Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, January 10, 2026
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐
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Samantha Harvey said in an interview that she wanted to write a "space pastoral," and Orbital is the fruit of that effort. I think Harvey not only succeeded in her goal, but also wrote a moving love letter to Earth and to humanity.
The experience I had reading this novel was sort of like standing before a painting—maybe Pollock's Shimmering Substance, or van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhône—and falling into its colors, its shadings, its intimations of movement across the canvas. This novel revels in descriptive imagery, in capturing the light and colors and textures of a rotating Earth as seen from 250 miles above it. As part of her research, Harvey watched hours of NASA footage from the International Space Station, which is evident in how well she evokes the astronauts' view through the space station's windows.
And while Orbital beautifully describes planetary movements and the shimmering spread of galaxies, I found myself most engaged by its tender attention to the human beings aboard the space station. The readers become privy to the ordinary habits, conversations, and inner thoughts of these six astronauts, and these passages were my favorites of the book. I love that Harvey honors the everyday human concerns—how do you sleep in space? eat? pee? work your muscles?—that shape daily experience (and thus our lives). I love how the astronaut's everyday concerns effortlessly flow into meditations on the nature of time, human ambition, and our place in the universe.
Readers get to see the astronaut's complex feelings about being in space, how they both long for and dread returning home, how their vantage point from space has re-contextualized their understanding of their own lives on Earth. For instance, we see the Japanese astronaut, Chie, receive news that her mother passed away while Chie is in orbit. We see her struggle with grief that feels displaced—literally at a remove from its rightful place, there, down on Earth—and yet her attempts to situate her grief, to make sense of it, are so easily recognizable to any of us. The environment in which it occurs may feel alien, but that ancient human impulse is intimately familiar. The novel consistently threads this needle with other characters, too, and it's a joy to read.
This is not a story-driven novel, nor is it even an especially character-driven novel (despite how good the character vignettes are): it's a novel about place. It's a novel about human belonging to Earth, and our simultaneous yearning to pass beyond Earth's boundaries. Its sustained attention to imagery asks us to do what great paintings also ask us to do: fall into the colors and lighting and textures and see where we land.
It feels appropriate to end on these passages from the novel:
"When he's seen through a telescopic lens the flowlines made by ships pulling at the ocean, or the ancient shorelines of Bolivia's bright orange Laguna Colorada, or the red sulphur-stained tip of an erupting volcano, or the wind-cut folds of rock in the Kavir Desert, each sight has come to him as a winching open of the heart, a crack at a time. He'd not known how capacious it was, the heart. Nor how in love he could be with a ball of rock; it keeps him awake at night, the vitality of this love.
[...] So many astronauts and cosmonauts have passed through here, this orbiting laboratory, this science experiment in the carefully controlled nurturing of peace. It's going to end. And it will end through the restless spirit of endeavour that made it possible in the first place. Striking out, further and deeper. The moon, the moon. Mars, the moon. Further yet. A human being was not made to stand still."
Sunday, June 21, 2009
She would be both, actually. As seen in her autobiographical work, Little Women, Alcott wrote passionate stories for monthly publication in magazines.
"It comes as a shock to discover that Louisa May Alcott disdained the moral standards she developed in her children's books and was , in fact, a strikingly independent, strong willed, and ambitious woman who held her public and private lives in such separate spheres that the dichotomy was irreconcilable. In her private persona, Alcott allowed herself the freedom to write as she wished, and her anonymously and pseudonymously published works reveal a women whose interests and aspirations far overstepped the bounds of Victorian propriety"
-Octavia Davis, from the "Introduction" to A Modern Mephistopheles
One such book that she wrote was rejected by the likes of "The Weekly Volcano" and lurked around personal libraries until it was published in 1995.
A Long Fatal Love Chase by Louisa May Alcott
"I tell you, I cannot bear it! I shall do something desperate if this life is not changed soon. It gets worse and worse, and I often feel as if I'd gladly sell my soul to Satan for a year of freedom."
So begins the adventures of our protagonist, Rosamond Vivian, the granddaughter of a wealthy mysterious man who lives on an unnamed island. This statement will continue to haunt the rest of the book, and is a giant foreshadow, but that's the kind of book this is.
Rosamond is soon swept away by an older man. She spends a year of blissful ignorance with him, when suddenly *lightening crash* he is revealed a cad! She, being of upstanding will and impeccable moral character, flees for the safety of her soul. A chase ensues through the rest of the story which keeps you on the edge of your seat. (Cliche phrase aside, it really is quite suspenseful.)
I give this book eight out of ten awesome-read points, and would recommend it to you even if you were not of the Little Women persuasion. You really would never be able to put the two books together. This book deals with sex, suicide, murder, stalking... All the dark elements that make people morbidly interested in things. Yet, the story has enough light elements in it that you don't leave manically depressed.
It's as Victorian thriller that you could probably give the label pulp fiction to, but the writing is good enough that you could compare bits of it to Jane Eyre. Give it a read.
"It comes as a shock to discover that Louisa May Alcott disdained the moral standards she developed in her children's books and was , in fact, a strikingly independent, strong willed, and ambitious woman who held her public and private lives in such separate spheres that the dichotomy was irreconcilable. In her private persona, Alcott allowed herself the freedom to write as she wished, and her anonymously and pseudonymously published works reveal a women whose interests and aspirations far overstepped the bounds of Victorian propriety"
-Octavia Davis, from the "Introduction" to A Modern Mephistopheles
One such book that she wrote was rejected by the likes of "The Weekly Volcano" and lurked around personal libraries until it was published in 1995.
A Long Fatal Love Chase by Louisa May Alcott
"I tell you, I cannot bear it! I shall do something desperate if this life is not changed soon. It gets worse and worse, and I often feel as if I'd gladly sell my soul to Satan for a year of freedom."
