Review of City of Saints and Madmen by Jeff Vandermeer

I cannot think of a suitable place to begin my review of Jeff Vandermeer’s 2004 City of Saints and Madmen, my notes shooting off in wild directions.  I guess the title sums up the book perfectly; it is a smorgasbord of odd, paranormal, tragic, sinister, delicate, macabre, slithering, comedic, dreamlike, twisted ideas, with the eerily weird, eerily strange forever hovering in and around.  But as abstract as it may be, Vandermeer always keeps one toe in our reality, making the collection an art piece that can be enjoyed at several levels.

City of Saints and Madmen is an extremely varied conglomerate of writing.  From short story to transcribed interview, historical abstract to scientific monograph, letter to appendix, bibliography to memoire, all the pieces directly and indirectly describe the fictional city of Ambergris and its variety of inhabitants, human to mushroom.  The streets and buildings, homes and back alleys a muddy labyrinth of the industrial era, the mood of moist fungus overhangs all.  “The Story of Mr. X” regards a writer held against his will in the basement of a building.  “The Cage” tells of an antique collector and a strange piece he feels compelled to buy one day from a family experiencing a plague (of sorts).  “King Squid: Being a Brief Monograph Explaining Both the Phenomena of the Giant Freshwater Squid of Related Squid Folklore (Including the Festival of the Freshwater Squid)” is a monograph by Frederick Madnock on the rumors and scientific merits of the creature—entirely fictional, of course.  And there is much more, including an encrypted story within a story and the laugh-out-loud bibliography to Madnock’s paper.  Each piece with its own typeface and layout, the book was obviously prepared with care and an eye to the aesthetics beyond semiotics.  The entire book tied together by place, name, and idea, it was also prepared with multiple purposes in mind.

Review of "The Scar" by China Mieville

A knock-out punch on the 21^st century fantasy scene, Mieville had some big expectations to live up to following the success of Perdido Street Station.  The Scar does not disappoint.  The fresh perspective, the imagination, and the social commentary in Bas-Lag have all been taken to the next level.   Where Perdido aimed at setting, plot, wordplay, The Scar takes the same elements and more evenly balances them across theme and character, producing another quality fantasy novel for the times.

Like Perdido, The Scar tells the story of a variety of characters.  Stage time, however, sees itself returning more often than not to Bellis Coldwine, a linguist by trade, and Tanner Sack, a Remade prisoner.  The beginning of the novel finds the two sharing a transport across the sea, the former in capacity of translator to the captain, and the latter part of the prisoner cargo being delivered.  In the wake of unforeseen events, the lives and expectations of Bellis and Tanner are quickly turned upside down, the characters finding themselves the latest pressganged into living on a massive floating city known as Armada.  The ugliest, motliest collection of battleships, stolen cargo boats, tugs, and clippers ever found in fiction, Armada is the libertarian dream of every pirate. 

What New Crobuzon is to Perdido, Armada is to The Scar.  Seeming to love every stroke, every letter, every grotesque word, Mieville goes into a similar level of detail in describing the massive floating city.  This time around, however, he seems to have relaxed a little.  Instead of wadding description, fistfuls of thesaurus at a time, onto the narrative, his style is more comfortable.  Words are chosen carefully to convey deeper meaning but in a paucity of number, rendering the novel a less gnarled, smoother read. 

There are readers who have complained about the ending of The Scar, claiming it’s either weak or anti-climactic.  However, such is the maturity – and daring - of Mieville’s sophomore novel.  The joy in the journey, the novel’s ending more than fits the events preceding it.  Many readers of the second half of Le Guin’s Earthsea Cycle (Tehanu, Tales from Earthsea, and The Other Wind) likewise complain of the soft manner in which she finished the books.  But must every fantasy novel have a blood-and-guts clash of titans to finish it off?  Like Le Guin, Mieville should be lauded for the mature fashion in which his conflict is resolved through rational rather than explosive or macabre means.  Readers lauded the manner in which Mieville broke the mold with Perdido Street Station, why not be gratified by the atypical note on which The Scar ends? 

