Several critics have pointed out a similarity between Poul Anderson's The Long Night Series and Colin Harvey's first novel for Angry Robot, Winter Song. I certainly thought of Anderson, who happens to be one my favorite pulp fiction writers from my youth in the fifties, but I did not go there immediately. Instead, I was reminded instantly of the landfall novels of Marion Zimmer Bradley (Darkover Landfall), L. E. Modesitt, Jr.'s Fall of Angels, and the novels of Iain Banks and Larry Niven. There may even be a hint or shall I say a scent of Asimov here (more on this later). However, curiously, I found the most resonance in a comparison between the science fiction novels of Modesitt and Harvey's; I felt this resonance or perhaps echo not because of content but because of the tone. Modesitt's novels fascinate primarily because of their firm grasp of the way things work: politics, economy, and science. I felt that same attention to world-building in the myriad of details that Harvey sprinkled within the text to intimate or to suggest that a larger canvas, a more complex super-structure of culture, was operating somewhere behind the action of the characters of his novel on the icy world of Isheimur.
The novel concerns a space-trader from the planet Avalon by the name of Karl Allman, who while crossing the Mizar B2 system, is attacked by three Traditional ships. The Traditionals are un-enhanced humans, whereas Karl is a hybrid, an augmented human. With his ship damaged and dying, he ejects into space encased in a "quivering blue jelly, three metres high, and stuffed full of nanos." Before he goes, the ship's computer downloads a plethora of information into Allman, which creates one of the major conceits of the novel. Allman enters space no longer a single entity; instead, he is two beings: one personality is Karl; the other is the ship's computer's download of information, a sentient entity occupying Karl's body and forming its own personality. And whereas Karl is unconscious and asleep at landfall, the other entity is alive and becoming conscious.
Karl floats toward Isheimur, a terraformed world settled before the falling of "the Long night," by Icelandic peoples, seeking to maintain their cultural identity. Two centuries have passed since their arrival and Karl does not know whether any of the settlers have survived; however, the planet is his best bet for survival and he aims for it and lands in a fury of flames. Thus we "fall" into a medieval culture, which for the most part has forgotten modern life. There are computers called "oracles" and a form of the world wide web but for the most part Isheimur is a pre-Christian medieval society, governed by Gothis.
Karl falls to earth near the village of Skorradalur and is discovered by the Gothi Ragnar. Ragnar and his men bring the burnt and unconscious Karl back to the village, unperturbed by the fact that a spaceman has fallen onto their world. This fact is one of the unusual factors of the novel. Even though the settlers have regressed to a primitive state they are cognizant of spacemen, computers, and modern weapons. While they believe in the Norse gods, ghosts, shape shifters, and holy men, they also rely on computers to supply them with parts for their equipment and information. This schizophrenia is one of the major themes of the novel and Harvey consistently develops it throughout his tight narrative. Schizoid behavior underlies the cultural structure of the planet and the personality of the inhabitants.
Once Karl lands, he loses consciousness and the other entity that inhabits his mind, the artificial intelligence from his ship, takes center stage. The natives christen the other being, Loki, and thus begins the schizophrenic struggle between the two beings encased in Karl's body.
During his stay Karl hears of a legend of an ancient ship called the Winter Song and decides to set off on a journey. However, Ragnar declares that Karl is indebted to him and must work off his debt. Karl escapes and Bera, an orphan and dependent of Ragnar, accompanies him; together they uncover several secrets about the colonization of the planet.
In conclusion, I was duly impressed with Winter Song. The prose is direct, strong, and serviceable; the characters are clearly drawn, the world of Isheimur completely realized, and the narrative convincing and satisfying. Ultimately, I was struck by the complexity of the novel. Its complexity, however, does not arise from the plot; it is rather simple. Instead, it is the magnitude of detail that supports the world-building. Harvey has succeeded in creating a fascinating planet with a unique environment, exotic fauna and flora, a medieval culture with its social constructs, traditions, and structures, and three humanoid species, not to mention several off-world cultures.
Finally, at the beginning of this review I suggested that there was a scent of Asimov here and in the preceding paragraph, I said that the "prose is direct." There is a point, a sore spot as it were, that I want to make. There seems to be a tendency in speculative fiction these days to attack the serviceable prose. This same criticism has also been directed against Asimov; however, I for one find the more fantastic the voyage the more material, direct, and clear should be the prose. This is a lesson I learned from studying the surrealists and I think it applies in speculative fiction. Harvey seems to follow the Asimov model. That is he describes the most fantastical things in a clear precise way; he uses short declarative sentences to tell a most outlandish tale.
As a result I found Winter Tale quite convincing and entertaining.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
"As Above, So Below," a Review of James Lovegrove's "The Age of Ra"
Carl Jung believed firmly in the ancient expression, "as above, so below," from the alchemical text, The Emerald Tablet. For the follower of ancient hermeticism this expression holds the key to all the mysteries of the universe. Jung used the formula to explain the relationship between the unconscious and conscious mind, whereas Hermes Trismegistus, the author of The Emerald Tablet, saw it as a key to open the magic inherent in the world.
The ultimate meaning of the adage is that the macrocosmos is mirrored in the microcosmos and that God is the same as man.
James Lovegrove uses this formula as the organizing principle of his tightly-crafted novel, The Age of Ra, to create two worlds: earth far in the future, where the Egyptian gods have defeated all other gods and divided the earth into warring factions, each aligned with a god from the pantheon; and the pantheon itself, with all its petty struggles and jealousies.
Lovegrove, therefore, tells four tales with four parallel arcs within this format: (1) the story of the gods and their movement in the pantheon; (2) the personal tale of the godly struggle between Set, Osiris, Isis and, Set's wife, Nephthys; (3) the war between the worldly factions and their struggle for dominance; and (4) the personal struggle between Lieutenant David Westwynter, a British soldier, and his younger brother Steven.
Ultimately, the novel is about fratricide and sibling rivalry, both on earth and in heaven.
The novel begins as military science fiction. David Westwynter and his paratroop unit drop behind enemy lines in the Arabian desert to rendezvous with an American unit. The British Commandos, commanded by Westwynter worship Osiris, whereas their American counterparts follow Horus. Together the two factions are waging a secret war against the Nephthysians.
Lovegrove is a good writer and he immediately establishes the rules. The novel is told from the point of view of David Westwynter; it is a tightly-constructed narrative with a no-nonsense prose style. The British commandos are an elite fighting group and we are on solid military science ground here, following the team to the rendezvous point. However, Lovegrove quickly lets us know that he is not writing a standard military science fiction novel. Our first clue is that the men carry Ba weapons and the battle locations are ancient locations, re-animated to a future context. And by the end of the chapter, the mummies arrive.
Even though Lovegrove clearly employs elements of myth, horror, and science fiction, the novel doesn't feel like a post-modernist romp. Instead, it reminds me of the movies and novels I liked as a kid. More particularly, the story of David Westwynter and his brother Steven is reminiscent of films like "Beau Geste," "The Charge of the Light Brigade," and "The Four Feathers." The difference here, of course, is the blending of three speculative tropes with the traditional British romantic novel of the early twentieth century: military science fiction, Egyptian mythology, and horror (more specifically--the mummy as horror).
