Review of "The Epiphanist" by William Rosencrans

Breaking into the sci-fi/fantasy market is relatively easy these days for authors uninterested in making readers think.  Experiencing a hey-day of sorts, the shelves are saturated with titles trying to fill every interstice between its successes.  With so much just trying to cash in on waves of entertainment, locating the truly original and worthwhile efforts amongst the pretenders and hack artists is increasingly difficult.  In other words, publishers simply cannot be trusted as filters for quality literature.  I am thankful, therefore, that I was introduced to William Rosencrans’ originally imagined and thought-provoking debut The Epiphanist.  Otherwise, it may have been lost in the deluge.

On the surface, The Epiphanist is the coming-of-age story of Vladimir, a genetically modified outcast living in the wastelands of the Holy City.  Every day a fight to survive in the war torn jungles of Abbadon, the rebels around Vlad wage what fight they can against the forces from the City, making the simple things in life, like education and food, anything but easy.  Rendering life more complicated is the surreal spin of nanotechnology.  Devices and monitors watching in the strangest of forms (satyrs to house flies, gentlemen in top hats to dragons), the morality of all is recorded by the Holy City to help decide whether or not the genetic misfits of Abaddon are allowed to pass through the City’s impenetrable nanowall into its idyllic halls.  Ethical advice coming in the strangest shapes and sizes, not to mention from all angles, Vlad is left with nothing but his wits to get him through the war and a chance at the Holy City.  But is it worth it?

Beneath the surface, the major themes at play in The Epiphanist are religion and societal revolution.  From recognizable beliefs like Christianity and Greek mythology to futuristic versions of old religions and cults, the “right thing to do” changes by location, and analyzing and balancing all of the conflicting principles initially proves bewildering for Vlad.  Nicely balancing theory, however, is the practical side of these beliefs, i.e. the behavior of the people purporting the various religious views and the subsequent mass effect on society.  At times entirely contradictory and at others wholly fundamentalist, there is a believably human aspect to the manner in which the peoples and sub-societies Vlad encounters practice their beliefs, rendering the book excellent commentary on mankind.  (For anyone worried the novel is just propaganda for a specific religion, rest assured the author’s aims are broader in scope.)  

Regarding style of storytelling, Rosencrans deadpans the text, giving few hints as to the actuality behind appearances.  Lacking authorial hand-holding (i.e. explaining the reason behind things—as I’m doing now), the resulting story is rich with detail, and as often as not, unpredictable.  Heightening this effect is the quality usage of sci-fi effects.  Though similar to the “technical” manner in which Neal Stephenson employs nanotech in The Diamond Age, Rosencrans uses the futuristic science along more symbolic, almost fantastical, lines.   Much of the imagery and many of the personalities Vlad encounters blur the lines of reality.  The result is a narrative not unlike Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun. What is only a result of the drugs Vlad is taking?  What is not?  Which character has ulterior motives, and, which is speaking from their heart?  What can be believed as “truth” and what not?  The answers to these questions slowly become obvious, but readers must be prepared to cogitate upon what they are presented.  It goes without saying The Epiphanist’s re-read value is high.

Though it is his first novel, Rosencrans’ writing style is consistent throughout.  Not literary in a baroque sense, sentence and syntax are no-nonsense; they relay scenes, imagery, and internal monologue in direct fashion.  Plotting dynamic toward the beginning, the narrative slowly gathers focus, building to a climax rich with imagination.  Story and theme complementing each other analogously, the denouement is in fact brilliant.  Vlad’s life becomes both a real and symbolic example of the personal themes Rosencrans is driving at.  Thus, despite the potential for reader confusion encountering the myriad of strangeness and ethical worldviews at the novel’s outset, the story builds to a conclusion that draws it all together perfectly, the journey worth the while.

And it is a journey.  Vladimir’s personal development key to the story, The Epiphanist interestingly shares the same story structure as Herman Hesse’s bildungsroman Siddharta.  Though written in science fiction terms, Vlad’s life shifts through the same three phases: in, out, and beyond.  To define these phases more clearly would ruin the story.  Suffice to say, the concept of transcendence permeating the novel’s conclusion is something readers of Eastern philosophy and Ken Wilber’s Integral Psychology will understand easily, and perhaps enjoy.  

In the end, The Epiphanist is a brilliant debut.  Filled to the brim with fantastical imagination, a simple but effective setting, a flawed main character, and theme strongly linked to story, the book is an organized milieu of beliefs and ideas that will have readers ruminating long after they’ve finished.  The sci-fi aspects and style of storytelling bearing much in common with Gene Wolfe’s Sun series, the message at the novel’s heart nevertheless holds greater similarity to the transcendence of Ursula Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea, Silverberg’s Nightwings, or Hesse’s Siddharta.  Fans of any of these works will not be wasting their time checking out The Epiphanist.

