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| 0440179483
| 9780440179481
| 0440179483
| 4.15
| 151,528
| 1959
| Dec 15, 1982
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really liked it
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Some books are better if just don’t expect them to make sense. The Sirens of Titan actually surprised me in how accessible it was for a Vonnegut novel
Some books are better if just don’t expect them to make sense. The Sirens of Titan actually surprised me in how accessible it was for a Vonnegut novel. For the first few chapters, everything was pretty mundane. Weird, yes—but I followed everything that was going on. It’s not until about Chapter Four, when Malachi ends up on Mars, that everything gets super-strange. From there it’s just deeper down the rabbithole as Vonnegut spins layer upon layer of story. Malachi Constant isn’t a nice man. He is hedonistic at best, overly complacent in his inherited fortune and prone to parties and womanizing. But Wilson Rumfoord is an even worse man. Discorporated and scattered throughout the solar system by a chronosynclastic infundibulum (try saying that three times fast), Rumfoord materializes periodically on various planets as the waveform of his being intersects them. He—along with his dog—exists outside of time, able to perceive all moments of his life at once. (This is reminiscent of the Trafalmadorians of Slaughterhouse-Five—though aliens under the same name appear in this book, they don’t seem to have the same non-linear existence.) Through Rumfoord’s prophecies and Malachi’s arranged suffering, Vonnegut once more explores the tension between determinism and free will and whether we are really able to make choices at all. That last sentence sounds grand, but it actually requires a great deal of unpacking. Just as Slaughterhouse-Five is about more than non-linear time, this book is about more than determinism vs. free will. Vonnegut raises questions of morality and responsibility, and context-aware readers won’t be able to help but draw parallels to the horrific events of World War II and the refuge fatalism offers from the abyss of nihilism. At first, we have to wonder about the fate of Malachi Constant. According to Rumfoord, he is destined to end up on Titan—along with Rumfoord’s wife, Beatrice, with whom Malachi will have a child. Malachi decides to rebel against this prophecy by selling all of his company’s shares in a spaceship company—but this, along with some other bad luck, ruins him. From here, Vonnegut recounts the story of how Malachi’s father lucked into his riches. Luck is the word he uses, which is interesting, because we typically perceive luck as the force opposing fate or destiny. In this case, however, luck is clearly just another manifestation of fate—perhaps the baldest manifestation of fate. This thesis gains further definition much later, as Malachi further comes to accept his strange role in events and says, “I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.� This is the “so it goes� of The Sirens of Titan: we are all, like Malachi Constant, merely victims of a series of continuous accidents, and that is what we call life. The whole Martian invasion of Earth subplot is silly and very Vonnegut—it’s a pastiche, really, of a more sinister idea played straight in Watchmen and the machinations of Ozymandias. (Obviously the latter book came after this one; what I mean to say is that it is a good example of the trope Vonnegut mocks here.) But that’s why he doesn’t spend much time on the particulars and instead focuses on Unk’s evolution as a moral agent. Is Unk culpable for the death of Stony Stevenson? The answer seems to be “no.� The reasons, however, could vary. At the time he kills Stony, it’s arguable whether Unk is much of a person at all. (Vonnegut is vague at first about the amount of control an individual retains in the Martian Army, though later I’d argue it becomes clearer. It seems that Unk probably had more volition than he exerts, but the combination of memory wipes and his conditioning means he isn’t in a fit state to exercise that volition.) On a more thematic note, Vonnegut seems to suggest that Stony’s death, like everything else, is merely a foreordained part of events in the universe, as told by Wilson Rumfoord. So is Rumfoord God? His near-omniscient, near-omnipresent state and the skill with which he manipulates both Earth and Mars affairs certainly sets him up as god-like. But he’s probably not God per se—Vonnegut is definitely using the religion he creates on Earth to mock how seriously organized religion takes itself and the concept of a higher power that is anything other than indifferent to the well-being of humanity. There is a certain irony, I suppose, in the way Rumfoord reacts when he finds out how the Trafalmadorians have been sending messages to Salo. They are monstrous for influencing Earth affairs, but he is apparently justified? Depending on how you view it, Rumfoord is either the most or least culpable character in the book—for surely knowing all of one’s actions and their consequences down throughout one’s entire existence either makes one completely responsible or not at all responsible for those actions and consequences. I didn’t like the ending though. I appreciate it from an artistic perspective, but as a value judgement, I just find it so empty. Vonnegut’s style is similar to Douglas Adams’—both authors have a specificity that lends itself well to their absurd humour. The ending to The Sirens of Titan, alas, is much like the ending to Mostly Harmless (albeit without the apocalyptic elements)—there is a sense that the entire story leading up to it is rendered moot, which, as a reader, is not a nice feeling to have. Don’t let that minor criticism make you think that I disliked the book, however. I thoroughly enjoyed The Sirens of Titan. It doesn’t quite have the gravitas of Slaughterhouse-Five, but I understand why some people prefer this book. At the very least, Vonnegut demonstrates he can bottle lightning a second time. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 30, 2014
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Dec 31, 2014
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Dec 30, 2014
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 1607066920
| 9781607066927
| 1607066920
| 4.49
| 114,278
| Jun 19, 2013
| Jul 02, 2013
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it was amazing
|
**spoiler alert** Now, I am a lucky and spoiled person who is reading Saga collected in volumes, rather than reading each issue as it is released like
**spoiler alert** Now, I am a lucky and spoiled person who is reading Saga collected in volumes, rather than reading each issue as it is released like a chump—er, I mean, true fan. I guess it’s comparable to binge-watching a show after the entire season has been released rather than watching it week-by-week. In the end, you get to the same place. But the experience is totally different. Saga, Volume Two raises the stakes after Volume One set up the universe and the conflict. Alana and Marko are still on the run, and now they have a destination: Quietus, home of schlock romance writer D.O. Heist, who is apparently Alana’s idea of a sage who can advise them on how to spend the rest of their fugitive lives. But there’s a twist—because Marko’s parents have tracked him down, and they aren’t thrilled at his choice of wife. The ensuing family drama really showcases Brian K. Vaughan’s ability to synthesize different levels of conflict. The centre of Saga is Hazel, the (TVTropes) who is also the narrator. This is her saga, it’s implied, her genesis and coming of age. She is important because her heritage is unique—Landfall and Wreath hate each other so much that both sides are terrified at the prospect that two of their soldiers could possibly have fallen in love and had a child. She is also important because of her parents—not only did they make her, but they have the drive and desire to raise her peacefully. In addition to the struggle to survive and stay one step ahead of everyone who wants to kill or capture them, Alana and Marko’s biggest struggle, and the centre of this story, is going to be about how to raise Hazel. We can already see that happening in these early issues. I think it’s interesting that even as Alana and Marko adjust to being a parent, both of the antagonists hunting them are dealing with the possibility of fatherhood. Prince Robot IV learns that his wife is pregnant while he is on the hunt for the fugitives. His appears to be a marriage of state; though he seems to have some fondness for his wife, so far I get the impression he’s more concerned about perpetuating his robot line. (Generally, I think he’s kind of a dick.) The Will, on the other hand, has essentially adopted Slave Girl, whom he busts out from Sextillion because he’s down with killing children but not having sex with them. (I like the Will, unlike my feelings towards Robot IV—I feel like, despite his past, he seems like he can be redeemed with the right sort of experience.) Even as Vaughan’s storytelling expands the universe and advances the plot, Staples� art once again elevates Saga above simply “a good space opera.� Her characters are fun and diverse: robots, humanoids, mice medics�. This time I want to remark on the backgrounds and the scenery. Thanks to the different POVs and the magic of flashbacks, we see quite a few planets: Cleave, Landfall, Wreath, Quietus, and others. Staples gives each different characteristics and climates. I suspect that is difficult to do given the limited page space and how much has to be taken up by characters, action, or dialogue. But this, combined with the dialogue and narration, really helps lend a sense of grandeur to the setting of Saga. People in this universe get around. They planet hop, whether on their own ships, like the Will does, or chartered cruisers, like Prince Robot IV does when he goes from Landfall to Cleave (until he gets his own wheels, because reasons). Volume Two ends on a sweet twist/reveal and cliffhanger that left me really excited to read Volume Three. I loved watching Robot’s confrontation with Heist only for the “camera� to “pan up� and narrator!Hazel to reveal that, in fact, they preceded the Prince to Quietus. Sweet! Can’t wait to see how this turns out. If Volume One hooked me into Saga, then Volume Two only reaffirmed that feeling. This is premium grade crack storytelling. Don’t look at me funny when I say that, or I will cut you. My reviews of Saga: � Volume One | Volume Three � ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 23, 2014
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Dec 23, 2014
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Dec 29, 2014
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0316246654
| 9780316246651
| 0316246654
| 4.08
| 58,207
| Oct 07, 2014
| Oct 07, 2014
|
liked it
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Ancillary Sword picks up almost immediately after Ancillary Justice ends. Breq, kind of forcibly adopted into the house of tyrant Anander Mianaai, is
Ancillary Sword picks up almost immediately after Ancillary Justice ends. Breq, kind of forcibly adopted into the house of tyrant Anander Mianaai, is sent by said tyrant to Athoek Station. Anander wants Breq to look for signs of the other Anander’s influence in the system; Breq just wants to protect the surviving family member of a lieutenant she once knew when she was Justice of Toren. The specifics aren’t really important here, and you can read Ancillary Sword without reading the first book (though I recommend the first book!). What matters is that Breq is the highest military authority in the system, and what she discovers there she does not like. She proceeds to turn the social order topsy-turvy—and, surprise surprise, some people don’t like that. But mostly, this book is about Breq’s struggle with scale. Leckie doesn’t employ flashbacks here. Rather than interlace Breq’s growing individuality with glimpses of her past as a ship, Leckie keeps the narrative pretty linear. We get occasional and abrupt shifts of perspective as Mercy of Kalr shows Breq the feelings or events happening to a member of her crew. However, these are always fleeting. Breq remains an embodied individual. Whereas in the first book Breq simply had to develop an individual personality, this book is about how she is adjusting to the limitations of that body. Think about it: as a troop carrier, Justice of Toren could literally be and act in more than one place at a time through the use of its ancillaries, as Breq had once been. Now she is limited to a single body—yes, she can keep tabs on more than one location, but her ability to act is greatly reduced. Similarly, Justice of Toren’s life-span measures on the order of millennia, while Breq gets maybe a little more than a century. So the scale of Breq’s experience has been drastically reduced. The other pesky problem with embodied individuality is a sense of guilt triggered by persecution. Many people are eager to discuss the way Leckie treats gender in this book and its predecessor. That’s all well and good, and I’ll get to it in a moment. But I don’t want us to lose sight on another valuable theme here, which is the difficulty of tearing down colonialism. When Breq goes downwell to the planet, she has a chance to speak with people who hate her not as a person but as a symbol of the Radch. This isn’t the first time it has happened of course�Justice of Toren participated in numerous annexations and knows what it is like to be hated impersonally. Yet in many ways this is a new experience, because Breq is not here to annex, invade, or impose the Lord of the Rad’ch’s will. She is a bit of a crusader. Unfortunately, being a crusader and a rebel and wanting to tear down colonialist structures is easier said than done. See, just because Breq wants to help doesn’t mean anyone else wants her to help. That includes the people being oppressed. She’s an outsider and an instrument of the oppressors, so why the hell should they trust her? Leckie portrays this scepticism in several, subtle variations. Breq comes to understand that there is only so much she can do: she can open doors, create opportunities, but she can’t really force anyone, on either side, to change or accept that help. Once again, she runs up against the limitations of being a single person, a single body. And it makes me think about my own limitations as one individual trying to do my best not to reinforce systems of discrimination. As for the gender thing: Leckie continues to the practice of only using feminine pronouns when the characters are speaking Radchaai. I don’t visualize stuff while I read, so I’m not seeing all the characters as women—but I certainly tend to think of them as women as a result, and constantly have to remind myself that some of them might have penises. (Leckie uses the opportunity of a festival on Athoek that involves lots of penis effigies to remind us that neither gender nor sex are really binaries, and people with penises are not always men, as well as the converse.) At the very least, I didn’t think, “Why are there so many women in this book?