As an author and a teacher of literature I believe in one simple truth when it comes to the meaning of all literature: authors should keep their mouthAs an author and a teacher of literature I believe in one simple truth when it comes to the meaning of all literature: authors should keep their mouths shut when it comes to the "meaning" of their work.
Now to be fair to Mr. Orwell, I understand that his declaration of Animal Farm as an allegory for the Russian Revolution was in a letter to French author and translator Yvonne Davet. It was a private correspondence, so it's not like he posted his 240 characters on Twitter or went on a late night talk show and shared his thoughts with a Jimmy or started a "Here's what my books mean" YouTube channel. He wrote a letter to a friend / colleague and his words have since escaped to all the world. Even so, I wish that letter had been burned before the rest of us caught wind of Orwell's official intentions.
It is, you see, a giant impediment to understanding the breadth of Animal Farm. Yes the Russian Revolution is there. It's impossible to miss, and we all would have seen its presence without Orwell's epistolary confirmation (especially those of us familiar with the October Revolution). The problem is that too many people (students I have taught, folks I've argued with in bars, leftover '80s Cold Warriors, my Dad) hear USSR, stop at USSR, then sum it all up with "Communism is bad! See ... Orwell said so," and all too often these same fucktards add, "Communism bad! Capitalism Good!" like the oblivious little sheep they are.
That isn't what Orwell was ultimately saying, no matter what he said in his letter to Ms. Davet. Though he found inspiration in the Russian Revolution and what Stalinism eventually did to derail Marxism in the Soviet Union, Animal Farm -- as a work of literature -- goes for something more fundamental: the story reveals the overwhelming drive to obtain and maintain power and how each and every one of us is responsible for whatever system springs up to oppress others or ourselves.
Animal Farm = Responsibility. It is as simple and as complicated as that....more
I am never a fan of an author telling one’s readers what one was trying to accomplish when one set out to write one’s story, and I am even less a fan I am never a fan of an author telling one’s readers what one was trying to accomplish when one set out to write one’s story, and I am even less a fan of an author telling the readers what one’s story means or doesn’t mean, so being faced with Octavia E. Butler’s afterwords for each story was not my favourite part of what was an otherwise strong cycle of her short works. But Butler, herself, is so amazing that her afterwords didn’t kill the experience for me (as I feared they would) and, once or twice, when she stuck to the peculiarities of her writing (like the fact that she actively dislikes the short story form) rather than her goals and meanings, her afterwords actually overcame my biases. What really got me, however, were the stories and essays themselves. Exceptional shorts from a woman who would rather be writing novel length tales.
Blood Child --
This is a Nebula, Locus and Hugo Winner for Novelette, and the awards are well deserved. It isn’t my favourite story in the book, but it is damned powerful.
Without giving too much away, the story sees humans (Earthlings) taking refuge on some other planet far away from ours, where the cost for living there, in the Preserve, is to become hosts for the native species� babies, essentially giving up our blood and circulatory systems to their larval offspring as wombs for reproduction.
Though Butler denies that this is a tale of slavery, that is precisely what I read it as before reading her comments (along with one or two other possible meanings), and her opinion hasn’t swayed my feelings one jot. She may not have written Blood Child with slavery in mind, but the power dynamics of the tale certainly parallel those of slavery (or maybe more accurately the human relationship with pets and domesticated animals; its own form of slavery), which made my reaction to the main characters -- Gan and T’Gatoi -- troublesome because I couldn’t help caring for both. Regardless of its “true meaning,� Blood Child will make you think, which is so often the way with Octavia E. Butler.
The Evening and the Morning and the Night --
This is Science Fiction at its absolute best. I would go so far as to say it is one of my ten favourite Sci-Fi Short Stories, which is an illustrious list. It is also the story in Blood Child that makes me angry at Octavia E. Butler. Her command of prose, her perfect weighting of every element in this tale, the information she gives and withholds, it is all the work of a master short story writer, and I can’t help being pissed off at her for not writing more tales of this beauty and economy (but then I remember all the wonderful novels she’s given us and I don’t stay pissed long).
I will say nothing about the plot, but even if you don’t read Blood Child as a book, find The Evening and the Morning and the Night. It is a must for any Sci-Fi fan. It’s one of those stories I wish I had told.
Near of Kin --
I know that Octavia E. Butler is mostly challenging herself when she writes tales like Near of Kin, but her readers are, luckily, just as challenged as she, probably more so. Here she delivers a tale of incest stripped of abuse and lasciviousness, and turns it into a story where the shame of an act -- an act that may not have been shameful in the moment of its consummation but is shameful for the players once they come out the other end and have to live with what they’ve done because -- has quiet and generation spanning repercussions. It’s beautifully told, and the narrator and her uncle are so real I feel as though I could meet them on the street.
Speech Sounds --
So much could be said about this story, so much should be said, but I think that I am going to stick to something simple -- how impressed I was by the way Butler handled the sex. There is a pivotal moment of sexual contact in what seems a nearly hopeless near future utopia, and it is handled with a frankness and honesty that seemed to me to be the beginning of the hope that Butler’s tale eventually paid off. Beautifully done.
