Review of "Dr. Bloodmoney" by Philip K. Dick

Based on the overwhelming success of The Man in theHigh Castle, Philip K. Dick set about writing another alternate history/future.  Choosing the Cold War as its crux, he imagined a US wherein the post-WWII threat of nuclear catastrophe manifests itself.  Dr. Bloodmoney: Or How We Got Along After the Bomb is the (conveniently sub-titled) result.  

Having a few main elements in common with that first big success, most of the characteristics of Dr. Bloodmoney set it apart.  The Man in the High Castle being wholly realist save the alternate history aspect, Dr. Bloodmoney finds Dick taking a realist narrative and slowly blending in more and more of his typical motifs, precogs, schizophrenia, and telekinesis, building toward a surreal conclusion.  Though falling short of the earlier novel’s standard, Dr. Bloodmoney is still one of the better books in Dick’s convoluted oeuvre and worth a read.

Told in two time frames, Dr. Bloodmoney opens innocently enough.  Stuart McConchie stands on the street, sweeping the walk in front of the shop where he sells TVs.  Observing the life around him, all seems normal in the San Francisco of 1992.  Slowly and confidently, more characters in the city are introduced, including Hoppy Harrington, an armless, legless man who possesses unnatural skills with technology, as well as the eponymous Dr. Bluthgeld, an atomic physicist who believes he’s suffering from schizophrenia.  Timeline and viewpoint rumbling like an earthquake for a chapter—a great literary touch from Dick—the bombs fall and the narrative jumps ahead seven years to life after the nuclear disaster.

Another important character is Dangerfield.  Intending to start a new life on Mars, the bombs fall just as his spaceship enters Earth’s stratosphere.  With the station that was to redirect him to Mars destroyed, he is stuck inside a rocket orbiting Earth.  In the seven years that pass, Dangerfield becomes a well-known personality, however.  His radio broadcasts of music and books are much appreciated by the scrounging and desperate quarter of the population who survive.  His mental health failing throughout the book, the culmination of Dangerfield’s story proves integral to the main storyline, as well as being one of Dick’s more affecting personalizations.

Thematically, the novel touches upon a variety of subjects, including discrimination.  Stuart being black and Hoppy handicapped, each face a variety of ridicule both before and after the bombs.  Though one can never be certain with Dick, it is possible the book is also a statement on post-WWII allied behavior.  Intentional or not, hints that victory over Hitler gave the US and Russian governments an opportunity to gobble up power before things settled are less than subtle.  (The title is another hint.)  Conspiracy theories seemingly always hanging around in the background of Dick’s stories, this suggestion has proven itself true, the US having since wittingly involved itself in a series of international fiascoes and successes, depending on perspective. 

One of the reasons The Man in the High Castle is considered Dick’s greatest work is due to its consistent development.  The realist albeit alternate history idea presented at the opening is adhered to throughout the novel and form is never broken to introduce new or paranormal elements.  Dr. Bloodmoney cannot say the same.  Like the graph of human population through time, the novel’s tone begins flat, moves steadily forward along realist terms, and escalates smoothly but sharply at the finish into a strange, wholly surreal conclusion.  While feeling natural due to the manner in which Dick develops the story, the tone of the finale nevertheless does not match the realist nature of the novel’s opening and body.  What begins a character driven examination of post-nuclear apocalypse America becomes a weird, supernatural story that may or may not confuse matters, depending on expectation.  

In the end, Dr. Bloodmoney is one of Dick’s better efforts despite its realist foundation giving way to the supernatural at the end.  The story is at least developed smoothly, characterization likewise.  The novel’s plot also moves effectively, a handful of concepts pertinent to the human condition drawn in simultaneously.  With its mix of characterization, realism, alternate history, and the supernatural, those new to the author will find worse starting points to Dick’s works, while fans will not be disappointed.

Review of "A World Apart" by Gustav Herling

Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch is the fictional story of a man living in WWII-era Russian labor camps.  Gustav Herling’s 1951 A World Apart is the real thing.  The parallels reciprocal, Herling’s book relates the details of working days in sub-zero temperatures while sharing drafty bunkrooms with weak and sick people at night in more personal and affecting fashion.  By doing so, Herling tells a story that is both depressing for the disturbing treatment of humanity by the Soviets, yet uplifting for the manner in which he pressed on despite personal suffering and the death surrounding him.