� Visibility of women in fiction simply by ratio is still a big deal. Technically what Leckie does here is a form of erasure, since she kind of wallpapers over all the subtleties of gender in a Left Hand of Darkness-esque move. (Vi Hart, fabulous mathemusician/VR pioneer, recently explaining why she’s had a change of heart about such a viewpoint.) I don’t think Leckie (or Le Guin, for that matter) intended it to be that way so much as they wanted to play with and challenge or notions of gender. And that’s all to the good. But we should also critique the critiques, no? So Ancillary Sword doesn’t necessarily boost the visibility or diversity of women characters on the page, but it at least contributes to the intertextual conversation that includes this topic. And the more we talk about this, the more likely we are to make positive change. I’m perplexed by how much I think I liked this story over Ancillary Justice. Perplexed because by most metrics the latter should be a better story. It has higher stakes, a much deeper mystery, feels a lot more ambitious. In contrast, Ancillary Sword offers some pocket intrigue on a space station, and the amibiguous threat of the Presger, deferred ultimately until the next book. Nevertheless, I think I liked this one better. Can’t really explain it, not going to apologize. Just telling it like it is. Leckie continues to receive crazy hype for these books, and all the more power to her for that. I don’t think they live up to such hype. But that shouldn’t be held against them, since the hype is pretty spectacular, and they certainly deserve some of it. Certainly I understand why this received a Hugo nomination. I doubt it’ll be my first choice on the ballot. But I can certainly see others appreciating Leckie’s creative contributions to the field and voting accordingly. My reviews of the Imperial Radch series: � Ancillary Justice | Ancillary Mercy � ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jun 05, 2015
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Jun 08, 2015
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Oct 01, 2014
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0316218952
| 9780316218955
| 0316218952
| 3.68
| 18,397
| Oct 29, 2013
| Oct 29, 2013
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it was ok
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Hi, there! I’m a genetically-engineered intestinal parasite that has migrated into Ben’s brain and taken over his body in order to assert my own perso
Hi, there! I’m a genetically-engineered intestinal parasite that has migrated into Ben’s brain and taken over his body in order to assert my own personhood. Gee, it’s swell to meet all of you. I hope we become the best of friends! This is the first book I’ve read by Mira Grant—the first book I’ve ever read, actually. But I’ve looked at some of Ben’s other reviews of Grant’s books—particularly Blackout , and by golly, he sure was critical. I happen to know that this is also the first time he’s read any of Grant’s books in hard copy form. It would be interesting to know if that affected his opinion of the book—but he’s not exactly home any more, if you know what I mean. Sooooooo � book reviewing. Interesting how you humans spend your time. Parasite is a story that strikes close to home, seeing as how it’s also about cousins of tapeworms taking over their human hosts. It’s a near-future thriller based on the idea that we could augment the human body with genetically-engineered helper organisms. I guess it’s like a biological version of those nanotechnology thingies that are all over Ben’s science fiction bookshelf. Anyway, these people have worms on the belly, and it soon turns into worms on the brain. And the main character is my hero: Sally Mitchell. Well, Sal now. See, she got in a car accident and—get this—woke up with no memory! So she had to spend six years relearning everything. I almost had to do the same thing when I finally wrapped myself around Ben’s brain stem. Fortunately I had a couple of things Sally didn’t. There’s the weird phenomenal communication we tapeworms can do between symptomatic hosts, of course. And then there’s this thing called the Internet. Ben seemed to like that Grant acknowledges the prominence of the Internet in her zombie trilogy, even if she doesn’t really go beyond having “bloggers� following people on a campaign trail. So I guess with that in mind, I’m puzzled by how the Internet isn’t a big deal in 2027. Sure, Sal mentions how it was a big deal that she couldn’t get access to it at one point. But you’d think that in fourteen years, technology would move on and the Internet would be a recognizable but also different place. In fact, if I wanted to be even more critical, I might say that 2027 looks a lot like 2013. It might not be Grant’s role or intention to predict what the world will be like in fourteen years (aside, you know, from worms in the belly). But it must have changed somehow, right? So it just seems weird � might as well have set it in 2013. At least I’ve got Sal. She’s swell. She’s a survivor. Her parents are leery about her, because of course she isn’t their Sally. It’s like she took over Sally’s body, like some kind of tapeworm! Hah hah, gee, isn’t Grant great at subtle parallels like that? And she has an awesome, supportive boyfriend who is also totally a doctor who specializes in parasitology. That’s such a convenient coincidence! I suppose in addition to the whole “what happens when we start mucking with our immune systems� cautionary tale, Parasite is also about the power of corporations. According to my hours spent researching you humans online, this has been a big theme in the past couple of years. You seem to think that corporations could be a threat to your individual liberties, because they wield a lot of power and influence through their money and resources. You don’t even suspect that the real threat to your individuality happens to be brain-chewing intestinal parasites. I swear, you guys are a laugh riot! SymboGen is the evil corporation in Parasite. And it’s evil in the best way: there is no moustache-twirling here. Its CEO, this Dr. Steven Banks guy, is your typical sociopath. But at some level, he probably believes he’s doing a good thing here—just like I believe I’m actually doing Ben a favour, taking his underused body and turning it into a vehicle for greatness. Not that I would expect him to be grateful, but then again, it’s not like he gets a vote anymore! So SymboGen has perhaps unwittingly, or at least unwillingly, brought about this bodysnatchers apocalypse. And they want to keep a tight lid on it. But Sal, not being Internet savvy of course, doesn’t think about leaking all the top-secret information she has somehow managed to access (golly, isn’t Sal great at this whole industrial espionage thing?) to bloggers or the media. In fact, it isn’t clear what Sal wants to do. I’m not Ben, but I think I can understand where he came from in some of his other Grant reviews. Her characters are drawn with very broad strokes. It’s not that it’s sloppy, but depending on the character, it can be annoying. Like Tansy! She is supposed to be an endearing little manic psychopath, but she’s the kind of tapeworm who makes our entire species look bad. We’re not all as unbalanced as her! I, for one, don’t want to wipe out the human species or live in peace. I’d be perfectly content if you just wanted to build us overpowered robot chassis with onboard weapons systems. Then we would leave you and your guts. Spilling onto the floor. But enough about me! Back to Parasite. It’s a thriller that doesn’t thrill in a worldbuilding that isn’t built. So � I don’t really see the point. The tapeworm takeover plot is topical and genuinely interesting, but it’s executed with about as much flare or skill as � hmm � I’m still having trouble mastering this “simile� thing. Sorry. Anyway, it’s just boring. I was bored reading it—and it’s about me! I can only imagine how a normal human might react. Well, it’s been a positively fun time hanging with you humans. And that itchy feeling in the back of your skull? Don’t worry about it! It’s probably just one of my cousins flattening its way through your cerebral cortex. Just relax. It’ll be over soon. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Sep 18, 2014
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Sep 21, 2014
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Sep 18, 2014
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 1939480329
| 9781939480323
| B00DHS08Z4
| 3.49
| 379
| Jun 18, 2013
| Jun 18, 2013
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it was ok
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This is something I probably never would have read had it not been nominated for a Hugo Award. I generally eschew tie-in fiction—I have enough fiction
This is something I probably never would have read had it not been nominated for a Hugo Award. I generally eschew tie-in fiction—I have enough fiction set in original worlds to read. The Butcher of Khardov is set in the world of , which Wikipedia reliably informs me is a “tabletop steampunk wargame.� So, Dungeons & Dragons on steroids. The cover art and illustrations scattered throughout the story reinforce this perception. Orsus Zoktavir is a big—really big—and strong—really strong—man—a manly man!—with a serious psychological scar after losing the love of his life in the village of his childhood. Dan Wells tells Orsus� story thematically, out of chronological order, as Orsus wrestles with the concept of loyalty at various points in his life. From witnessing the death of his parents at the hands of the cannibalistic Tharn raiders to working as the muscle for a logging baron, Orsus sees his fair share of death and fighting. And he proves to be really, really good at it. But the woman he loves declares herself unable to be with a killer. So what is a dude to do? The story culminates through two parallel climaxes. Although it becomes apparent early on that Orsus loses his way after he loses Lola, we have to wait until the very end to witness the actual event. Years later, having joined the Khadoran Army and formalized his talents as a warcaster and controller of warmachines known as “steamjacks,� Orsus loses control and butchers an entire village for “treason� (hence the name of the novella). This earns him a tense, heavily-fortified conversation with the Queen of Khador, in which she questions Orsus� motivations and he has a chance to explain how fucked up his ideas about loyalty, morality, and just action have become since losing his parents, girlfriend, and basically any sense of normal human empathy. I will give it this: The Butcher of Khardov inspired me to consider why we give fantasy warriors so much of our love and allegiance despite the fact that they are essentially sociopaths with big swords. The only sane character in this story is Lola, who is 100% correct when she points out that killing people is, you know, wrong. But we write big fat blank cheques when fantasy warriors do it, far more than we are willing to do for characters in any other setting. Somewhere along the way, the narrative of the fantasy warrior shifted from the hulking image of self-absorbed Conan to the noble, smokey-eyed Aragorn or Legolas; the antihero became just a straight-up hero. In a way, Wells is stripping away all of this pretty packaging and getting back to basics: Orsus likes to kill, and he is good at it. He admits this freely. He just so happens to also want to remain loyal to a cause bigger than himself. These ingredients are the perfect recipe for an effective warrior, but that first one—liking to kill—is one we tend to ignore. We like to pretend that our nobler, almost Disney-fied warriors of these modern days are somehow reluctant killers. They kill “in self-defense� or “to protect� their loved ones. And we can debate the ethical justification for killing, for any reason, as much as we like. I’m just wondering why we are so willing to label as heroic such killers�. So, that’s the thought-provoking aspect of The Butcher of Khardov, and I will give it that. Everything else about it is just ridiculous, though. Over-the-top hulking brutes who need six steam-powered soldiers guarding them? And the ending, with the Queen essentially letting Orsus go free because “Oh, well, you did it to show your loyalty to me!� is repugnant. (Then again, I guess if you are the ruler of a country at war, you need to do repugnant things once in a while, and she recognizes Orsus as a valuable weapon, albeit one that is likely going to come at the cost of a few more villages here and there.) This is a brutal, almost grisly story—perfect as a companion to a brutal and grisly tabletop wargame. But my projection of my philosophical hang-ups about hypermasculine warrior worship in fantasy literature onto it aside, I’m not sure what else this story has going for it. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jul 24, 2014
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Jul 24, 2014
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Aug 01, 2014
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Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||
| 1596065788
| 9781596065789
| B00BNA1BLI
| 3.63
| 4,430
| Feb 28, 2013
| Mar 01, 2013
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really liked it