So begins the adventures of our protagonist, Rosamond Vivian, the granddaughter of a wealthy mysterious man who lives on an unnamed island. This statement will continue to haunt the rest of the book, and is a giant foreshadow, but that's the kind of book this is.
Rosamond is soon swept away by an older man. She spends a year of blissful ignorance with him, when suddenly *lightening crash* he is revealed a cad! She, being of upstanding will and impeccable moral character, flees for the safety of her soul. A chase ensues through the rest of the story which keeps you on the edge of your seat. (Cliche phrase aside, it really is quite suspenseful.)
I give this book eight out of ten awesome-read points, and would recommend it to you even if you were not of the Little Women persuasion. You really would never be able to put the two books together. This book deals with sex, suicide, murder, stalking... All the dark elements that make people morbidly interested in things. Yet, the story has enough light elements in it that you don't leave manically depressed.
It's as Victorian thriller that you could probably give the label pulp fiction to, but the writing is good enough that you could compare bits of it to Jane Eyre. Give it a read.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
In Cormac McCarthy's The Road, the reader is confronted with an alien world. Post-Apocalyptic and utterly devastated, the world as we know it is gone. The new world is hostile, some might say fallen -- it is a place veiled, always, in the pall of ash and dirt, where no plants or animals can even hope to live, and the human population fares little better. Those who haven't killed themselves turn to their only other viable option -- cannibalism. In a world where no one is friend and every solitary day is a struggle for survival, what do morals--love thy number, thou shalt not murder, thou shalt not eat thy neighbor's face--even mean?
Turns out, a lot -- at least to the nameless narrator and his son. The book follows the nameless man and his child as they try to survive another day in a world that doesn't bear survival. Through their struggles to find food, shelter, and ever more ingenuous ways to avoid being captured and eaten by other survivors, they are faced with questions that seem unanswerable: are there things more important than survival? What are they? And in a world like this, does any of it matter?
He'd had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and the dull despair. The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever.
Yet the man and the boy come to find that, perhaps, it is those fragile beliefs that keep them human, keep them utterly different from the cannibals that have thrown all aside in favor of physical survival. Perhaps the world they are in isn't worth their struggle, but those other things are.
McCarthy's writing is both rich and sparse: passages of breathtaking, metaphorical prose are integrated and juxtaposed with simple, terse description of actions and events. Despite the radical premise of the story, the action-arc isn't explosive -- it's basic, realistic (whatever that means in a place like that) descriptions of every day actions necessary for survival.
What I found remarkable about the book was that despite its radical, nearly unimaginable setting, it still forced me to think about the same questions the narrator posed. Those aren't questions purely reserved for a post-Apocalyptic world, they are for the here, now, and everyday. There were certainly sections in the story that made me cringe and turned my stomach (hi, People Pantry?), sections that felt slightly gratuitous in their shock-value, so I would definitely advise caution for the weak of stomach. But overall I recommend it as a really interesting read with some beautiful writing and thought-provoking questions.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Phillip Roth's The Plot Against America is the dystopian novel of the past. Roth doesn't write about the possibility of future horrors -- he writes about the horrors that might have been.
This novel is written in a unique way -- as the fictional autobiography of the author. Using his own name, his own family, and his own childhood community as the setting, Roth embarks on this "what if" dystopian view of history.
For instance: what if, say, Roosevelt lost the 1940 presidential election? What if, instead, Charles A. Lindbergh won?
Such is the premise for The Plot Against America. Lindbergh's election launches America into a time of "perpetual fear" for the nation's Jews. Under his leadership, America never enters World War II. It does not aide Britain. It tries to isolate itself from the chaos reigning in the rest of the world -- that is, until Lindbergh buddies up with Hitler himself.
We see the deterioration of nation, community, and family through the eyes of seven-year-old Phillip, the eyes of a child. Who else could be more affected by the shape of history? As Roth writes --
".. Harmless history, where everything unexpected in its own time is chronicled on the page as inevitable. The terror of the unforseen is what the science of history hides, turning disaster into an epic."
Roth takes us right into that terror, into that uncertainty, by reshaping the course of history, and showing it to us through the eyes of a child powerless to stop it.
The narrative switches between Phillip's first person perspective, and the omniscient perspective of a Roth describing historical events. Chapters move between Phillip's family and neighborhood sphere to a more global sphere, in order to get a clearer picture of the world Roth is creating. At first it seems an odd move to make, a bit forced and awkward, but as the book progresses Roth makes the style his own and gets it to work quite nicely.
The major criticism I have of this book, however, is the ending. Throughout the entire novel, Roth makes a point of showing us how any alteration in history can drastically effect the present. It's the domino effect -- one thing changes, and everything else follows. But, despite this point which is manifested in the very premise of the book, he chooses to end it how? By tying it right back up with the present. He conveniently brings an end to every historical alteration he had so meticulously created, so that the end of the book is congruous with the present as we know it.
Why? It defeats the very purpose of the book. And if it's obviously a work of fiction, does it really need to match up with today's reality? I think not.
Even given this disappointing ending, however, this is a definitely a book worth reading. Roth knows his stuff -- literary and historical.
This novel is written in a unique way -- as the fictional autobiography of the author. Using his own name, his own family, and his own childhood community as the setting, Roth embarks on this "what if" dystopian view of history.
For instance: what if, say, Roosevelt lost the 1940 presidential election? What if, instead, Charles A. Lindbergh won?
Such is the premise for The Plot Against America. Lindbergh's election launches America into a time of "perpetual fear" for the nation's Jews. Under his leadership, America never enters World War II. It does not aide Britain. It tries to isolate itself from the chaos reigning in the rest of the world -- that is, until Lindbergh buddies up with Hitler himself.