Captured as a soldier, Herling spent two-and-a-half  years living in Yertsevo, Siberia at a work camp (a gulag, or Russian concentration camp).  Death slow and painful working 10-12 hours days in the cold (compared to fast and quick in gas chambers), the vast majority who entered the gulags never left, their bodies disposed of in the spring thaw each year.  Soviet Russia establishing its political position ruthlessly, Herling’s fellow prisoners were not only POWs, but any suspected military men or member of intelligentsia captured in Poland, Ukraine, Belarus, or other neighboring countries sought by Stalin.  A means of cleansing the opposition, they were put to work, and died slowly for it.  

And it is precisely these people, the fellow prisoners, that Herling spends the majority of his memoire describing.  Characterization effective, the men and women come to life in affecting fashion that proves the quality of his prose.  His depiction of the misery and disrespect doled out to the living and dead so vivid and damning, the Soviets attempted to keep the book under wraps for decades, all the while vehemently denying the content.  With the Soviets soon to be evacuated politically from the country, it wasn’t until the ‘80s that the book saw open publishing in Herling’s native Poland.  Even places like France waited years to make the novel available to the public, despite that the first English version appeared in 1951.  

In the end, Solzhenitsyn’s novel may be read by American high school English students everywhere, but it is Gustav Herling’s A World Apart which should be the real history taught.  Life in the gulag harsh and deadly, Herling’s descriptions are related in engaging prose that never glosses over the defilement of the human spirit propagated by the Soviets.  Umpteen volumes written of Nazi travesties, Herling’s book is an important and strong entry into the field declaiming the exponentially worse evils of Stalinism.  With nearly four times the number of innocents killed during and after WWII, directly and indirectly by the dictator, A World Apart goes a long way toward exposing the reality of Soviet realpolitik.  Thus, alongside being a great piece of insider journalism, the book is not to be missed by anyone interested in post-WWII Soviet history or life in the gulags.

Review of "Wolf Totem: A Novel" by Jiang Rong

Jiang Rong was a government researcher sent to live in Inner Mongolia (a portion of Mongolia belonging to China) in the time of communism. Decades later, the difficult yet visceral life he experienced living amongst the native Mongolians and the sweeping changes he saw engulfing the traditional society inspired him to write a book. Published in 2004, a time when voices against communism were more tolerated, Wolf Totem is a moving novel of a people and culture’s existence on the Mongolian steppe, nature and the Chinese government seeking to quell their traditional spirit with every passing year.

Not subtly written, Wolf Totem is the story of the researcher Lu Jiamin and his time living in a village in Inner Mongolia to determine the area’s potential for resource extraction by the Chinese government. Suddenly immersed in horses, sheep, and yurts, Lu initially has difficulty fitting in with the native Mongolians. They are aware of his purpose and alienate him from their richly traditional culture. Slowly but surely, however, Lu works his way into the villagers’ trust and the story takes shape, his thoughts becoming conflicted in the process.

Environmentalism the theme throughout, the vast majority of Wolf Totem is an exposition on the interconnectivity of a people, their livestock, the land, and of course, the wolf packs hanging omnipresent on the fringes, threatening to steal precious life from the villagers in all forms, horse, sheep, and child. The emphasis on balance in nature, it is precisely the wolves taking of life which Jiang illustrates as propagating the larger presence of life on the steppe. What is only a temporary tragedy for the Mongolians is a nuisance needing riddance for the Chinese. Emotionally affecting, the Lu’s disposition contrasted by the vicissitudes of life closer to nature on the steppe motivates the book well.

In the end, Wolf Totem is a book strongly pertinent to a world ever globalizing. Traditional Mongolian culture threatening to be swallowed by the Chinese machine, the story of one researcher’s life amongst the herders makes for not only informative reading regarding the intricacies of their culture, but an environmental statement on the advance of globalization upon groups and communities living more in synch with nature. The quality of the writing (or perhaps, translation) is not the greatest, however, given the basic human emotions and needs driving the story, it’s difficult for the reader not to be drawn into the fundamentally human tale of survival. Recommended for anyone interested in Mongolian culture, wolves, and the anthropological and ecological aspects of globalization in less developed areas of the world.