The strength of the novel lies in its traditional underpinning and Lovegrove's thorough understanding of myth. To give just one example: David Westwynter rebels against his rich upper-class British family and joins the army when his younger brother dies in a sea battle. After his capture and escape from the Nephthysians, Westwynter is rescued by freedom fighters from Freegypt. The leader of the fighters is a young woman, who tells him that they are followers of the Lightbringer. The Lightbringer is an enigmatic man, who wears a mask to hide his disfigured face. After the protagonist meets the charismatic Lightbringer, he decides to join the Freegyptian's cause to throw off the rule of the gods and to abandon his allegiance to Osiris and England. This is the stuff of British romantic fiction. One novel that I read over and over as a kid was Thomas Costain's The Black Rose. In that novel a young Anglo-Saxon lord flees Norman rule to win fame and fortune in Cathay, find true love, and return to England. A similar plot is working here.
However, this is not to be interpreted as a criticism of Lovegrove's novel. If you like historical adventure stories, with a touch of the British Empire, à la Kipling and Costain, then this book is for you. Additionally, Lovegrove follows the Aristotelian verities throughout to create a well-written, tightly constructed novel.
The only criticism that I have of the novel is that the gods receive short shrift. However, they are so annoying in their childish displays that, ultimately, I was glad to be rid of them.
In the final analysis, The Age of Ra is a tightly-crafted novel, loyal, to the Aristotelian verities, a strong narrative, with well-developed central characters, and a nod to British adventure stories of the forties and fifties.
The ultimate meaning of the adage is that the macrocosmos is mirrored in the microcosmos and that God is the same as man.
James Lovegrove uses this formula as the organizing principle of his tightly-crafted novel, The Age of Ra, to create two worlds: earth far in the future, where the Egyptian gods have defeated all other gods and divided the earth into warring factions, each aligned with a god from the pantheon; and the pantheon itself, with all its petty struggles and jealousies.
Lovegrove, therefore, tells four tales with four parallel arcs within this format: (1) the story of the gods and their movement in the pantheon; (2) the personal tale of the godly struggle between Set, Osiris, Isis and, Set's wife, Nephthys; (3) the war between the worldly factions and their struggle for dominance; and (4) the personal struggle between Lieutenant David Westwynter, a British soldier, and his younger brother Steven.
Ultimately, the novel is about fratricide and sibling rivalry, both on earth and in heaven.
The novel begins as military science fiction. David Westwynter and his paratroop unit drop behind enemy lines in the Arabian desert to rendezvous with an American unit. The British Commandos, commanded by Westwynter worship Osiris, whereas their American counterparts follow Horus. Together the two factions are waging a secret war against the Nephthysians.
Lovegrove is a good writer and he immediately establishes the rules. The novel is told from the point of view of David Westwynter; it is a tightly-constructed narrative with a no-nonsense prose style. The British commandos are an elite fighting group and we are on solid military science ground here, following the team to the rendezvous point. However, Lovegrove quickly lets us know that he is not writing a standard military science fiction novel. Our first clue is that the men carry Ba weapons and the battle locations are ancient locations, re-animated to a future context. And by the end of the chapter, the mummies arrive.
Even though Lovegrove clearly employs elements of myth, horror, and science fiction, the novel doesn't feel like a post-modernist romp. Instead, it reminds me of the movies and novels I liked as a kid. More particularly, the story of David Westwynter and his brother Steven is reminiscent of films like "Beau Geste," "The Charge of the Light Brigade," and "The Four Feathers." The difference here, of course, is the blending of three speculative tropes with the traditional British romantic novel of the early twentieth century: military science fiction, Egyptian mythology, and horror (more specifically--the mummy as horror).
The strength of the novel lies in its traditional underpinning and Lovegrove's thorough understanding of myth. To give just one example: David Westwynter rebels against his rich upper-class British family and joins the army when his younger brother dies in a sea battle. After his capture and escape from the Nephthysians, Westwynter is rescued by freedom fighters from Freegypt. The leader of the fighters is a young woman, who tells him that they are followers of the Lightbringer. The Lightbringer is an enigmatic man, who wears a mask to hide his disfigured face. After the protagonist meets the charismatic Lightbringer, he decides to join the Freegyptian's cause to throw off the rule of the gods and to abandon his allegiance to Osiris and England. This is the stuff of British romantic fiction. One novel that I read over and over as a kid was Thomas Costain's The Black Rose. In that novel a young Anglo-Saxon lord flees Norman rule to win fame and fortune in Cathay, find true love, and return to England. A similar plot is working here.
However, this is not to be interpreted as a criticism of Lovegrove's novel. If you like historical adventure stories, with a touch of the British Empire, à la Kipling and Costain, then this book is for you. Additionally, Lovegrove follows the Aristotelian verities throughout to create a well-written, tightly constructed novel.
The only criticism that I have of the novel is that the gods receive short shrift. However, they are so annoying in their childish displays that, ultimately, I was glad to be rid of them.
In the final analysis, The Age of Ra is a tightly-crafted novel, loyal, to the Aristotelian verities, a strong narrative, with well-developed central characters, and a nod to British adventure stories of the forties and fifties.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Andy Remic's Use of Pastiche in Kell's Legend
Kell's Legend is Book I of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles and Andy Remic's sixth novel. Andy Remic sees himself as one of the successors to the Dave Gemmell tradition and, in one interview, talks about meeting Gemmell, his admiration of the writer, and his ultimate friendship with the man. The novel has recently been nominated by Angry Robot for the prestigious Dave Gemmell award.
To appreciate fully Kell's Legend we must first look at the rhetorical device of pastiche and its use and efficacy in science fiction and fantasy,examine the schism which exists between the heroic fantasy of J.R.R. Tolkien and that of Michael Moorcock, and then decide whether Remic accomplished his goal--to compose the Gemmell itself.
Even though, Andy Remic acknowledges his gratitude to and admiration of the works of Dave Gemmell, Kell's Legend demonstrates a firmer grounding in the American pulp fiction of the fifties, filtered through the work of Dave Gemmell but ultimately derived from Michael Moorcock, H.P. Lovecraft, Jules Verne, and Robert Howard.
Pastiche is a novel, poem, or painting that incorporates several different styles or is made up of parts drawn from a variety of sources. With this definition in mind, it is safe to say that nearly every fantasy novel is a "pastiche." Every science fiction author or fantasy writer has borrowed heavily not only from the writers that preceded him or her but from myths, legends, fairy tales, sagas, ballads, and history. It is the nature of the beast to borrow and incorporate the themes of the cultural Geist(socius) that swirls within the genre. However, in the case of Kell's Legend, Andy Remic has consciously acknowledged that he is writing a pastiche and that he owes and admires several specific practitioners of heroic fantasy. Through his acknowledgment, adoption, and amalgamation of their styles, themes, images, and even syntax he pays homage and creates pastiche; the result is a creation of something new, startling, crude, and iconoclastic. In many way his narrative is like one of the clockwork beasts that stalk his protagonists--the cankers. The text is chaotic, Dionysian, and drenched in literary testosterone. It is visceral, angry, mean-spirited, and exciting.
The conclusion, then, is that through his use of pastiche Remic has consciously or unconsciously contributed something new to heroic fantasy and widened the split that exists in heroic fantasy between the followers of Moorcock on one hand and the fans of Tolkien on the other. The novel will have its enemies because it is not Tolkien-esque in its themes or obsessions.
Kell's Legend flows from the Moorcock vein and will ultimately widen the psychic split between the gnarled limbs of Tolkien and Moorcockian fantasy.
This schism is not Remic's doing, of course; it began with Moorcock and his gang back in the fifties but they weren't the perpetrators either; they were simply the followers of those other mad iconoclasts: Robert Howard, Edgar Rice Burroughs and H.P. Lovecraft. Perhaps, Tolkien himself through his use of deep structure and underlying myth really caused the schism. Nevertheless, the split exists and continues to evolve; the two branches grow apart and one day they may have separate spaces on the bookshelf or in the library.