We see the deterioration of nation, community, and family through the eyes of seven-year-old Phillip, the eyes of a child. Who else could be more affected by the shape of history? As Roth writes --
".. Harmless history, where everything unexpected in its own time is chronicled on the page as inevitable. The terror of the unforseen is what the science of history hides, turning disaster into an epic."
Roth takes us right into that terror, into that uncertainty, by reshaping the course of history, and showing it to us through the eyes of a child powerless to stop it.
The narrative switches between Phillip's first person perspective, and the omniscient perspective of a Roth describing historical events. Chapters move between Phillip's family and neighborhood sphere to a more global sphere, in order to get a clearer picture of the world Roth is creating. At first it seems an odd move to make, a bit forced and awkward, but as the book progresses Roth makes the style his own and gets it to work quite nicely.
The major criticism I have of this book, however, is the ending. Throughout the entire novel, Roth makes a point of showing us how any alteration in history can drastically effect the present. It's the domino effect -- one thing changes, and everything else follows. But, despite this point which is manifested in the very premise of the book, he chooses to end it how? By tying it right back up with the present. He conveniently brings an end to every historical alteration he had so meticulously created, so that the end of the book is congruous with the present as we know it.
Why? It defeats the very purpose of the book. And if it's obviously a work of fiction, does it really need to match up with today's reality? I think not.
Even given this disappointing ending, however, this is a definitely a book worth reading. Roth knows his stuff -- literary and historical.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry has been one of my favorite books since the moment I read the last line of the last page. It's one of those books that you keep coming back to in the quiet moments of life when, more than anything, you need a bit of hard-won wisdom to ground you.
Hannah Coulter finds herself old, widowed, and alone. Now, faced with the onset of a new life -- life without Nathan -- she recalls the events that brought her to where she is. She remembers her childhood, growing up on a farm in the tiny community of Port William, Kentucky. She remembers young love and devastating loss. She remembers life during World War II. She remembers raising her children. Mostly, she remembers the never ending changing of seasons. Life has to be lived, a season at a time. Hannah lived it, and now she has a few stories to tell.
This is by no means an explosive book: it's not thrilling, or action packed, or fast-paced. Plot is not the author's primary device. It's through the unique, first-person perspective of Hannah that the story unfolds. The great pleasure of reading this book doesn't come from intricate story lines -- it stems rather from the wisdom and philosophical insight of an ordinary woman who's lived an ordinary life. Using prose that's nothing short of absolutely lovely, Berry lends us Hannah's words in telling her story, in sharing her impassioned opinions, and in showing us life through her eyes.
Hell is a shameful place, and it is hard to speak of what you know of it. It is hard to live in Port William and yet have in mind the blasted and burnt, bloodied and muddy and stinking battlegrounds of Okinawa, hard to live in one place and imagine another. It is hard to live one life and imagine another. But imagination is what is needed. Want of imagination makes things unreal enough to be destroyed. By imagination I mean knowledge and love. I mean compassion. People of power kill children, the old send the young to die, because they have no imagination. They have power. Can you have power and imagination at the same time? Can you kill people you don't know and have compassion for them at the same time?
If you want a novel that will leave you biting your fingernails at the edge of your seat, I wouldn't recommend it. Remember, plot is not the main focus of the author, and for those who aren't used to this style, it can be slow in places. But, regardless, it is a novel that's stirring in a different way. It opens up a window into a world most would otherwise never know, and it does so with an insight and beauty that I find to be rare in most contemporary fiction. Life, love, and everything in-between -- Hannah sees it all, and tells it in a voice so real, and ordinary, and wise, it's like having your own grandmother in the room.
Hannah Coulter is one to put on the bookshelf, because it's definitely one to come back to.
Hannah Coulter finds herself old, widowed, and alone. Now, faced with the onset of a new life -- life without Nathan -- she recalls the events that brought her to where she is. She remembers her childhood, growing up on a farm in the tiny community of Port William, Kentucky. She remembers young love and devastating loss. She remembers life during World War II. She remembers raising her children. Mostly, she remembers the never ending changing of seasons. Life has to be lived, a season at a time. Hannah lived it, and now she has a few stories to tell.
This is by no means an explosive book: it's not thrilling, or action packed, or fast-paced. Plot is not the author's primary device. It's through the unique, first-person perspective of Hannah that the story unfolds. The great pleasure of reading this book doesn't come from intricate story lines -- it stems rather from the wisdom and philosophical insight of an ordinary woman who's lived an ordinary life. Using prose that's nothing short of absolutely lovely, Berry lends us Hannah's words in telling her story, in sharing her impassioned opinions, and in showing us life through her eyes.
Hell is a shameful place, and it is hard to speak of what you know of it. It is hard to live in Port William and yet have in mind the blasted and burnt, bloodied and muddy and stinking battlegrounds of Okinawa, hard to live in one place and imagine another. It is hard to live one life and imagine another. But imagination is what is needed. Want of imagination makes things unreal enough to be destroyed. By imagination I mean knowledge and love. I mean compassion. People of power kill children, the old send the young to die, because they have no imagination. They have power. Can you have power and imagination at the same time? Can you kill people you don't know and have compassion for them at the same time?
If you want a novel that will leave you biting your fingernails at the edge of your seat, I wouldn't recommend it. Remember, plot is not the main focus of the author, and for those who aren't used to this style, it can be slow in places. But, regardless, it is a novel that's stirring in a different way. It opens up a window into a world most would otherwise never know, and it does so with an insight and beauty that I find to be rare in most contemporary fiction. Life, love, and everything in-between -- Hannah sees it all, and tells it in a voice so real, and ordinary, and wise, it's like having your own grandmother in the room.