Review of "The Gay Genius: The Life and Times of Su Tungpo" by Lin Yutang

Lin Yutang was not to know the adjective he chose to describe the most brilliant Chinese poet of the Song Dynasty would evolve in the latter half of the 20th century to have a meaning he did not intend.  It detracts in no way from the biography, however, Lin combining beautifully the poetry and life of Su Tungpo, considered by most one of the greatest poets of not only Chinese, but world history.  The word chosen due to the hardships he endured with a smile throughout his life, Su proves that neither poetry or politics turn out as you’d like them when intelligence and integrity guide your actions.

Though born and raised in the rural west of China in 1037, Su Tungpo, or as he is more commonly referred to, Su Shi, would go on to live an extraordinary life in seemingly every province and major city in China.  Poet, counselor, governor, philosopher, outcast, even gardener and Daoist quester for immortality, his ideas may seem more scattered than they truly are.  Given the quality of his writing, the enduring strength of his wisdom, and his willingness to stand up for his beliefs, when one looks deeper they find the titles appropriately given, nothing trite about the poet’s life.  Substance to the form makes for an interesting life, and in the hands of Lin, interesting reading.

One of, if not the foremost, liaison between China and the West, Lin Yutang has a way with the English language 95% of native speakers do not.  The descriptions eloquent, Lin drifts easily along the events, major and minor, of Su Shi’s life, the political context in which he lived, and the prosaic output we still enjoy today.  Though perhaps more exemplary poetry could have been included, one cannot fault Lin as his work was intended to be a biography through and through, the poet’s words translated in innumerable texts elsewhere, including Lin’s own The Importance of Understanding.  An engaging and thorough survey, Lin never falters from the first to the last page, every deed of the major figure in Chinese history presented in appropriate measure.

In the end, The Gay Genius: The Life and Times of Su Tungpo is everything a person could want in a biography.  On top of being a complete account, Lin packs the text with cultural and historical facts to give the reader proper background on a time and country relatively unfamiliar to Western minds.  The only major complaint may be that Lin’s voice is redolent throughout, but given that he is able to express himself humbly and offer a great deal of wisdom and insight into the events of the poet’s life, he can be forgiven by less exacting readers.  Plain and simple, there is no better biography of Su Shi available in English.  If you’re interested in either Chinese poetry or Song Dynasty history, the book is well worth your while.

Review of "The Book of the New Sun" by Gene Wolfe

(Note: This review is for the full Book of the New Sun, no spoilers.)

Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun, published in four separate volumes between 1981 and 1984, is much lauded amongst fans who enjoy their science fiction more literary.  (The four volumes are The Shadow of the Torturer, The Claw of the Conciliator, The Sword of the Lictor, and The Citadel of the Autarch.) Divisive for its relative opacity, there remains a very simple formula defining Wolfe’s magnum opus: take the style of James Joyce’s Ulysses, place it in a brilliantly creative sci-fi setting, and motivate with a subtle bildungsroman plot that transcends the material for the spiritual.  While potentially disagreeable on a couple of thematic fronts, the resulting tale is a landmark of imagination that proves speculative fiction can be profound literature, if more were ever needed. Thus, those seeking high-flying action, space battles and laser pistols duels, stop reading now:  The Book of the New Sun is adult literature.  

Not graphic sex or violence, it is the patience, knowledge, and insight necessary to penetrate and fully understand Wolfe’s story that make The Book of the New Sun a mature read.  On the surface lies the unusual tale of Severian, an apprentice in the guild of torturers, and his rise into adulthood and beyond.  Beneath this, however, exist multiple layers of allegorical and symbolic meaning that not only tie together what are otherwise mysterious events in Severian’s life, but also draw in events and facts from our own history to give the story a strong cultural context.  The result necessitating a re-read to unravel the interconnections and hidden messages, readers should beware that the book requires attention and effort to grasp the concepts presented—perhaps Wolfe himself the only one who comprehends its entirety.

Though set on Earth, Severian’s story occurs in the distant-distant future, the sun close to death.  The era so far removed from our own, the language Severian uses to describe the world is equally distant; the “signified” may remain the same, but the “signifier” has changed.  For example, though it is simply “the guild” to him, Severian’s description of the place he lives hints at the building being a grounded spaceship, unused for such a time its interstellar capabilities no longer have meaning.  The result of these and other detached descriptions is a world that feels wholly fantastic, not to mention a delight for the reader to uncover one puzzle piece at a time.  (As discovering which elements are futuristic and which familiar can be enjoyable or frustrating, Michael Andre-Driussi published the Lexicon Urthus to help the more ambitious understand some of the book’s tantalizing and frustrating hidden meanings.) 