Pastiche, of course, has come to mean a use of variety of styles and sources to ridicule a particular genre. However, in Kell's Legend, Andy Remic has not chosen to use pastiche to ridicule but to praise or, at least, pay homage to one of his favorite heroic fantasy authors--Dave Gemmell. But a close reading of the text does not only reflect an homage or a wink at Gemmell: the book itself is replete with a resplendent adumbration of his favorite genre authors. This is evident through his use of theme, characters, and settings.
Remic's themes in Kell's Legend mirror those of Gemmell's "Druss" and "Waylander" series; more particularly, a flawed hero, under the influence of a daemon, weighs-in against an invading army to bolster the backbone of an out-manned out-classed innocent culture (cf Moorcock's Elric series). The protagonist is usually accompanied by a small group of professionals who are doomed to die with the hero. However, somewhere there is a deus ex machina moving the heroes across the board of fate. Additionally, Gemmell's novels are materialist and realist within the confines of the text. Although, the hero is sentimental and ultimately a moral soul, living by his own set of mores, he does the practical thing: he kills with impunity and battles wholeheartedly. Gemmell was an unabashed admirer of John Wayne and John Ford. His Druss and Waylander are, ultimately, Indian fighters. There is a literary strand in Gemmell that leads directly to James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking Tales and Remic, by absorbing Gemmell, has tapped into that brutal and realistic strain of American Romanticism.
In Kell's Legend, Kell is an aging warrior, who lives in Jalder to be near his grand-daughter Nienna. From her perspective he seems to be a lonely but kind man, who is supporting her and paying for her education. Kell, however, has a blood-bond with a daemon and a history that includes murder, mayhem, alcoholism, valor and adventure. He is not a Tolkien-esque character; he falls squarely in the Moorcock camp of flawed heroes. The other main characters include Nienna, the granddaughter, Saark the thief and rogue, and Illanna, the daemon in the ax. In that Kell is like Druss, Saark is like Sieben in The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend, and Illana like Snaga, the resonance with Gemmell is evident and palpable.
The characters and themes are played and moved across a grand landscape; and, within that world, the sides are aligned. To the north, lie the home of the clockwork vampires; to the south Falanor. In between lies the mysterious and magical Black Pike Mountains, home of the insidious and odious engineers.
It is in his creation of the north that Remic shines. Here the clockwork vampires reside. These creatures seem new to me and non-derivative; however, even here there is a sort of pastiche. On one hand there is a definite wink to the Death Dealers of Harry Potter and to the steampunk novels of Tim Powers, S. M. Peters, and Jules Verne; and on the other there is a similarity to the sado-masochistic vampire novels that clog the fantasy and horror shelves of Barnes & Noble. Nevertheless, in Remic's hands, his most vivid characters emerge from the north: Anukis, the clockwork vampire, Graal, the general of the albino vampire army, the cankers, destructive clockwork monsters that are reminiscent of the Black Library's chaotic beasts, the Elric-like albino army, and the Engineers.
Within this fantastic world, the two forces collide and within that collision lies a quest. The quest, of course, will take us to the underworld.
So, in conclusion, Kell's Legend is an iconoclastic melange of themes that incorporates devices from various genres--Moorcock/Gemmell heroic fantasy, steampunk, and horror. It is an exciting, brutal novel, soaked in testosterone and paced like a roller coaster. The sex and violence is visceral and the action is non-stop. It is not your grandpa's heroic fantasy; it is something else: cruder, rougher, more violent, realistic and materialistic. In other words, it will be addictive to the modern reader with a taste for Moorcockian fantasy.
I want to close with an address to those who are criticizing Remic for not being Gemmell or trying to be like Gemmell. First of all, all writing is pastiche. Remic, like Babe Ruth, signaled to the reader where he intended to go--straight to Gemmell country. He then hit the ball:a scorching line drive to center field. Whether it is a home-run depends on the subsequent book; however, he is definitely a player to watch and read. I imagine him scurrying around second base, heading toward home, yelling obscenities like a banshee, and peeing his pants with glee. Second, any material in the hands of another is going to be different. As Borges said in Pierre Menard, Author of Quixote, "he did not want to compose another Quixote--which is easy--but the Quixote itself." To paraphrase, Remic did not want to compose another Gemmell; he wants to compose the Gemmell--the work--he loves--itself. It will be different from Gemmell but it certainly seems Gemmell-like. And that is a good thing.
To appreciate fully Kell's Legend we must first look at the rhetorical device of pastiche and its use and efficacy in science fiction and fantasy,examine the schism which exists between the heroic fantasy of J.R.R. Tolkien and that of Michael Moorcock, and then decide whether Remic accomplished his goal--to compose the Gemmell itself.
Even though, Andy Remic acknowledges his gratitude to and admiration of the works of Dave Gemmell, Kell's Legend demonstrates a firmer grounding in the American pulp fiction of the fifties, filtered through the work of Dave Gemmell but ultimately derived from Michael Moorcock, H.P. Lovecraft, Jules Verne, and Robert Howard.
Pastiche is a novel, poem, or painting that incorporates several different styles or is made up of parts drawn from a variety of sources. With this definition in mind, it is safe to say that nearly every fantasy novel is a "pastiche." Every science fiction author or fantasy writer has borrowed heavily not only from the writers that preceded him or her but from myths, legends, fairy tales, sagas, ballads, and history. It is the nature of the beast to borrow and incorporate the themes of the cultural Geist(socius) that swirls within the genre. However, in the case of Kell's Legend, Andy Remic has consciously acknowledged that he is writing a pastiche and that he owes and admires several specific practitioners of heroic fantasy. Through his acknowledgment, adoption, and amalgamation of their styles, themes, images, and even syntax he pays homage and creates pastiche; the result is a creation of something new, startling, crude, and iconoclastic. In many way his narrative is like one of the clockwork beasts that stalk his protagonists--the cankers. The text is chaotic, Dionysian, and drenched in literary testosterone. It is visceral, angry, mean-spirited, and exciting.
The conclusion, then, is that through his use of pastiche Remic has consciously or unconsciously contributed something new to heroic fantasy and widened the split that exists in heroic fantasy between the followers of Moorcock on one hand and the fans of Tolkien on the other. The novel will have its enemies because it is not Tolkien-esque in its themes or obsessions.
Kell's Legend flows from the Moorcock vein and will ultimately widen the psychic split between the gnarled limbs of Tolkien and Moorcockian fantasy.
This schism is not Remic's doing, of course; it began with Moorcock and his gang back in the fifties but they weren't the perpetrators either; they were simply the followers of those other mad iconoclasts: Robert Howard, Edgar Rice Burroughs and H.P. Lovecraft. Perhaps, Tolkien himself through his use of deep structure and underlying myth really caused the schism. Nevertheless, the split exists and continues to evolve; the two branches grow apart and one day they may have separate spaces on the bookshelf or in the library.
Pastiche, of course, has come to mean a use of variety of styles and sources to ridicule a particular genre. However, in Kell's Legend, Andy Remic has not chosen to use pastiche to ridicule but to praise or, at least, pay homage to one of his favorite heroic fantasy authors--Dave Gemmell. But a close reading of the text does not only reflect an homage or a wink at Gemmell: the book itself is replete with a resplendent adumbration of his favorite genre authors. This is evident through his use of theme, characters, and settings.