(A side note: this is the first self-published book I have read.  Based on the quality, it will not be the last.  Given the focus on action and entertainment—the quick buck—that publishers these days are signing contracts for, i.e. ignoring manuscripts with higher standards in favor of hack efforts featuring gore, sex, and creepy aliens, I now stand in full support of this method.  It may be the only way quality literature is propagated in the future.  I do not know Mr. Rosencrans personally, but I suggest you support worthwhile sci-fi by purchasing The Epiphanist if this review has interested you.)

Review of "The Wizard Knight" by Gene Wolfe

In spite of its title and cover art, there are many things that Gene Wolfe’s The Wizard Knight is, and many things it is not.  Though published in 2004, the lengthy two-part novel is not the latest entry into modern, gritty, sword and sorcery epics like those of Erikson, Martin, Kearney, Bakker, or Ruckley.  It is a traditional tale—and in more ways than one.  The characters may be largely archetypal, the storyline filled with typical motifs of the genre, and the underlying message one of personal growth and maturity, but for as derivative as it seems, Wolfe spins all of these high fantasy clichés into an original, imaginative story that transcends the genre and inches toward literature.  Sir Able of the High Heart is The Once and Future King in body and A Wizard of Earthsea in soul.

In classic Wizard of Oz or Chronicles of Narnia fashion, The Wizard Knight is an alternate universe fantasy.  Receiving a bonk on the head, the main character suddenly finds himself in another land—a fantasy land.  The boy, named Able, learns he is in Mythrygar, the fourth level of a Norse-like universe located between Skai and Aelfrice, and must get back to our world.  Headstrong and ambitious, Able’s adventures in Mythrygar take him through a variety of places and scenes, his development key to the plot.  Along the way the Queen of Moss Aelf enlarges his body to that of a man’s, a dragon gives him sprites as guardians, he befriends a dog, converses with a cat, and fights all kinds of beasts—dragons, frost giants, and ogres—in an imaginative journey through over- and underworlds, becoming a man for our world in the process.  

The Knight Ravd early on tells Able that “honor” is the single most important aspect of being a knight. But strength and wisdom are the traits he develops most over the course of the novel, the first half (The Knight) focusing on the former, and the second (The Wizard), the latter.  Able over confident and assertive to the point of being rude on numerous occasions, he’s not exactly a likeable character at the outset—a fact some will be turned off by.  Wolfe nevertheless advances the young man’s maturity so sublimely that, by the end of the novel readers are quietly surprised that the once noble words are now backed by noble deeds.  Able becomes more recognizant of the realities of life instead of focusing only on himself.  Readers will likewise be surprised Able does not become the “Super Medieval Man” implied by the book’s title.  Magic spells and pointy hats in fact playing no role in the story, the boy who emerges at the end is all the stronger and wiser for the experiences he’s had, proving it’s the journey that matters.  (Potential readers be warned that character development instead of action and excitement holds the lion’s share of the story.)

For readers left in consternation by The Book of the New Sun or any other of Wolfe’s more allusive novels, fear not: The Wizard Knight is a straight-forward read perfectly on par with the Book of the Long Sun.  This is not to say things are always handed to the reader on a silver platter (Wolfe is too subtle for that), but the narrative does advance linearly, characters are introduced slowly and distinctly, and most importantly, the number of immediately unexplainable occurrences that require analogous thought are extremely few and very far between.  Wolfe toning himself down, it’s almost as if he intended the book to be something a young man could identify with while growing—a real bildungsroman that takes flight in the imagination but lands in reality.  

Though this review is getting a little long, it would be remiss not to quickly discuss the wealth of knowledge Wolfe has infused the story with.  Norse myth informing the setting and many of the characters (particularly the seven layered world which Able traverses and the frost giants of Jotunland), Arthurian legend is nevertheless most responsible for the storyline.  Knights, castles, jousting, dragons, kings, queens, etc. are the story’s guiding lights.  Wolfe unable to prevent himself, Christian mythology also occupies a place in the novel.  However, it remains insignificant in comparison to the Norse and Arthurian tropes, the ending containing the bulk of it, for better or worse. 

The Wizard Knight trade paperback edition published by Gollancz, weighing in at 3 pounds and 916 pages, is not exactly an agile beast.  Not easily carried-with, it may be worth your while to invest in the two books The Knight and The Wizard, respectively, for those standing on busses and trams while reading.  

