn't know what to do with him. Corinn is the scheming queen; Mena is the badass but weary warrior; Dariel is . . . I'm not sure. So Durham, through Corinn, packs him off to the Other Lands where he gets imprisoned, tortured, tattooed, and then leads former quota slaves on a raid! It's somewhat convoluted . . . but I guess it works. Despite my reservations about Dariel's characterization, I'm pleased that Durham took us over the Gray Slopes in the second book. We learn more about the nature of the Lothan Aklun and, by extension, sorcery. The relationship between the Auldek and Numrek, as well as the reason for the Numrek's arrival in the Known World, is made clear. And these two plot points are connected, for the Lothan Aklun have fundamentally altered Auldek and Numrek society. By making the Auldek immortal yet sterile through soul transfer, the Lothan Aklun warped this warrior culture into something stagnant, dependent upon them for quota slaves to function as "children" of a sort. With the Lothan Aklun gone and the Numrek returned with tidings of a land where Auldek will be fertile and a weak people is just waiting to be conquered . . . well, the Auldek jump at the chance for some real battle, and you can't blame them. Indeed, although the Auldek are brutal and brutish, there is something earnest about their motivations. As Rialos notes, who is to say that the Acacian time for dominance hasn't come to an end? Perhaps it is time for the Auldek to reign. This hearkens to the ambiguous nature of the Akaran versus Mein conflict in Acacia. Once again the Akarans represent "the good guys," but they don't do a very good job at it. The League of Vessels shows its teeth in this book with its fait accompli massacre of the Lothan Aklun. Back when Leodan first mentioned them in Acacia, the words were alien, disturbing: "Lothan Aklun." I pictured them as sorcerers, yes, but as terrible and incomprehensible beings. Even after the League revealed the Lothan Aklun were to the Auldek as the League is to the Acacians, I held out hope. In a way, that hope remains intact, since we didn't actually get to meet the Lothan Aklun—they were all dead by the time we finally visit the Other Lands, so they remain a mystery. But I digress: after spending all of the last book cackling about how the league is the "real power" in the world, Sire Dagon finally has some actions to back up those empty words. At first, when it's apparent that Sire Neen overstepped himself, Sire Dagon's panicked reaction seems to indicate that the league will lose just as much in the coming war as will the Acacians. But the meeting of the Senior Council belies this emotional interpretation. The league is even more cold and calculating than Corinn, who uses sorcery to turn Mena's dragon's unborn babies into killers. Oh yeah, in what is probably the most obvious embrace of a fantasy trope yet, Mena gets a pet dragon. The moment she was carried away by the dragon during their attempts to kill it, I called that it would become Mena's companion. And I hate the fact that Corinn's manipulations of Mena and the dragon tug at my heart. I don't want the baby dragons to be beasts of war! But it's no use. It may be the most dull and conventional subplot in the book, but it still snares me with pathos. Damn you, Durham! That is ultimately the measure of the book, is it not? Durham might be playing with very conventional tropes here, but he plays with them well. And like its predecessor, The Other Lands knows when to avert the tropes rather than embrace them. In fact, I would go so far as to say that this book is better than Acacia. It does exactly what the second book in a trilogy must accomplish: it further develops the characters, answers questions raised in the first book, and raises new questions. Above all, The Other Lands raises the stakes. There's nothing like that image of an unstoppable Auldek army or the Santoth's warning of cracks in the fabric of reality to cause a metaphorical shiver or two in the reader's spine. And I'm genuinely uncertain how the trilogy will resolve these conflicts: while it's obvious that the Auldeks cannot win, that doesn't imply an Akaran victory. That's what I like about this trilogy. Durham is writing a historical epic. It's set in a world with magic, soul-transfer devices, and fantastical animals . . . but people are still people, and they're still greedy for glory and power. Like many other great fantasy authors (you know who I'm talking about), Durham