Crossover --
When hope is lost this is what happens, more often than not.
Positive Obsession & Furor Scribendi --
These essays are not Butler’s forte, but for any writer thinking of dedicating themselves to their craft, these words are wise and can only help....more
Is it just me, or have we reached a point where it has become cool (perhaps hipster cool?) to hold Alan Moore at arms length and dismiss his work? I dIs it just me, or have we reached a point where it has become cool (perhaps hipster cool?) to hold Alan Moore at arms length and dismiss his work? I don’t think it is just me. It certainly feels like that was the everyreader (if not the critical) reception to Alan Moore’s Fashion Beast.
Travelling around to the comic book stores in my region (my decidedly rural Canadian region, it should be stated), I have not found anyone but myself who has actually read this entire series. Two people I know read a couple of issues then stopped, and a few read the first issue but no more. Only I have read the entire series in my less than immediate vicinity.And when I’ve brought up Fashion Beast it has been to a universal cool. Even those who’ve read some of the series responded with little more than a shrug and a “meh.�
This is a shame because Fashion Beast is as accomplished a piece of fiction as anything Moore’s written with (perhaps) the exception of From Hell (yes. I am actually saying it is as accomplished as Watchmen). It is a tormented and tortured retelling of Beauty and the Beast characterised by sexual ambiguity, abuse, power struggle, dystopia and psychological horror. And that is just the crust of the story. Dig deeper from the crust to the inner core and Fashion Beast is revealed to compress itself into subsurface layers of storytelling, layers we must work hard to uncover but whose uncovering is absolutely rewarding.
There are layers of perception, of reality and hyperreality, of anarchy, of fascism, of evolution and human interference with evolution, of fable, of morbidity, of asexuality, of transexuality, of subjugation and domination, of class and economics, of signs and semiotics, and these are just some of what make up the earth of Fashion Beast.
I have read some criticism of the screenplay structure of the tale, since it does come from an original Moore screenplay written in the eighties, because the screenplay structure doesn’t mimic the issue to issue structure of a comic narrative. I understand that feeling, and perhaps that has something to do with the response of those who’ve only read a couple of issues. This structure does mean that the story takes time to reveal its shape, but if one gives the cinematic orogenesis of Fashion Beast time, if one allows for a different pace of graphic storytelling, one will find the shape as pleasing as the more natural shapes we read everyday.
I suppose it is unfair to suggest that the lack of interest in Moore has to do with hipsterism. I think, in the end, it is simply that he challenges us too much (whether in form or substance).
He is like Orwell of comic book writing. Everyone says his name in hushed tones, everyone has read Animal Farm (Watchmen), and everyone claims to have read 1984 (V for Vendetta), and hard core readers (scholars and activists) have read The Road to Wigan Pier (From Dead), but going any farther is just too damn much work, so we admire Orwell (Moore) from a distance, recognize his importance, claim to be fans, but stay away � always � from the literature on the periphery. It’s easier that way.
So I get that. It just bums me out because genius tends to go un(der)appreciated....more
I am a car in neutral with my wheels in a metal track, covered in the mud and salt and grime of the roads that scar Orbus, Planet Blue, Earth. I am drI am a car in neutral with my wheels in a metal track, covered in the mud and salt and grime of the roads that scar Orbus, Planet Blue, Earth. I am dragged into position; the chemicals hit my shell. Acidic, corrosive, an unsubtle back and forth to knock loose the corruption I've picked up in my travels. The wash cares not at all about delicacy. It shoots it fine mist of torture and hustles me into the frame. Once in that frame, that frame of hanging, dangling mitters, multi-coloured tassels, twin maypoles to conjure festival days of sometime and someplace, the thrumming beat of fabric begins. Up and over and down and beside. One way and back. Massaging me with circadian beat of my mother machines, soothing me into a belief that all can be okay. Then the water blasts me: shocking, hard, cleansing, a roar of pressure to slough off all that had been chemically burned and lovingly knocked loose on my metallic skin. Water poisoned to clean me, falling onto the pollution that is concrete, spilling down the pipes to soak into the groundwater somewhere. Clean me. Dirty everything. Now the ROAR of air. The rubber tires hitting my glass. The air firing like a jet against my shell. Water beads and blows away. A scream of anguish too loud for me to hear. Much too loud to make out what I am being told, but the air angles up and away from, and I am nudged off the rails and back into the road. I travel despite what I've learned. There's nothing for it but to roll on as hopeless as can be. ...more
Sometimes all a book needs to excel is the proper reading method. Although we all have our preferred way of reading, usually in our head as fast as weSometimes all a book needs to excel is the proper reading method. Although we all have our preferred way of reading, usually in our head as fast as we can, there are other ways to read.
I always loved The Old Man and the Sea, but when I first read it aloud to my baby girl, the morning after she was born, I discovered that the writing is even better when it can be heard in the world. The rhythms were the rhythms of real speech, poetic speech, and they need to be heard to be fully appreciated.