In the end, The Wizard Knight is a heavyweight in more than one dimension.  Jammed to the hilt in Norse myth and Arthurian legend, readers should expect a classic bildingsroman of a boy becoming a man in a world of knights, dragons, and faery.  The book is suitable for all ages, from a young man’s view of Able’s coming-of-age to an adult’s appreciation of the myth and fantasy background.  Magical only in imagination, readers should likewise expect Wolfe to subvert the clichés of high fantasy by developing his main character toward something more than a dragon-killing king of the land’s biggest castle, happily ever after.  Like Le Guin’s Earthsea Cycle, self-knowledge is the treasure sought.  Yves Menard’s The Book of Knights and the works of Lord Dunsany serving as inspirations, fans of either will enjoy Wolfe’s book.  Though never explicitly credited, the strongest similarity may be Jack Vance’s Lyonesse trilogy.  No doubt there are numerous differences between the two, nevertheless each has an overall feel, length, quality of imagination, and bittersweet outcome not unlike the other.  Wolfe’s pacing much slower and dialogue more forthright, this comparison should be taken like an aelf’s whisper: carefully.

(A side note: the Neil Gaiman quote-fest must end.  The Wizard Knight’s cover bears the following abomination: “Gene Wolfe is the smartest, subtlest, most dangerous writer alive today, in genre or out of it. If you don't read this book, you'll have missed out on something important and wonderful and all the cool people will laugh at you.”.  If any publisher is reading this, please take note of the toad-ish qualities and cease asking Gaiman to provide copy.  2.3 seconds of thought put into this, he obviously cares more for the exposure than the recommendation itself. Don’t be an enabler.)

Review of 'The Tombs of Atuan" by Ursula Le Guin

Having successfully penned a young man’s Jungian coming to terms with self in A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula Le Guin set out to write another bildungsroman.  This time a young girl’s coming to terms with herself as a woman in society, The Tombs of Atuan was published three years later in 1971.  Certainly not as strong a feminist statement as later stories of the Earthsea Cycle, Tombs is nevertheless squarely focused on a young woman’s coming of age, filled out with all of the wisdom and insight into religion and culture we’ve come to expect from Le Guin.

The Tombs of Atuan opens with a child being taken from her parents to live at the temple tombs on the Kargish island of Atuan (the Kargish are a white-skinned, war-like culture appearing at the beginning of A Wizard of Earthsea).  Too young to know better, Arha, as she is called by the all-female priesthood, is led through the initiation ceremonies of their archaic religion and raised amongst the decay and ruin of its temples and tombs.  External influence at their remote desert institution non-existent, the dogma of Kargish religion molds and shapes Arha into High Priestess as years of tradition have done her predecessors.  Everything goes smoothly in Arha’s education until a mysterious man—a forbidden man—bearing wisdom acutely opposite to what she’s been taught comes to their temple.  That he also seeks the other half of the Ring of Erreth-Akbe only deepens the intrigue.

Containing significantly less of the magic, spells, and wizards of A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan has its own identity as a fantasy novel in Earthsea.  The story of a young woman’s discovery of freedom, the narrative depends less on the supernatural and more on character interaction toward resolving the issues that arise.  A basic knowledge of ‘true names’, Earthsea cultures, and layout of the islands helps, but it’s not necessary to have read Wizard to appreciate Tombs.  

A great literary device as well as wonderfully described set piece, the pitch-black labyrinth which Arha explores beneath the temples is one of the most intriguing aspects of Tombs.  (Vital enough, Le Guin even includes a map of the maze-like tunnels.)  No stronger symbolism could be attached to the blinded manner in which the young ladies of the temples are led through knowledge regarding adolescence, sexuality, and men in general.  Without spoiling matters, Arha’s exploration of the labyrinth and her experiences walking the dark corridors make for great literature.  But how she unlocks the potential she finds there is the reason the book won the Newberry Honor Award. 

In the end, The Tombs of Atuan is Le Guin in full form, though she would later admit not having thought the entirety of Arha’s situation through.  (A certain channeling of masculinity stains what is otherwise a narrative of feminine discovery.)  Readers should expect a coming-of-age story, but one wholly different than Ged’s.  Elements of the supernatural do exist, but Le Guin uses them subtly, sending the characters out on stage for dialogue rather than magical pyrotechnics.  Like Wizard, Tombs is stuck somewhere between YA and adult, and can therefore be appreciated by both.  

(For those who have read the book and the Earthsea Cycle as a whole, you may be interested in reading a paper I wrote on its Daoist tenets and angles on contemporary theory called "Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea Cycle: Paralleling Contemporary Theory with an Eye to the Past".  Part I is here and Part II, here.)

Review of "The Diamond Age" by Neal Stephenson

The best metaphor that can be drawn of Neal Stephenson’s 1996 The Diamond Age is a shotgun blast.  Expectations high for the follow up to his highly successful Snow Crash, Stephenson upped the ante by wadding a larger number of ideas into his literary gun and firing away.  The pellets scattering across the target, some strike dead on, while others, particularly the ending, are off the mark.

