Review of "Hothouse" by Brian Aldiss

It would be interesting to begin this review with the number of what-ifs Brian Aldiss based his novel Hothouse on, hyper-greenhouse effects, locked planetary rotations, sentient flora, etc.  But by doing so, all of the hardcore science-fiction junkies would go running the other way.  “That’s not possible.”, “It could never happen that way.”, “That’s not sci-fi.”, etc. And all of these comments would be true; Hothouse is fantasy through and through, and approached from any other direction will only lead to complaints and disappointment.

Aldiss obviously relaxed and wanting to have a little fun, Hothouse is a simplistic yet strangely beautiful tale of a group of humans living in the super-flora that has covered the side of the Earth facing the sun.  The far-future planet no longer rotating, the half exposed to the dying sun’s radiation has evolved significantly.  Vegetation and insect life have taken on innumerable fantastic and sentient forms in the greenhouse jungle, and humans, now smaller and greener, have been reduced to a middling role in the food chain.  The jungle canopy and Ground too dangerous, small human tribes eke out an existence amongst the branches.  Life as predator and prey not always easy, tigerflies, trappersnappers, vegbirds, and the plethora of other fantastic creatures fill the tale. 

The setting the real main character, Aldiss allows the reader little personal knowledge of the characters involved.  Tone half-myth/half-fairy tale, focus is on the movement of a particular tribe, including Gren, Lily-yo, and Yattmur.  Tinted in the most simplistic yet human of colors, many die easily encountering the exigencies of the hyper-jungle.  As such, readers looking for empathetic characters would do best to steer away from Hothouse.  Though an adventuresome tale with a climax is told, Aldiss never loses focus on humanity’s position in the larger scope of life.

Like Helliconia, Hothouse is redolent with Gaian themes.  Humanity continually subject to the elements, Aldiss never paints a pretty picture of survival in his jungled Earth.  Every step presents a new danger as the winds of fate push and pull the small tribe’s fragile existence beyond its control.  Choices never easy, the conclusion of the novel wraps up things in surprisingly affecting fashion given the light tone that permeates the story.  Real insight into the relativity of human nature, the final page makes the book worth the while.  

A certain playfulness flitting through the story, at times Aldiss relaxes a little too much, allowing the story to move beyond the scope laid out at the book’s outset.  The last third in particular sees the unnecessary introduction of characters and scenes that could have been done without and the story’s message still rung true, not to mention been better structured regarding the overall timeline.  Those looking for a dearth of the fantastic will not be disappointed by the imaginative digression, however.  

In the end, Hothouse is an exotic adventure that, if approached any other way, cannot be enjoyed.  Any examination of the hard-science backing the story will fall quickly apart.  Somewhere between myth and fairy tale, the story is set in a fantastical jungle that imagines the Earth taken over by vegetation, the sun’s radiation mutating and evolving plant life into a wide variety of forms, placid to carnivorous.  Aldiss’s imaginative scope—the land, the style of life, and the sentient flora—will stick in the reader’s mind after the book is finished, and is in fact the main reason to read the book.  A cross between the anthropological side of Ursula Le Guin’s fantasy and the outright imagination of Jack Vance’s, fans of either author should enjoy Aldiss’s light but highly creative story. 

Review of "The Stars My Destination" by Alfred Bester

Alfred Bester cut his teeth on the comic book floor.  But after gaining a degree of success writing for the likes of Superman, Green Lantern, and The Phantom, he tried his hand at novel form.  His first attempt in 1953, The Demolished Man, was well received and won awards, leading him to write several more, including Tiger! Tiger! in 1956.  (For reasons known, it would also be named The Burning Spear, and later for reasons unknown, The Stars My Destination, which is the name it is currently best known by.)  The speed of action, plot devices, and visual qualities of the book all stemming from Bester’s early career, The Stars My Destination’s foundational elements are nevertheless something more mature, the morals and message anything but black and white, blip or blam.

Not of the overtly simplistic variety, the ethical compass of The Stars My Destination bears more in common with The Watchmen, The Punisher, or Christopher Nolan’s recent film adaptations of Batman than the raw good and evil commonly associated with the likes of Spiderman and Superman.  The moral viewpoints of Bester’s futuristic universe not readily identifiable, the hero is, in fact, an anti-hero.  