Remic's themes in Kell's Legend mirror those of Gemmell's "Druss" and "Waylander" series; more particularly, a flawed hero, under the influence of a daemon, weighs-in against an invading army to bolster the backbone of an out-manned out-classed innocent culture (cf Moorcock's Elric series). The protagonist is usually accompanied by a small group of professionals who are doomed to die with the hero. However, somewhere there is a deus ex machina moving the heroes across the board of fate. Additionally, Gemmell's novels are materialist and realist within the confines of the text. Although, the hero is sentimental and ultimately a moral soul, living by his own set of mores, he does the practical thing: he kills with impunity and battles wholeheartedly. Gemmell was an unabashed admirer of John Wayne and John Ford. His Druss and Waylander are, ultimately, Indian fighters. There is a literary strand in Gemmell that leads directly to James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking Tales and Remic, by absorbing Gemmell, has tapped into that brutal and realistic strain of American Romanticism.
In Kell's Legend, Kell is an aging warrior, who lives in Jalder to be near his grand-daughter Nienna. From her perspective he seems to be a lonely but kind man, who is supporting her and paying for her education. Kell, however, has a blood-bond with a daemon and a history that includes murder, mayhem, alcoholism, valor and adventure. He is not a Tolkien-esque character; he falls squarely in the Moorcock camp of flawed heroes. The other main characters include Nienna, the granddaughter, Saark the thief and rogue, and Illanna, the daemon in the ax. In that Kell is like Druss, Saark is like Sieben in The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend, and Illana like Snaga, the resonance with Gemmell is evident and palpable.
The characters and themes are played and moved across a grand landscape; and, within that world, the sides are aligned. To the north, lie the home of the clockwork vampires; to the south Falanor. In between lies the mysterious and magical Black Pike Mountains, home of the insidious and odious engineers.
It is in his creation of the north that Remic shines. Here the clockwork vampires reside. These creatures seem new to me and non-derivative; however, even here there is a sort of pastiche. On one hand there is a definite wink to the Death Dealers of Harry Potter and to the steampunk novels of Tim Powers, S. M. Peters, and Jules Verne; and on the other there is a similarity to the sado-masochistic vampire novels that clog the fantasy and horror shelves of Barnes & Noble. Nevertheless, in Remic's hands, his most vivid characters emerge from the north: Anukis, the clockwork vampire, Graal, the general of the albino vampire army, the cankers, destructive clockwork monsters that are reminiscent of the Black Library's chaotic beasts, the Elric-like albino army, and the Engineers.
Within this fantastic world, the two forces collide and within that collision lies a quest. The quest, of course, will take us to the underworld.
So, in conclusion, Kell's Legend is an iconoclastic melange of themes that incorporates devices from various genres--Moorcock/Gemmell heroic fantasy, steampunk, and horror. It is an exciting, brutal novel, soaked in testosterone and paced like a roller coaster. The sex and violence is visceral and the action is non-stop. It is not your grandpa's heroic fantasy; it is something else: cruder, rougher, more violent, realistic and materialistic. In other words, it will be addictive to the modern reader with a taste for Moorcockian fantasy.
I want to close with an address to those who are criticizing Remic for not being Gemmell or trying to be like Gemmell. First of all, all writing is pastiche. Remic, like Babe Ruth, signaled to the reader where he intended to go--straight to Gemmell country. He then hit the ball:a scorching line drive to center field. Whether it is a home-run depends on the subsequent book; however, he is definitely a player to watch and read. I imagine him scurrying around second base, heading toward home, yelling obscenities like a banshee, and peeing his pants with glee. Second, any material in the hands of another is going to be different. As Borges said in Pierre Menard, Author of Quixote, "he did not want to compose another Quixote--which is easy--but the Quixote itself." To paraphrase, Remic did not want to compose another Gemmell; he wants to compose the Gemmell--the work--he loves--itself. It will be different from Gemmell but it certainly seems Gemmell-like. And that is a good thing.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Quaternity in the Works of Dan Abnett
He is bounden to beleue in ye trinite. And ye felowe beleueth in a quaternitie: Sir Thomas More
Dan Abnett's "Blood Pact" is the twelfth novel in his Gaunt's Ghost series and, in my mind, his most intimate investigation into the psyche of Gaunt. For the nervous, superstitious, conspiratorial among you, let's add another "Double Eagle," to make the series contain thirteen.
So there are thirteen novels in the series to date. However, Mr. Abnett tends to write quaternities with a single over-arching arc, so that brings us to two completed quaternities, a trilogy, and two extras--"Blood Pact," and "Double Eagle." Of these two, one is hors série--"Double Eagle"--and the other, "Blood Pact" is the beginning of a new quarternity.
The last quaternity began with the novel,"Traitor General" and ended with "Only in Death." In "Traitor General" an Imperial General, who is condemned to death, is captured (rescued)by the Chaos equivalent of the Imperial Guard--the Blood Pact--and taken to the planet Gereon. Gaunt and a select team travel to Gereon to assassinate the general.
Gereon is one of Abnett's greatest creations. It is here that Abnett begins to show what happens to a planet that is conquered by Chaos. Of course, we have seen the images of conquered planets before through the battles but we have not seen the day-to-day existence of those who live under the rule of Chaos before nor have we seen the chain of command of Chaos or its administrative echelons to the degree that we now do.
In "Traitor General,' Abnett begins a descent into detail and world-building that he carries through to the last book in the quaternity--"Only in Death." The third quaternity now called the "The Lost," contains some of the best writing that Abnett has done. Not only does he envision several remarkable worlds but he creates languages and cultures in way that would make Ursula K. LeGuin smile. He also begins to transform Gaunt.
To be true to the Aristotelian verities Gaunt must grow and change. In that Abnett has an almost limitless space in which to develop his story arc, the changes are slow. At book eleven, we reach the tale-tell sign of conversion--blindness. Book eleven is the pivot; the book of changes. The story must change and in "Blood Pact" it does.
"Blood Pact" is a different type of book than the others. Of course, it contains all the usual suspects; however, it is smaller in scope. This novel begins two years after the horrendous battles on Jago. The Ghosts are on Balhaut, an important location for Gaunt. This is where it all began, where things went bad for Gaunt. In fact, the people of Balhaut celebrate the bravery of the "dead" hero Gaunt. So, in effect, Gaunt is a ghost of sorts. Abnett is telling us that before "Blood Pact" Gaunt was a ghost, lost in the campaigns and blind to his greater role. Now, in this new quaternity, things are changing; Gaunt can see again; and, as is usually the case, in this most literary of tropes, Gaunt can see what other men cannot. He has a second sight. He sees the future and he sees into others.
The plot of "Blood Pact," revolves around a "pheguth," a traitor, just as "Traitor General" revolved around a "pheguth." This time, however, the "pheguth" is a member of the Blood Pact, and unlike Sturm, the traitor general, Mabbon is a good man or at least that is what we are told.
A Blood Pact unit, along with a warp witch, is sent to Balhaut, like Gaunt was sent to Gereon, to assassinate the pheguth. So the plot focuses on a battle between a small specialized force of Chaos assassins and Gaunt. Because the battle field is small and intimate, the novel feels different; and it is different in some fundamental ways. It does not have the sweeping battles of "The Lost Quaternity;" however, it does set the ground for the next arc and it continues to enflesh the series with new themes and revealed characteristics of the major characters. It also foreshadows the death of several characters and points to a Gaunt reborn with an enhanced reputation among his commanders.
The series has always been dialectical: good versus evil; light verses dark; twins--Rawne verses Gaunt; Blood Pact versus Ghosts--and Chaos versus Order. However, Abnett is the most material of the Black Library writers; he does not go easily into the horrible wastes of the warp. However, with Blood Pact he seems to be saying--all right--there is something supernatural out there and now I see it. With Maggs and his visions of the old dam and Gaunt's pre-conscious sight, Abnett is leaving his material universe and stepping over into the world of Chaos. Is he tainted or is he able to mediate between the forces of good and evil? And, of course, there is always that ultimate question: what is the good?