balances epic fantasy with epic history to give us something familiar yet much more fulfilling than the bland "farmboy saves the world" fast-food fantasy that codifies the cliché. For those who couldn't finish Acacia, whether it's Durham's expository style or just a somewhat lagging plot, this is one of those rare occasions where I endorse starting the series with the second book. The Other Lands doesn't quite "stand alone" in a strict sense; after all, it ends on a very dramatic cliffhanger. However, it is separated from the first novel by nine years, and the recap at the beginning of this book has everything you really need to know about what happened in Acacia. So in that respect, The Other Lands is the perfect opportunity to give David Anthony Durham's trilogy a second chance. And if ever there were a trilogy deserving of one, this is it. My Reviews of the Acacia Trilogy: ← Acacia: The War with the Mein | Acacia 3 (forthcoming) → [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Sep 11, 2010
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Sep 13, 2010
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Sep 01, 2009
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0385506066
| 9780385506069
| 0385506066
| 3.58
| 8,882
| Jun 12, 2007
| Jun 12, 2007
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really liked it
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**spoiler alert** Uber-spoiler warning. Seriously, if I throw out major twists like they're candy. You have been warned. Also, I link to TVTropes a lot **spoiler alert** Uber-spoiler warning. Seriously, if I throw out major twists like they're candy. You have been warned. Also, I link to TVTropes a lot in this review. A lot. You have been warned. I first read this book a number of years ago and liked it. It's remained in the back of my mind all these years, half-remembered. When I learned of the sequel, I resolved to read it again; now that I found the sequel at the library, it's about time I make good. As with most books I've enjoyed in the past, I've romanticized some of my memories about this one—it's almost as good as I remember it being. David Anthony Durham has a talent for fusing the epic scope of battle and politics with the intimacy of personal vendettas and intrigue. He is rigorously competent at epic fantasy. Acacia manifests a lot of the standard fantasy setting, particularly medival stasis and cookie-cutter nationalities. The characters, at times, are stock and two-dimensional, with the usual medieval fantasy motivations. The plot, loosely-summarized, goes like this: king of a static empire built on slavery is assassinated by agents of an oppressed, exiled people; his children are scattered and mature in secret, only to arise and try to win back the throne. Except it all goes horribly wrong, and that should be a sign that Acacia is more than you average formulaic fantasy novel. The plot of Acacia may be nothing new, but Durham brings to it a gritty realism that makes it feel fresh. With most books that follow this trope, an unquestionably evil villain unseats the monarch, and the protagonists engage in a righteous quest to restore the true heir to the throne. Not so here; Durham wields the Oven Mitt of Moral Ambiguity in such a manner that it's quite possible to see Hanish Mein as the righteous liberator and the Akarans as an oppressive regime. Leodan Akaran is an idealist trapped in his own version of hell. His empire sustains itself on the backs of child slaves shipped overseas to trading partners he has never met. In return he receives "the mist," a drug that pacifies a significant percentage of the population, including those who live their entire lives as workers of the empire's mines. And this is not a new development; it's been going on for five hundred years, ever since Leodan's ancestor Edifus conquered "the Known World," banishing an ethnic group known as the Mein to the north. Edifus' son Tinhadin killed his two brothers and used magic to curse the Mein so that their dead would never find peace. Turns out this creates the Tunishnevre, a collective awareness of the Mein's ancestors, which yearns to be released upon the world in all its undead strength. The key to this creepy lock? Akaran blood at the sacrificial altar, obviously. Nice job, Tinhadin. Those are the good guys. The Mein, ostensibly the bad guys, have a ruthless warrior culture. Rite of succession: the Maseret, a "deadly dance" that is a duel to the death, winner