Just recently I started Jeff Vandermeer's Shriek for the third time, and the experience began as poorly as my first two attempts, but I stumbled upon a way to circumvent my issues. I started reading it in the shower one morning, shortly after my restart, and since I was only able to read a couple of pages, I would put the book away, let the misted pages dry, and wait for the next day. It became a morning ritual for six months of the year, and I found that I loved reading it that way. I lived with the book for a long time, as long (relatively) as I imagine the grey caps would plot the overthrow of Ambergris, and that long relationship, my days spent thinking about a very small, specific moment in the text, created a love for the book that is stronger than anyone else's I know.
I know Max Barry has turned Machine Man into a novel, but I'll have none of that. I bought my own serial feed, and I don't ever want to know what "happened" in the novelization. For me, this is the book the way it was meant to be, and reading it in serialized installments was part of its brilliance.
Much like my time spent with the Shrieks, my time spent with Dr. Charlie Neumann, Cassandra, Lola and Carl was richer for its methodical unfolding. It was conceived as a serial. It was meant to be read as a serial. I would have it no other way. Each development in the story was more intense for my day long, or weekend long wait. The nature of Barry's cliffhangers, over a hundred of them, kept me guessing and fully invested me in the story. I doubt I'd have felt the same way if I had read this as a standard novel.
I need more serial, true serials. I need to read more books (not have them read to me) that were meant to be read out loud. Perhaps it is time to break out Wordsworth's Preludes and do both. Thanks to you, Max, I may just do that. ...more
� The main idea of iZombie vol. 1 Dead to the World is a thing of beauty if you're a horror fan (especially if you dig zombies). Gwen dieThe Coolness�
� The main idea of iZombie vol. 1 Dead to the World is a thing of beauty if you're a horror fan (especially if you dig zombies). Gwen dies, wakes up undead and discovers that she has to feast on a brain a month or become a shambling mass of rotting flesh with an insatiable appetite. She is not just cute, she's hot (as David pointed out in his review, this is a wonderful change from the zombies we're used to seeing), and she has to navigate our everyday world while fighting and feeding her hunger. The premise is gangbusters!
� At the back of the book, we're treated to a gallery of Michael Allred's beautiful black & white pencils. Most of them are potential covers for future issues, and they reveal a real depth before the colours are added. It's really a shame that they chose to colour iZombie at all
� Revenants. If you are a horror fan and don't know what this is, you're not really a horror fan. I'm not sure where they are taking this yet, and I am not convinced I like Chris Roberson's take on the Revenant, but the fact that it is there at all impresses the hell out of me.
� Mummies rock.
The Meh!-ness�
� The plot went in too many directions for me -- which is a symptom of the crappiest part of this book (see below) -- but when the story stays with Gwen's survival and out of the Diner, it is worth reading. I hope the second volume does a better job of sticking to what's good, but I know that's too much to ask. Whatever, I liked it enough to keep going, even with its faults.
� There's some pseudo-nudity that bothered me a bit. If the story had been more adult oriented, if it hadn't felt like a monster prequel to Friends, if its tone had been more Sookie than undead-Veronica Mars, I would have cheered on the sexuality and looked forward to more, but iZombie was too cute for that, and as long as it stays too cute any nudity is too much nudity. It just doesn't fit.
The Crapness�
� I hated -- and I mean HATED -- most of the supporting characters. Wereterrier-boy, Sandra Dee Ghost-girl, the Asian geeks, the Vampire chicks, the Corporation Monster Hunters -- they all sucked the life out of the story. When things were focused on Gwen, things were great. I loved her digging up and eating brains. I loved her having to cope with the memories of the brains she's eaten. I loved her learning what she really is from Amon. I loved her whenever she was on her own. But when she was surrounded by her pack of idiot friends, it was like being stuck in a supernatural Riverdale High.
� I was not impressed with Laura Allred's colours. In fact, I think her colouring work wrecked Michael Allred's pencils. Compare and contrast the black and white work in the back with the glossy, fully coloured panels of the graphic novel. The depth and texture is suddenly missing, and it makes the M. Allred's drawings look like cheap, low-budget TV animation. Granted, there are some bits that her colours can't ruin, but most of it was ruined for me.
� I fucking hate Jughead and anything that reminds me of him! Have I mentioned that Gwen's friends are a pack of Riverdale rejects?...more
WARNING: This "review" (if you can call it that) contains some veiled but serious spoilers. Only read this review if you've read Kraken or aren't planWARNING: This "review" (if you can call it that) contains some veiled but serious spoilers. Only read this review if you've read Kraken or aren't planning to read it for some time.
Wati Kirk orders the city's familiars to pursue the paper tiger. By following its lack, the Architeuthis arrives at the Sea's embassy in Varmin Way. When Wati Kirk and party shift inside, they find a soaked, underwater world inhabited by two villains: Grisamentum, who is comprised of ink and paper, and the Tattoo, a crime lord tattoed onto the back of a man named Paul. While Grisamentum is resurrected in the liquid body of ink, he doesn't fully understand the power of metaphor. Only the "Great Prophet" -- a.k.a. Billy Harrow -- has this knowledge, and he was left behind by ancient squid cultists (or bottle angels) who once lived on the planet.
Embassytown is about reality. Embassytown is about how we make reality. Embassytown is about how we speak reality. Embassytown What is Embassytown about?