Gully Foyle, indolent and dull-witted, is a space mechanic third class, waiting for rescue while stranded in a ship floating in space.  When would-be rescuers in the Vorga intentionally ignore his rescue flares, Foyle swears revenge on the crew, filthy revenge.  The desire for vengeance shaking him from the doldrums of existence, every molecule of Foyle’s brain thereafter comes afire in an attempt to escape the stranded vessel and wreak havoc on the Vorga.  The path Foyle subsequently burns across the universe make him participant to events he could not have imagined.  From the tiger tattooing on his face to suddenly holding the fate of Earth in his hand, the story unfolds in a fashion no reader can predict.  

Numerous reviews have deemed The Stars My Destination a sci-fi analog to Dumas’ classic tale of revenge, The Count of Monte Christo.  The similarity superficial, little resembles the other upon deeper investigation.  Yes, revenge is a strong motif in Stars, but it is not the driving force of the novel.  Likewise, Foyle’s path of vengeance may echo the Count’s step-by-step, but only in the first half.  The second spins him in a new direction, the stakes moved beyond simple killing.  Lastly, Dumas never casts the Count’s motives into doubt; his actions are portrayed as morally justifiable throughout.  Bester, on the other hand, slowly uncovers a larger ethical picture, in turn clouding Foyle’s logic of revenge and rendering a more engaging story in the process.  For a more straight-forward sci-fi parallel to Dumas’ classic, try Jack Vance’s The Demon Princes.  As for Bester’s book, better analogies are available.

If Philip K. Dick ever wrote a graphic novel, it would have been The Stars My Destination.  The telepaths, synesthesia, teleportation (called ‘jaunting’ by Bester), character focus over detailed technology, relatively bleak view of future society, not to mention the slippery nature of Foyle’s reality, all speak to Dick’s favorite motifs.  Bester a better writer stylistically, the comic book aspects he adds include vigorous dialogue, brisk pacing, loose but effective scene setting, and perhaps most tellingly, a certain skill Foyle acquires late in the novel.  The dark mood hanging over the story and Foyle’s immoral behavior push the analogy into graphic novel status.

In the end, The Stars My Destination is a unique work that has aged well in the half-century since its publication.  While written in the Golden Era spirit of sci-fi, it nevertheless contains numerous elements that defy a clean, sterile vision of the future.  Basic plot, imagery, and frenetic narrative pacing in line with graphic novel presentation, there remain aspects to the story and character development that are darker and more mature in style, particularly regarding the motivation to live, dissemination of knowledge, and humanity’s potential.  Foyle far from a superhero, his actions are base at best, and give the story an edge that later writers like William Gibson and Bruce Sterling would latch onto when imagining the future.  Opposite the spiffy-clean version of Clarke’s future, Stars does not portray mankind in all its glory, just like its protagonist may be the world’s hero or its demise.

As a side note, the introduction by Neil Gaiman to the 2005 printing--pictured above--is so terrible it deserves mention.  Utterly the most pretentious load of crap any writer has ever produced in an attempt to pay homage to a book they admire, it seems Gaiman feels he can write anything and get away with it.  Not hyperbole, it is an unfocused, jarring, half-finished, hack effort lacking cognition that thankfully ends after a few paragraphs.  Skip it if you want to start the novel on the right foot.)

Review of "Shah Jahan: The Rise and Fall of the Mughal Emperor" by Fergus Nicoll

The vast majority of human history is a relatively monotonous affair and does not make for interesting reading for most people.  Hunting and gathering, living in smoky wooden huts, even going to work day-in and day-out at a company simply can’t get antennas buzzing.  There are brief flashes in history, however, which are quite the opposite.  Aflame with drama and social pyrotechnics to the point events seem surreal, the life of Shah Jahan is one such existence.  Fergus Nicoll captures all of its fleeting glory in his 2009 Shah Jahan: The Rise and Fall of the Mughal Emperor.