Precisely in the same vein, even dialogue cannot be taken at face value.  Like any human, Severian’s descriptions and memories are wholly subjective (despite being presented as quite the opposite).  Wolfe applies the device of unreliable narrator and attentive readers will quickly realize Severian is not to be trusted.  Told in the first-person, his statements regarding the eidetic quality of his memory do not always line up with his recollection of events as time moves on.  Piecing together the truths and the lies is an obstacle to the narrative requiring concentration on the reader’s part, but remains a wholly human aspect to the story for it.  Thus, those who prefer stories in which the narrator leads the reader by the hand may withdraw in consternation confronting this aspect of the book.

Beyond literary tropes, allegory, and allusion, often left unmentioned in discussions on Wolfe is the unique quality of the imagined places, peoples, creatures, and otherwise he infuses into his stories.  The alzabo, dryads, and fiery salamander are all some of the most imaginative things (for lack of a more descriptive word) that fantasy can boast.  For readers unable to penetrate the deeper layers of the book, resting weirdly-horrifically-tantalizingly on the surface are these brilliantly effected creations to propel the story in interesting fashion.  One can almost taste the shock of Little Severian’s encounter with Baldanders in The Sword of the Lictor and feel the warm breath of the notules chasing Severian in The Claw of the Conciliator.

The writing basically flawless, it is only in theme that readers can find fault with Wolfe.  A member of the previous generation, some of the underlying motifs of The Book of the New Sun are at times difficult to swallow for readers of more liberal leanings.  The portrayal of women, for example, either as sex objects or vindictive wenches, is more indicative of the era of Wolfe’s youth than most modern perspectives.  While able to be viewed from two angles, Wolfe’s cosmological pretenses likewise present an opportunity for criticism.  The first universally spiritual, the second presents a monotheistic worldview—the underlying symbolism and interwoven religious and cultural history leaving no room for guessing which god Wolfe is discussing.  And so while Severian’s coming to terms with his emotional and spiritual stance on the world—his rise to self-actualization—is an edifying experience for the reader, there remains a touch of proselytizing that may put some readers off.  The bits of chauvinism and misogyny, however, are sure to disconcert more.

In the end, The Book of the New Sun is one of the best pieces science fantasy has produced from a literary standpoint, despite its dissymmetry with today’s ideologies.  Comparisons to Joyce’s Ulysses are astute, as reading the four volume book is not a straightforward experience.  Allegory, symbolism, along with an unreliable narrator, imbue the story, making it more often a puzzle than a yarn in spite of the linear, first-person narrative presentation.  Comprehensible on the surface, re-reading is required to fully understand how background story elements fit together.  Thematic leanings not fully in line with the current era’s, zealous liberals may be put off by Wolfe’s beliefs.  The quality and quantity of imagination, however, may be enough to satisfy the more principled.  The quality of prose, characterization, setting, and the creatures Severian encounters are some of the best in science-fantasy and the reason the book has won the awards it has. 

Review of "Tales of the Dying Earth" by Jack Vance

There is a variety of contexts in which a writer’s imagination can be viewed.  The profound depth of a single idea (e.g. Orwell’s 1984 or Golding’s Lord of the Flies), the degree to which a concept can be tied to the reader’s psychological, emotional, spiritual, and physical reality (e.g. Hesse’s The Glass Bead Game), the number of internal touch-points ideas have when interwoven (e.g. William Gibson’s Neuromancer), the depths of the sub-conscious plumbed (e.g. Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day), the brilliance of language (e.g. Austen’s Pride and Prejudice or Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man), details of word building (e.g. Tolkien’s Middle Earth or George R.R. Martin’s Westeros), etc., etc., are all different perspectives on judging the quality of imagination in a book.  Its imaginative scope unparalleled, Jack Vance’s Tales of the Dying Earth is as fantastic as literature gets—somewhere between literally and figuratively.