So, in conclusion, "Blood Pact," is an intimate transitional novel, focusing on Gaunt, his past, and his present. It also further develops the character and humanity of the forces of Chaos and through this enfleshment ennobles them to an extent not seen before in Abnett's work. This ennoblement then deepens the themes and enriches the texts that have preceded the novel. For instance, when we read "Double Eagle," and we read of the dog fights between the Blood Pact pilots and the Imperial pilots, we can now imagine them as corrupt but human, both brave and ruthless.
Dan Abnett's "Blood Pact" is the twelfth novel in his Gaunt's Ghost series and, in my mind, his most intimate investigation into the psyche of Gaunt. For the nervous, superstitious, conspiratorial among you, let's add another "Double Eagle," to make the series contain thirteen.
So there are thirteen novels in the series to date. However, Mr. Abnett tends to write quaternities with a single over-arching arc, so that brings us to two completed quaternities, a trilogy, and two extras--"Blood Pact," and "Double Eagle." Of these two, one is hors série--"Double Eagle"--and the other, "Blood Pact" is the beginning of a new quarternity.
The last quaternity began with the novel,"Traitor General" and ended with "Only in Death." In "Traitor General" an Imperial General, who is condemned to death, is captured (rescued)by the Chaos equivalent of the Imperial Guard--the Blood Pact--and taken to the planet Gereon. Gaunt and a select team travel to Gereon to assassinate the general.
Gereon is one of Abnett's greatest creations. It is here that Abnett begins to show what happens to a planet that is conquered by Chaos. Of course, we have seen the images of conquered planets before through the battles but we have not seen the day-to-day existence of those who live under the rule of Chaos before nor have we seen the chain of command of Chaos or its administrative echelons to the degree that we now do.
In "Traitor General,' Abnett begins a descent into detail and world-building that he carries through to the last book in the quaternity--"Only in Death." The third quaternity now called the "The Lost," contains some of the best writing that Abnett has done. Not only does he envision several remarkable worlds but he creates languages and cultures in way that would make Ursula K. LeGuin smile. He also begins to transform Gaunt.
To be true to the Aristotelian verities Gaunt must grow and change. In that Abnett has an almost limitless space in which to develop his story arc, the changes are slow. At book eleven, we reach the tale-tell sign of conversion--blindness. Book eleven is the pivot; the book of changes. The story must change and in "Blood Pact" it does.
"Blood Pact" is a different type of book than the others. Of course, it contains all the usual suspects; however, it is smaller in scope. This novel begins two years after the horrendous battles on Jago. The Ghosts are on Balhaut, an important location for Gaunt. This is where it all began, where things went bad for Gaunt. In fact, the people of Balhaut celebrate the bravery of the "dead" hero Gaunt. So, in effect, Gaunt is a ghost of sorts. Abnett is telling us that before "Blood Pact" Gaunt was a ghost, lost in the campaigns and blind to his greater role. Now, in this new quaternity, things are changing; Gaunt can see again; and, as is usually the case, in this most literary of tropes, Gaunt can see what other men cannot. He has a second sight. He sees the future and he sees into others.
The plot of "Blood Pact," revolves around a "pheguth," a traitor, just as "Traitor General" revolved around a "pheguth." This time, however, the "pheguth" is a member of the Blood Pact, and unlike Sturm, the traitor general, Mabbon is a good man or at least that is what we are told.
A Blood Pact unit, along with a warp witch, is sent to Balhaut, like Gaunt was sent to Gereon, to assassinate the pheguth. So the plot focuses on a battle between a small specialized force of Chaos assassins and Gaunt. Because the battle field is small and intimate, the novel feels different; and it is different in some fundamental ways. It does not have the sweeping battles of "The Lost Quaternity;" however, it does set the ground for the next arc and it continues to enflesh the series with new themes and revealed characteristics of the major characters. It also foreshadows the death of several characters and points to a Gaunt reborn with an enhanced reputation among his commanders.
The series has always been dialectical: good versus evil; light verses dark; twins--Rawne verses Gaunt; Blood Pact versus Ghosts--and Chaos versus Order. However, Abnett is the most material of the Black Library writers; he does not go easily into the horrible wastes of the warp. However, with Blood Pact he seems to be saying--all right--there is something supernatural out there and now I see it. With Maggs and his visions of the old dam and Gaunt's pre-conscious sight, Abnett is leaving his material universe and stepping over into the world of Chaos. Is he tainted or is he able to mediate between the forces of good and evil? And, of course, there is always that ultimate question: what is the good?
So, in conclusion, "Blood Pact," is an intimate transitional novel, focusing on Gaunt, his past, and his present. It also further develops the character and humanity of the forces of Chaos and through this enfleshment ennobles them to an extent not seen before in Abnett's work. This ennoblement then deepens the themes and enriches the texts that have preceded the novel. For instance, when we read "Double Eagle," and we read of the dog fights between the Blood Pact pilots and the Imperial pilots, we can now imagine them as corrupt but human, both brave and ruthless.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Roberto Bolano's "2666"
Bolano's 1100 page (Spanish Edition) magnus opus is mesmerizing and hypnotic; full of magical stories, violence, sex, meta-fiction, and lies--a lot of lies and a great deal of misdirection.
When I finished the novel I started again; it was the only thing to do; there was too much to absorb on the first reading; too many themes--writing, violence, detectives, murder, identity, travel, death, books, libraries, biographies, success, failure, race, fascism, Nazis, and war.
The writing in itself is beautiful, a poet's book, written by a poet, and translated beautifully by Natasha Wimmer.
The story, in a nutshell, is the life story of a German soldier by the name of Hans Reiter, who, in mid-life in the bombed-out city of Cologne, after the Second World War, changes his name to Benno von Archimboldi and writes his first novel. This story seems to be a conflation of several writers' biographies--Heinrich Boll, Gunter Grass, and surely Prince Hermann Ludwig Heinrich von Pückler-Muskau (I don't think you will see this in any other critique of the book but Bolano gives a brilliant clue at the end of the novel and the parallels between Benno and Prince Herman are quite interesting to trace. Why did he chose him? Because he is better remembered for the ice cream named after him than the books he a wrote and the life he lived.)
From this brief synopsis grows a story of the world in the Twentieth Century. It begins with Reiter's birth in Prussia and ends in the present day. The book contains hundreds of characters and their stories, each told by the same voice, a narrator, who Bolano once said was the fictional poet, Arturo Belano, a character in his brilliant novel--"The Savage Detectives."
So, we have a story told, not shown, which covers eighty years.
The novel contains five parts, which are almost self-contained, but when read together fit perfectly. The five parts are: (1) The Part about the Critics; (2) The Part about Amalfitano; (3) The Part about Fate; (4) The Part about the Crimes; and (5) The Part about Archimboldi.
Part One tells the story of four academics reading, studying, and writing about the reclusive Archimboldi, who is being considered for the Nobel Prize. Their study leads them ultimately to Sonora, to Santa Teresa (a conflation of Jaurez and Heroica Nogales), where a serial killer is operating.
Parts Two, Three, and Four take place in Sonora and involve--a university professor, an American journalist, and many detectives. These three sections all involve the killings in Santa Teresa from one view or another.
Part Five is a chronological telling of the life of Archimboldi, which precedes the action in Part One.
Throughout the telling of the story hundreds of books are mentioned and discussed. Some are real books; some are made up; and others are simply conflated. However, ultimately, it is a writer's book or perhaps just a book for readers, real readers, readers interested in mystery and games, language games, and ghastly murders.