Hannah Coulter is one to put on the bookshelf, because it's definitely one to come back to.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Well, the plot is peppered with clichés, the heroeine is dancing on the ledge of Mary-Sue-ism, and the fantasy elements occasionally leave something to be desired.
But is it a good read? Heck yes!
Countess Meliara's only wish is to live peacefully in her poverty-stricken homeland, running wild among the mysterious Hill Folk and dancing in the village with her best friend Oria. But when she begins to aid her father and brother in brewing a rebellion against the tyrannical King Galdran, a devastating war gets dumped on her doorstop, and the damage is irreparable.
The stakes are raised when, on a routine scouting mission, Meliara is horribly injured and captured by the enemy. However, after being taken to the King's palace and left to rot in a jail cell, she is given the chance to escape. Now a wanted criminal on the lamb, she's only got the clothes on her back and her wits to carry her through. But she finds help in unexpected places, from allies she thought to be enemies, and when the military war ends, the war at court begins, with Meliara in the center of the political whirlpool.
Granted, the sub-plots (mainly of a romantic nature) are predictable and thus rather boring. But overall, it's definitely a fun read, especially for any lover of fantasy. The saga of Meliara's flight from the palace was a page-turner, aided by a slew of cliff-hangers that almost made me fall off my bed with impatience. Sherwood Smith's writing style is sharp and fast-paced, and her characters run deeper than the kiddie pool, which was refreshing after my latest excursions into Philip Pullman's work. Sure, Meliara could be more well-rounded, and she has her Mary-Sue moments, but Smith creates a smart and persistent heroeine. She has personal weaknesses, but she also has enough strength to get her through the tough spots. She was a character I enjoyed following.
If you're looking for a meaningful, thought-provoking experience, I would put away Crown Duel and pick up something else. But if you're looking for an entertaining fantasy story and a cast of characters that delivers, I would definitely recommend it.
But is it a good read? Heck yes!
Countess Meliara's only wish is to live peacefully in her poverty-stricken homeland, running wild among the mysterious Hill Folk and dancing in the village with her best friend Oria. But when she begins to aid her father and brother in brewing a rebellion against the tyrannical King Galdran, a devastating war gets dumped on her doorstop, and the damage is irreparable.
The stakes are raised when, on a routine scouting mission, Meliara is horribly injured and captured by the enemy. However, after being taken to the King's palace and left to rot in a jail cell, she is given the chance to escape. Now a wanted criminal on the lamb, she's only got the clothes on her back and her wits to carry her through. But she finds help in unexpected places, from allies she thought to be enemies, and when the military war ends, the war at court begins, with Meliara in the center of the political whirlpool.
Granted, the sub-plots (mainly of a romantic nature) are predictable and thus rather boring. But overall, it's definitely a fun read, especially for any lover of fantasy. The saga of Meliara's flight from the palace was a page-turner, aided by a slew of cliff-hangers that almost made me fall off my bed with impatience. Sherwood Smith's writing style is sharp and fast-paced, and her characters run deeper than the kiddie pool, which was refreshing after my latest excursions into Philip Pullman's work. Sure, Meliara could be more well-rounded, and she has her Mary-Sue moments, but Smith creates a smart and persistent heroeine. She has personal weaknesses, but she also has enough strength to get her through the tough spots. She was a character I enjoyed following.
If you're looking for a meaningful, thought-provoking experience, I would put away Crown Duel and pick up something else. But if you're looking for an entertaining fantasy story and a cast of characters that delivers, I would definitely recommend it.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Honestly, I never intended to write this post, but the reading of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy was so painful, I found I couldn't move on to writing other reviews without blowing some hot air in his general direction.
I think a summary of the plot is rather unnecessary. This was a pretty well known series even before it hit mainstream with the making of the film The Golden Compass, which is of course based off the first book in the trilogy, of the same title. A book which I did enjoy. I found it to be a fun, imaginative, gripping tale. I liked Pullman's execution in setting up and fleshening out his alternate-reality Oxford. It was fantasy that wasn't utterly out-of-this-world, but that still retained a certain foreign flavor. I liked his development of the protagonist, Lyra, and the cast of characters that surrounds her. I enjoyed the pacing and the basic plot. And even though his dialogue tends to run on the awkward side, I found the book to be well written overall, with a sort of snarky edge to it that was entertaining. I enjoyed it on the whole and looked forward to the sequel.
And then I actually read the sequel (The Subtle Knife), and I almost lost all interest in reading the final installment. Here's why:
Will, the second protagonist introduced to the series, is possibly the most stale, insipid, Gary-Stue character that I have encountered in a very, very long time. For those who are possibly less nerdy than me, and need some clarification as to what a "Gary-Stue" is, I'll tell you. A "Gary-Stue" is the male version of a "Mary-Sue," a title given to characters who are as one-dimensional as it gets -- characters who are too perfect to be believable, with absolutely no character flaws besides a few token quirks to make them seem human; characters whose innate goodness and bravery enables them to inevitably overcome all the odds and obsticles thrown at them throughout the story; characters whose motives for getting embroiled in the plot are always righteous, and even if they should perhaps make some fatal error in judgement in the heat of a plot-charged moment (in the author's pathetic attempt at trying to create the illusion of a character with depth), well, that error is always completely justified given the extenuating circumstances and is in no way to be held against them.
Will is the perfect example of a Gary-Stue (right up there with Scott Summers and Jean Gray from X-Men). He's the pure, noble, socially outcast boy who's only trying to protect his ailing mother and find his MIA father.
He is, in a word, boring. Boring and horrendously under-developed. Lyra, at least, was interesting. She had character flaws, she didn't always make smart choices, and there were passages where I wasn't even certain how much I liked her anymore. But those flaws made her human. They fleshened her out. And even in the midst of them, there was something about her that was charming and relatable. Will, on the other hand, is flat and stoic and in no way reminiscent of the twelve-year old boy he's supposed to be. And the worst part? He essentially replaces Lyra as the protagonist.