takes leadership of the people. Favourite pastimes: hating on the Akarans, honouring their ancestors (the Tunishnevre), and breeding an army that will sweep across the Known World as soon as Leodan is assassinated. Once in charge, Hanish Mein does not abolish the Quota, as he claimed he would, and pretty much steps into the Akaran shoes. Oh, and he lies to Corinn Akaran even as he falls in love with her, promising to keep her safe while plotting to kill her so he can free the Tunishnevre. So looks like there really aren't any good guys after all. There's just bad and worse (and it's hard to tell which is which). Despite this admirable ambiguity, there is no contest. If you cheer for the Mein, then you are out of luck. And how can you help but cheer for the Akarans? They are practically a menu: even if you don't like Aliver (which I don't) there's still Mena, the Badass Princess; Dariel, the Wise Prince; and Corinn, who starts off somewhat spoiled but ends up Queen of the Known World and mother of Hanish's child. Take your pick. Aliver mounts his resistance. Hanish's brother and second-in-command, Maeander, leads an army to meet Aliver on the field of battle. After some carnage on both sides, Maeander challenges Aliver to single combat. And here's where Acacia shines in its difference: Aliver loses. When I originally read this book, I did a double-take and reread that passage. I couldn't believe it. This was the duel where the rightful king kills a pretender (or in this case, the pretender's brother)! But no, Aliver exits the story prematurely, and suddenly the ending is up for grabs. In an instant, Durham creates uncertainty about an otherwise routine plot, and in so doing, makes me care about the outcome of the story. Will the remaining Akarans find a way to defeat Hanish? Or will the story end with the release of the Tunishnevre? It's clear that this is the first in a trilogy, so I was prepared for a cliffhanger. The actual ending to Acacia does not disappoint. Durham drives a thin wedge between Corinn and her two remaining siblings. Corinn takes a page out of Hanish's book and takes back the throne through treachery. Once reunited with her siblings, she greets with affection but keeps herself at a distance. She's no longer the innocent princess she was at the beginning of the book. She's no longer the caged princess at the mercy of the Mein. She's the queen, and unlike Aliver, she brooks no notions of abolishing the Quota or granting provinces their independence. As Acacia comes to a close, we get a glimpse of things to come. But this book is not mere lead-in to the rest of the trilogy. It's a tragic story in its own right, one in which there is no clear winner. The Akarans come full circle, having lost their empire and reclaimed it, with their world no better off—indeed, it is perhaps much worse, having to cope with new tenants like the Numrek and the devastation wreaked by the Santoth. Acacia is the first bloody drop that signals the end to stasis. If Durham's deftness with politics raises Acacia above its generic fantasy origins, his writing style threatens to plunge it back into those depths. This is where my memory was generous. Much of the story is exposition, with paragraphs upon paragraphs elaborating on cities, on people's pasts, on historical events. Most of this information is relevant, but Durham recounts it in such a dry and matter-of-fact manner. Instead of showing a lot of the action, he just tells us what happened in hindsight. There are notable exceptions to this rule—the fight against the antoks, Aliver's duel with Maeander, Mena's murder of Maeben—but in general, Durham's writing is too descriptive. His sentences are elaborate, flowery; they often try too hard to be melancholy when the events they describe would suffice to evoke such a tone on their own. And Durham can't help but remind us, over and over, of such simple facts like the empire's dependence on the avaricious "league," a naval trading conglomerate. This heavy-handedness does not do justice to an otherwise intricate story. I love fantasy stories, but it's true that this is a genre easily bent to a formula. The novels that manage to stand out do so by subverting, averting, or excelling at this formula. With Acacia, Durham does all three of these things. This is the type of quality fantasy that I love to recommend to fantasy lovers and fantasy neophytes alike. My Reviews of the Acacia Trilogy: The Other Lands → ...more |
Notes are private!