Like Don Quixote stumbling upon Alice’s Wonderland,  Jack Vance conjures some of the most fantastical and satirical of settings and events in Tales of the Dying Earth.  The scenes continually topping one another for brilliance, the collection of stories is a feast for the imagination that gets more delightful with each page turned.  The list of magicians and their fortes near the beginning of “Rhialto the Marvellous”, for example, contains more unique ideas than the works of fantasists like Eddings, Feist, and Brooks combined.  Stories that must be experienced to be believed, there is perhaps no more colorfully fantastic book in all of literature.  

Tales consists of a variety of works bound together by setting.  (This connection is tenuous at best, the universe of the mind perhaps the only fully inclusive context in which to read the Dying Earth.)  The collection opens with some of the first short stories Vance ever wrote.  Style yet to fully mature, the adventures contained in "The Dying Earth" of the magicians and their protégés nevertheless give every indication of what is to come. Cugel—thief, hero, and human in every bone—is simply the greatest rogue in literature, and the subject of the two volumes at the heart of the collection: “Eyes of the Overworld” and “Cugel’s Saga”.  Closing out the book is the collection of short stories “Rhialto the Marvellous” that, while lacking the singular antics of Cugel, nevertheless up the ante imaginatively and close the collection as a whole in style and grace.  

Picaresque as picaresque can be, each of the stories, novel length or less, are imbued with a sense of enjoyment that shows Vance fully capable of bringing a smile to the reader’s face while telling an absorbing tale.  A master wordsmith, dialogue—Vance’s forte—will either put readers off for reasons they have trouble identifying, or turn readers on, their eyes dancing across the pages with delight.  For the latter, reading Vance is pure pleasure, the juxtaposition of situation and voice head-shakingly lovable.  Subtle but poignant, each story is likewise permeated by a profound understanding of the motives underpinning human nature.  Cugel’s greed, Morreion’s nonchalance, and Liane’s pride are all indicative of mankind, as are the esoteric yet wholly believable religions, cults, cultures, and characters encountered in their travels.  Style inimitable, the collection is Vance at his peak.  

In the end, Tales of the Dying Earth is as imaginative as fantasy gets.  The people, ideas, settings, motifs, plots, etc. are truly an unmatched presentation of the capability of the human mind.  Style indescribably unique, it’s best to first sample Vance’s writing before taking the plunge and buying one of his books.  Numerous have tried to define it (“wry”, “baroque”, “tongue-in-cheek”, “comically over-formal”, etc), but try as hard as they like, nothing compares to the real experience.  It will either be loved or hated, so best to try before.  For those who find it enjoyable, the collection is the best of Vance’s work and one of the greatest treats of fantasy.  It is certainly the most imaginative—from a certain point of view.

Review of "Dune" by Frank Herbert

Published in 1965, Frank Herbert’s Dune is considered not only a grandfather, but by many the greatest sci-fi novel of all time.  A fully realized world that fascinates for the imaginative creatures and civilizations that inhabit it, the novel’s greatest appeal remains the base social circumstances motivating the plot’s quest for political power.  Space opera of the xth degree, this formula inspired generations of books and films to come, including George Lucas and Star Wars, not to mention myriad sequels and prequels in the Dune universe. (The latest number of books stands at seventeen and counting.) The original, however, remains the best.  

In the Duniverse (sorry, couldn’t resist), Arrakis occupies a unique position.  The substance ‘spice’ is found and mined on the planet’s endless deserts, unavailable anywhere else in the galaxy.  Spice enhancing the powers of the mind as well as the length of one’s life, he who controls Arrakis controls the universe.  The politics of power playing out against this interstellar premise, Dune tells the story of the Atreides family and their struggles for position amidst realpolitik.  Coups, assassination attempts, and outright military attacks are par for the course in the planet’s capital.  Trained in the arts of physical combat as well as mind reading, the son of House Atreides, Paul, soon finds himself embroiled in the fight for planetary power in ways he can never imagine, the inhospitable desert calling his name as events escalate.  

The imagination invested in Dune is its strongest aspect.  The Arab-esque cultures vibrating on the streets, the intrigue of court life in the palace, the technology skimming the deserts and mining spice, the stillsuits the people of Arrakis’ deserts live in daily, the constant threat of sand worms just below the surface—in all of these ideas Herbert displays no shortage of imagination detailing the world he envisions.  Everything fresh and original, the only derivative aspect of the novel’s setting and motifs is the Middle Eastern feel of naming and religion.