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My ePub copy of this from the Hugo Voters Packet had really messed up formatting, but I perservered anyway, because this story is awesome. Six-Gun Sno
My ePub copy of this from the Hugo Voters Packet had really messed up formatting, but I perservered anyway, because this story is awesome. Six-Gun Snow White is the classic Snow White fairytale reinterpreted through the lens of the Old American West. Snow White is the ironically-named child of a silver mine owner and a Crow woman, Gun That Sings, who married him against her will so that he would leave her people alone. Gun That Sings dies in childbirth, and Snow White’s father hides her away, embarrassed or uninterested in her upbringing. Then he remarries and his wife decides to “civilize� Snow White. Catherynne M. Valente delivers a tale that is a compelling bundle of postcolonialist considerations, tatters of the fairytale ethos, and feminist musings. Snow White is a complicated protagonist and narrator (and the book is in first person for the most part, so take that into account when ascribing veracity to her account!). Her social interaction has been limited to the few staff her father employed in her upkeep, plus, of course, her oft-absent father and her wicked stepmother. The latter is a perfect role model for any unloved child: cruel, heartless (heh heh), yet stalwart in her misguided insistence that her actions are necessary because she “loves� her charge and only wants the best for her. There’s just so much to unpack from this novella, which verges on being a short novel. Snow White is hobbled from birth by virtue of her skin: too dark to be considered a white woman, too light to be considered Crow; she is an outcast from everywhere. Then, of course, in the setting Valente has chosen, women have very limited social choices, and none of them seem applicable to Snow White. But Snow White rejects this fate. She flees her father’s gilt prison and her stepmother’s nefarious designs. She becomes a fugitive, learning as she goes that the problem with being on the run is that one never stops. It reminds me a lot of Marian Call’s song Six-Gun Snow White is just absolutely enthralling. I haven’t always been a fan of Valente’s style, but Snow White’s one-step-removed tone of narration works well here. It preserves that fairytale aspect of the story even if the events themselves are anything but a fairytale—no fairy godmother, no Prince Charming, just a glass coffin at the end. Brilliant story that definitely deserves its Hugo nomination—check it out. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jul 23, 2014
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Jul 23, 2014
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Aug 01, 2014
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Kindle Edition
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| 1466854901
| 9781466854901
| 1466854901
| 3.59
| 833
| Oct 02, 2013
| Oct 02, 2013
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liked it
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Having not grown up during a time with segregation, it’s difficult for me to understand completely what such a society is like. But stories like Wakul
Having not grown up during a time with segregation, it’s difficult for me to understand completely what such a society is like. But stories like Wakulla Springs at least help by highlighting some of the less overt but no less harmful racist and oppressive tactics used in the United States to maintain the social status quo. In this eponymous Florida town, Andy Duncan and Ellen Klages allow their characters to dream—and then sacrifice those dreams on an altar of realism. The first part of the story is like watching a car crash in slow motion. Mayola has so much potential: she has a dream, goals, and is very practical about how she wants to achieve them. But it’s so obvious, from the moment Johnny Weissmuller enters the scene, what will happen. Mayola becomes trapped in a story that is far older than her but no less tragic for this reason. It leaves her bitter, both about the town and about the film industry that is so enchanted with its clear lake. But this bitterness doesn’t stop her son, Levi, from dreaming big himself. Klages and Duncan quite skilfully tie their setting into their characterization. The subtle repetition of this generational cycle, and the way the lots of our protagonists incrementally improves with each generation, mirrors the slow march of progress over the twentieth century. Levi has more opportunities than Mayola, and Anna in turn has more opportunities than him. All are united by their love of the springs where they grew up. Just as it is the springs that draw the Hollywood film company to Wakulla Springs and Johnny in turn to Mayola, the same springs draw Anna back to research and catalogue the life that they harbour. And so the story comes full circle. Wakulla Springs reminds me a lot of a Hugo-nominated novella from a few years ago, Shambling Towards Hiroshima . (I didn’t remember until now that it was written by James Morrow, whose The Philosopher’s Apprentice I recently read and detested. But that is neither here nor there.) Like the other nominee, this book does not seem very fantastical or science-fictional. Indeed, aside from a few small and isolated elements of fantasy, which do not seem all that integral to the plot, I’d question whether this book is speculative fiction at all. In this sense, I’m not sure I can vote for it in the Hugos. It is a gorgeous and well-written story, but I don’t know if it is an exemplar of science fiction and fantasy. ...more |
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1
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Jul 16, 2014
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Jul 16, 2014
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Jul 28, 2014
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Kindle Edition
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| B0DLT8FF1W
| 3.74
| 342
| Apr 23, 2013
| Apr 23, 2013
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liked it
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Aliette de Bodard’s Xuya short fiction continues to be a universe that I enjoy reading but don’t hanker to return to very often. “The Waiting Stars� c
Aliette de Bodard’s Xuya short fiction continues to be a universe that I enjoy reading but don’t hanker to return to very often. “The Waiting Stars� continues her heavily figurative style of writing, something that doesn’t always work for me. So my feelings about this story are ambivalent: I want to like it, but I also have to admit it doesn’t appeal to my personal aesthetics. Lan Nhen and her cousin Cuc are on a mission to retrieve a captured Mindship from the Outsiders. But when they finally find her, they stumble into a mystery far larger and more confusing than they expected. The ships are beaming massive amounts of data back to the Outsiders� homeworld, Prime � and while the ships themselves live, the Minds are conspicuously absent. On Prime, de Bodard follows tumultuous events in the life of Catherine, a Dai Viet orphan kidnapped at an early age by the Outsiders. Her Otherness in appearance marks her, and she suffers because of how the Outsiders wiped her childhood memories, a process they deemed “necessary�. One by one, Catherine’s peers have been disappearing, committing suicide � not exactly the kind of things that are conducive to a healthy and stable life. De Bodard eschews almost all exposition, really forcing you to pay close attention and study the narrative as it unfolds. The link between Catherine’s story and Lan Nhen’s seems nonexistent until the very end, when things finally become clear. The idea that the Outsiders have somehow embodied these ship Minds in human form and tried to install them into their society is intriguing. It’s not clear from this story whether the Outsider claim that the Dai Viet force their women to give birth to Minds is true, or if it’s true, if they accurately depict the process in their propaganda videos. (Stories like clear this up, however, .) Clearly Lan Nhen and Cuc consider the ship’s Mind a family member, adding an interesting twist to the idea of blood relations and AI. “The Waiting Stars� isn’t my favourite Xuya story to date. I still and On a Red Station, Drifting . This also has stiffer competition among this year’s Hugo nominees, so I’m not sure I’ll rank this as highly as it might otherwise deserve. It’s one of those stories where I quite like it from a craftsmanship point of view but wouldn’t necessarily put it in my living room, if you know what I mean. ...more |
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1
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Jul 15, 2014
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Jul 15, 2014
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Jul 27, 2014
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ebook
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| 159606837X
| 9781596068377
| 159606837X
| 4.20
| 834
| Jun 29, 2017
| Jun 29, 2017
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really liked it
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I actually read this back when Subterranean Press first published it online. I almost didn’t re-read it when I found it in the Hugo Voters Packet � bu
I actually read this back when Subterranean Press first published it online. I almost didn’t re-read it when I found it in the Hugo Voters Packet � but then I decided that I wanted to write a review of it, and I wanted to refresh my memory. I’m glad I did this, because “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling� is even better than I remember. (I am aware of the irony of this statement given the story’s subject matter.) The subjectivity of human memory is a subject open to endless interesting speculation. It drives one of my favourite devices, the unreliable narrator, and it informs the motives and choices of every person, real or fictional. We all edit our memories, recollect experiences imperfectly, hide inconvient truths or simply blur and half-forget past events. Ted Chiang points out in this novelette that writing has altered the way in which we remember. It is writing, he argues, that was our first step towards being “cognitive cyborgs� rather than any of the lifelogging, search-driven tools that are just beginning to creep onto the public stage today. As a reader and a writer, I’ve long found the development of writing a fascinating subject for study. Our brains are naturally wired for language, yet we must learn to read and write. What is it like not to be literate? I can’t read non-Latin alphabets; I can’t even read most non-English languages in the Latin alphabet—yet, as a result of my literacy in English, I understand the concept of reading for information and pleasure. Through the character of Jijingi, Chiang allows the literate individual a glimpse at a grown person’s journey from illiteracy literacy. The revelation of what words are, and of how writing allows one to compose and order one’s thoughts in a predetermined manner, is fascinating, and it’s not something that those of us who are literate from an early age often consider. We take our literacy and the mindset that comes with it for granted. But what Chiang also explores is the idea, perhaps unsettling, that literacy is a form of colonization. We colonize our past with it, appropriating it and fixing it. In pre-literate societies like the Tiv, history is oral. It requires better memory—something true of most societies prior to the onset of easy access to books—but even the best memories are fallible, as Chiang demonstrates with the squabble over the Shangev’s ancestors. The Tiv view writing as a European idea and therefore view it with suspicion. They do not think it can replicate the “truth of feeling�, mimi, that they use to speak of what is right. And maybe, to some extent, they are correct. Chiang juxtaposes this ambivalence towards literacy with a narrator’s review of Remem, software that contextually searches one’s lifelog. In this way he comments concurrently on many popular trends today in society as well as in science fiction. We live in a surveillance state; the only question is the degree to which we are surveilled. Much of that surveillance is done by the government or its proxies, but almost as much happens on behalf of the individual. We record and photograph and otherwise document and tag our lives—hence lifelogging. We’re just now beginning to understand how this will affect us down the road, when Google produces that embarrassing photo you wish you had never shared. Remem is Google on speed and with impeccable timing, and as Chiang’s narrator explains, it is a tool with great advantages and great disadvantages. Now, Chiang could have written about either of these tools—writing or Remem—in isolation and produced a good story. “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling� excels, however, precisely because of this skilful juxtaposition. Interspersing the narrator’s Remem tale with Jijingi’s tale is very effective. It allows Chiang to make points about both technologies, and as a result, the story isn’t just about our relationship with writing or our relationship with remembering—it’s a combination of both, greater than the sum of its parts. Short stories and novelettes seldom make their mark through their characters or even, often, their events. They are too short to build towards massive climaxes. Their significance lies in the ability of the writer to capture a single Big Idea and whittle it down into a memorable Notion. Chiang showcases that ability here. This story is entertaining and moving, because it has the human elements: Jijingi’s tragic relationship with his own writing; the narrator’s fragile relationship with his daughter. But it also makes the reader think, hopefully in new and interesting ways. This is probably my favourite nominee for Hugo novelette this year, because it comes close to a perfect short-form work of science fiction. So, take that with the grain of salt that you will. ...more |
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1
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Jul 15, 2014