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2
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Sep 09, 2010
not set
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Sep 10, 2010
not set
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Sep 01, 2009
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0316004189
| 9780316004183
| 0316004189
| 3.54
| 1,624
| 2009
| Jun 08, 2009
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it was ok
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Somewhere between the title of the book and the fact that it is a fantasy setting, I became convinced that The Edge of the World was set in a world th
Somewhere between the title of the book and the fact that it is a fantasy setting, I became convinced that The Edge of the World was set in a world that is literally flat, with a ship that literally sails off the edge. This mistaken perception is entirely my fault, and it quickly became obvious that I was wrong when I began reading the book. Just thought I would warn you in case you laboured under the same generous delusion as I did. Instead, The Edge of the World is one of the lazier stories I've read this year. I mean, Kevin J. Anderson has himself a world with frelling sea serpents. That's badass, man! And what does he choose to do with this storytelling boon? He squanders it on a pathetic, poorly-conceived religious war that stretches on for fifteen years. And not. A Single Thing. Happens. Your "obvious hyperbole" alarm should be ringing by now, but I am not exaggerating too much. The Edge of the World is a long but quick read because almost nothing of any interest or importance happens in the story. Characters live and grow older. Some of them die. Some fall in love, give birth, raise children. But none of it really seems to matter. The problem lies with the central conflict, which is so contrived that I can't take it seriously. The two major religions of the known world happen to be distributed by continent, so that the Tierrans worship Aiden and the Urabans worship Urec. An accidental fire burns down their mutually holy city, Ishalem, sparking a war between the two continents/religions. Well, not exactly a war. More like a state of mutual aggression. Both sides commit atrocities, build navies, and do some raiding of fishing villages. But neither side's leader seems to have any desire to prosecute the war to any extent. Anderson does his best to make both leaders sympathetic, multi-dimensional characters. Unlike their followers, who do their best to imitate mindless zealots and stereotype the other side as inhuman, heretical monsters, these leaders are rational men who know that both Tierra and Uraba benefit more from peace than war. It just seems, thanks to the actions of various subordinates and serendipity itself, like they have no choice in the matter. Anderson seems to trying to comment on how easily religion can be twisted for political purposes, as well as emphasize the horrors of blind hatred at the hands of the masses. There are some truly terrifying moments when the Aidenists or the Urecari commit one atrocity or another against their heinous enemies. Ultimately, however, I don't care about either side in this religious war, because Anderson does not spend enough time making his religions convincing. Like his people, the religions themselves are paper-thin caricatures of the real thing, designed only to further the plot. This undermines their ability to make any grand point about the horrors of religious war. It is tempting to blame this on the multitude of characters and viewpoints Anderson makes available to us. There are so many characters and so many subplots, and we jump from one to another so quickly that it is difficult to become invested in any one plot. But Anderson does the same thing in his Saga of Seven Suns series, and it's not a deal-breaker there. No, the real problems with his religious war are timing and realism. Are we supposed to believe that the Aidenists and Urecari have lived on adjacent continents for centuries yet are ignorant of each other's societies? That's absurd. Either they would have already gone to war, or the degree of interaction between the two continents would be far greater than it is at the beginning of this book. Instead, the Tierrans and Urabans know almost nothing about each other, despite their proximity and the fact that we know the former, at least, love to trade at Uraban ports. That's not how societies work, and Anderson never offers any explanations for how such an unlikely stasis could persist. Yet persist it does, even against Anderson's attempts at exploration. For a book called The Edge of the World, most of the action takes place on the continents of Tierra and Uraba, with precious little exploration being done. The first time the King of Tierra sends a ship out to explore the vast unknown, it gets unceremoniously wrecked by a Leviathan (which is awesome). The second time he does this, the ship doesn't even get out of port. The only real discovery that happens in this book is the result of a journey across a desert to this world's equivalent of the Far East and the Mongol Empire. With that second failure at an exploratory expedition on Tierra's part, my enjoyment of this book really soured. Criston Vora, the only survivor of the first expedition, shows up after a decade of self-imposed hermitage just so he can go on the second voyage. And what happens? He watches the arkship burn. Harsh. I felt as if Anderson had crossed the line between confronting his characters with adversity and smacking them against a brick wall. Seriously, what is the point of making me read about not one but two expeditions that go nowhere? The loss of the first ship was fine, but with the second ship's loss, I started to wonder if Anderson really wanted to explore the rest of his world. He seems content enough, at least for the majority of the book, to spend time not waging his silly little war. So as a book of exciting exploration and adventures, The Edge of the World is a huge disappointment. And as a book of an intense religious war filled with moral ambiguity, insane priests who think their job is to go about burning churches, and depressed sailors, The Edge of the World still manages to be bland and boring. I found the political machinations just as predictable as I found the lack of exploration surprising. I have only mentioned one character, Criston, in this entire review. That's not to say that Criston is the only important or noteworthy character; many of the main characters are struggling to do the best they can with the plot Anderson hands to them. Criston merely served to demonstrate a point for me; otherwise, I would not have mentioned him at all. For if there is one thing I want you to walk away with from this review, it is an understanding that this book is so mired in generalities that it almost feels like it was pulled from a random story generator. Kevin J. Anderson has never impressed me with his characterization before, and he has not changed that opinion here. I don't mean to indict him just for The Edge of the World, because even though it is an unsatisfying read, I can still tell it is a sincere effort. So yeah, you do get points for trying, but that's not nearly enough. Some books are better left unexplored, not because they are so bad they're good or so bad they're bad but because they're so bland they aren't worth your time. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Oct 25, 2010