The plot of the novel is driven by mysteries: where is Archimboldi, who is Archimboldi, who is killing the women of Santa Teresa? However, the beauty of the book is in the slow telling of the stories and the minutia of the details.
I cannot do the novel justice; it has to be read closely to appreciate it, but there is a clue to its most fundamental theme: throughout the novel people are buried in mass graves, the graves are hidden because more often than not the murderers are trying to hide their crimes. However, in each instance, the graves are discovered and the bodies uncovered; just as stories are told and the secrets revealed. And herein lies the meaning of the title and I think the fundamental theme of a book full of themes and ideas; it arises or it is hidden in a quote from the "Savage Detectives:" "Guerreo, at that time of night, is more like a cemetery than an avenue, not a cemetery in 1974 or 1968, or 1975, but a cemetery in the year 2666, a forgotten cemetery under the eyelid of a corpse or an unborn child, bathed in the dispassionate fluids of an eye that tried so hard to forget one particular thing that it ended up forgetting everything else."
In other words, our world is more like an uncovered cemetery of the future, full of violence and death. The science of the Twentieth Century devised ways to systematically kill thousands of people. But even now, after the war, the killing continues in the bizarre nightmare milieus of border towns, the situs of the maquiladoras, in refugee camps in Africa, in race wars all over the war, the Fifth Ward, in Compton, in our back yards.
Santa Teresa is supposedly modeled on Juarez where there are 340 maquiladoras operating. Here is the future, stranger than we can imagine, which makes the book in my mind slipstream and connects it to "Moxyland," one of the novels I reviewed last month.
When I finished the novel I started again; it was the only thing to do; there was too much to absorb on the first reading; too many themes--writing, violence, detectives, murder, identity, travel, death, books, libraries, biographies, success, failure, race, fascism, Nazis, and war.
The writing in itself is beautiful, a poet's book, written by a poet, and translated beautifully by Natasha Wimmer.
The story, in a nutshell, is the life story of a German soldier by the name of Hans Reiter, who, in mid-life in the bombed-out city of Cologne, after the Second World War, changes his name to Benno von Archimboldi and writes his first novel. This story seems to be a conflation of several writers' biographies--Heinrich Boll, Gunter Grass, and surely Prince Hermann Ludwig Heinrich von Pückler-Muskau (I don't think you will see this in any other critique of the book but Bolano gives a brilliant clue at the end of the novel and the parallels between Benno and Prince Herman are quite interesting to trace. Why did he chose him? Because he is better remembered for the ice cream named after him than the books he a wrote and the life he lived.)
From this brief synopsis grows a story of the world in the Twentieth Century. It begins with Reiter's birth in Prussia and ends in the present day. The book contains hundreds of characters and their stories, each told by the same voice, a narrator, who Bolano once said was the fictional poet, Arturo Belano, a character in his brilliant novel--"The Savage Detectives."
So, we have a story told, not shown, which covers eighty years.
The novel contains five parts, which are almost self-contained, but when read together fit perfectly. The five parts are: (1) The Part about the Critics; (2) The Part about Amalfitano; (3) The Part about Fate; (4) The Part about the Crimes; and (5) The Part about Archimboldi.
Part One tells the story of four academics reading, studying, and writing about the reclusive Archimboldi, who is being considered for the Nobel Prize. Their study leads them ultimately to Sonora, to Santa Teresa (a conflation of Jaurez and Heroica Nogales), where a serial killer is operating.
Parts Two, Three, and Four take place in Sonora and involve--a university professor, an American journalist, and many detectives. These three sections all involve the killings in Santa Teresa from one view or another.
Part Five is a chronological telling of the life of Archimboldi, which precedes the action in Part One.
Throughout the telling of the story hundreds of books are mentioned and discussed. Some are real books; some are made up; and others are simply conflated. However, ultimately, it is a writer's book or perhaps just a book for readers, real readers, readers interested in mystery and games, language games, and ghastly murders.
The plot of the novel is driven by mysteries: where is Archimboldi, who is Archimboldi, who is killing the women of Santa Teresa? However, the beauty of the book is in the slow telling of the stories and the minutia of the details.
I cannot do the novel justice; it has to be read closely to appreciate it, but there is a clue to its most fundamental theme: throughout the novel people are buried in mass graves, the graves are hidden because more often than not the murderers are trying to hide their crimes. However, in each instance, the graves are discovered and the bodies uncovered; just as stories are told and the secrets revealed. And herein lies the meaning of the title and I think the fundamental theme of a book full of themes and ideas; it arises or it is hidden in a quote from the "Savage Detectives:" "Guerreo, at that time of night, is more like a cemetery than an avenue, not a cemetery in 1974 or 1968, or 1975, but a cemetery in the year 2666, a forgotten cemetery under the eyelid of a corpse or an unborn child, bathed in the dispassionate fluids of an eye that tried so hard to forget one particular thing that it ended up forgetting everything else."
In other words, our world is more like an uncovered cemetery of the future, full of violence and death. The science of the Twentieth Century devised ways to systematically kill thousands of people. But even now, after the war, the killing continues in the bizarre nightmare milieus of border towns, the situs of the maquiladoras, in refugee camps in Africa, in race wars all over the war, the Fifth Ward, in Compton, in our back yards.
Santa Teresa is supposedly modeled on Juarez where there are 340 maquiladoras operating. Here is the future, stranger than we can imagine, which makes the book in my mind slipstream and connects it to "Moxyland," one of the novels I reviewed last month.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Moxyland by Lauren Beukes
While reading "Moxyland," Lauren Beukes' dystopian fantasy, published by Angry Robot, I kept asking myself, where are the "parents," the serious people who will take charge and protect these four dysfunctional children; and, therein, I think, lies the rub or at least the theme of the work. The four protagonists, who tell the story in alternating first person segments, are children without supervision in the literal and figurative sense; they are orphans, cut off, without father and mother.
Oh, don't misunderstand me, they have supervision all right, in spades, dealt to them electronically by some disembodied corporation that employs them as consumer fodder; however, in truth they are castaways in a world where the "virtual" and the "real" have converged and melded. They are children, like those of Golding's "Lord of the Flies," left to their own devices or the vagaries of fate within a virtual universe controlled by an unseen hand.
In thinking about the book over the last week, I have concluded that "Moxyland" can be read as a prequel to "Brave New World" or "1984." High praise indeed, I whisper, and yet I think the work deserves it. In that regard, I would not place the book in the science fiction section of my local Borders; instead, I would set it near Huxley and Orwell or maybe next to Sartre's "Nausea" or Camus' "The Plague."
Are you crazy, you might ask. Have you lost your mind? I don't think so but if you insist it is science fiction, then I must conclude that the book is really a book of ideas like John Brunner's "Stand on Zanzibar" or Harry Harrison's "Make Room Make Room." Nevertheless, even here I have trouble, because Beukes' book is more grounded in the here and now and consequently does not amaze as much as Brunner and Harrison; but, instead, warns and points at a near future, almost on our doorstep, that we should take heed of (even though we might be helpless to stop it).
In a nutshell, "Moxyland" involves four protagonists, who tell their stories in the first person. They live in Capetown, South Africa, approximately ten years from today; and, although apartheid is not mentioned, its effects seem obvious.
The protagonists are: Kendra, a young photographer; Tendeka, an activist and would-be terrorist; Lerato, a corporate employee and computer programmer; and Toby, a rich kid, working on his master degree in literature at the local University. Each one is connected to the virtual world and tangentially to each other. However, each one is disconnected from family and friends. Instead, they inhabit the virtual universe, where avatars could hide a fourteen year old or a corporate boss.