Likewise suitable to such a desert setting, the theme of environmentalism finds a prominent position in the novel.  The Fremen who inhabit the desert live in rhythm with nature as opposed to those living more technologically advanced lives in the scattered cities of the desiccated world.  Herbert’s emphasis on the sacrifices these people make in order to survive has real meaning in our world today.  The Middle East of the 21st century, particularly the water soaked oases being developed in the middle of deserts, should take note of the restraint and wisdom the Fremen exhibit facing their environmental circumstances.

Possibly pinched from a daytime series, the storyline of Dune is not unique, however.  Melodrama off the charts, Herbert will not win any awards for originality in plot.  Though effectively drawn, Dune’s characters serve the story, i.e. pawns to be moved rather than personalities to be sympathized with.  As Darth Vader would later become, the story contains some evilly evil bad guys who exist for none other than evil reasons.  Events and plot outcomes sensational as result, space opera is a more than suitable tag for the book.  

Dune’s writing is also problematic at times. Its rough edges, while carrying the story, must be handled with patience.  Herbert’s agenda for discussion, primarily the politics of power, has a harshness over-emphasized by occasionally digressive philosophizing.  An aspect that becomes exponentially worse in the sequels, it rears its ugly head on few enough occasions in Dune that it can be glossed over, however.  Neither beautiful nor prosaic, Herbert’s tale remains intriguing for the aforementioned reasons.

In the end, Dune’s reputation as one of science fiction’s greatest books is grounded.  Combining uniquely fantastic and futuristic ideas with mainstream plotting, its readership grows while continuing to inspire generation after generation of space opera.  Writers like Dan Simmons, Alastair Reynolds, or Iain M. Banks would not have such an easy time in the business, perhaps not even an impetus for their ideas, were it not for Herbert’s universe.  While lacking consistent style and smooth characterization, Dune remains great entertainment that scratches at the surface of something deeper.

Review of "Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions" by Edwin Abbott

The first time a person sees a sample of pond water through a microscope is an eye-opening experience.  The life teeming there is mind-boggling—literally a whole new world suddenly making itself available to the mind’s eye.  Edwin Abbot’s 1884 Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions intends the same revelatory experience for readers.  An open mind the only tool needed to understand his import, no microscope or scientific knowledge is necessary.  Fantasy in the most abstract sense, Flatland put satirical geometric fantasy on the map.  The only entry thus far, its uniqueness is indeed special.  

Through the eyes of Square and his native Flatland, Abbot depicts life in a two-dimensional world.  Existence reduced to geometric shape, the more symmetrical angles a person has, the more intelligent they are considered, and as a result, treated.  The educated of Flatland are squares, pentagons, octagons or such, while soldiers are isosceles triangles who use their acute angle for attack.  Leaders possess enough sides to be considered circles, while women are only a line and have to shout everywhere they go so people can avoid being punctured by one of their two ends.  His job good and children’s futures bright (they are pentagons), everything is going smoothly in Square’s life.  But things suddenly take a turn when a presence appears that announces itself as coming from another dimension—a third dimension.  Square’s adventures begin.

Though the tone may seem laughable, Abbot strikes a number of serious social chords in Flatland.  All is satirical allegory.  As can be seen in his literal shaping of women, their position in society is wholly different than the men’s.  Freedoms greatly limited, they must announce their presence everywhere and are instructed to spend as much time in the home as possible due to the danger they are thought to represent. While feminism is soup du jour in today’s university journals and print media, the inclusion of such a theme was still radical in 1884.  That persons are discriminated against based on appearance was also a relatively minor discussion point amongst the intelligentsia of Abbot’s day. However, a sub-story of Flatland tells of the leadership’s quelling of a color movement because the result would have meant that no one could tell how many angles a person had, and subsequently which level of society and etiquette would be needed.  This situation remaining analogous to society today to a degree, Abbot’s novel, while seeming absurd on the surface, reveals itself as serious commentary despite the fun of the premise.