Aside from this character malfunctioning, The Subtle Knife put me off more slightly in its blatant and often overpowering anti-church themes. While these themes were also evident in the first book, they didn't particularly bother me because they were themes that were a natural progression of the plot. They were essential to the integrity of the story. Something would have felt off had they not been there. And besides that, they were at least a bit more understated and subtle. The second book takes all that understatement and magnifies it to a point that almost compromises the story in an effort to push forward and be heard. Pullman's skill as a recantour is what saved him, because while all this was vaguely irritating, the story was interesting enough that I picked up the final book, The Amber Spyglass, in order to see how it all turned out.
If The Subtle Knife pushed Pullman's anti-church sentiment out of the understated end of the pool, the final book in the trilogy shoves it right into the "in the name of all things holy, I GET YOUR FREAKING POINT ALREADY" end. It moves from subtle, to blatant, to bashing you over the head with its insistence. It becomes more of a nuisance and a distraction from the plot than a natural evolution of it. THAT is why it's so incredibly annoying. My irritation with the series does not merely stem from the fact that I'm a Christian and Pullman is essentially dumping all over my personal beliefs. I would be lying if I said that my Christianity wasn't influencing my opinion at all, because it surely does. But my irritation stems more from artistic grounds than from religious. As a reader and an (admittedly) amateur writer, I felt that the anti-church themes were overridng the plot. It was interfering with it rather than aiding it.
Before I go on, I want to clarify: no, I don't think there's anything wrong with infusing a message, or a question, or a philosophical idea into a story. In fact, I think many of the best books do. But what those "best books" did that The Amber Spyglass didn't was to infuse those philosophical ideas gracefully as an over-arching theme. Rather than manipulating the story at every turn in order to maximize (yet again) the apperance and impact of the message, the "best books" allow that message to naturally evolve with the story -- they allow it to become the fruit of the plot. The Amber Spyglass (and much of The Subtle Knife) seemed to me to do the former rather than the latter.
The Golden Compass is a good example of allowing personal politics and philosophical ideas to guide a story without it becoming overpowering. Pullman's anti-church-ness was certainly there, but not to the point of being a distraction from the unfolding of the story. The Amber Spyglass, however, is exactly the opposite. The author's tool in telling a story with a philosophical gem became his soap box, and it was not something I particularly cared to have shoved down my throat.
(Subltety, Mr. Pullman, subltety. It works wonders. Put some trust in the intelligence of your readers and their ability to pick up on your ideas.)
As I said, Pullman can definitely write prose. The series was imaginative if nothing else, and there were parts peppered throughout that I enjoyed. But his choice in a male protagonist needs a major overhaul, and his story fell victim to his politics.
I think a summary of the plot is rather unnecessary. This was a pretty well known series even before it hit mainstream with the making of the film The Golden Compass, which is of course based off the first book in the trilogy, of the same title. A book which I did enjoy. I found it to be a fun, imaginative, gripping tale. I liked Pullman's execution in setting up and fleshening out his alternate-reality Oxford. It was fantasy that wasn't utterly out-of-this-world, but that still retained a certain foreign flavor. I liked his development of the protagonist, Lyra, and the cast of characters that surrounds her. I enjoyed the pacing and the basic plot. And even though his dialogue tends to run on the awkward side, I found the book to be well written overall, with a sort of snarky edge to it that was entertaining. I enjoyed it on the whole and looked forward to the sequel.
And then I actually read the sequel (The Subtle Knife), and I almost lost all interest in reading the final installment. Here's why:
Will, the second protagonist introduced to the series, is possibly the most stale, insipid, Gary-Stue character that I have encountered in a very, very long time. For those who are possibly less nerdy than me, and need some clarification as to what a "Gary-Stue" is, I'll tell you. A "Gary-Stue" is the male version of a "Mary-Sue," a title given to characters who are as one-dimensional as it gets -- characters who are too perfect to be believable, with absolutely no character flaws besides a few token quirks to make them seem human; characters whose innate goodness and bravery enables them to inevitably overcome all the odds and obsticles thrown at them throughout the story; characters whose motives for getting embroiled in the plot are always righteous, and even if they should perhaps make some fatal error in judgement in the heat of a plot-charged moment (in the author's pathetic attempt at trying to create the illusion of a character with depth), well, that error is always completely justified given the extenuating circumstances and is in no way to be held against them.
Will is the perfect example of a Gary-Stue (right up there with Scott Summers and Jean Gray from X-Men). He's the pure, noble, socially outcast boy who's only trying to protect his ailing mother and find his MIA father.
He is, in a word, boring. Boring and horrendously under-developed. Lyra, at least, was interesting. She had character flaws, she didn't always make smart choices, and there were passages where I wasn't even certain how much I liked her anymore. But those flaws made her human. They fleshened her out. And even in the midst of them, there was something about her that was charming and relatable. Will, on the other hand, is flat and stoic and in no way reminiscent of the twelve-year old boy he's supposed to be. And the worst part? He essentially replaces Lyra as the protagonist.
Aside from this character malfunctioning, The Subtle Knife put me off more slightly in its blatant and often overpowering anti-church themes. While these themes were also evident in the first book, they didn't particularly bother me because they were themes that were a natural progression of the plot. They were essential to the integrity of the story. Something would have felt off had they not been there. And besides that, they were at least a bit more understated and subtle. The second book takes all that understatement and magnifies it to a point that almost compromises the story in an effort to push forward and be heard. Pullman's skill as a recantour is what saved him, because while all this was vaguely irritating, the story was interesting enough that I picked up the final book, The Amber Spyglass, in order to see how it all turned out.