As I said above, they are orphans in both literal and literary sense. For instance, Toby's mother cuts off his stipend and he is forced to make money as a "gonzo" reporter; Lerato is an aids baby, raised in an orphanage as a ward of a multi-national corporation.
Beukes sets the four off on a collision course, which ends in disaster for some of the participants.
One of the most telling images in the book is a self-portrait done by Kendra. It is a photograph of herself. Because she uses old, analog equipment and antiquated film stock, the image is black--not blank, black. An interesting image, especially, when the author tells the story in the first person. Here the "cogito" fails; the "I" of the persona refuses to reflect the vision of the constructed other. In other words, no images come to the viewer to instruct or inform the viewer. Isn't that a bit like the avatar of the other in a computer game?
In that regard, another major theme of the novel is the way that the virtual is bleeding into the real. Toby plays various games in which, through his first-person-narration we are not sure if he is in a game or in life. The reader has difficulty determining what is real and what is not and eventually so does Toby.
As the virtual seeps in and absorbs the real, human beings become consuming fodder and living advertisements for certain global products. Within this context, the orphan, un-weaned from the real mother, continues to imbibe the corporate milk, which results in addiction and infantilism.
As I said at the beginning I think "Moxyland" can be read as a prequel to "1984" or "Brave New World." If we project the story line into the future and I think the book invites it; either, a fascistic Big Brother will arise, probably a virtual one, like the Wizard of Oz, or an unseen manipulative hand will continue to control and manipulate as in the Huxley novel.
In conclusion, the novel is a book of ideas; well written, edgy, and prescient.
Oh, don't misunderstand me, they have supervision all right, in spades, dealt to them electronically by some disembodied corporation that employs them as consumer fodder; however, in truth they are castaways in a world where the "virtual" and the "real" have converged and melded. They are children, like those of Golding's "Lord of the Flies," left to their own devices or the vagaries of fate within a virtual universe controlled by an unseen hand.
In thinking about the book over the last week, I have concluded that "Moxyland" can be read as a prequel to "Brave New World" or "1984." High praise indeed, I whisper, and yet I think the work deserves it. In that regard, I would not place the book in the science fiction section of my local Borders; instead, I would set it near Huxley and Orwell or maybe next to Sartre's "Nausea" or Camus' "The Plague."
Are you crazy, you might ask. Have you lost your mind? I don't think so but if you insist it is science fiction, then I must conclude that the book is really a book of ideas like John Brunner's "Stand on Zanzibar" or Harry Harrison's "Make Room Make Room." Nevertheless, even here I have trouble, because Beukes' book is more grounded in the here and now and consequently does not amaze as much as Brunner and Harrison; but, instead, warns and points at a near future, almost on our doorstep, that we should take heed of (even though we might be helpless to stop it).
In a nutshell, "Moxyland" involves four protagonists, who tell their stories in the first person. They live in Capetown, South Africa, approximately ten years from today; and, although apartheid is not mentioned, its effects seem obvious.
The protagonists are: Kendra, a young photographer; Tendeka, an activist and would-be terrorist; Lerato, a corporate employee and computer programmer; and Toby, a rich kid, working on his master degree in literature at the local University. Each one is connected to the virtual world and tangentially to each other. However, each one is disconnected from family and friends. Instead, they inhabit the virtual universe, where avatars could hide a fourteen year old or a corporate boss.
As I said above, they are orphans in both literal and literary sense. For instance, Toby's mother cuts off his stipend and he is forced to make money as a "gonzo" reporter; Lerato is an aids baby, raised in an orphanage as a ward of a multi-national corporation.
Beukes sets the four off on a collision course, which ends in disaster for some of the participants.
One of the most telling images in the book is a self-portrait done by Kendra. It is a photograph of herself. Because she uses old, analog equipment and antiquated film stock, the image is black--not blank, black. An interesting image, especially, when the author tells the story in the first person. Here the "cogito" fails; the "I" of the persona refuses to reflect the vision of the constructed other. In other words, no images come to the viewer to instruct or inform the viewer. Isn't that a bit like the avatar of the other in a computer game?
In that regard, another major theme of the novel is the way that the virtual is bleeding into the real. Toby plays various games in which, through his first-person-narration we are not sure if he is in a game or in life. The reader has difficulty determining what is real and what is not and eventually so does Toby.
As the virtual seeps in and absorbs the real, human beings become consuming fodder and living advertisements for certain global products. Within this context, the orphan, un-weaned from the real mother, continues to imbibe the corporate milk, which results in addiction and infantilism.
As I said at the beginning I think "Moxyland" can be read as a prequel to "1984" or "Brave New World." If we project the story line into the future and I think the book invites it; either, a fascistic Big Brother will arise, probably a virtual one, like the Wizard of Oz, or an unseen manipulative hand will continue to control and manipulate as in the Huxley novel.
In conclusion, the novel is a book of ideas; well written, edgy, and prescient.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Chris Roberson's "Book of Secrets"
Over the weekend I received and read two books from Amazon.com.uk: Chris Roberson's "Book of Secrets" and Lauren Beukes'"Moxyland."
Both books are from "Angry Robot" and both books are supposedly science fiction. However, no two books could be so different and yet inhabit the same "genre" space. Roberson's book is a look-back at the glorious age of pulp and therefore a meta-fictional exercise in types and sub-categories of genre; whereas Beukes' novel is a peek into a dark and perilous near-future.
Let's say at the outset that I enjoyed both books. Irrespective of the readability of the books--they were both fast reads--I was more intrigued by how different two books in the same genre could be. Their contained and inherent dissimilarity inhabits the same shelf space, so, of course, they begged the question--what is science fiction?
I will review Beukes in a later review and start with Mr. Roberson's novel.
"Book of Secrets" is (1) a crime novel, reminiscent of the noir fiction of the thirties; (2) a meta-fiction celebrating American genre fiction of the thirties, forties and fifties; (3) a bildungsroman about the spiritual journey of a young man; (4) a portal fantasy.
As you might glean from the previous paragraph, Mr. Roberson tells several stories in several forms. If we look for "the figure in the carpet" imagine an "x." One bar of the "x" progresses chronologically; that is the first person narrative of an investigative reporter by the name of Spencer Finch. Spencer Finch is on an assignment for the magazine "Logion" to reveal the nefarious dealings of a Houston bigwig by the name of J. Nathan Pierce, known as "Nez."
From this initial information, however, we are alerted that this is not your usual hard-boiled fiction based in the hard-scrabble world of reality. First, "Logion" is an online magazine and its name alerts us (perhaps warns us) that we are in "metaphysical" country. "Logion" refers to the traditional maxims and proverbs told by a sage or prophet. In most instances it is used to describe the maxims of Jesus. So, our protagonist is writing for a metaphysical or a religiously oriented virtual magazine, although that is never stated.
Next, Mr. Pierce, our unseen or barely seen subject, is called "Nez." This is obviously a reference to the Indian tribe--Nez Perce--who not only had their own unique language but a highly developed mythology. Languages and mythologies become a theme and Mr Roberson introduces us to various mysteries revolving around a mysterious book written in many hands and many languages.
Situated in the metaphysical world, we are now alert to possible puzzles of meaning. After all, it is a mystery or is it?
Not to put too fine a point on it and not to scare off any reader, the novel is also a bildungsroman. A bildungsroman is a novel that has as its main theme the formative years or spiritual education of one person. The one person in this case is Spencer Finch and the purpose of the first leg of the "x" is to take the reader on a chronological journey through his spiritual development.
The second leg of the "x," however, is the fantastical element of the novel. Its narrative moves in reverse toward the past. Just as a good metaphysical investigation, the reader must follow the past through a series of short stories about a family of do-goers named the Black Hand to the “happy” origins of humanity.