Further comparisons are needed.  Though not wooden, Isaac’s portrayal in Perdido was nevertheless inconsistently human.  Yes, he got angry when Motley kidnapped his girlfriend, but his chasing of slake-moths around the city was never properly motivated.  His moral indifference killing creatures while studying the mechanisms of flight did not match the profound sense of moral urgency he felt saving the world from those terrors of the sky.  In The Scar, on the other hand, Bellis, Tanner, and most of the other characters are more consistently rendered as living, breathing humans.  Background and character insight are related properly in motivating his “heroes”.  Bellis not an especially amiable person, the fact that readers dislike her rather than feel no emotion at all indicates Mieville is doing something right.  Not all protagonists can be altruistic saviors defending honor - a fact the author thankfully relishes in.

Mieville has been quoted as saying: “I think that all science fiction or fantasy has inevitably allegorical aspects, but I also think it's important not to suggest that that's what the book is ‘about’: you have to give the fantastic permission to be its own end, to follow its own dynamic.” Nothing could exemplify this more than The Scar.  For readers who prefer the supernatural, the monsters, and the creativity of what fantasy is on the surface, then it is all there on the page, one claw, huge eyeball, and squid creature at a time.  One original idea after another, the cray-men, avancs, and new varieties of the Remade add to the species of Bas-Lag. 

For those who prefer to see their characters and story grounded in concepts more fundamental, Mieville likewise offers a mature look at the themes of possibility, separation, cultural stance, and acceptance.  The titular theme is not an idea Mieville approaches from a single line of attack.  One of the characters can be quoted as saying “A scar is healing.  After injury, a scar is what makes you whole.”.  Following this single line of thematic reasoning would have Mieville stepping in the footprints of countless previous writers, and so it is when learning of Armada’s leaders, a couple who scar themselves anew daily to symbolize their love, that another dimension is added.  And there are two other major fashions in which Mieville explores the theme.  Thus, in addition to being an appropriate title, the novel also represents itself well in the world of literary fantasy.

In the end, The Scar finds Mieville exploring new territory as a writer while expanding his familiar world of Bas-Lag in plausible, visceral fashion.  Unique imagination and thematic output on strong display, readers of both literary and genre fantasy will find something to like about the novel.  Certainly one of the voices the beginning of 21st century fantasy will be remembered for, the novel comes highly recommended.  (A word of advice: though Perdido Street Station need not be read before, it would certainly serve as an excellent introduction to the world of The Scar.)

Review of The Malazan Book of the Fallen by Steven Erikson

(Note that this review is for the entirety of the Malazan series-no spoilers.)

Thematic at so many levels, poignant to such a variety of societal issues, and so complex in size and structure – on top of being filled to the brim with action and magic - it’s difficult to begin describing Steven Erikson’s decade-long project The Malazan Book of the Fallen.  Literally and physically epic, whole forests were undoubtedly destroyed in printing the ten volumes of this completed series.  The result is that scope, depth, and world building have perhaps never seen and never will again see such a massive, sprawling story populated by such a variety of characters and cultures.  Fantasy literature has been redefined. 

The first book, Gardens of the Moon, sets the tone.  Thrown into events as they are happening, readers do not get any soft, fluffy background, slowly easing them into the world of Malazan.   And the series does not relent.  Though satisfying closures to individual storylines can be found, the last book, The Crippled God, finds the series ending as ongoing as it began.  Much the same as being dropped into the middle of Europe’s attempt to colonize the world and plucked out as the events of WWI draw to a close, Erikson has said that the overall effect is something like “We edge in to observe a slice of history, then, ten books later, we edge back out.”  Relative background filled in only as necessary, readers expecting easily accessible explanations as to why things are happening will immediately be put off.  Like our real world, little is spoon fed in Malazan.

Writing in such a mode begs the question: why should I read the series if it’s so complex?  Like the works of Gene Wolfe, the answer lies in the themes that are unveiled upon closer inspection.  While on the surface Malazan appears to have it all, action, comedy, romance, tragedy, the supernatural, etc., at a deeper level, more complex and poignant ideas exist.  For example, the name of the series comes from an idea Napoleon had to create a Book of the Fallen to honor all who died in the name of his cause, thus ensuring history did not forget them.  With this idea in mind, one of Erikson’s main goals is to bring foreground the lives of ordinary soldiers and the difficulties they have living subject to leaders whose interests are not always altruistic, as well as the uncertainty of living with war.  Unlike much of modern fantasy which tells the story of the hero – the undefeatable warrior championing justice – Malazan instead tells of the supporting cast, the little guys and the sacrifices they contribute to the overall effect.  Sticking with thematic content, the conflicts and bloodshed so visible in Malazan are not in fact nihilistic commentary on modern life, rather a key indicator of the precocity of life itself.  Those who read the series all the way to the end will be pleasantly surprised at the manner in which the themes of compassion, family, and love for friends are revealed both amongst and through the bloody battles and powerful displays of magic. 