If The Subtle Knife pushed Pullman's anti-church sentiment out of the understated end of the pool, the final book in the trilogy shoves it right into the "in the name of all things holy, I GET YOUR FREAKING POINT ALREADY" end. It moves from subtle, to blatant, to bashing you over the head with its insistence. It becomes more of a nuisance and a distraction from the plot than a natural evolution of it. THAT is why it's so incredibly annoying. My irritation with the series does not merely stem from the fact that I'm a Christian and Pullman is essentially dumping all over my personal beliefs. I would be lying if I said that my Christianity wasn't influencing my opinion at all, because it surely does. But my irritation stems more from artistic grounds than from religious. As a reader and an (admittedly) amateur writer, I felt that the anti-church themes were overridng the plot. It was interfering with it rather than aiding it.
Before I go on, I want to clarify: no, I don't think there's anything wrong with infusing a message, or a question, or a philosophical idea into a story. In fact, I think many of the best books do. But what those "best books" did that The Amber Spyglass didn't was to infuse those philosophical ideas gracefully as an over-arching theme. Rather than manipulating the story at every turn in order to maximize (yet again) the apperance and impact of the message, the "best books" allow that message to naturally evolve with the story -- they allow it to become the fruit of the plot. The Amber Spyglass (and much of The Subtle Knife) seemed to me to do the former rather than the latter.
The Golden Compass is a good example of allowing personal politics and philosophical ideas to guide a story without it becoming overpowering. Pullman's anti-church-ness was certainly there, but not to the point of being a distraction from the unfolding of the story. The Amber Spyglass, however, is exactly the opposite. The author's tool in telling a story with a philosophical gem became his soap box, and it was not something I particularly cared to have shoved down my throat.
(Subltety, Mr. Pullman, subltety. It works wonders. Put some trust in the intelligence of your readers and their ability to pick up on your ideas.)
As I said, Pullman can definitely write prose. The series was imaginative if nothing else, and there were parts peppered throughout that I enjoyed. But his choice in a male protagonist needs a major overhaul, and his story fell victim to his politics.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
That Hideous Strength, the final installment in the trilogy which began with Out of the Silent Planet, finds Earth occupied by the enemy. The stage has been set for a decisive move in the war that's been brewing since the fall of Eden. New players are brought to the scene -- newlyweds Mark and Jane Studdock, who become embroiled in a war they knew nothing about and find themselves on opposite ends of the battlefield. Mark gets involved with the mysterious NICE institution, headed by the very enemies Ransom faced on Venus, whose sole purpose is the "reconditioning" of society through science and technology. Jane, on the other hand, finds herself suffering strange, almost prophetic dreams and meeting strange people, the strangest by far the mysterious man known as The Directer -- or Ransom to his friends and associates. He, and the group of people he has gathered to his side, must fight all that the NICE stands for in order to protect the future of humanity. But what is this about a secret weapon? And what has it to do with the clouded legend of Merlin?
The war has begun and Earth stands in the balance. Can Ransom tip the scale against the mighty NICE?
"But if men by enginry and natural philosophy learn to fly into the Heavens, and come, in the flesh, among the heavenly powers and trouble them, He has not forbidden the Powers to react. For all this is within the natural order. A wicked man did learn to do so. He came flying, by a subtle engine, to where Mars dwells in Heaven and to where Venus dwells, and took me with him as a captive. And there I spoke with the true Oyéresu face to face... And so the wicked man had brought about, even as Judas brought about, the thing he least intended... The Hideous Strength holds all this Earth in its fist to squeeze as it wishes. But for their one mistake, there would be no hope left. If of their own evil will they had not broken the frontier and let in the celestial Powers, this would be their moment of victory. Their own strength has betrayed them. They have gone to the gods who would not have come to them, and pulled down Deep Heaven on their heads."
That Hideous Strength is a climactic finish to the Out of the Silent Planet trilogy. Far more action packed than either of the previous two books, it deals with themes a bit closer to home. Rather than focusing on an alien race, this book zeroes in on Earth and the people we are all of us familiar with -- the greedy, the scared, the power-hungry, the kind, the lonely, the apathetic. That which makes up our world, that which motivates us, and, more narrowly, the conflict that even to this day resonates in our society -- the conflict between technology and nature, between science and the things that science seeks to overturn.
Lewis' writing is fast-paced and witty, with a sarcastic edge to it that seems particular to this book in the trilogy. The cast of characters increases and adds extra flavor for those who crave a bit more dialogue and human-to-human interaction rather than reflection and human-to-alien contact. While some of these characters lack the development and depth one would like to see, the majority of them are vivid and fairly well-rounded.
My only caution is this: patience. The book begins with Mark and Jane Studdock, and unfolds very much from their perspective. Ransom does play an important role, but not as large of a role as in the previous books. He becomes almost a supporting character rather than the main protagonist. The first time I read the book through I did become a bit impatient with the setup in my eagerness to see Dr. Ransom and what his plans were in the face of this conflict. However, Lewis sets the tone in such a way that the readers really care about what happens to the new characters even while they might yearn for the familiar face of Ransom. Give the new guys a chance, because as characters they certainly deliver.
Definitely one of my favorite books in the trilogy. I give it two (no, three) thumbs-up, and my hearty recommendation.
The war has begun and Earth stands in the balance. Can Ransom tip the scale against the mighty NICE?