Embassytown is about reality. Embassytown is about how we make reality. Embassytown is about how we speak reality. Embassytown is reality. Embassytown is unreal. Embassytown is about religion. Embassytown is about the spirit. Embassytown is about being incorruptible. Embassytown is about corruption. Embassytown is corruption. Embassytown is about the opiated masses. Embassytown is about what opiates the masses. Embassytown is about any opiates for any masses. Embassytown is opiates. Embassytown is the masses. Embassytown is a mass. Embassytown is about Language. Embassytown is about language. Embassytown is Language/language. Embassytown is about simile. Embassytown is like a simile. Embassytown is metaphor. Metaphor is Embassytown. Metaphor is a lie. Metaphors lie. Embassytown is a lie. Embassytown is metaphor. Metaphor uncovers truth. Truth is a lie. Lying is truth. Embassytown is about us. We are Embassytown. We are metaphor. Metaphor. ...more
We live in a culture that desires fragmented stories; stories that are told quickly and compellingly, so we can move on to the next tale. It is why weWe live in a culture that desires fragmented stories; stories that are told quickly and compellingly, so we can move on to the next tale. It is why we love visual forms so much. It is why YA fiction is increasingly popular with older crowds. It is why graphic novels are on the rise as a literary form. But where are the novellas? Where are books like One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, The Old Man and the Sea, Heart of Darkness, The Awakening, A Clockwork Orange?
I have been looking, waiting, hoping, for a resurgence of the novella as a popular form, but it doesn’t seem to be coming. Roth’s The Humbling was a novella and so was Meyer’s The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner, but novellas from a literary giant like Roth and a throwaway sequel by a hack like Meyer hardly suggest a healthy return of the form. So I’ve been growing despondent, wanting desperately to see the form I love become a form of choice once again.
But then I noticed something. The novella isn’t gone. It’s just hiding.
I’ve discovered the novella is still out there; only now it is hidden in the middle of bigger works. Publishers are unwilling willing to publish novellas because publishers think novels are the safer, more familiar bet for the consumer. Novellas, after all, are for University students and academics; they are not for everyday teenagers, housewives and grumpy old men. But when novellas are hidden, they’re no threat at all. Sometimes they can be a part of a novel, and sometimes they lie in combination with other novellas to create a loosely linked group of stories posing as a novel (see the works of David Mitchell) � but they’re out there still; they just don’t look like novellas.
Case in point is one of the finest novellas ever written ... by anyone ... anywhen -- anamnesis: The Perpetual Train. This unparalleled tale is hidden in the center of China Mieville’s most ambitious Bas-Lag novel � Iron Council � and it is a breathtaking display of everything that makes the novella a beautiful form.
Its prose is sparing; its story is tight, compact, compelling and rich. It focuses on one man, Judah Low, and his journey from corporate funded adventurer to anti-imperialist somaturge to founding iron counsellor is perfect and complete all by itself. Nothing more is needed than anamnesis: The Perpetual Train’s cancerous spread across the land turned iconic standard for worker solidarity. The rest of Iron Council is superfluous.
Which leaves me even more in awe of Mieville than I have ever been, but a little frustrated with him too. The events in Iron Council, which sprawl around anamnesis: The Perpetual Train like suburbs, are beautiful in their own right. They bravely incorporate sexual politics, economics, uprising, war, poverty and corruption, fleshing out Bas-Lag with a perspective that raises a middle finger to the more conservative traditions of speculative fiction. But, as impressive as it all is, I don’t think it was necessary, and I wish that Mieville had simply left good enough � actually, great enough � alone.
anamnesis: The Perpetual Train would have been one of the greatest books ever written. I really believe that. But we’ll have to settle for Iron Council being merely excellent.
Jabber be praised! After two months, !TWO MONTHS!, my copy finally arrived today. I love what Lulu does, but it blows to buy from Lulu when you're in Jabber be praised! After two months, !TWO MONTHS!, my copy finally arrived today. I love what Lulu does, but it blows to buy from Lulu when you're in Canada.
Hector is not a novel. Nor a poem. Nor a work of entertainment. Nor even a manifesto.
It’s an act of violence. A sadistic, intentional, deliberate assault on the reader.
It is a gash torn into the fleshy, well fed belly of the leviathan that is us. A long suppurating, infected wound that stinks to the top of every peak, so that all we can smell is the gangrenous waft of its corruption, puss filled and rank. It is a gross thing meant for suffering.
It is a harpoon lancing into the hump on our backs and biting deeply and painfully. Screaming through bone, fragmenting shards as it plunges, shunting aside flesh and blubber, to catch us on the end of a rope that will lead to our disembowelment and the spilling of our ambergris to some creature better than us.
It is a the decapitation of our noble heads and the insect larvae housing themselves in the gore of our exsanguinated husks, the pulsating spew of ichor into dirt to make red mud -- ourselves as the iron source.
It is hatred, a hatred of hubris that makes us most human. It is a hatred of ourselves, a self-loathing, an admission of guilt and an accusation and an endless, spewing, projectile vomit of black tar from the core of our nastiness.