Existing at a time when bloodline was only the starting point for determining monarchial ascendance, Shah Jahan warred for the throne amongst his brothers like his, and his father’s fathers, before him.  Primogeniture acquired by force, the Mughal era was a constant bloody feud at the top.  It was also an era of unprecedented wealth in Indian history.  Europe’s kings and queens of the time living in poverty by comparison, the amounts of silks, women, jewels, gold, elephants, lands, etc. available to a Mughal lord was lavish to say the least, the limits of mortality seemingly the only thing separating them from gods.  Mix luxurious parades, palaces, and harems with assassination attempts, court intrigue, and a tumultuous political scene, and the flickering flame that was Shah Jahan’s life takes on a dramatic hue few men in history can boast of.

Riding the fence between the dry lands of formal report and the greener lands of infotainment, Fergus Nichol’s biography of the Mughal emperor is approachable by all.  Fully supported by facts and documentation (there is a 18 page ‘works cited’ section), the narrative is nevertheless structured to focus on the less docile aspects of Jahan’s life.   Using the larger social and political context of the time, all of the major events of the Shah’s life are foreshadowed in appropriate detail, followed by active description.  The book only 250 pages, Nichol does not describe the day to day life of the emperor, his family, or his kingdom except when necessary.  Events and story the focus, readers seeking a detailed account of the Mughals should look elsewhere.  With its beautiful packaging, including color imagery, family trees, and textual excerpts from historical documents, the book is intended to be perused for enjoyment, not studied.

Nichol first sets the scene with the history of Jahan’s forefathers and the bloodshed and vice that accompanied their rises to power up to the time of Jahan’s birth.  The young man’s life is then traced from being anointed next-in-line to patricidal outcast.  Eventually taking the throne, the amount of wealth at Jahan’s disposal not only shapes the Taj Mahal and Peacock Throne, but ultimately leads to his downfall, all facts related in appropriate stages by Nichol.  Gaps do exist, but again, the book is intended to be read for pleasure not as a complete survey.

Prince, general, chosen one, outcast, father, rebel, husband, emperor, and prisoner are only some of the titles Kharrum Shah Jahan held in his life.  Wholly human despite the extra-ordinary position he occupied, his virtues and vices are all relayed in an objective tone that leaves the reader with an appropriate measure of empathy reading his fate.  Jahan’s love for his second wife capable of being as warm as his blood was cold toward his brothers, Shah Jahan’s life is markedly human despite the supermarket tabloid surface.

In the end, Fergus Nichol’s Shah Jahan: The Rise and Fall of the Mughal Emperor is an epic-styled biography that covers the important landmarks of Shah Jahan’s life, rebel to the throne to prisoner of the throne.  Given the position Jahan occupied and the social mores of the era regarding royal ascendancy, his story is anything but boring.  The blood and betrayal, honor and love, all set against the backdrop of one of the most gaudy and extravagant dynasties to rule India, makes for imaginative reading not unlike a novel.  Knowing, however, that the story is taken from history and not daytime television only renders the tale all the more powerful; lessons remain to be learned.

Review of "Barrayar" by Lois McMaster Bujold

Having read and enjoyed Lois McMaster Bujold’s The Curse of Chalion for its quality prose and strong if not traditional storytelling, I thought to delve into her (arguably) more famous sci-fi work, specifically her ongoing Vorkosigan series.  I read Barrayar, her Hugo and Locus Award winning novel from 1991.  Though an attempt was made to include tropes less commonly used in sci-fi, the overall pedestrian nature of the storytelling and ho-hum prose left more to be desired.  Comparing the novel to Hyperion, the previous non-Bujold winner of the Hugo, an immense gap can be seen in quality.

Seemingly written by a different author, the only element The Curse of Chalion and Barrayar have common is their fairy tale undertones; rainbows and flowers for all at the end.  Otherwise, the flowing, relaxed prose that buoyed Curse is nowhere to be found in Barrayar.  Events, emotions, and thoughts related fast and terse, scenes move quickly with little attention paid to connecting background elements of the story’s reality.  Likewise, there is not the same quality of storytelling.  Though fairy tale through and through, Curse had an original plot device which Bujold slowly unpacked to the novel’s benefit.  Evil lords, altruistic heroes, royal kidnappings, blaster fights, space ship crashes, daring escape plans—all related in less than subtle fashion, Barrayar instead reads like a technical manual of DIY sci-fi.