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Jul 15, 2014
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Jul 22, 2014
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Hardcover
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| B0DLT7XPQY
| 2.55
| 118
| Jan 01, 2013
| Feb 2013
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it was ok
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The seemingly inevitable retreat from a human presence is space is as disappointing as it was probably predictable � space just isn’t an hospitable en
The seemingly inevitable retreat from a human presence is space is as disappointing as it was probably predictable � space just isn’t an hospitable environment for humans. Or, more to the point, we’ve finally become capable of constructing machines that do the job much better than we could ever do. In “The Exchange Officers�, Brad Torgersen posits a retro–Golden Age future in which soldiers remote-operate robot proxies on the skin of space stations and do battle with foreign powers. His main character is an army warrant sergeant itching for some excitement and action in an age where, as with space, machines increasingly replace soldiers on the field. What makes this story so clever on Torgersen’s part is that topical connection to the modern military world. The idea of soldiers strapped into a control booth so they can pilot machines by proxy sounds absolutely like something out of a science fiction story—except it’s actually happening, right now. In the field soldiers remote-operate bomb detection robots, sniper suppression robots, you name it�. And back at home base, soldiers pilot drones over enemy territory, collecting surveillance and even taking targets out when ordered. The future is already here; killer robots are a thing, albeit killer robots with human masters (for now). It’s only a matter of time before the technology becomes as immersive as Torgersen describes here. What makes this story so unfortunate on Torgersen’s part is the casting of China as the communist aggressor trying to take over good ol� redblooded American space property. Seriously, I thought we got over the idea of the Chinese or other Eastern, communist societies as “the enemy� after the Berlin Wall fell, right? But stories like this and asinine attempts to present as credible antagonists only expose the latent racism that remains in Western society towards anything that seems anti-captialist or non-Western. China is not exactly a bastion of freedom and democracy, sure, but then again, neither is the United States these days. And attempting to resurrect the bad blood between these two countries seems petty at best and xenophobic at worst. Unfortunately, there’s little else to “The Exchange Officers� aside from the tense standoff between Chopper and the Chinese astronauts. Torgersen alternates between this present moment and flashbacks to when Chopper first joins the Operator program, alongside another exchange officer from the Marines. Although I’d like to think this is an effective structure, with the jumps acting as miniature cliffhangers to enhance tension and suspense, in this case I just found it annoying. And the most interesting parts of the idea of Operating space robot proxies just don’t seem to get much page time. Torgersen shows us Chopper’s entry into the program and his training. But there is little substantive exploration of the conflicts and issues that surround this idea of space proxies. Throughout the story, past and present, Chopper is presented as a gung-ho, “I love this job!� kind of guy. He doesn’t have character development, and he never seems to think this job is anything less than exciting and fulfilling. While it’s nice to have job satisfaction, it does make for boring reading. Thus, “The Exchange Officers� rests on a great premise but doesn’t do enough with it. Torgersen prioritizes confrontation with an ill-advised choice of antagonist over deeper philosophical issues surrounding robot proxies. I’m not saying this is an either/or choice—it would have been possible to do both. But the fact that it lacks one almost altogether is definitely to this story’s detriment. ...more |
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Jul 07, 2014
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Jul 07, 2014
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Jul 17, 2014
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ebook
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| 0765365685
| 9780765365682
| 0765365685
| 4.07
| 51,086
| Apr 01, 2014
| Mar 03, 2015
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really liked it
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Nearly two years ago, I read a book by Sarah Monette called ²Ñé±ô³Ü²õ¾±²Ô±ð, and I hated it. I considered it a train wreck of a novel. I wasn’t looking to re
Nearly two years ago, I read a book by Sarah Monette called ²Ñé±ô³Ü²õ¾±²Ô±ð, and I hated it. I considered it a train wreck of a novel. I wasn’t looking to read anything more by Monette in a long time. Now she’s back under the pen name of Katherine Addison (apparently for career reasons, which is a little silly, but I can also understand why). And not only am I giving The Goblin Emperor four stars, but I consider it every bit worth the Hugo nomination it has received, and I will not be disappointed if it wins. (I’m not sure if I’m voting for it yet, because I haven’t read The Three Body Problem or Ancillary Sword and expect good things from both.) This is a novel that is worth its hype. Having had a few days now to think on it, what has stayed with me the most about The Goblin Emperor is its positivity. Don’t get me wrong: plenty of terrible things happen in this book. Maia spends his entire life prior to becoming emperor in seclusion, raised by an abusive and negligent disgraced courtier and kept ignorant of the political and social knowledge he desperately needs if he is to rule. After he becomes emperor, he is totally the victim of a couple of coup attempts—plus he doesn’t know how to dance! No, what I mean is that the arc of the plot is quite positive: things for Maia (and the empire itself) gradually and steadily get better. The setbacks are more like growing pains. For a book about an inexperienced young half-breed becoming emperor, I expected a lot worse to happen. I expected open rebellion, a forced marriage to a woman he doesn’t love, and complete inability to change anything about the empire or court. Instead, Maia manages to make friends, deal effectively with some of his enemies, and make a start towards real change. He is a surprisingly effective ruler. Why does this positivity surprise me? It shouldn’t, really. But I feel like a large proportion of recent fantasy has gone to the dark side. We can blame grimdark (or is that GRRMdark?) for some of this trend—being “edgyâ€� is cool (but writing rape scenes is not cool, Game of Thrones writersâ€�). And perhaps it’s a reflection of current events, the zeitgeist, whateverâ€�. That’s a larger discussion that we might be able to have here. Whatever the reason, dark is cool and light not so much, so in this climate, The Goblin Emperor is a surprise and a delight and a breath of fresh air. Addison shows that positive fiction can still be paltable, even pleasurable fiction. Despite the fact that Maia’s closest allies don’t somehow end up dead in the middle of Act Three to really “raise the stakesâ€� before the conclusion, I still managed to enjoy the book. I guess I’m just a freak or something. Anyway, the pleasure in this book comes from a few sources—your individual mileage with each source is going to vary greatly, but I think this is a fantasy novel that could appeal to a wide range of fantasy fans. The worldbuilding, for one, is top notch. I was very critical of the way Monette manages the worldbuilding in ²Ñé±ô³Ü²õ¾±²Ô±ð. It’s much better here. The story might be about “elvesâ€� and “goblins,â€� but there is almost no magic involved (I think there are two scenes total that involve explicit magic use). It’s all court intrigue and politics. Addison uses a consistent system of prefixes, suffixes, etc., in names of people and places to help create the sense that this is an old, proud society. For those of you who get tripped up with this stuff, or want to know more about it, there is an appendix (a great way to avoid too much exposition). For those like me whose eyes just skim over the stuff one thinks unimportant, the consistency of these devices makes it easy to ignore them once you understand what’s going on. Maia’s vulnerability balances perfectly with his proactive nature as a protagonist. He is not the Chosen One by any stretch of the imagination (pretty much no one wants him as emperor, not even him, but that’s what happens when you have an inherited system of governance!). Yet he is not quite toothless either. The whole first act is basically him reacting and relying on people like Csevet (whom I kept expecting to betray him, because grimdark) to give him advice. In Act Two, Maia starts testing the waters: he starts making allies, making decisions, taking action, generally being emperor. Then in Act Three, the baddies push back, launch their own plans, and Maia and his allies have to deal with the fallout. During this whole time, Maia is evaluating his actions and othersâ€� and changing as a person as he tries to become the emperor he thinks this country needs. This emphasis on Maia’s duty as the emperor is excellent, because it is so multi-faceted. Everyone has a taken on it. Maia’s servants and minions feel that he has a duty to present a certain persona. He can’t apologize, for instance—that’s not emperor-like! Chavar the Lord Chancellor expects Maia to be a puppet emperor, unschooled and naive enough for him to manipulate or bypass completely. Tethimar certainly hopes Maia will be a weak emperor easily swayed by veild (or not-so-veiled) threats. And Maia himself feels that he has a duty to not be his father, who was cold and disapproving of most things Maia approves of (like his mother). Much of the conflict of this book comes from Maia’s attempts to negotiate the tensions among these various interpretations of his duty. As a consequence, Addison produces an adept commentary on the challenges faced by a parliamentary monarch. In addition to the central question—what makes a good monarch?—she explores the difficulty becoming a monarch and maintaining one’s own individuality—the distinction between Maia, a person with wants and needs, and Edrehasivar VII, the emperor. Scores of historical fiction novels tackle this theme, but I feel like fantasy tends to get caught up in the action around monarchs more so than their introspective, personal selves. It becomes all about the attempts to overthrow a ruler, or install a different ruler, or take back a throne that was usurped, or defend against invaders, etc. Addison reminds us that we don’t have to be philosophers, or even load a story down with overly philosophical language, in order to consider the morals and ethics of ruling while we care about the person becoming a ruler. I love when a book convinces me to change my mind about something. That’s why I read and read widely. In this case, my first experience with this author wasn’t a positive one. A couple years later, a different book (and, let’s face it, a different me), and now I’m a fan. I want more. Write more books like this please. I don’t care if they are set in the world. Just write more. ...more |
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1
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May 14, 2015
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May 17, 2015
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Apr 27, 2014
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 0307573400
| 9780307573407
| 0307573400
| 3.92
| 8,103
| Jun 1990
| Oct 21, 2009
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it was ok
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The Large Hadron Collider is doing pretty well this early into its life. It has already produced compelling evidence for the existence of a Higgs boso