It is the screaming, iced urine from a chamber pot, light burning our eyes, fists against our skull awakening from the nightmare zombification of our mundanity. The bruising and scar tissue we see in the mirrors and cover with cosmetics or hats or sunglasses.
It is our shame. And it all comes from a place that is the reverse.
It's powerful and I love the woman who made it. Can we meet someday and scream from a cliff against the waves? The waves will beat us. There’s nothing to be done about that. But the screaming will be something. Something at least....more
The concept behind Ubik is as brilliant as any of Philip K. Dick's ideas.
Glen Runciter is dead, or maybe he's not. All the people who work for him inThe concept behind Ubik is as brilliant as any of Philip K. Dick's ideas.
Glen Runciter is dead, or maybe he's not. All the people who work for him in his anti-paranormal "Prudence Organization" are dead, or maybe they're not. But even if they're dead (having been attacked by the big Kahuna of paranormal activity), they're being kept in half-life at a Swiss cryogenic facility where they may now be under attack from a soul predator who sucks the vitality out of their half-life, devouring them to power his own half-life. Maybe. We find out the answer in the end. Or maybe not.
This uncertainty is, of course, on purpose. The author is Philip K. Dick, after all, and bending our minds was always one of his greatest talents.
The problem for me, though, is that Ubik's execution doesn't match the brilliance of the idea it's trying to express. It feels like a lesser episode of The Twilight Zone; one of those episodes that couldn't transcend the time of its making, so we're too aware of its post-Nuclear War, pre-Space Age placement. Ubik, like its Twilight Zone kin, is too dated, which isn't unique in the oeuvre of Dick. Even Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep suffers the same fate, making it one of the rare occasions when many readers find themselves admiring the movie (Blade Runner) more than its source.
I wanted to like this more, and I can imagine an updated film of Ubik (maybe directed by Christopher Nolan) knocking my flip-flops off, but the book was disappointing. What a bummer. ...more
I've been teaching the beginning of Rocannon's World for many years now. I found it as the short story Semley's Necklace in a Sci-Fi anthology, and I I've been teaching the beginning of Rocannon's World for many years now. I found it as the short story Semley's Necklace in a Sci-Fi anthology, and I always meant to track down its source, but whenever I remembered to look for it at used book stores it was never there. I recently discovered it had been reprinted, so I finally scored a copy and gave it a much belated read.
It started as I expected (odd that, isn't it?), and the early moments of Rocannon's time on the world that would be named for him were fascinating, then things took a strange meandering turn. Rocannon was off to destroy the ansible of a rebellious alien species who were making their base on the world he'd been studying, using it as a launching pad for war against the Hainish Federation, so he has to get from point A to point B. And that's what the book was, a journey around this world, meeting new alien races, meeting races we already knew, and generally watching Rocannon make myths for the natives with his strange looks and powerful (though simple to him) technology. It was good, I was digging the ride, but there was none of that transcendent LeGuin stamp.
Then came the denoument, and there it was -- the LeGuin greatness. Rocannon's victory. It was potent in an unexpected way. It was tainted, as it had to be, by its very effectiveness. It made me cry. It opened a whole new path of thought in my brain. I love it when she does that to me. Damn she's good. I can't say anything more for fear of wrecking the moment for anyone who decides to read Rocannon's world, but I will say this: "Wow." ...more
WARNING: This review contains the BIG spoiler, but no others, so you may not want to read this if you haven’t read Black Easter yet.
Damn! God is dead.WARNING: This review contains the BIG spoiler, but no others, so you may not want to read this if you haven’t read Black Easter yet.
I've been meaning to read a Blish novel for years, having read and liked a short story of his -- How Beautiful With Banners -- in a Sci-Fi class years ago, but Blish isn't carried in the book stores within my sphere of contact, and he's never been the first author I think of when I have money to spend online.
I lucked out, though, and found an old, thrashed copy of Black Easter in a used bookstore down the street from where I work. I tossed it in my glove box (because it is always a good idea to have a back up book handy in case of emergencies) and forgot about it.
My emergency came up last week when, before I left for work, I couldn't find the book I was reading, so I needed something to read at lunch. I dug Black Easter out and was quickly knocked on my ass.
I am not usually a fan of fiction that explicitly discusses good and evil. I usually find their philosophy pedestrian and reductive. Too black and white. But Black Easter isn't a pedestrian book, nor is Blish a pedestrian author. I had know idea how talented the man was, but I know now.
Black Easter is a book about black & white magic that is full of demons and ends with the release of Armageddon. Yet it remains Science Fiction. How is that possible? It's possible because Blish offers us the theological science that called magic, which, in its ancient forms (you pick the "-emy" or "-mancy") was the root of all secular sciences. The magicians who practice this theoscience take their work as seriously as a nuclear physicist would, and their practices are as rigorous, their laboratories as specialized, their tools and books as important, their minds as honed as any image we have of today's scientists.