Points should be awarded for intent, however.  Bujold does try to include themes less typical of the genre, including inequality of gender, sexual abuse of minors, pollution, sexual taboos, handicap discrimination, military brainwashing, abortion, capital punishment, and perhaps most of all, the inhumanity of biological warfare.  Book after book has been written on the ethics of these subjects, but Bujold donates only a paragraph or two to each amidst action and plot development.  One of the themes may culminate the story, but overall each attempt at literary dignity receives such light treatment that it’s difficult to think of Barrayar as being a thematically charged, and therefore serious work.  Random and digressive stabs at theme do not automatically make a work poignant, the attempt failed.

Character orientation as overt as can be, suffice say there’s not a spot of gray amongst the people populating Barrayar.  Darth Vadar re-clothed takes on the role of villain in less than spectacular form while the hero Cordelia simultaneously knows the latest fashions and how to kick ass, a super rigid stick of morality driven straight up her… all the while.  The pity card played and played hard, several important characters beg for sympathy based on their various predicaments and physical problems.  The forced, less-than-natural feel Bujold imbues their situations with serves to pull the emotional punch rather than allow the reader feel any strong sense of empathy, however.  Making all of this worse is that the dozen main players are introduced at breakneck speed in the first twenty pages, a paragraph each of description, not a moment existing for the reader to catch their breath and let events and dialogue cement an image of them individually. 

In the end, Barrayar is run of the mill genre fiction with an attempt at moral profundity.  The storytelling feels a result of a do-it-yourself sci-fi kit, all subtle emotion drained in the process—despite the intent obviously being the opposite.  In fact, replacing the main characters’ names with Luke, Leia, and Han Solo and the book very easily could have been a Star Wars spin-off.  With its kings and regents, coups and regal assignation attempts, evil lords and lightships, space opera needs no better example.  Suffice to say, anytime the reader encounters a character “replying tartly”, they should be wary…

Review of "The Left Hand of Darkness" by Ursula Le Guin

Given science fiction’s near infinite palette of available colors, it was bound to happen one day.  Thankfully, Ursula Le Guin was the one.  The idea: androgynous humans.  Winner of several awards, the social significance of science fiction has never had a stronger proponent than The Left Hand of Darkness, the meaning of gender never so relevant to mankind.

In the book, Genly Ai is an envoy sent to the planet Gethen to convince the nation of Karrhide to join Earth’s Ekumen (a politically neutral organization supporting the dissemination of knowledge, culture, and commerce).  What he encounters are the native Gethens, an androgynous people who go into kemmer once a month, physically adapting to the features of any mate they encounter during that time.  Mixed up in the local politics is Estraven, a Gethen Genly meets as part of his inter-planetary task, and the two subsequently become embroiled in a fiasco that has strong social and political consequences for Karrhide.  Events threatening to spin out of control, no diplomat has perhaps ever faced such unique and intriguing circumstances.

While political turmoil motivates the plot in umbrella fashion, the majority of the novel’s tension arises from Genly’s coming to terms with an asexual humanity.  Unsure whether to be repulsed or attracted by their neuter form, his encounters with Gethens and time spent with Estraven open many questions into the manner in which he, and subsequently the reader, perceive gender.  The effect that gender neutrality has on society likewise poses a number of profound and difficult situations for Genly to overcome if he is to perform his duty as an envoy properly.  After all, when a king is able to go on maternity leave, a whole new mindset regarding life is necessary.

The setting, while understated, is a hugely important aspect of The Left Hand of Darkness.  The planet experiencing an ice age, cold dominates life.  Researching Scott and Amundsen’s South Pole travails before writing her novel, Le Guin infuses a strong sense of the Antarctic into the story.  Atypical yet attractive sci-fi material, the trip Genly takes across a frozen wasteland is particularly well drawn, the cold creeping into the reader’s fingers holding the book.  That the unending winter acts as a symbolic representation of the homogeneity inherent to Gethen gender shows a melding of substance and setting, a fine literary touch from Le Guin.   

Another important aspect of the novel are the descriptions of Gethen belief.  Added in the form of epigraphs and chapter interludes, the reader not only develops an understanding of the Gethen mindset, but a more knowledgeable perception of the contrast between Genly and the natives’ view of relationships, individual to societal.  Hovering between religion and philosophy, these pieces flesh out the culture in a manner Confucius or Laozi would appreciate, Le Guin exhibiting her subtle, philosophical side in the process.