"But if men by enginry and natural philosophy learn to fly into the Heavens, and come, in the flesh, among the heavenly powers and trouble them, He has not forbidden the Powers to react. For all this is within the natural order. A wicked man did learn to do so. He came flying, by a subtle engine, to where Mars dwells in Heaven and to where Venus dwells, and took me with him as a captive. And there I spoke with the true Oyéresu face to face... And so the wicked man had brought about, even as Judas brought about, the thing he least intended... The Hideous Strength holds all this Earth in its fist to squeeze as it wishes. But for their one mistake, there would be no hope left. If of their own evil will they had not broken the frontier and let in the celestial Powers, this would be their moment of victory. Their own strength has betrayed them. They have gone to the gods who would not have come to them, and pulled down Deep Heaven on their heads."
That Hideous Strength is a climactic finish to the Out of the Silent Planet trilogy. Far more action packed than either of the previous two books, it deals with themes a bit closer to home. Rather than focusing on an alien race, this book zeroes in on Earth and the people we are all of us familiar with -- the greedy, the scared, the power-hungry, the kind, the lonely, the apathetic. That which makes up our world, that which motivates us, and, more narrowly, the conflict that even to this day resonates in our society -- the conflict between technology and nature, between science and the things that science seeks to overturn.
Lewis' writing is fast-paced and witty, with a sarcastic edge to it that seems particular to this book in the trilogy. The cast of characters increases and adds extra flavor for those who crave a bit more dialogue and human-to-human interaction rather than reflection and human-to-alien contact. While some of these characters lack the development and depth one would like to see, the majority of them are vivid and fairly well-rounded.
My only caution is this: patience. The book begins with Mark and Jane Studdock, and unfolds very much from their perspective. Ransom does play an important role, but not as large of a role as in the previous books. He becomes almost a supporting character rather than the main protagonist. The first time I read the book through I did become a bit impatient with the setup in my eagerness to see Dr. Ransom and what his plans were in the face of this conflict. However, Lewis sets the tone in such a way that the readers really care about what happens to the new characters even while they might yearn for the familiar face of Ransom. Give the new guys a chance, because as characters they certainly deliver.
Definitely one of my favorite books in the trilogy. I give it two (no, three) thumbs-up, and my hearty recommendation.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Perelandra, the second book in the sci-fi trilogy which began with Out of the Silent Planet, is a surprising read. It's Lewis at his darkest, and when read with a fair eye and open mind, it presents the reader with a moral and philosophical dilemma which can do nothing but force its way into serious consideration.
Dr. Elwin Ransom's return to earth did not end his relationships with other planets. This time he has been called to far-away planet Venus, known as Perelandra to its inhabitants, by his God in order to put a stop to a force that seeks to corrupt it in the same way earth was corrupted by the fall of Eden. Ransom finds himself alone on yet another strange planet, with nothing but his knowledge of the Old Solar language and his tenacity to help him. Against what? The return of his old colleague, Weston. Or at least, that's what he used to be. But Weston finds himself keeping strange company, and they have a vested interest in the fate of Perelandra. It's one middle-aged scholar against another, and the purity of this world lies in the balance.
""So you mean to try strength," it said in English, speaking thick.
"Put down that bird," said Ransom.
"But that is very foolish," said the Un-man. "Do you not know who I am?"
"I know what you are," said Ransom. "Which of them doesn't matter."
"And you think, little one," it answered, "that you can fight with me? You think He will help you, perhaps? Many thought that. I've known Him longer than you, little one. They all think He's going to help them -- till they come to their senses screaming recantations too late in the middle of the fire, mouldering in concentration camps, writhing under saws, jibbering in mad-houses, or nailed on to crosses. Could He help Himself?" -- and the creature suddenly threw back its head and cried in a voice so loud that it seemed the golden sky-roof must break, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani."
And the moment it had done so, Ransom felt certain that the sounds it had made were perfect Aramaic of the First Century. The Un-man was not quoting; it was remembering. These were the very words spoken from the Cross, treasured through all those years in the burning memory of the outcast creature which had heard them, and now brought forward in hideous parody...
In Perelandra, Lewis unfolds for us not only the thoughtfully compelling sequel to Out of the Silent Planet; he also leaves us questions concerned with darker things, questions which may have no immediate answers. But they are questions worth considering, and Lewis brings them to life with his insightful writing.
All the warnings which applied to Out of the Silent Planet apply here, with one addendum: the themes in this book do have darker strains than those of the previous. Lewis deals with them quite thoughtfully, and in many places they're subtle, but some of the imagery he creates and the questions he raises are difficult and, in places, disturbing.
However, this book is certainly worth the read. It's a stunning continuation of the trilogy and reminds the reader just why Lewis' writing has remained so compelling throughout the years.
Dr. Elwin Ransom's return to earth did not end his relationships with other planets. This time he has been called to far-away planet Venus, known as Perelandra to its inhabitants, by his God in order to put a stop to a force that seeks to corrupt it in the same way earth was corrupted by the fall of Eden. Ransom finds himself alone on yet another strange planet, with nothing but his knowledge of the Old Solar language and his tenacity to help him. Against what? The return of his old colleague, Weston. Or at least, that's what he used to be. But Weston finds himself keeping strange company, and they have a vested interest in the fate of Perelandra. It's one middle-aged scholar against another, and the purity of this world lies in the balance.
""So you mean to try strength," it said in English, speaking thick.
"Put down that bird," said Ransom.
"But that is very foolish," said the Un-man. "Do you not know who I am?"
"I know what you are," said Ransom. "Which of them doesn't matter."
"And you think, little one," it answered, "that you can fight with me? You think He will help you, perhaps? Many thought that. I've known Him longer than you, little one. They all think He's going to help them -- till they come to their senses screaming recantations too late in the middle of the fire, mouldering in concentration camps, writhing under saws, jibbering in mad-houses, or nailed on to crosses. Could He help Himself?" -- and the creature suddenly threw back its head and cried in a voice so loud that it seemed the golden sky-roof must break, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani."