The Large Hadron Collider is doing pretty well this early into its life. It has already produced compelling evidence for the existence of a Higgs boson. And it ³ó²¹²õ²Ô’t produced a microscopic black hole that would sink into the centre of the Earth and devour us all. Yet. David Brin wrote Earth around the same time I was born, long before the LHC was being built and its doomsayers were crying disaster. Even then, however, the idea of experimental physics creating a world-swallowing black hole was a potent one. At first, it seems like the black hole present in Earth is a sign of the ultimate hubris of humanity â€� yet as the story develops, it becomes apparent that perhaps the black hole is an interloper sent by others who aren’t happy about having new neighbours. This sense of layers of revelation is typical, both of Brin in general and Earth specifically. In style, Earth is quite similar to the other works of Brin’s that I’ve read, particularly the . Since it is set closer to the present dayâ€�2038, a mere fifty years in the future from the time Brin was writing—it also has much in common with the hard SF thrillers written by authors like Ben Bova and Greg Bear. The main characters are, by and large, scientists, intensely passionate about their work and dedicated to ideals like “scientific inquiryâ€� and “truthâ€�. The antagonists are authoritarian or anarchical in their allegiances, out to preserve the old order or tear it down at all costs, with both sides looking to the latest and greatest in scientific discoveries to give them the edge. So to distinguish it from other such books, Brin sets Earth in a near future where global warming has occurred slightly faster than most scientists have predicted. In this version of 2038, humanity is still paralyzed by a dependence on fossil fuels. Coastal regions are losing ground to the ocean even as inland areas find desertification has become a pressing issue. Though information technology abounds, obsession with the role of secrecy in last century’s ecological disasters has reduced an individual’s privacy. And sometime in the first decade of the twenty-first century (i.e., five to ten years ago, for those of us in 2014), the world declares war against Switzerland in a bloody-almost-nuclear debacle. There is a lot to process here. Certainly Brin deserves credit for such an intricate and detailled vision of the future. As he explains in his afterword, he isn’t going for accuracy—which would be foolish because it is almost impossible—just plausibility. Each of the attributes of his 2038 is a consequence of the trends he observed in 1989, coupled with some creative speculation about what kinds of surprises might happen along the way. It has been a while since I read a book that so confidently and cleverly lays out the near-futureâ€� Nexus tries very hard but doesn’t quite make me believe, and Rainbows End increasingly feels like allegory rather than an attempt at extrapolation. So, in this sense, Earth is a very interesting work of science fiction. It’s quite interesting to compare Brin’s vision of 2038 with our actual 2014, what with hindsight being what it is. Keeping in mind that he’s writing three years before the World Wide Web, but in 2038 the Net is ubiquitous and quite recognizable to readers in 2014. He predicts that we’ll have trouble advancing the space program beyond low-Earth orbit, despite the potential gains if we can tap asteroids for all their yummy resources. He speculates how the search for Earth-like planets will progress (or not). The main plot, with a black hole threatening to devour the planet, seems like something out of the tabloids from a year or two ago. Again, Brin is slightly ahead of his time with this “predictionâ€�. And if the LHC is any indication, then who knows? Perhaps by 2038 we will indeed be playing with black holes as a possible source of power. As far as black holes go as a threat in Earth, I like how Brin develops the tension very slowly. This is a planetary-scale disaster, but Alex and his companions manage to keep it under wraps for most of the book. They don’t go running to the media or initiate a full-scale panic. (Of course, when it does get out, the consequences are disastrous.) Unfortunately, like much of the hard SF of that era, Earth spends a little too much time navel-gazing. Brin once again follows several different characters, many of whom never meet up yet whose experiences provide the reader with a slightly different perspective on the plot. They are also a way for Brin to explore his 2038 future, in addition to the somewhat random infodumps that he includes at the end of every chapter. Alas, I feel like some of these characters and story arcs could have been eliminated without adversely affecting the story too much. Similarly, while Brin’s characters all come across as earnest, they can also be very flat. The antagonists are two-dimensional in their single-mindedness, and this effect is only amplified by Brin’s tendency to tell rather than show. This is particularly evident when it comes to the relationship between Daisy and her daughter, Claire. It’s not enough that we see the way Daisy neglects her daughter and her house. No, Brin has to remind us, and show us Daisy’s own thoughts, to emphasize that, yes, Daisy has lost the plot. Sometimes I felt in danger of losing the plot myself a few times. Earth is just a little ponderous for what should be a sleek, high-stakes thriller. Brin spends the first three-quarters establishing the setting, characters, and stakes. And then in the last quarter, he introduces twists that seem to come from nowhere. Specifically, I’m ambivalent about Jen’s fate and Pedro’s possible true identity. In both cases, these twists make a certain amount of sense—and I hate admitting that, because they also feel like bad storytelling. Jen is literally a deus ex machina, while Pedro’s twist just seems like one more complication we don’t need if Brin isn’t going to explore it in more detail—and, this being the denouement, there is no time for such things. As a result, the ending is somewhat messy and disorganized after a long, slow lead-in. Earth is a bundle of interesting ideas, clever predictions, and stock characters involved in a doomsday scenario. I’m surprised, in fact, that SyFy ³ó²¹²õ²Ô’t optioned it for one of its awful TV movies yet. (The book isn’t as bad as a SyFy original movie, but it has all the ingredients to make such a movie.) Reading Earth has been an interesting experience in an anthropological sense. It’s not what I would call essential Brin, though. I really enjoyed the Uplift series, in which Brin has the space to develop his ideas on a much grander scale. (Though, as with the conclusion here, the conclusion to that series seems to include one-too-many new ideas that weren’t really mentioned earlier.) If, like me, you come across Earth and are in need of a new book to read, then you could do much worse. I can’t muster too much enthusiasm, however, for books that are brimming with good ideas yet in need of so much refinement. Once again Brin demonstrates his strengths in big ideas and his weaknesses in creating connections in people to make those ideas matter. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 20, 2014
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Feb 22, 2014
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Feb 20, 2014
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Kindle Edition
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| B0094WL4FU
| 3.71
| 241
| Aug 01, 2012
| Aug 01, 2012
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liked it
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The novelette offers an opportunity to experiment in a way that short stories and novels don’t often do. You have much more room in which to create a
The novelette offers an opportunity to experiment in a way that short stories and novels don’t often do. You have much more room in which to create a world than a short story, where a glimpse at the larger picture is often all that you can afford. On the other hand, unlike a novel, there is no requirement to have a lengthy plot. With “Fade to White�, Catherine Valente depicts a world torn apart by war and a society that has changed dramatically to compensate. She uses the length of the novelette to delve in and out of different parts of this world, even as she constructs a simple plot about coming of age after the apocalypse. “Fade to White� is set in an alternate 1950s United States. This is a country recovering from the aftermath of nuclear warfare. McCarthy is in the White House. With much of the population infertile, those who can reproduce are valued for this act, elevated to the role of Mother and Father. Since fertile men are in much smaller supply than women, each Father has four households that he visits in a weekly rotation. Sterile men and women become civil servants, imbibing by order of the state a drug that suppresses their sex drives and makes them happy with their lot in life. Valente doesn’t give us much of an idea of the diversity of occupations in this society, but we spend a lot of time learning about how propaganda works. The underlying irony of this story is simple: America won the war, presumably, only to turn into the very type of paternalistic, fascist state that they were fighting against. Mutually assured destruction was not so mutual, but it was definitely assured, and now the survivors are trying to pick up the pieces. The government has had to make a lot of hard decisions about how to keep the country together; I don’t envy the leaders who had to step up to the plate after whatever disaster befell them. Valente handles the horror of this world with a light touch, guiding us towards the realization of what has happened but not actively preaching against it. I found this to be a very effective and satisfying way of handling the story. I’m not sure this novelette is experimental so much as it is a return to older forms. It reminds me of something that an author out of previous generations, someone like Bradbury, might have written. It has that same concern with using science-fiction to depict what society could become, if certain excesses occur. And it has the same dour tone mixed with a kind of dark but situational humour. Retro in feeling, this is a charming but also chilling story that I’d definitely recommend. ...more |
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1
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Jul 25, 2013
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Jul 25, 2013
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Aug 15, 2013
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Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||||
| 1596065141
| 9781596065147
| 1596065141
| 3.86
| 741
| Nov 01, 2012
| Nov 2012
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it was ok
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There's just something about faeries and Elizabethan England that mix, isn't there? It seems like I can't turn around without tripping over a book tha
There's just something about faeries and Elizabethan England that mix, isn't there? It seems like I can't turn around without tripping over a book that involves the two. And that's not necessarily a bad thing; I like faeries, and I like Elizabethan England. But as with most trends, it can become hard to find writers who are using the material in inventive ways. Fortunately, that's just what Seanan McGuire does with "Rat-Catcher". There are beings of faerie, but they are also cats. As one of them--a rebellious prince who tries to stay out of court politics--learns of an impending disaster that will burn London, magical and mundane alike, he struggles with his split loyalties. I wish I could be unconditionally enthusiastic about this novelette, but in spite of its fun premise and adequate execution, it didn't quite leave much of an impression on me. Rand doesn't have much love for the goings-on in his father's court. He much prefers to spend his time in cat form, watching plays and hanging out with the actors. As an immortal, he is fascinated by mortality and the depth and passion associated with it. McGuire draws a contrast between the short-lived but brightly burning humans Rand observes and the dull, stagnant court that he attends as he tries to warn his father-the-king of their doom. The promise of eternal life makes each day seem less special, less important. McGuire also touches on self-fulfilling prophecies, with Rand wondering whether London would have burned at all if they hadn't acted in response to this prophecy. This isn't something she explores in much detail, though. And that's about all that I remember. "Rat-Catcher" isn't bad. In fact, I don't mind saying it's very good. It's a neat little story about a faerie-cat and his problems, with a good historical backdrop and some nice dialogue. Yet it is also an ephemeral experience; unlike some fiction, it has not left much in the way of a mindworm. I can tell how impressive a book is by how long it takes me to stop thinking about it after I finish reading it. "Rat-Catcher" does not take long to read and doesn't stick around for much longer thereafter. As with most of the Hugo novelettes this year, I'd happily recommend this but am not all that impressed by it. ...more |
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Jul 25, 2013
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Jul 25, 2013
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Jul 30, 2013
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Hardcover
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| 1841493899
| 9781841493893
| 1841493899
| 3.87
| 21,896
| Jul 05, 2005
| Jun 01, 2006
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liked it
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We’ve just entered the tail end of 2013, fast approaching the middle of decade the second of the twenty-first century. Few of the changes Charles Stro
We’ve just entered the tail end of 2013, fast approaching the middle of decade the second of the twenty-first century. Few of the changes Charles Stross lays out in this book have come to pass, which isn’t surprising. Many of them are still possible within our lifetime, though, which is interesting. I’ve felt rather burnt out when it comes to posthuman SF ever since my last foray into the subgenre. Postsingular just left me feeling quite cynical about the potential for such stories. I had an epiphany that I swore, in my hubris, I would never experience. Others wiser than me in the ways of posthumanism have written about it before, and I should have listened. But I was too enchanted by the siren song of nanotechnology, mind uploads, and strong AI. I had been lucky, in that I had read several great posthuman stories and very few poor ones. As I read more widely, I began to understand the conundrum that many science-fiction writers face. Stross addresses this problem in an essay that, I believe, made it into the afterword of my edition of Scratch Monkey (I don’t have my copy at the moment, so I can’t double-check, and I don’t know if it’s available online somewhere). He remarks that, after a certain point, nanotechnology essentially becomes magic in a Clarkian, sufficiently-advanced kind of way. It’s perhaps a corollary to that adage: sufficiently advanced technology can let you escape any plot hole. (This is particularly evident in episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation.) Once you have the ability to manipulate matter at the subatomic and quantum levels, you are essentially a wizard. This makes you very powerful, and thus from a story perspective, somewhat uninteresting. How do you threaten your protagonist when the answer to everything is, "Nanotechnology!"