In the end, The Left Hand of Darkness, with its social, political, and gender concerns, is one of the most important science fiction works ever written.  A thought experiment in the vein of another great Le Guin book, The Dispossessed, The Left Hand of Darkness explores human behavior and perspective in a familiar human but alien sexual environment easily imagined thanks to the descriptive prose.  The plot device of androgynous humans possible only in sci-fi, Le Guin takes further advantage of the genre by detailing a coldly beautiful setting, a planet’s ice age in full swing.  Political intrigue (a la Greene or Le Carre) mixed with strong social commentary, the novel is more than enjoyable reading.  Highly recommended.

Review of "The Quiet American" by Graham Greene

Graham Greene may be one of the godfathers of the modern international spy novel.  But beyond entertainment, what allows his work to still be read today is the degree to which the personal and spiritual are tied into real-world political situations.  Prophetic beyond perhaps even he imagined, Greene’s 1955 The Quiet American is the story of the United States government poking its nose into the political affairs of Vietnam—a situation already fraught with French occupancy.  Many Americans were incensed upon the book’s publishing in the US, but Greene’s crystal ball vision has only come into sharper focus in the time since.  His portrayal of a flawed individual involved in this circumstance only makes the affair more poignant.

The Quiet American is the story of an ageing British journalist, named Thomas Fowler, living in Saigon and covering the war between the French and Vietnamese.  Despite being dedicated to his job, he is an opium user and keeps a young Vietnamese woman named Phuong as a lover unbeknownst to his wife in Britain.  In the course of reporting, Fowler runs across a young American living in the city.  An upper-class intellectual, Pyle seems innocent enough on the surface, but mysterious events soon begin taking shape, and when Pyle lays claim to Phuong, Fowler decides to use his credentials to dig deeper into the deepening political tension surrounding the man.  What he finds does not make the decisions that come any easier.

Though the novel operates in the mode of international thriller, Greene keeps the story at a personal level.  Fowler’s life is not easy, and his personal choices don’t help.  The uncertainty of having a job, drug use, adultery, and the chaos of war hanging on the fringes serve to weight his shoulders more than the average man’s—even basking in his own dark mood at times.  The novel’s conclusion nothing of the happy-go-lucky type, Fowler does find a measure of peace, but not without the addition of new problems.  Greene’s ability to mix this personal with the political has rightfully kept the novel’s head above water in the half-century that has passed since its publishing and is ultimately the reason its political commentary impresses both the reader’s heart and brain.

Greene’s portrayal of Pyle is not exactly the aristocratic, Harvard-educated person the average American envisions.  His motives set at a fundamentally ideological level, the reasons behind his existence in Vietnam exemplify the idea of morally gray.   Fowler himself not the most virtuous of people, the two characters’ storylines intertwine and evolve in wholly realistic fashion.  Knowing their exploits have not been idealized to manipulate reader’s emotions, the reading thus becomes a more engaging experience.  

In the end, The Quiet American, though short, has everything a good novel should.  Realistic main characters motivated by an equally realistic plot (especially given the history that has transpired since), all in lean, focused, well-written prose.  That Greene is able to effectively mix personal values with commentary upon the political motivation of an ambitious government pushes the novel toward being one of the best of the 20th century.  It is Vietnam War discussion before there was a war, and commentary on every major war in the Middle East that has occurred since, and worth a read.

(As a side note, Phillip Noyce’s 2002 film adaptation of The Quiet American is commendable.  While some plot elements are changed to fit the medium, the quality of Michael Caine’s performance is stunning.  Brendan Fraser’s role as Pyle may not win any awards, but the film’s overall cinematographic mood well captures the feel of Greene’s novel.  Worse adaptations existing, this one comes recommended, just not as a pure version of the novel.)