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Oct 27, 2010
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Aug 31, 2009
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0316734918
| 9780316734912
| 0316734918
| 3.94
| 7,715
| Jun 08, 2009
| Jun 08, 2009
|
really liked it
|
The Evolution of God comes close, in many ways, to my ideal Platonic conception of a "non-fiction book." It is thick and weighty (all the better to us
The Evolution of God comes close, in many ways, to my ideal Platonic conception of a "non-fiction book." It is thick and weighty (all the better to use against zombies, should the apocalypse happen while reading it). It is organized into a series of logical parts, which are in turn each organized into a series of logical chapters, providing convenient stopping points for a respite. Last, but not least, it has endnotes. Pages upon pages of endnotes. I loves me my endnotes. And Robert Wright's endnotes aren't just about quantity; they have quality too (some might say too much). Wright's recounting of the genesis of Abrahamic religion is far from objective—and I didn't expect objectivity, since Wright makes it clear that he has a thesis, and therefore an agenda when it comes to interpreting the texts. Nevertheless, Wright mentions dissenting views, and he often has alternative interpretations in the endnotes, complete with page references to books that disagree with him. That is the kind of scholarship I appreciate in my non-fiction! I quite enjoyed the historical parts of The Evolution of God. Wright makes a good case for development of religion going hand-in-hand with the transition from hunter-gatherer society to agrarianism. While religion-as-social-control is a motif that appears throughout philosophy, Wright offers up interesting historical anecdotes that help reinforce the point. Later, Wright connects this to his brainchild notion of "nonzero-sumness" and how human interaction can be best explained by game theory. I don't quite buy into the entirety of Wright's nonzero-sum thesis, and I kind of which he didn't say "zero-sumness" and "nonzero-sumness" every second page. It got annoying! However, much of his thesis does make sense. For instance, if two neighbouring cities have a mutually-beneficial trade relationship (Wright's "nonzero-sumness"), then it makes sense that each would tolerate the other's god(s). Shouting, "Death to you infidels!" followed by, "Oh, may I please have some cabbage?" does not quite work in the marketplace. Indeed, Wright's decision to look at the development of religion as a reaction to the sociopolitical situation at the time (the "facts on the ground," as he so repetitively puts it), is compelling. If we try to analyze the growth of, say, Christianity purely from a theological standpoint, it is easy to get confused. There is a lot of contradictory stuff in the Bible, and inventing a theological explanation for all those contradictions is precisely that: invention. Instead, the political climate at the time (we think) each book of the Bible was written gives us insight into why that book has a certain tone and takes a certain theological stance. Although I've long been aware that the Bible is one of history's oldest mash-ups, The Evolution of God drove this point home. Wright draws attention to the differences between the Gospels, as well as the larger change in God's behaviour between Old and New Testaments. Whether one agrees with Wright's explanations for these differences, The Evolution of God presents them in historical context (rather than simply saying "oh look, these are contradictory!"), something I found helped me better understand how diverse the authorship and themes of the Bible are. Moreover, Wright definitely has an agenda when it comes to explaining these differences, but he's quick not to insinuate that the Bible's various editors have been manipulating the text for outright nefarious purposes. While the title is somewhat worrying, it's rather obvious within the first few pages that Wright's goal is not to debunk religion as an anomaly of evolution. Quite the opposite: Wright sees the development of religion, its growth in a moral direction, as an indication that there is a "moral force" to the universe. And, if we like, we can call this moral force God. I balk a bit at this argument, especially when Wright begins comparing God to an electron. Wright makes several good points, but the argument just rests on too many assumptions that are, in my opinion, unfounded. Even if one thinks that humanity is becoming "more moral" (which I don't), why does there need to be any mechanism beyond evolution? The afterword is called "By the Way, What Is God?", but the better question is "By the Way, What Is Morality." Then again, that question is worth another entire book, and I didn't expect Wright to tackle it here. So while Wright's argument is interesting, some of its premises seem dubious to me. Fortunately, most of Wright's discussion of God as the universal moral force is confined to the last part of the book. It runs through The Evolution of God, as a thesis ought to do, but Wright's historical analysis, while influenced by it, is still useful without it. I loved reading about the origins of Yahweh, the networking of Paul, and the doctrine of Jihad. That's what I want to emphasize about this book: I found its history useful, and its philosophy interesting—stimulating, but not necessarily persuasive. The Evolution of God is well-written, precise, and detailed. Even as he advances his own thesis about the moral growth of the Abrahamic religions, Wright shows us how conceptions of God (and Gods) have changed as the politics and economics of a region changed. Believers and non-believers (I belong to the latter category) might come away from this book with very different opinions, but it behoves both categories to read it. For I do think Wright correct in this: if we want to understand the religions of today, we must understand how they came to be. The development of religion is a large part of the history of human civilization; The Evolution of God addresses my ignorance in that area in an academic yet readable style. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jun 11, 2010