Mr. Roberson uses these stories, short stories, to educate the reader, solve the mystery, and display the various genres--short story, pulp fiction, tragedy, etc--that were used in pulp fiction. Additionally, and this is very important because it elevates the novel, Roberson, by actually including the stories rather than describing them, inducts and educates the reader into the pleasure of pulp. This not only shows his versatility and enriches the text of the book but also reveals his inherent connection to the pulp tradition.
Before I move on I think we should illustrate our point and reveal Roberson's genius in actually writing the stories and including them in the narrative. Upon the death of his grandfather, Finch inherits a box of pulp magazines. The first story he reads is "The Talon's Curse" by Walter Reece. This story is the closest in time to the action of the novel and begins the count-down to the journey backwards toward the beginning of man. "The Talon's Curse" is a noir/mystery situated in San Franciso in the thirties. The next story is a Western written in 1918. Each story elicits the qualities and the identity of the members of the Black Hand.
The backward progression through the use of genre ushers the reader ultimately into the "original" world of myth and religion. This point is the intersection of the "x," and to punctuate the point, Roberson takes us through the looking glass to another world, to a world of crystal populated by angels and demi-urges.
Herein lies the fantasy and the speculation that earns the book its classification as "slipstream". If we sub-categorize it, this portion of the novel is a "portal" novel, in the vein of David Lindsay (Voyage to Arcturus) and C. S. Lewis (Perelandra).
So once we parse the pieces and put them back together, we discover that "Book of Secrets" is a book of genres. In other words, it is a celebration of the age of pulp with a meta-fictional slant. It moves in two directions--a very readable first person narrative in the form of a crime novel that progresses to the conclusion of the mystery and a fantasy novel that moves in reverse to disclose the nature of the universe. The two stories collide at the portal and the protagonist falls through it into a world of angels and gnostic demi-urges. This is the denouement and the moment of fantasy.
In conclusion I will summarize some other things I liked about the novel.
Roberson situates the action in my place--my physical space. I went to school in Houston, practiced law in Austin, and now live in Dallas. I know El Paso like the back of my hand. These western spaces plus New Orleans is Spencer's place and that in itself endeared the novel to me. Roberson described them clearly and truthfully and I felt and saw each city in the telling.
Second, Roberson is just a damn fine writer. He writes a good sentence; the novel is structured like a Swiss watch and paced like a Tennessee walker.
Third, in the time of the post-Tolkienians and the novel as brick, "Book of Secrets" is unique, refreshing, breezy, and fun.
Both books are from "Angry Robot" and both books are supposedly science fiction. However, no two books could be so different and yet inhabit the same "genre" space. Roberson's book is a look-back at the glorious age of pulp and therefore a meta-fictional exercise in types and sub-categories of genre; whereas Beukes' novel is a peek into a dark and perilous near-future.
Let's say at the outset that I enjoyed both books. Irrespective of the readability of the books--they were both fast reads--I was more intrigued by how different two books in the same genre could be. Their contained and inherent dissimilarity inhabits the same shelf space, so, of course, they begged the question--what is science fiction?
I will review Beukes in a later review and start with Mr. Roberson's novel.
"Book of Secrets" is (1) a crime novel, reminiscent of the noir fiction of the thirties; (2) a meta-fiction celebrating American genre fiction of the thirties, forties and fifties; (3) a bildungsroman about the spiritual journey of a young man; (4) a portal fantasy.
As you might glean from the previous paragraph, Mr. Roberson tells several stories in several forms. If we look for "the figure in the carpet" imagine an "x." One bar of the "x" progresses chronologically; that is the first person narrative of an investigative reporter by the name of Spencer Finch. Spencer Finch is on an assignment for the magazine "Logion" to reveal the nefarious dealings of a Houston bigwig by the name of J. Nathan Pierce, known as "Nez."
From this initial information, however, we are alerted that this is not your usual hard-boiled fiction based in the hard-scrabble world of reality. First, "Logion" is an online magazine and its name alerts us (perhaps warns us) that we are in "metaphysical" country. "Logion" refers to the traditional maxims and proverbs told by a sage or prophet. In most instances it is used to describe the maxims of Jesus. So, our protagonist is writing for a metaphysical or a religiously oriented virtual magazine, although that is never stated.
Next, Mr. Pierce, our unseen or barely seen subject, is called "Nez." This is obviously a reference to the Indian tribe--Nez Perce--who not only had their own unique language but a highly developed mythology. Languages and mythologies become a theme and Mr Roberson introduces us to various mysteries revolving around a mysterious book written in many hands and many languages.
Situated in the metaphysical world, we are now alert to possible puzzles of meaning. After all, it is a mystery or is it?
Not to put too fine a point on it and not to scare off any reader, the novel is also a bildungsroman. A bildungsroman is a novel that has as its main theme the formative years or spiritual education of one person. The one person in this case is Spencer Finch and the purpose of the first leg of the "x" is to take the reader on a chronological journey through his spiritual development.
The second leg of the "x," however, is the fantastical element of the novel. Its narrative moves in reverse toward the past. Just as a good metaphysical investigation, the reader must follow the past through a series of short stories about a family of do-goers named the Black Hand to the “happy” origins of humanity.
Mr. Roberson uses these stories, short stories, to educate the reader, solve the mystery, and display the various genres--short story, pulp fiction, tragedy, etc--that were used in pulp fiction. Additionally, and this is very important because it elevates the novel, Roberson, by actually including the stories rather than describing them, inducts and educates the reader into the pleasure of pulp. This not only shows his versatility and enriches the text of the book but also reveals his inherent connection to the pulp tradition.
Before I move on I think we should illustrate our point and reveal Roberson's genius in actually writing the stories and including them in the narrative. Upon the death of his grandfather, Finch inherits a box of pulp magazines. The first story he reads is "The Talon's Curse" by Walter Reece. This story is the closest in time to the action of the novel and begins the count-down to the journey backwards toward the beginning of man. "The Talon's Curse" is a noir/mystery situated in San Franciso in the thirties. The next story is a Western written in 1918. Each story elicits the qualities and the identity of the members of the Black Hand.
The backward progression through the use of genre ushers the reader ultimately into the "original" world of myth and religion. This point is the intersection of the "x," and to punctuate the point, Roberson takes us through the looking glass to another world, to a world of crystal populated by angels and demi-urges.
Herein lies the fantasy and the speculation that earns the book its classification as "slipstream". If we sub-categorize it, this portion of the novel is a "portal" novel, in the vein of David Lindsay (Voyage to Arcturus) and C. S. Lewis (Perelandra).
So once we parse the pieces and put them back together, we discover that "Book of Secrets" is a book of genres. In other words, it is a celebration of the age of pulp with a meta-fictional slant. It moves in two directions--a very readable first person narrative in the form of a crime novel that progresses to the conclusion of the mystery and a fantasy novel that moves in reverse to disclose the nature of the universe. The two stories collide at the portal and the protagonist falls through it into a world of angels and gnostic demi-urges. This is the denouement and the moment of fantasy.
In conclusion I will summarize some other things I liked about the novel.
Roberson situates the action in my place--my physical space. I went to school in Houston, practiced law in Austin, and now live in Dallas. I know El Paso like the back of my hand. These western spaces plus New Orleans is Spencer's place and that in itself endeared the novel to me. Roberson described them clearly and truthfully and I felt and saw each city in the telling.
Second, Roberson is just a damn fine writer. He writes a good sentence; the novel is structured like a Swiss watch and paced like a Tennessee walker.
Third, in the time of the post-Tolkienians and the novel as brick, "Book of Secrets" is unique, refreshing, breezy, and fun.
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