Review of "Rising '44: The Battle for Warsaw" by Norman Davies

His wife from the country and the two owning a home there in addition to a residence in Britain, Poland is once again the setting of a Norman Davies’ book.  But where God’s Playground and Poland, Past and Present survey the history of Polish culture (must be ‘culture’ as for significant time periods no country existed) from various perspectives, Rising ’44: The Battle for Warsaw focuses on a two month event that occurred in Warsaw toward then end of WWII.  Germany feeling the effects of its losses on other warfronts around the world, in mid-1944 the underground Polish remaining in Warsaw saw hope that their city could be reclaimed and staged a rebellion to coincide with the arrival of their allies, the mighty Soviet Red Army.  The outcome of the situation could only have been more tragic for those who lived through it.

Davies divides Rising ’44 into three sections: stage setting, the uprising itself, and the aftermath.  Rather than attempting to outlay the players and game board in linear fashion, Davies opts to divide the first section into three parts: the Germans, the Russians, and the Poles and their allies.  Each group is introduced, their goals outlined, and status set at the time just preceding the rebellion.  Having the effect of three roads converging at an intersection, the uprising bursts from the text in affective detail at the start of the second section.  

Based on the amount of data included, trivial to vital, Davies and his team examined all available records related to the plight of the native Poles and Jews in hiding in Warsaw in the summer of 1944.  Their underground routed through a network of sewers and tunnels, the Poles—with promised but limited assistance from British, Russian, and American allies—maintained their position with guerilla warfare throughout the war, using and salvaging the most basic of weapons.  The Germans never able to fully exterminate them, in August and September that year the Poles switched into full attack mode in the belief their Russian allies arriving on the city’s doorstep would step in and help.  The final section of the book deals with the aftermath of this battle, in particular the state of Polish society and politics from the end of the rebellion until now.  

For those with more than background knowledge of WWII, the opening section can be skipped as many other books offer more exhaustive detail about the movement and mindset of allied and axis powers during the war prior to 1944.  The Warsaw Uprising itself, however, is not to be missed.  The focus of the book, Davies brings it to life in both touching and graphic detail.  Diaries, official documents, written accounts, and verbal histories are all used toward painting a picture of what life was like for the Poles living and hiding in the city, not to mention fighting to reclaim it.  The food shortages, transportation methods, weapons training, communication with the outside world, even a media network are described as they affected events that transpired.  The Germans only mostly portrayed as ruthless oppressors, many of the individual stories involving interaction between the two sides are emotional and transcend scholarly accounts of history.

Davies’ writing, as usual, strikes a middle ground between cut and dry facts and engaging prose.  Confidently and consistently expressed, the uprising comes to life beneath the author’s pen.  What also comes to life is an acknowledged agenda.  Aside from the main goal of bringing attention to the details of the uprising, another of Davies’ goals in Rising ’44, is to emphasize the negative effects of Stalinism.  Not as subtle as the information related in his Europe: A History, Davies’ version of the Warsaw Uprising condemns Soviet involvement in the situation every bit as much as the Nazi’s.  The aftermath section in particular contains specific examples tailored to highlight the atrocities the Soviet “allies” committed against the Poles during and after the war.  Soviet realpolitik not garnering the attention of Nazism has in the half-century since, Rising ’44 makes further inroads toward bringing to light the darker side of Stalin’s regime.

In the end, Rising ’44 is informative and engaging reading for those interested in the history of Poland and WWII.  While the earlier Europe: A History saw Davies riding on the coattails of previous research, Rising ’44 shows the historian and his team more than capable of doing their homework.  The two month window in the history of Warsaw during WWII is examined from many angles and with specific details.  Though biases against the Nazis and Soviets are undisguised, the text suffers none for it.  An emotionally engaging history of the people living beneath the streets of Warsaw and their rebellion against oppression, this is one of Davies’ best works, the quality of human stories that emerge from the chaos worth the price, alone.

Review of "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

At random moments there are books that appear, so powerfully unique, they seem to occupy a stratus unto themselves.  Dante’s Inferno, Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Cervantes’ Don Quixote, and a variety of others have all made permanent marks on the history of literature.  Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 1967 One Hundred Years of Solitude is another such book.  The language engrossingly brilliant, images strikingly exotic, and cultural backdrop pertinent to both the author’s native land and humanity as a whole, nothing could make a novel greater.  Some may balk at the magic-realist aura that not only infuses the story but buoys the language, but for those willing to give in to its spell, the power and beauty are overwhelming.