And, like so many who apply the sciences, the black & white magicians play with forces beyond their control, doing things because they can rather than because they should. They use and abuse knowledge, and as the myths of Prometheus and the Garden of Eden have tried to teach us, this knowledge is the root of all evil. So evil exists in Blish's Armageddon world, and it is released with a force on the world that ends everything we know mere hours. And good exists. Too benevolent, too bound by honour, too naive to stop the evil. But even those in the book who practice good, those white magicians we'd expect to be pure and beloved of God, are steeped in evil. They are in concert with demons. They are damned. And their paralysis, brought on by goodness, is tainted with evil.
There isn't much gray in Blish's Black Easter, but the black and the white are everywhere, in everyone, and while they may react like oil and vinegar when in contact, while they may not bleed into each other, they make for a deliciously creepy and stunningly realistic take on black magic and Armageddon.
I had no hopes for the book. I read it because it was Blish and I was hard up, but I was blown away. This is the best book about contemporary magic use I have ever read, and far and away the best expression of Armageddon.
I'm tracking down A Case of Conscience and reading it as soon as I can because Blish deserves to be read....more
What a fantastic idea. A counter-fantastical take on Superman, where the once Clark Kent comes to Earth in a communal farm in the Ukraine, USSR ratherWhat a fantastic idea. A counter-fantastical take on Superman, where the once Clark Kent comes to Earth in a communal farm in the Ukraine, USSR rather than the Kent farm outside Smallville, USA. Twelve hours difference in Superman's arrival is twelve hours that make all the difference.
Soviet Superman works for Stalin instead of Eisenhower, and the Cold War takes a very different turn. The Warsaw Pact comes to dominate the Earth. Nixon is assassinated, Kennedy becomes a debauched old fool, Lex Luthor marries Lois Lane, James Olson is a CIA liaison, Milton Friedman becomes US President and ensures that only Chile and the USA maintain a free market economy, and Luthor creates Bizarro, a Green Lantern army, and countless supervillains -- all in an attempt to defeat the great Communist Superman.
Red Superman then takes over the USSR after Stalin is assassinated, creating a world wide Utopia in a bloodless revolution. He makes a pact with Braniac (who shrinks Stalingrad for his great museum), allies with Wonder Woman, eradicates prisons with a futuristic lobotomy, and watches as a bastard son of Stalin gives rise to Batmanovic -- a counter-revolutionary obsessed with independent thought and freedom (Russo-Batman and his philosophical obsession are a pair of the graphic novel's weakest points).
Mike Millar's creativity is undeniable, and the pencils by Johnson and Kilian Plunkett are perfect. But none of this is good enough.
The three issue "prestige format mini-series" is far too small to accommodate a story of such strength and vision. It is merely a skeleton of something that could have been great. If each issue in the mini-series had been a year of comics, if DC had commissioned 36 issues rather than three, Red Son would have been one of the greatest comics ever written; instead, it is merely clever.
I wanted to watch Superman as the Czar of the Warsaw Pact. I wanted to see his relationship with Diana/Wonder Woman unfold. I wanted to follow Lex Luthor's alternate growth as a sanctioned hero, and the ultimate move to his 5000 year Reich (a portion of the story that earned only a few pages). I wanted more of Bizarro and Braniac and the Green Lantern Corp and the Soviet Batman. I wanted MORE!
So the lesson I learned from Red Son is this: less is not always more. I will forever appreciate Mark Millar's attempt at something groundbreaking, but the attempt will never mitigate my disappointment with its execution. Clever just isn't good enough. Sorry, Mr. Millar....more
WARNING: This review contains the language of the book it discusses, including a couple of c-words. Please don't read this if you do not want to see tWARNING: This review contains the language of the book it discusses, including a couple of c-words. Please don't read this if you do not want to see the words spelled out or if sick and demented shit makes you want to throw up.
If H.R. Giger was a genetic meat puppet of David Lynch's, and the two of them shared a lovely dream about flesh altered fuck toys with multiple cocks and cunts, it would be something akin to Carlton Mellick III's bizarro-fest, Razor Wire Pubic Hair.
This is the story of a nameless genetically engineered fuck doll, used and abused by a horror show matron named Celsia with multiple cunts and razor wire pubic hair that cuts off penises if she fucks them too hard. Together they live in a surreal world of sexual torture, where sex toys are males genetically altered to carry all genital material (the better to fuck and be fucked with, it seems), where zombies drop rotting flesh from their faces while bathing in mud puddles, where roving bands of rapists threaten to burst through the walls of a flesh fortress and destroy the twisted metal utopia of Celsia, The Sister and the fuck doll, where God, resplendent with his white beard, comes to fuck the fuck doll, where mini, living, crucified Christs are buried deep in The Sister's multiple vaginas calling out their muffled torture, and the great debate of their lives is whether a fuck doll receptacle for birthing a repulsive, bloated baby of decaying cells can have a soul.
The story is full of dripping juices, tangy smells, appalling torture, creative blasphemy, poisonous fluids, and claustrophobic love/hate. It is disgusting, disjointed, filled with strange, pornographic works of art that seem to have no connection to the narrative and it is disdainful of all gender.