And the moment it had done so, Ransom felt certain that the sounds it had made were perfect Aramaic of the First Century. The Un-man was not quoting; it was remembering. These were the very words spoken from the Cross, treasured through all those years in the burning memory of the outcast creature which had heard them, and now brought forward in hideous parody...
In Perelandra, Lewis unfolds for us not only the thoughtfully compelling sequel to Out of the Silent Planet; he also leaves us questions concerned with darker things, questions which may have no immediate answers. But they are questions worth considering, and Lewis brings them to life with his insightful writing.
All the warnings which applied to Out of the Silent Planet apply here, with one addendum: the themes in this book do have darker strains than those of the previous. Lewis deals with them quite thoughtfully, and in many places they're subtle, but some of the imagery he creates and the questions he raises are difficult and, in places, disturbing.
However, this book is certainly worth the read. It's a stunning continuation of the trilogy and reminds the reader just why Lewis' writing has remained so compelling throughout the years.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Most people have heard of C.S. Lewis. After the Narnia series met with extraordinary acclaim, Lewis practically became a household name. However, most who have dipped their toes into the pool of Lewis' work by way of the Narnia series don't realize that Narnia was not Lewis' only venture into the fantasy world. He wrote many fantasy/sci-fi short stories (that can usually be found in Lewis anthologies), and, in fact, he wrote an entire sci-fi trilogy.
Out of the Silent Planet is the first book in the trilogy, and it opens with Dr. Elwin Ransom, middle-aged philologist and Cambridge scholar, traveling the English countryside on foot as part of a walking tour of England. Alone and in the middle of the night, Ransom blunders upon two former colleagues living in a country cottage. This seemingly innocuous reunion soon turns sour, and before he knows it, Ransom is kidnapped, bundled onto a spaceship, and finds himself hurdling through deep space towards an unknown planet, for a reason his captors refuse to disclose.
Once the three scholars have landed on this planet, Ransom seizes his chance and escapes into the wilds of a world which he knows nothing about, with no rations and no notion of how to get back to earth.
Quite unlike most sci-fi novels, this book offers a richly written, unique perspective on the idea of interplanetary travel, and just what deep space, or "Deep Heaven" would be like. It focuses on the characters, the planet, and the planet's inhabitants rather than on machinery and the technology which brought the characters to that planet, which I found a refreshing deviation from most sci-fi. Also unlike most books of this genre, Out of the Silent Planet doesn't take the hostility and maliciousness of the aliens to be a given. It focuses rather on the alien peoples as a race and the possible similarities between the alien race and humanity. Indeed, in truly Lewis fashion, this perspective of the alien race provides us with a lens through which to view our own race. What major differences between the two races that Lewis does include are written in a fresh way. It's a nice change from George Orwell style sci-fi.
The only warnings I would provide before starting the book is that if you're not one for extensive description, you might want to read cautiously. Lewis, in creating this new world, often goes to great lengths in describing it. Generally this isn't an issue, as the description of the scenery flows well with the story, but it can be lengthy and somewhat slow in places. It's also good to keep in mind that Lewis was a Christian man, and most of his works reflect that. This book isn't what I would call "overtly" Christian, but it's not hard to see the Christian influence, and, indeed, the main character is a Christian. However, it's nothing like what one encounters in Narnia -- this series is NOT an allegory in any fashion.
Peppered with wit and wisdom and beautiful prose, this book is a definite must for any C.S. Lewis enthusiast, and a great starting place for those who are new to his work. The writing and the narrative are approachable and easy to pick up, while still managing to give the reader something to hang their hat on.
Out of the Silent Planet is the first book in the trilogy, and it opens with Dr. Elwin Ransom, middle-aged philologist and Cambridge scholar, traveling the English countryside on foot as part of a walking tour of England. Alone and in the middle of the night, Ransom blunders upon two former colleagues living in a country cottage. This seemingly innocuous reunion soon turns sour, and before he knows it, Ransom is kidnapped, bundled onto a spaceship, and finds himself hurdling through deep space towards an unknown planet, for a reason his captors refuse to disclose.
Once the three scholars have landed on this planet, Ransom seizes his chance and escapes into the wilds of a world which he knows nothing about, with no rations and no notion of how to get back to earth.
Quite unlike most sci-fi novels, this book offers a richly written, unique perspective on the idea of interplanetary travel, and just what deep space, or "Deep Heaven" would be like. It focuses on the characters, the planet, and the planet's inhabitants rather than on machinery and the technology which brought the characters to that planet, which I found a refreshing deviation from most sci-fi. Also unlike most books of this genre, Out of the Silent Planet doesn't take the hostility and maliciousness of the aliens to be a given. It focuses rather on the alien peoples as a race and the possible similarities between the alien race and humanity. Indeed, in truly Lewis fashion, this perspective of the alien race provides us with a lens through which to view our own race. What major differences between the two races that Lewis does include are written in a fresh way. It's a nice change from George Orwell style sci-fi.
The only warnings I would provide before starting the book is that if you're not one for extensive description, you might want to read cautiously. Lewis, in creating this new world, often goes to great lengths in describing it. Generally this isn't an issue, as the description of the scenery flows well with the story, but it can be lengthy and somewhat slow in places. It's also good to keep in mind that Lewis was a Christian man, and most of his works reflect that. This book isn't what I would call "overtly" Christian, but it's not hard to see the Christian influence, and, indeed, the main character is a Christian. However, it's nothing like what one encounters in Narnia -- this series is NOT an allegory in any fashion.
Peppered with wit and wisdom and beautiful prose, this book is a definite must for any C.S. Lewis enthusiast, and a great starting place for those who are new to his work. The writing and the narrative are approachable and easy to pick up, while still managing to give the reader something to hang their hat on.
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