? Then there’s the other side of the posthuman coin: the Singularity. Now, I don’t necessarily believe the Singularity will happen (and I think that is rather beside the point), nor do I particularly agree with . It’s a mistake to refer to the Singularity in earnest as the Rapture of the Nerds, and Singularitarians who remain convinced that the Singularity will bring about the eternal prosperity of a post-scarcity economy are kidding themselves. The whole point of the Singularity is that it is a massive paradigm shift in the way humans relate to the world, to the extent that we cannot predict what society will be like after it occurs. No one mentioned the shift would make the world perfect. It’s entirely possible the Singularity could leave humanity worse off, endangered or extinct, particularly if it involves a strong AI. This is the path that Accelerando treads. Even though Stross� blithe use of nanotechnology frustrates me, his grounded notions of what a Singularity could mean for the human species are very appealing. This is a posthuman novel that is fun and optimistic in one sense but also twisted and dark in another. In short, it’s a posthuman novel for the postmodern age. It has flaws—particularly, I think, because of its nine-part novella-like structure—but it still packs enough punch to make it worth reading. Accelerando, as the title implies, aptly demonstrates how certain technological innovations within the next few decades could combine to create a snowballing effect of accelerated change—a rolling Singularity, if you will, with no clear beginning or end. To name a few such innovations: simulation of consciousness, to be followed by mind uploading; weak AI based on primitive neural networks; easier and more reliable cryptography becoming tied to one’s identity, which will in turn become distributed through nanotechnology and wearable computers on one’s person. Stross demonstrates how, over the course of a single lifetime, so much can change that the world—and humanity—becomes unrecognizable. As I said before, I’m not too impressed by the book’s near-future setting (at least for the first part) or some of Stross� specific predictions. I’m not one to complain when an author gets such predictions wrong, but I’m wondering what motivated Stross to make such predictions about a world only twenty years from the time he was writing. Did it really seem like we would advance to that point by then? Or was it just a convenient length of time? The specifics, and indeed the speed at which these changes and innovations occur, are immaterial to the actual point of the book. Even if it took longer for everything that happens in Accelerando to happen, the result is still the same: Earth being disassembled for computing power by the "Vile Offspring" of humanity. Because that is the paradox of posthumanism. By definition, we cannot become posthuman until we give up that which makes us human. But if we don’t, and we elect to remain human (or even mostly human), we risk being left behind in the cognitive arms-race, so to speak, of self-enhancement. Having reached the point where we effectively control our own evolution, it is difficult for us not to walk down that path. Stross makes some interesting observations about some of the "most logical end points" for such evolutionary decisions. It might be difficult for some people to comprehend, this idea that we would disassemble moons and entire planets for use in computing. That’s a byproduct of the public misconception of what computers are—all silicon and electrons whizzing about microprocessing units. Even though I’m aware of some of the deeper theories that underpin the subject, the various Turing this-and-thats, I admit that a lot of the jargon used in this book is beyond me. However, if you can work past this obstacle to understand that, yes, hungry posthuman intelligences will probably disassemble some or all of our solar system, then you start to realize how humanity as we know it might be threatened. If we’re not careful, we could build, design, and simulate ourselves to death. And then there’s the cat, Aineko. It isn’t a cat so much as an AI in a cat’s body. It has become self-aware and started modifying its own programming. It has also discovered that it can manipulate humans, particularly by using its physical form’s adorable nature to catch them off guard. At the beginning, Aineko is an ally, then a trickster, and finally a thorn in the characters� side. By the end, with its true power and nature more apparent, we can see that it has been manipulating the characters for the entire time. Once again, Stross points out that any AI, whether created by us or an accidental amalgamation of algorithms, is not necessarily going to be our friend. At worst it will be Skynet; at best it will be a helpful, God-like protector (as if we could trust it). But it will probably be like Aineko or the Vile Offspring, two examples of "amoral" and disinterested intelligences who will use humanity if it suits their purposes or ignore it as long as humanity isn’t in the way. With Accelerando, Stross plays with a lot of high-concept ideas about the future. Not all of them will come to pass, but some of them might, if we make it long enough. Designer babies are on the way, and with Europe and the United States both investigating the secrets of consciousness, mind simulation and uploading remains a possibility for now. I’m not in love with the story that Stross tells with these concepts. The characters aren’t great—I never really sympathized with any of them, and I found the behaviour between Manfred and Pamela practically bizarre and inexplicable, shenanigans with AI cats notwithstanding. And this is by no means a "feel good" flick that will leave you burgeoning with hope for the future of the human species. But I think it has restored some of my faith in Singularity-driven posthuman fiction. It’s demonstrated that the Singularity by no means removes the obstacles facing our survival as a species. The problems we currently face might seem daunting, but we can probably overcome them. And then we’ll face more. ...more |
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Jul 06, 2013
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Jul 09, 2013
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Jul 06, 2013
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 1935234129
| 9781935234128
| 1935234129
| 3.98
| 227
| Jan 01, 2012
| Nov 2012
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really liked it
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I came to Doctor Who solely through the revived series. Christopher Eccleston was my first doctor, and it’s true that I’ll never forget him. I was gut
I came to Doctor Who solely through the revived series. Christopher Eccleston was my first doctor, and it’s true that I’ll never forget him. I was gutted to learn that he was leaving after only the first season and convinced that this new fellow, “David Tennant� (if that’s even his real name) could never live up to the Ninth Doctor’s brusque charisma. The rest is history, of course—the Tenth Doctor stole my heart, along with the hearts of many other Whovians, and then he left and the world would never be the same. Again. The story of new Who fans mirrors the story of generations� coming-of-age: we forget those who came before already had to go through this. We feel like we’re the first ones to experience these anguishes. But no, fans who had been watching since the black-and-white era had been through this seven times before. It’s special, but it’s not the end of the world. My experience with older episodes of Doctor Who has only picked up recently. My roommate showed me Tom Baker’s E-space Trilogy, introducing me (and bidding farewell to) Romana II, Adric, and K-9. Prior to that, I had only seen one or two episodes (I can’t even remember which Doctor, let alone the plot of the episodes) in bits and pieces. Reading Chicks Unravel Time has made me hungry to see more. The specificity with which each of these authors discuss the various seasons of Doctor Who made me yearn to be as familiar with the show as they are. I wanted to meet Barbara and Ian, Liz and Jo, Sarah Jane, Leela, Tegan, et al. Prior to this, I’d been aware of how much of the show’s rich history I’ve been missing out on—but this made it more tangible, less mysterious. Reading Wikipedia articles just isn’t the same, because they lack the deep emotional connections that these essays invoke. The book weaves through the history of Doctor Who in an appropriately non-chronological fashion. Each essay loosely examines a specific season, but each writer approaches the concept of a season-spanning essay slightly differently. Some examine the impact of certain Doctors or their companions on their experience as fans, such as in the exquisitely-titled essays “The Doctor’s Balls� and “David Tennant’s Bum�, by Diana Gabaldon and Laura Mead, respectively. Others look at how that Doctor’s contributions over their particular season affected the course of the show, as in the case of “The Ultimate Sixth�, by Tansy Rayner Roberts, or “How the Cold War Killed the Fifth Doctor�, by Erica McGillivray. I really enjoyed both of these approaches. They exposed me to different fans� interpretations of seasons I had never seen, heightening that eagerness to discover these Doctors and companions for myself. Many of the other essays touched on the portrayal of race and gender in Doctor Who. Plenty of the essays extol the various companions, and in so doing offer different ways of looking at Doctor Who’s treatment of women and people of colour. Some compare Liz Shaw to Jo Grant and find the latter wanting, expressing disappointment over her seemingly-shallow characterization in contrast to Shaw’s doctorates and expertise. Others draw the opposite conclusion, finding Jo a realistic depiction of someone who is constantly underestimated because of her appearance but much more capable than she might appear. Having never seen these companions, I’ll have to wait until I can draw my own conclusions. Similarly, some of the essays examine the colonialist tones to the show—once again, trying to find that balance between dismissing the show as a product of its time and excoriating it for its missteps. Again, difficult for me to agree or disagree with the specific comments, but it’s fascinating to see all the different perspectives and analyses. Though I understand the attraction of the season-based premise, I almost wish the essays hadn’t been constricted in that way. I’d be really fascinated to read broader essays that analyze the show from the same perspectives across the years. (The authors do this to some extent, naturally. I’m talking about far more ambitious analysis that really doesn’t focus on a particular season.) And with Matt Smith leaving and the fiftieth anniversary special soon upon us, I smell a sequel brewing with some updated content (in my dreams!). So take it from me, fan of the new show but really uninitiated into the old, there’s still something here for any stripe of Doctor Who fan. Every one of these essays is good—which is what you would expect, considering the all-star cast that Stanish and Thomas have lined up. Every one offers a unique, insightful take on a particular season of Doctor Who, grappling with it on a much deeper level than simply listing the reasons they love it. To me, this is the ultimate act of love for a show: critiquing it. I can’t stand fans who get all touchy when you start poking holes in their favourite show. If you truly love something, you should still be able to love it in spite of its flaws. Discussing, examining, acknowledging, deconstructing those flaws are all important ways to be more involved. And, of course, there’s always the potential for change as a result of such discussions—who knows, maybe someone will listen. There’s no point in culture if we just sit by and consume it. We need to become participants. Chicks Unravel Time exemplifies this tradition of fan-led critique, and I highly recommend it. ...more |
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Jul 02, 2013
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Jul 06, 2013
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Jul 02, 2013
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Paperback
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| 0956392458
| 9780956392459
| 0956392458
| 3.76
| 2,090
| Dec 24, 2012
| Dec 24, 2012
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liked it
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I need to give a shout-out to fellow reviewer Rob here, because I feel like I know Aliette de Bodard’s work mostly through him. I have quite a fair bi