But there was no stopping once I'd begun. Like Giger and Lynch, Carlton Mellick III is good at what he does. The Creature/Author can write, make no mistake, and while the Creature/Author's product is about as accessible as a dinner at Titus' table, it is compelling. Worse still, I found it enjoyable. Maybe I shouldn't feel ashamed for finding something marvelous in Razor Wire Pubic Hair, but the indoctrination of my raising has me feeling dirty beyond cleansing for being fascinated by the Creature/Author's poetic use of language and the way my imagination worked Mellick III's world into a real space in my head.
I fear I have been scarred for life by my second foray into the world of Bizarro fiction; I will buy more and continue to sully my soul, shame be damned....more
Ghostface Killah's attempt at being an author offends me to the core, but then so does any celebrity who uses their cash and influence to commit artisGhostface Killah's attempt at being an author offends me to the core, but then so does any celebrity who uses their cash and influence to commit artistic masturbation and flaunt it in our faces.
Too many people work too hard for too long to become authors. Most toil in anonymity, some finally self-publish, a lucky few find a small publishing house where their books gain a tiny audience, and the luckiest few hit it big. Not all of these toilers are truly talented, but their work and their commitment are honest.
But then guys like Ghostface Killah come along. They have a name so publishers like the Hachette Book Group publish whatever drivel they spew simply because it will move copies.
It reminds me of Michael Jordan's brief career with the Birmingham Barons. It wasn't that he was terrible, but he wasn't particularly good either. He hit .202 for the White Sox' Double-A affiliate. He had a couple of homers, a decent number of stolen bases, and some RBIs. His biggest impact, however, was in the fans Jordan brought to Regions Park. The park seats just over 10 thousand fans, and during Jordan's tenure the Barons drew 985,185. But some poor right fielder, some kid who'd worked his whole life for the dream of playing professional baseball -- at any level -- missed a season full of games, so that rich and famous Michael Jordan could live his father's dream.
Now I know it is unlikely that Ghostface Killah's crappy graphic novel took the position of a proper graphic novelist, but the frustration is no less potent. I am a writer of graphic novels myself (amongst other things), and I can't find an artist to complete my work. I don't have the money to pay someone, like Mr. Wu-Tang Clan does, and finding someone to collaborate with for free is nearly impossible because they need to work paying gigs so that they can eat and live. And I can't blame them for that.
It doesn't matter that my work is vastly superior to the garbage that Ghostface Killah has stuck us with. I don't have a name. I don't have the money. My stories languish. His don't.
And let me say this quite plainly: Cell Block Z is awful. There are one or two interesting ideas, and in the hands of a talented writer/artist team those ideas could be turned into a pretty impressive ongoing series. There is enough potential material in Cell Block Z, in fact, to fill twelve 100 page graphic novels. But Ghostface Killah and his "writing team" were so taken with Mr. Killah's narcissistic ego trip -- he is the protagonist in his own story after all -- that they ignored everything needed to make a good graphic novel: pace, characterization, plot, originality. Cell Block Z has none of these essentials (not in anything approaching significant quantity and quality).
Ghostface Killah's love letter to himself is a string of ultra-violent cage battles, broken up by short bursts of pontification, all wrapped up in the worst kind of feel good naivete. Oh...and some idiotic connection to terrorists who, we are told, are "the plague" of modern civilization.
Please, please, please, do not buy this book. ...more
Before picking it up, I'd heard that The Colour of Magic was funny. Now that can mean just about anything because, let's face it, comedy is the most sBefore picking it up, I'd heard that The Colour of Magic was funny. Now that can mean just about anything because, let's face it, comedy is the most subjective of arts.
Funny is a deeply personal thing. The "funny peculiar" and the "funny ha-ha" might not be the same from person to person or even to the same person depending on their mood or their place in life. So knowing something is funny ahead of reading it really doesn't tell me much.
I'd read Terry Pratchett's & Neil Gaiman's Good Omens quite a while ago, so I expected at least a hint of satire and politically conscious wit, but I had no idea which of the authors to blame for the smart laughs in Good Omens, and my recollections really shed no illumination on what was to come. So I read The Colour of Magic with as open a mind as I could and hoped for some laughs.
I didn't laugh much and that surprised me. I smiled an awful lot, though. But I didn't laugh. No out loud snickers; no full-out belly laughs; no snorts; no giggles.
But I did smile.
Pratchett's kooky tale (really four tales to make one) of Rincewind, the one-great-spell, wizarding failure, Twoflower, the in-sewer-ants adjuster/tourist, and his Luggage was smart more often than it was stupid, consciously political, satirically silly, more than willing to take the piss out of Fantasy as a genre, but mostly it was exceedingly absurd. And all of this was what made The Colour of Magic good to very good.
Even so, its audience is necessarily limited. I know why I liked The Colour of Magic, and while I imagine there are other reasons to like the story, I think it is probably a fairly inaccessible tale unless you are a reader who falls into a niche of accessibility. This is not a book that can be widely read or widely liked.
So why did I like it? I liked it because I fall into a niche wherein I was able to access memories of drunken, drug-addled, teenage D&D marathons (which were extremely rare since we preferred our gaming sober), where we gave up being serious and descended into near madness.