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Jun 17, 2010
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Aug 20, 2009
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Hardcover
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my rating |
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|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
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| 4.65
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really liked it
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Dec 31, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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| 3.56
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did not like it
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Nov 06, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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| 3.68
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liked it
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Jun 28, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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| 3.69
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liked it
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Dec 08, 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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|||||
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| 2.97
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it was ok
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Jun 2010
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Dec 25, 2009
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|||||
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| 4.13
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liked it
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Jul 13, 2010
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Dec 19, 2009
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|||||
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| 3.48
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it was ok
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Jun 23, 2010
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Dec 19, 2009
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| 4.27
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it was amazing
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Nov 16, 2017
Jan 26, 2010
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Nov 18, 2009
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| 3.93
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really liked it
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Apr 26, 2010
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Nov 17, 2009
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|||||
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| 3.72
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it was ok
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Jul 07, 2010
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Nov 15, 2009
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| 3.52
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really liked it
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Feb 05, 2010
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Sep 29, 2009
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|||||
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| 4.12
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it was ok
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Jan 09, 2010
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Sep 27, 2009
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|||||
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| 3.75
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did not like it
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Sep 15, 2010
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Sep 22, 2009
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|||||
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| 4.00
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it was amazing
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Jan 28, 2010
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Sep 14, 2009
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| 4.05
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really liked it
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Jul 03, 2010
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Sep 07, 2009
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| 3.98
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really liked it
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Feb 11, 2010
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Sep 04, 2009
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|||||
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| 3.81
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really liked it
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Sep 13, 2010
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Sep 01, 2009
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|||||
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| 3.58
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really liked it
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Sep 10, 2010
not set
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Sep 01, 2009
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|||||
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| 3.54
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it was ok
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Oct 27, 2010
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Aug 31, 2009
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|||||
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| 3.94
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really liked it
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Jun 17, 2010
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Aug 20, 2009
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