I need to give a shout-out to fellow reviewer Rob here, because I feel like I know Aliette de Bodard’s work mostly through him. I have quite a fair bit of her fiction knocking around in ebook form (thanks, Angry Robot), but I haven’t actually gotten around to reading much of it. So far I’ve only managed those stories nominated for Hugo Awards—and hey, look, another one. But seriously, if you want to get the scoop on de Bodard’s other universes, you should check out . On a Red Station, Drifting is set in the same universe as de Bodard’s other Hugo nominee for 2013, the short story “Immersion�. I really liked how de Bodard captures the viral nature of colonialism in “Immersion�. The Galactics� immersers are so entrenched in the Galactic culture and way of thinking that one has to think like a Galactic before one can reverse engineer them. Of course, that kind of assimilation is exactly what the Rong who would reverse engineer the technology are trying to avoid. Whereas “Immersion� is set on Longevity Station, this novella takes place on Prosper Station, at an unspecified time. The Dai Viet Empire crumbles from a rebellion, and a disgraced magistrate, Linh, flees to her relatives on Prosper Station, running from the crime of pointing out that the emperor has no clothes. Linh finds a station in the disorganized grip of Quyen, who is unable to summon the authority and drive necessary to keep things running smoothly. Quyen is trying to cope even as she clings to the fantasy that her husband will return from going to quell the rebellion. Others are in similar straits; the mood is comparable, I imagine to places far behind the front lines in Europe in World War II that have seen their best and bravest go off to fight. It doesn’t help that the Mind running the station, referred to only as Honoured Ancestress, appears to be malfunctioning in some way. So, Linh has arrived at a terrible time. She makes and awful first impression, and she soon finds she doesn’t fit in. She is too cultured for such a provincial atmosphere, and her boredom makes her sullen and rude. This is a story of character and grace. It’s subtle, in the sense that the plot simmers in the background while de Bodard spends most of her time fleshing out the main characters and placing them on her chess board. It’s obvious, in the sense that there is very little left ambiguous: it’s clear that Quyen hates Linh, and Linh is simultaneously attracted to and repulsed by Huu Hieu. If this were a movie, a lot of it would take place without a score, just the characters speaking against a backdrop of silence. There is a stillness to this story that is at times unbearable, because you just start waiting for something to happen. This is not a critique against plot, mind you, but an observation of how de Bodard chooses to build tension. When external forces prompt Linh and Quyen to action, the conflict seems inevitable, given the way honour and family play a huge role in this culture. Quyen must act a certain way towards Linh for the good of the family. Linh, similarly, makes choices that go against her preferences just so she can avoid tearing the family apart. It raises the question of what would have happened had Linh not been so strong—if she had succumbed to her childish impulses to take the family down with her, where would we be? Perhaps this is a subtle comment on de Bodard’s part about the fragility of such an honour-based system: it can only be as strong as the weakest link. There are echoes of this fragility in Linh’s criticism of the emperor: everyone around him his frozen into inaction by his unwillingness to engage with the rebels directly. The authoritarian nature of the culture means that everyone defers to the emperor, even though he might be wrong. All these critiques seem to lurk below the surface of the story, though. Overall, On a Red Station, Drifting really seems to be about Linh’s personal sense of loss and lack of direction. Her life is, if not literally, then figuratively over. In a way, her decision at the end of the story is inevitable, because it is the best way for her to gain some form of closure. Unlike another option for closure (suicide), this way also offers the hope of further combat with her enemies. Linh is someone who likes to take action, to be constantly engaged in combat or conversation. She is ill-suited to life on Prosper Station; both she and Quyen recognize that from the start, but it takes a while for them to figure out how to solve it. This novella didn’t affect me as strongly as The Emperor’s Soul, but it’s still quite good. I think it’s more a case that it showcases the intricacy of de Bodard’s writing than anything about the story in particular. There are so many layers here that combine to form a particularly pleasing whole, even though, when pulled back piece by piece for further examination, they appear diaphanous and less compelling. More than meets the eye but better in one big piece, On a Red Station, Drifting is another exquisite entry in this year’s Hugo nominees for best novella. ...more |
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Jun 28, 2013
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Jun 29, 2013
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Jun 29, 2013
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Hardcover
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| 0316218960
| 9780316218962
| 0316218960
| 4.18
| 3,369
| Jul 11, 2012
| Jul 11, 2012
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liked it
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Mira Grant/Seanan McGuire has been nominated in the novel, novella, and novelette categories for the Hugo Awards this year (and twice in the novelette
Mira Grant/Seanan McGuire has been nominated in the novel, novella, and novelette categories for the Hugo Awards this year (and twice in the novelette category). All the more power to her! I admit that I’m not a fan of the Newsflesh series. (I read the first two books when they were nominated for Hugo Awards.) So I’m surprised that San Diego 2014: The Last Stand of the California Browncoats, a prequel (told through flashbacks) set in the same universe, managed to impress me. Mahir, Shaun and Georgia’s correspondent and editor from London, has tracked down the only survivor of the 2014 San Diego Comic Convention. This occurred during the early days of the Rising, when people had not yet gotten to grips with what the infectious nature of the zombie apocalypse meant for large, open-air gatherings like Comic Con. Lorelei survived only because she happened to be in the hotel at the time, outside the main convention centre. She has lived with the guilt of losing her parents and their friends ever since. Each chapter is a flashback recounted from Lorelei’s recollection or assembled by Mahir from evidence and recovered footage. Grant prefaces each chapter with some pithy quotations from Mahir’s writing and snippets of his conversation with Lorelei. Both of these serve to set the tone and remind us that the fate of the California Browncoats is sealed: there will be no eleventh hour rescue from the army. It’s easy to identify why San Diego 2014 works for me while Newsflesh doesn’t. Try as Grant might, she just can’t make me care that much about her zombie-stricken characters. The plots of Feed and Deadline were too anaemic, the writing too pedantic to sustain much tension. Working over a much more condensed length, with the characters against the ticking clock as the infection spreads and nobody from the outside world comes to help, Grant manages to create a much more compelling conflict. The tragedy of the Kellis–Amberlee virus is apparent in the novels, but here it is more intense in its ruthless presence. The ensemble cast of disconnected characters helps as well. Grant lets us see how the zombie apocalypse affects this narrow cross-section of people who are from all walks of life but united in their affection for comics, science-fiction, and other nerdery. She touches on the types of isolation and marginalization these people feel, especially those fans (or actors, in the case of Elle) who are women and at risk of being branded a “fake geek girl�. In this respect, San Diego 2014 is a very topical story that’s really of its time. We’re having a lot of conversations right now about what it means to be a “fan�, “geek�, “nerd�, “gamer�, etc. These conversations are inextricably connected to larger discussions about race and sex/gender. Geek has gone mainstream in a big way, which worries some people. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to people going after vulnerable, visible minorities, branding them as posers and fakes. (And there seems to be a lot of sexist resentment pent up in certain sectors of geekdom, almost a “you can’t come and play with my toys� type of deal, despite the fact that women have always been a part of geek culture, as both creators and consumers, since Day Zero.) So San Diego 2014 addresses a lot of these issues in the guise of a look at a slice of the zombie apocalypse. The meaning of fandom, the extent to which one is a fan, changes as people can no longer gather post-Rising. Also, this is a bit of a love-letter to geek culture in the way Grant portrays the self-sacrifice and bravery of the California Browncoats. It’s a bit of a “hell yeah� feeling of cameraderie, a sense that these people have come together to celebrate the shows and books that they love, and instead they have decided they will die together, if that’s what needs doing�. The thematic statements here are a little heavyhanded and on the nose, subtext often scraping the surface. Embedded in the zeitgeist as it is, I’m not sure how well this story will age as geek culture continues to evolve—as a clear product of its times, I suspect that we might look back at as “vintage� one day, rather than “classic�. Don’t get me wrong: it’s still a good story. But the trappings of the story are difficult to decontextualize. I think that readers who aren’t as familiar with the idea of Comic Cons or the issues that are currently front-and-centre will have a harder time understanding parts of this story, much like we’re less sensitive to the socialist imprecations of Dickens in this day and age. I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this story for people who haven’t read previous Newsflesh books. It’s an accessible place to start, providing a taste of the universe and a little exposition, while also lacking much in the way of spoilers. Aside from Mahir, it doesn’t feature any major characters (to my knowledge), which means you can read it, get a taste of Grant’s writing, before checking out Feed. Mind you, I liked this better than either of the first two books, so take that for what you will�. While not my pick for the Hugo Award, it definitely earns its nomination, and I’m pleased there’s finally a Newsflesh story I can say I haven’t tried to shred into tiny pieces. ...more |
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Jun 23, 2013
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Jun 23, 2013
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Jun 23, 2013
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ebook
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| 1618249592
| 9781618249593
| B00AP9RQE4
| 4.20
| 16,805
| Nov 06, 2012
| Nov 15, 2012
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really liked it
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This year’s Vorkosigan novel is up for a Hugo nomination. The previous book, also a Hugo nominee, was my first exposure to Lois McMaster Bujold’s spra
This year’s Vorkosigan novel is up for a Hugo nomination. The previous book, also a Hugo nominee, was my first exposure to Lois McMaster Bujold’s sprawling and successful series, although I wasn’t as impressed as I wanted to be. I went on to read the first two books, though, and those provided a firmer grounding in the series, not to mention better stories. I’m also glad I read them before reading Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance. This book makes some allusions to the characters and events of the first two books, so I enjoyed seeing the connections. Humour is much in evidence from the beginning of Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance. It’s been over half a year since I read Bujold, so I didn’t recall how much wry banter she likes to pack into her dialogue. But things really pick up when Ivan, Tej (the aforementioned femme fatale), her assistant Rish, and Bylery are trapped in Ivan’s apartment. Immigration, as well as the local police, are at the door. In an inspired moment of insanity, Ivan decides to marry Tej, thus making her a Barrayaran subject. They travel back to Barrayar, where Ivan introduces Tej to his family, and they try to obtain a divorce. Except they can’t, because they haven’t been abusing each other, sleeping around, not sleeping with each other (mmm-hmmm), etc. It’s an old, old story, but Bujold makes it new again. So we essentially have a romance masquerading as a situational comedy alongside a political thriller, which makes it awesome. Bujold is that rare combination of a writer who can comfortably straddle multiple styles within one book. Plenty of writers can switch between comedy, tragedy, and drama in different works, but it takes a special kind of skill to do it all within the same chapter (and occasionally, when she’s especially cheeky, the same paragraph). Thanks to the abundance of dialogue, most of the story proceeds at a heightened pace, as the characters hash out what’s going on and what their next step should be. There are plenty of arguments and disagreements, but not so much in the way of action or physical conflict. This is definitely a story that shines because of its wit and the pleasure inherent in watching a complex plot unfold. It’s also a joy to watch the characters converse. Bujold’s characters are just so much fun, from the smiling but serious Emperor Gregory to the more nonchalant, slightly scary Miles Vorkosigan. Even Simon Illyan, once the head of ImpSec and now retired on a medical basis, is a joy to watch, as he engages Shev’s father in a deal (“more of a bet, really�) to see who can outwit whom. Although the book itself is fun, each individual scene stands alone as an almost exquisite vignette set within the context of Barrayaran politics. Even for someone like me, whose exposure to Barrayar is still minuscule compared to the amount of literature available, it’s still possible to understand and enjoy what’s happening. The marriage between Ivan and Tej is a sham. That’s obvious. It’s equally obvious that they are going to end up in love and together. This is the type of romance novel I can get into, because even though the romance element is front and centre, Bujold takes the time to make her characters rounded, and the obstacles to their happiness are more than contrived character flaws. For one thing, Tej’s parents and family are, in fact, alive. They show up on Barrayar and immediately co-opt her into a scheme to raid an underground bunker left over from when her grandmother worked in it as a geneticist. They want to use these ill-gotten gains to finance a re-takeover of their House back on Jackson’s Whole. The only possible problem is that the bunker happens to be beneath ImpSec headquarters. Oh, did I mention it’s also a heist story? My love of heist stories is second to none. The family is working against time before their emergency visa runs out. Tej’s loyalties are divided, and it’s fun to watch her genuinely struggle—should she be the upstanding daughter that her family never appreciated, or the dutiful wife of a Barrayaran nobleman? It doesn’t help that, much like Cordelia Naismith before her, Tej appears to be falling in love with her Barrayaran beau. (I can’t believe I just said that. Sorry.) I enjoyed Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance even more than I was expecting. In fact, unlike Cryoburn, I actually think this book deserves a Hugo Award. It’s an excellent example of how to create a compelling science-fiction setting in which storytelling happens. And there are big ideas here, but they are more latent—Bujold works them into the cultural fabric that underlies her story, instead of hitting us over the head with them. And though this is the fifteenth published Vorkosigan book, new readers could start the series here and go back and read previous books without too much confusion. It’s always a pleasure to pick up yet another book in a long-running series and discover that the author still has that essential spark necessary for a great read. ...more |