One Hundred Years of Solitude is both literature and art.  A direct result of Marquez’s refined talent, the imagery of the novel is surreal in appearance and dreamlike in movement.  A pioneer of magic-realism, events of the novel seem bizarre on the surface but drive with a deeper purpose the closer one examines the symbolism in the tropes.  Marquez’s manner of expression may have free rein, but always theme remains the focus.  (As a side note, I can only imagine that Spanish, with its inherent lyrical quality, must be a more pleasurable medium in which to read the novel.)

A mix of the tragic and comedic (in Greek terms), One Hundred Years of Solitude faithfully adheres to a historical cycle of triumph and failure.  In short, the plot does not follow the standard story arc.  A critical account, Marquez parallels Columbian history with seven generations of the Buendia family in semi-linear fashion, the exploits of the characters involved stories unto themselves.  The vision of a glass city appearing, the book opens with Jose Arcadia Buendia founding the town of Macondo and starting a family in accordance with the sign.  Things go well at first; his wife Ursula gives birth to a handful of children and the town develops healthily around them. But after a time, the joyful expansion hits some rough patches.  Periodic misfortunes begin striking the town and its inhabitants, the Buendia family itself seemingly hit hardest.  But survive they do, and five additional generations of the family evolve throughout the novel, each more strange and different from the last in telling the allegorical tale of Columbia’s evolution.

A sure mark of a writer’s quality is their ability to infuse language and theme, as well as stamp the material in their own personal style.  Marquez does all of this.  Language already discussed, the extra-ordinary imagery and fantastical happenings of the Buendia family are related in a tone that is the author’s own—the voice of a natural storyteller.  Time moving in zig-zag fashion, pace never slows from beginning to end.  Marquez shows himself in complete control of the narrative, the virtues and vice of the Buendia—family sad, amusing, touching, and anything but typical as he leads the reader on a journey through the meaning of time, cultural isolation, and cycles of history.

In the end, there are many books which contain brilliant language.  Austen’s Pride and Prejudice has been passed through 200 years of history thanks to the superb quality of its writing.  But appearances can be deceiving.  The jeweled dialogue of Liza and Mr. Darcy blinds readers to the book’s aristocratic values and fairy tale structure.  One Hundred Years of Solitude has all the beauty of language and more.  There is a strong sense of purpose—of substance—innate to the story that strikes at something deeper in the human soul.  No other political and social history of a country has been presented in such rich, magical, and haunting form.  The view through the kaleidoscope mesmerizing, Columbia has never before been viewed in such colors, and perhaps never will, rendering the book a masterpiece for the ages. 

Review of "Pushing Ice" by Alastair Reynolds

Imagine a person, their heart set on a steak.  They go to the shop, buy a hunk of meat and throw it on the grill.  But just as the juices start sizzling, they decide they’re rather have a salad.  It’s a sunny day, why not something light.  But in the middle of cutting the lettuce, the sudden desire for tomato soup hits them, and out comes the big pot and garlic—no wait, dessert first…  And so on.  You now have the basic plot structure of Alastair Reynold’s 2005 Pushing Ice.  The ideas half-baked, a meal is never served.  Exposition on near-future tech, character feuds, cryogenics, FTL, a murder mystery, time shifts—each follow one on top of another but never congeal into a larger purpose.  What happened to plot?  What was my goal? Inter-character conflict or First Contact?  I’ve waded in so deep I  forget...  Oh well, I’ll just throw in some watermelon seeds with a space chase and see what happens…

I want to like Reynolds, I really do.  Similar to David Brin, Greg Egan, and Greg Bear, he’s an idea guy, and I like idea guys.  However, like Vernor Vinge he doesn’t have that natural touch of a writer or storyteller.  Chasm City and The Prefect hopefully not sucking Reynolds dry of talent, most of his works lack an adhesive, a glue—that writer-ly something—that ties a story together and gives it substance and impact.  But enough horseplay: what went wrong in Pushing Ice?