As would be natural to a story featuring visitors from other dimensions, there is also a strong religious message in Flatland.  Like Paul’s miraculous experience on the road to Damascus, another of Abbot’s aims—perhaps his greatest—was to remind, or make readers aware of, the eternal possibility of realities beyond that perceivable to mankind.  By using the scientific language of the day being used to speak against the existence of the Christian god, he hoped to prove that the door was still open: science, particularly math and physics, could be wonderful tools to present the supernatural, as well.

In the end, Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions is a highly enjoyable read that forces the reader to alter their perspective on reality in a fun, interesting, and possibly even life changing fashion.  Flatland is truly a world enjoyable to envision.  Coming from a 2D land, Square’s adventures in 1D and 3D take on levels of poignancy surprising for a premise so simple.  Ignoring the commentary on feminism, religion, and civil rights and Flatland is still readily lovable for its simple twist on reality and the curiosity of how a fantasy with geometric parameters might shape up (sorry, couldn’t resist). 

Review of "One Earth, One People: The Mythopoeic Fantasy Series of Ursula K. Le Guin, Lloyd Alexander, Madeleine L'Engle and Orson Scott Card" by Marek Oziewicz

Winner of the Mythopoeic Scholarship Award in Myth and Fantasy Studies in 2010, Marek Oziewicz’s One Earth, One People: The Mythopoeic Fantasy Series of Ursula K. Le Guin, Lloyd Alexander, Madeleine L'Engle and Orson Scott Card is a critical exploration of the titular fantasy series in the context of mythopoeia's value, holism, and universal understanding.  Packed to the brim with scholarship on the historical and contemporary meaning of myth, Oziewicz never lets the reader get bogged down, the writing lucid and crisp.  As a result, the book is a valuable resource for anyone involved with literary studies on myth, the fantastic, or holistic criticism.

Roughly divided in two, the first half of One Earth, One People presents theoretical material.  From Vico to the present, Oziewicz unpacks relevant books, essays, papers, and studies in the area of mythopoesis.  The works of Jung, Freud, Frye, Eliade, Campbell, and others, including the non-fictional output of the Inklings Tolkien and Lewis, are discussed with an eye toward underpinning the value of fantasy in literature as a whole. Informative yet absorbing, at no time does Oziewicz lose focus of the point at hand, guiding his narrative through these scholars and writers’ works with quality and quantity.  Though some readers may feel the quotes excessive (Oziewicz really packs the text full), fluency is never lost, a great deal of care placed in the writing of the book from a readability viewpoint.

Having established the theoretical context of mythopoesis' relevancy to literature, the second half of One Earth, One People examines and analyzes four fantasy series.  Not homogenous, each series is presented through one of the many lenses of holistic mythopoeia. Le Guin’s Earthsea is examined as a “quest for balance and harmony between sexes, races, religions, and species”.  Alexander’s Prydain Chronicles are presented as “an example of how a particular mythic tradition… may be reworked and adapted into a future-oriented vision for peace and well-being in the real world”.  L’Engle’s Time Quartet envisions “spirituality as a way of life akin to the spirit of genuine scientific inquiry”.  And lastly, Orson Scott Card’s Tales of Alvin Maker are dealt with in such a fashion as to establish a “map of ecological relationships” and “the ideological resurrection of nature’s sacredness” (9-10).  

Each series chosen specifically for its individual qualities, the scope of analysis is complementary to the nature of holism.  Two of the authors selected are male, while two are female, not to mention that each is a decade-by-decade representative of fantasy in the latter half of the 20th century: Prydain made his mark in the 50s, Le Guin started Earthsea in the 60s, L’Engle published her series predominantly in the 70s, and Card wrote the majority of his in the 80s.  Moreover, the lenses—environmentalism, social harmony, epistemology, and visioning the future through the past—provide Oziewicz four platforms on which to build pertinent argumentation in support of his claims toward mythopoeic holism in fantasy, the analysis bearing fruit for it.

In the end, One Earth, One People is deserving of the award it won.  Oziewicz has done his homework and the text proves it.  Analysis occasionally overly-affective, the interpretations are astute, opening viewpoints into texts unavailable in other scholars’ studies.  Le Guin, for example, despite having numerous studies and books published regarding Earthsea, has never had her fantasy cycle examined from the viewpoint of balance and harmony as Oziewicz has.  Overall an excellent resource, fantasists involved with or seeking material in relation to myth studies or holistic criticism should find the book worthwhile, if not interesting reading in general.