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Jun 12, 2013
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Jun 14, 2013
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Jun 12, 2013
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Kindle Edition
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| 3.48
| 2,844
| Apr 01, 2012
| Apr 01, 2012
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really liked it
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**spoiler alert** Nancy Kress has fast become one of my favourite science fiction authors. Like most authors I’m a fan of, her works don’t always make
**spoiler alert** Nancy Kress has fast become one of my favourite science fiction authors. Like most authors I’m a fan of, her works don’t always make it on my favourites list, but they always make me think. Kress often explores how technology affects humanity’s relationship with nature and our own biology. She continues to play with these themes in After the Fall, Before the Fall, During the Fall while adding in an ineffable alien menace and the paradoxes of time travel. The title explains the structure: this story takes place across three times. In 2035, 26 humans survive in an artificial Shell, protected from the inhospitable Earth. They believe the Earth was ruined (and they were saved) by aliens they call Tesslies. With most of the children and adults too damaged by radiation to produce healthy offspring, the Tesslies have furnished them with machinery that allows them to travel back in time. Since adults can’t go through the portals, however, teenagers like Peter have to go on these Grabs, which seem to occur at random intervals and send them to stores or houses. In the stores, they grab as many supplies as they can before their allotted ten minutes expire. In the houses, they look for the one thing the Shell desperately needs: fresh blood, in the form of babies they can raise as their own. In 2013/2014, a mathematician has noticed a pattern to a string of FBI kidnappings. She constructs an algorithm for the agency, hoping she can predict when the next kidnapping might occur. Her algorithm is never quite accurate enough, and eventually she leaves the investigation. It’s not until the very end, when Julie is most desperate, that she finally manages to perfect the program and ambush a time-traveller. Meanwhile, Kress provides omniscient glimpses at mysterious mutations in bacteria and earthquakes beneath the sea floor. The implication is that these events are related, perhaps even artificial, and combine somehow to cause the eponymous Fall. McAllister and the other surviving adults in the Shell have taught Peter and the others that the Tesslies are responsible for both the Fall and the Shell. However, there’s no clear evidence for this, and as Peter learns by the end, it’s possible that humans themselves caused this to happen. I'll return to that in a moment, but first I need to talk about the post-apocalyptic future Kress has created. I love the idea of the Shell and the way she has implemented it. Granted, it seems like even 26 healthy individuals would be hard-pressed to preserve humanity without some serious genetic issues developing. Nevertheless, they give it the old college try. Kress conveys the desperation and isolation that must develop in this community, when its children are damaged, some of them deformed and sick, and its adults are slowly dying off one-by-one. The loss of knowledge and experiences is particularly striking. Peter has learned, thanks to his rudimentary education, about things like stars, atoms, and planets. But he has no conception of television or photography. On one Grab, he manages to steal a digital photo frame, and he sits for hours just watching the three pre-loaded promotional pictures, fascinated by this magic. It’s a small thing, but it allows Kress to show us how quickly we can lose something when we don’t have it in front of us: one generation can forget what moving pictures are like if we lose the ability to screen them. Life in the Shell is a bizarre mixture of roughing it, complete with farming, and scavenging, through the unpredictable and dangerous Grabs. There’s very little in the way of culture, leisure, and therefore, I wonder, what of civilization? It’s not up to Kress to make a realistic attempt at preserving civilization though. That would be the Tesslies� responsibility; hence, perhaps Kress also means to show that their grand plan (experiment?) is doomed to failure. The ending is ambiguous. Although the Shell dissolves at the end, leaving the survivors on a rehabilitated planet with all they supposedly need to start over, Kress does not provide any closure. Perhaps they succeed; perhaps they die again. The “after the fall� portion of the book is a reminder that there aren’t really endings (aside, maybe, from extinction), just new epochs. I really like the premise of the story, and I think Kress handles time travel very well. Normally, it bothers me when authors take a “meanwhile, in the past� approach to time travel—that is, treating the past and present/future as if they are happening concurrently. There is usually little reason for this. In this case, however, Kress makes it clear that the time travellers have no control over the Grabs. Either the Tesslies or their machinery determine when the Grabs open for them and the time period to which the Grabs send them. These times/destinations are not random, because Julie recognizes a pattern and exploits her algorithm to eventually meet Pete. Kress never explains if the Tesslies have created this pattern deliberately for some reason, or if it is merely a byproduct of time travel. In general, there is a distinct lack of exposition. We never meet the Tesslies—not truly—and we never learn their motives, beyond what the survivors speculate. We never learn why, if they are interested in helping humans, they don’t use time travel to fix the past (perhaps it’s just not possible). Kress puts the reader in the position of the survivors: full of questions, short of answers. This could have been frustrating, so it’s a testament to her skill that she manages to create a story engaging enough to make you forget your relative ignorance of what’s going on. The theory behind the Fall that the survivors eventually embrace does not sit well with me. Though they long assume the Tesslies were responsible for humanity’s destruction, Peter’s encounter with Julie suggests humanity is responsible. Eventually they raise the idea of the Gaia hypothesis, that the Earth is itself a living organism created by the interdependency of all the organisms inhabiting it. According to this hypothesis, the Earth is a deliberately self-regulating system. It’s intriguing, but it also feels out of place. The “during the fall� chapters that explain what is happening beneath Julie’s nose present the earthquakes and bacterial mutations as apparently random. And if they aren’t, it seems like a stretch that the Earth can “choose� to wipe out humanity for the greater good. Maybe I’m just not thinking of the system in abstract enough terms—but if that’s the case, I would have liked Kress to put more effort into persuading me. If Kress has latched on to the Gaia hypothesis as a way to challenge how humanity is stewarding the Earth, then I can still agree with After the Fall’s themes, even if I’m not particularly fond of how Kress establishes it. Sustainability has put in an appearance in many of her other works. Here, Kress emphasizes how humans, despite all our advances in technology, are still at the mercy of nature and natural disasters. (She does cheat a little. Yellowstone and the tsunami from the Canary Islands earthquake do a number on the United States, but she has to cheat and use a resulting nuclear launch to trigger the global apocalypse.) If the Tesslies hadn’t stepped in, humanity would likely have gone extinct. I like it when science fiction encourages us to consider the ecological implications of trends in society. After the Fall, Before the Fall, During the Fall has all the hallmarks I have come to expect from a Kress story. It’s clean, compelling, and its characters have a good balance of vices and virtues. The amount of thought she has put into constructing her futures and the scenarios that have brought them about is obvious from the detail and structure of the book. All this contributes to a fulfilling story, and even if I can’t endorse every aspect, it still deserves that Hugo nomination. This is one for any fan of Kress to check out, and if you are new, this would be a fine place to start. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Jun 03, 2013
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Jun 04, 2013
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Jun 03, 2013
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ebook
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my rating |
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| 4.15
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really liked it
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Dec 31, 2014
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Dec 30, 2014
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| 4.49
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it was amazing
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Dec 23, 2014
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Dec 29, 2014
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| 4.08
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liked it
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Jun 08, 2015
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Oct 01, 2014
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| 3.68
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it was ok
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Sep 21, 2014
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Sep 18, 2014
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| 3.49
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it was ok
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Jul 24, 2014
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Aug 01, 2014
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| 3.63
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really liked it
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Jul 23, 2014
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Aug 01, 2014
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| 3.59
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liked it
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Jul 16, 2014
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Jul 28, 2014
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| 3.74
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liked it
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Jul 15, 2014
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Jul 27, 2014
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| 4.20
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really liked it
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Jul 15, 2014
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Jul 22, 2014
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| 2.55
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it was ok
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Jul 07, 2014
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Jul 17, 2014
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| 4.07
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really liked it
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May 17, 2015
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Apr 27, 2014
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| 3.92
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it was ok
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Feb 22, 2014
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Feb 20, 2014
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| 3.71
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liked it
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Jul 25, 2013
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Aug 15, 2013
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| 3.86
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it was ok
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Jul 25, 2013
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Jul 30, 2013
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| 3.87
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liked it
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Jul 09, 2013
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Jul 06, 2013
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| 3.98
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really liked it
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Jul 06, 2013
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Jul 02, 2013
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| 3.76
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liked it
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Jun 29, 2013
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Jun 29, 2013
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| 4.18
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liked it
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Jun 23, 2013
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Jun 23, 2013
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| 4.20
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really liked it
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Jun 14, 2013
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Jun 12, 2013
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| 3.48
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really liked it
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Jun 04, 2013
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Jun 03, 2013
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