Those nights are reflected in everything that happens in The Colour of Magic. Obligatory bar fights of fantastic impossibility, Monty Hall swords and treasures, idiotic last second rescues, gods dicing, heroes thinking with the dirk in their pants, dimensional slips and deus ex machinas at every turn make The Colour of Magic a collage of gaming stupidity, and it was nice to take a nostalgic trip back to my adolescence. In fact, Pratchett captures exactly the sort of gaming experience that led our halfling priest of Xyice, God of Mischief, to wish for a foot long penis then fall unconscious from blood loss when he achieved his first erection. So I liked this book...a lot, actually.
But it wasn't the best story I've ever read, and I can't imagine I could sit down and read the entire Discworld cycle without a break. It's fun. It's light. Pratchett writes better than I expected, but I bet there are many folks out there who hate this book. You have my sympathy.
So yes...I was disappointed that I didn't laugh more; I was disappointed that the story wasn't more subtle; I hated the turtle carrying the disc; I wanted The Colour of Magic to be more biting than silly, more critical than absurd, more intelligent than clever. But it was a fun ride that entertained me while I did the dishes, and I couldn't help liking Rincewind, so I will probably go on, and I will likely become a fan of Pratchett's Discworld books...in spite of themselves. ...more
Destiny: Around page two hundred I wondered whether Lukyanenko was going to throw us a Perdido Street Station style curveball and make The Night WatchDestiny: Around page two hundred I wondered whether Lukyanenko was going to throw us a Perdido Street Station style curveball and make The Night Watch about something other than a triple header search for an unsanctioned vampire, her young Other hostage, and the uber-powerful Warlock/Witch responsible for the great black Vortex hovering over the head of a nice, pretty little general practitioner (can you tell I've been reading too many mysteries and watching too much film noir lately? Sorry).
But nope. It wrapped itself up quite nicely and satisfyingly. Our hero Anton Gorodetsky, a Wizard working for the Night Watch (the "good" guys) who is unsure of his powers, delivers an underdog victory against the forces of the Day Watch (the "bad" guys) and their bad ass leader, Zabulon. Anton manages to maintain the all important balance between good and evil (this struggle for balance is one of my favourite parts The Night Watch, by the way), to save the boy, to save Doctor Svetlana and her untapped power (she is a seriously good ass wizard + she has a great name), and to rise in the estimation of his colleagues, despite being tricked into questioning the decisions of his boss, the toughest s.o.b. in Moscow, Boris Ignatievich.
Then it ends. And that's when I turned the page to discover that The Night Watch is really a compilation of three novellas. One down, two to go. Hope they're all as good as the first.
Among His Own Kind: The second novella opens a few months later, and a serial killer named Maxim -- one of the Light -- has escaped detection over the course of his life, and he is busy slaying those of the Dark. He senses their evil, channels his good through a wooden toy dagger, and wipes out the souls of the Dark Ones with righteous fervor.
The Night and Day Watches are then scrambling to put an end to Maxim's reign of terror as it threatens to tip the balance. Lukyanenko keeps us guessing who's really to blame, how Maxim's killings fit into the great chess game that is the Treaty, and the action drives on to yet another satisfying conclusion, but what this second tale is really about is the exploration of the concepts of good and evil from an Eastern European perspective. Neither good nor evil, you see, is about actions. Both the Light and the Dark engage in some pretty questionable behaviour -- murders, killings, betrayals, rule breaking, involuntary sacrifice -- but it is not these actions that make the difference between the Light and Dark in Lukyanenko's Russia; it is the choice between the individual and the group.
The Dark Ones are evil because they believe in the individual. Their greatest selling point for new Others trying to find their way is their belief in absolute freedom. They can and do have happy loving families. They can love, grieve and care regardless of their selfishness, but they are evil because they care about themselves first and foremost.
The Light Ones are good because they believe in the group. They believe in a greater good, and their individual needs and freedoms are second to the needs of everyone else (theoretically). And Lukyanenko, with all this talk about good and evil, makes sure we never lose sight of the balance between the two forces, which is necessary for peace. It's fascinating stuff, wrapped up and well concealed in an exciting urban fantasy. I can't help loving it.
All for My Own Kind: And then it becomes a love story and my love for the book slips into mere appreciation. Although I feel more for Anton in the third episode of The Night Watch and I am impressed by the further muddying of the ethical waters (the boundaries between the actions of the Light Magicians and Dark Magicians are practically non-existent), the final tale was too rushed to succeed.
This part of the story could and should have been a novel all to itself. It is not long enough, and is, therefore, too rushed. I needed more time with Anton as he struggled with the direction of the Light, more time with Gesar and Olga (especially more about her background) and Svetlana to understand the decisions they were making and to develop some sustained suspense, more history of the Light's social experiments (Russian Revolution, Nazi Germany and others), more investment in the peripheral characters so that I cared for something beyond Anton and his philosophical struggles, and much much more of Zabulon and the Dark Ones.
It's a bit of a let down after the genuine entertainment of the first two parts, but not such a let down that I will stop reading Lukyanenko. Still, a couple of days ago I was planning to plow straight into The Day Watch, but now I think I'll wait until I have a long flight ahead of me. I bet it will make the perfect airplane book....more
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