At heart, The Diamond Age is a bildungsroman told only as the imagination of Stephenson can (read: a ninja must be in their somewhere).  Occupying the same future as Snow Crash, the setting this time around is Shangahai rather the American west coast.  Living in one of the lower class ‘claves is a little girl Nell, an illegitimate child everyone abuses save her older brother, Harv.  Nanotech having solved the world’s hunger problems, Nell and Harv survive easily on food produced in their apartment’s matter compiler.  Their mother working the streets, bringing home one loser boyfriend after another, the two still lack spiritual sustenance. This situation soon changes, however.

Nell’s life takes a permanent transition when Harv comes home one day with a nanotech-ed interactive book he and his gang lifted from a high-society engineer.  Called A Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer, the engineer, whose name is Hackworth, designed the book to educate and guide a girl from childhood into adulthood for a rich noble.  School subjects, social issues, and the realities of life are all taught in an interactive manner through voiceovers, pictures, and moving stories that adapt to the young girl’s life as she develops in the real world.  How Harv “acquired” this quickly places the siblings in the midst of a heated search for the precious copy of the primer.

Of all the pellets fired from Stephenson’s gun, the one striking closest to center is the nanotech.  Brilliantly described and wonderfully detailed like no author (I know of) has yet to do, the possibilities of nanotech engineering are delivered in big, beautiful packages.  From weapons to providing the most basic of needs (like food and clothing), whole ecosystems to blood cleansers, Stephenson excels displaying these nano concepts.  Descriptions are vivid and pseudo-science based, and while still wholly fantastic, are presented in fashion that allows the reader to willingly accept the reasoning.  The uses to which society puts the nanotech—good and evil—is likewise realistic in its understanding of humanity’s application of its discoveries.  The sub-titular A Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer in particular is a wonderfully creative set piece derived from the nanotech and one of the most positive visions of how science could benefit society if applied correctly that sci-fi has ever seen.

The second pellet striking close to home, buoying the novel along and keeping it above water as other elements threaten to drag it down, is characterization.  Though some are wonderfully unearthed only to be quickly discarded, all the voices have a feel of their own.  Excluding the ending, the empathy one feels for Nell is palpable and a credit to a nerd’s ability to write.  Dr. X, Judge Fang, Bud, and Elizabeth likewise have fallen directly out of our society and landed in the novel.  That the characters receive non-uniform treatment from a plot perspective is, however, another issue.

Attempting to capture some of the Victorian age in a sci-fi novel, Hackworth and the noble, along with the other characters filling out the dramatis personae, appear with appropriate degrees of the era’s detail.  Top hats, overly-formal address, and the equine are all part of the throw-back fun.  Honing skills that would later reveal themselves in better light in the Baroque Cycle, dialogue is amusing for its stylish tone but lacking the fresh simile and wordplay of Cryptonomicon.  As a result, the dialogue and retro feel render the novel more steam- than cyberpunk.

Negative points, however, are an unfortunate must when discussing The Diamond Age.  Something like too much bread in the mouth, most readers will spend their time trying to gum through the wad of ideas Stephenson pushes upon the reader.  Such a plethora exists that the windows of possibility are thrown open to the extent the sky is the limit.  With anything seeming possible, a disconnection arises between the simple human story of Nell’s development and the vast technological and political canvas its spread across.  That strong elements of hallucinatory fantasy are added to “bolster” an otherwise brimming plot seems over much and creates a narrative that never truly identifies itself. 

If Stephenson left the windows open writing the plot, then the climax sees the shutters blown off and glass shattered on the floor.  Many readers have taken exception to The Diamond Age’s conclusion, and the uproar is apt.  The story trundling along at a steady pace, events suddenly take a sharp right turn that jumps the tracks with 50 pages to go.  Events straining plausibility, the storytelling necessary to build to such a point is not present in enough quality or quantity prior to convince the reader that things have suddenly gone from individual self-realization to outright societal revolution.  Though Stephenson’s intent is clear, the stepping stones to arrive there remain mostly submerged.

In the end, The Diamond Age is a novel with good ideas spoiled by its lack of cohesiveness.  Victim to an issue many sci-fi writers fall into, Stephenson’s range of concepts is too large for the simple story he is trying to tell.  Without giving away any of the plot, the methods and tech introduced would have been able to drastically alter the events in the climax, but for reasons of artistic license, do not--a disconnect appearing, as such.  This problem disguises itself for most of the novel as plot, characterization, and theme seem to develop cogently.  However, when the ending digresses to such an extreme point, the overall intent becomes confused—Kill Bill meets 1984.  While remaining an interesting read based on the strength of Stephenson’s ideas alone, those looking for a more cohesive, toned, and interdependent story in the vein of the author’s later work will be disappointed.  Those who loved Snow Crash, however, will probably also like The Diamond Age.  If you want better Victorian steampunk, read William Gibson and Bruce Sterling's The Difference Engine.