The book starts on firm footing.  It’s near future and mankind has developed the tech to reach and mine comets.  The ship Grasshopper has locked down another for drilling and blasting, when they receive a call from headquarters telling them that one of Saturn’s moons has come out of orbit and is now headed across our universe, pieces of ice sloughing off to expose a Death Star-esque superstructure beneath.  In amazingly ho-hum fashion, the Grasshopper, led by Captain Bella Lind, sets off in pursuit.  Ahh, space chase you say; I know what that is.  When Chief Engineer Svetlana finds suspicious data regarding the speed of Saturn’s “moon” and is rebutted reporting it to Captain Lind, you say: “I know that, too!  That’s called: character conflict!”  Unfortunately, from this point onward all sense of familiarity is lost—and not in a good way.  

Irregular and unnatural, the number of sub-plots and storylines Reynolds chooses to slap onto Pushing Ice amounts to a plate of spaghetti with ice cream and frogs legs.  Cryogenics, first contact, nano-forging, big dumb objects, alien linguistics, and other major sci-fi tropes take their turns, randomly occupying center stage.  If any of these devices were interwoven into plot or characterization to build toward a larger goal, then all would be understandable.  But that they work alone, discarded as necessary, leaves character and dialogue as disposable and wooden as can be.  Little coheres into an umbrella concept, the overall integrity of the novel suffering, as such.

For example, Reynolds fills multiple pages with characters figuring out the dials and buttons on a foreign space suit.  Is this knowledge later used for any of the characters’ benefit? No.  To spring a plot twist?  No.  Is it original, a space suit like no other writer of sci-fi has ever imagined?  No.  (It speaks English.)  Why then go into the detail?  As a result of this and many other useless digressions, the book is bloated with empty text that points to the fact the novel has no single driving purpose.  Is it a character examination?  A plot driven story?  A thought experiment on first contact?  Sadly, it is none.  

And the writing, well, let me be brief and give an example of how telling is so much worse than showing.  This is an actual sample from Pushing Ice:

            Bella thought about that for a few paces. “How long do you think that had been up there?”

            “How should I know?”

            “I was asking for your opinion, that’s all.”

            Christine’s defenses cracked.  She let out a quiet sigh, as if she had decided to finally stop being obstructive and there was a kind of relief in that.

That, my friends, is immature style; thanks for directly telling us the temper of Christine’s thoughts and working a major emotional change into a few words.  Suffice to say, good writers are more subtle.

A question remains: if dialogue and behavior cannot be counted on to portray character personality, what can?  Pop-culture references, of course.  T-shirt slogans and music files (all pre-21st century—a strange coincidence) are a device Reynolds uses to inform readers of his characters’ traits.  “I’ve got one nerve left and your standing on it.” is the slogan printed on Bella’s t-shirt at one point in the book.  On top of being extremely anachronistic (I mean, really; couldn’t Reynolds have had a touch more imagination to fill the media gap between now and the time the novel is set?  Take a look at Stand on Zanzibar or Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology if you want to see a writer imaginatively examining the possibilities for future entertainment.), the reader’s intelligence is insulted.  Surely there must be better tricks to impart knowledge of a character.  And I won’t even go into the obvious politically-correct casting of blacks, Asians, and whites from various European backgrounds;  at times it’s like a Wal-mart ad for home appliances. 

I don’t normally write reviews so wild in tone, but I simply don’t know how else to address Pushing Ice.  It was an extreme struggle to finish.  Nothing congealed.  The characters did not behave like normal humans.  The sci-fi tropes—aliens, big dumb objects, futuristic tech, etc.—all were dealt with in ho-hum fashion.  “Hey Joe, the first aliens humanity has ever encountered are approaching.”  “Oh yeah, I think I’ll go get some breakfast.”  There are many other sci-fi writers that have gone in-depth into these tropes in far more interesting detail.  Read an Arthur C. Clarke novel and you’ll find the same cardboard engineer characters, but at least you are grabbed by an idea that is unwrapped for all of its potential with an interesting plot.  Pushing Ice, on the other hand, contains numerous half-baked ideas and tense moments that never add up to anything.  There are also cheap plot tricks (super-secret secrets teasing readers), but are disappointments when revealed.  The scope is set epic, but the novel feels more like a cracker barrel mix of whatever sci-fi trope happened to cross Reynold’s mind at the moment.  Everything that makes a novel good suffers for it, the meal never served.