Thus, in writing The Malazan Book of the Fallen, Erikson has pulled off the near impossible: a combination of Dungeons and Dragons with literary aspiration, emphasis on the latter as the series progresses.  As a result, those looking for fantasy entertainment with accessible storylines and rather typical heroic characters should read Abercrombie, Rothfuss, or Lynch.  For those looking for fantasy with depth and value, the rewards of sticking with this series – no matter how difficult it can sometimes be - are real.  (Check out the Malazan Empire forums for an idea of the fanbase and its devotion.)   Truly an investment, the series is open to numerous re-reads.  Ample room is available for gleaning details overlooked in previous sittings and wonder at the depth of the world created.  In fact, the more one allows themselves to melt into world of Malazan, the more the little treasures of wisdom and sheer humanity Erikson has planted reveals itself.  Tragedy and the fantastic have perhaps never been so well intertwined.  Recommended, but be warned the road is not always easy.

(For those who have read the series and are interested in further commentary, additional essays from this blog may be found here: Stepping Stones: The Ideas Bridging Malazan, and, A Slow Exhale: The Consistency of Malazan.)

Review of "Resurrection Man" by Sean Stewart

Not knowing who Sean Stewart was prior to reading Resurrection Man, it was more than a pleasant surprise to find such a well written book with poignant themes.  Hiding on the margins of literature, Stewart’s novel tells the story of a Hungarian family living in the US and their attempts to come to terms with skeletons in the closet after WII, both personal and familial.  But it is not the 1950’s America you know from history; magic in the form of charms and strange, unexplainable occurrences are a natural part of everyday life.

The opening lines of the novel find the protagonist Dante staring down at his own dead body, and thinking it an ill omen, sets about solving the riddle.  But Dante is not alone in unraveling the mystery.  His mysterious adopted brother Jet hangs on the periphery, offering the most spiritual of advice, while his sister, Sarah, fights personal problems of her own, the relationships she has with men and her mother less than straight-forward.

In Resurrection Man, alliteration and fantasy are interwoven seamlessly.  More magic realism than pure fantasy, Stewart’s gifted prose delivers the story on a cutting edge.  Description clear, dialogue focused, and similes spot on and never overused, the line between fantasy and reality becomes an afterthought.  My only complaint about the novel is that despite the realistic portrayal, characterization seemed to take a back seat to the delicious plot devices and magic overtones.   But Dante, his father, Jet, Sarah and the others are presented so realistically that the overall value of the book does not suffer. Resurrection Man is highly recommended for anyone who enjoys psychological explorations, particularly with a touch of the supernatural. This is a gem of literary fantasy.

(The folks at www.fantasyliterature.com were kind enough to put this post on their website.)  

Review of "The Master and Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov

While mid-20th century Russian propaganda wizards were twisting words to hide the truth, Bulgakov wrote a response that proved fantasy could be used to reveal wisdom rather than confuse it.

An absolute feast of a book, The Master and Margarita serves up a delicious variety of characters and scenarios - naked witches, talking cats, and a devil’s ball - as a less-than-subtle riposte to communist cant.  In the process, Bulgakov simultaneously subverts the doctrine of his day, declaring the universal power of the written word to have a staying power government ideology can never achieve.

Reading the incisive and often comedic manner in which Bulgakov eviscerates communist dogma, it’s a wonder fantasy is not used satirically more often.  Suffice to say, the book is not meant to be read as a story in any linear sense.  There is a plot, but symbolism and metaphor bear the lion’s share of the narrative, and as such it is difficult to sum up the story into a neat sentence or paragraph.

Painstakingly written to avoid censors, it requires effort from the reader to place meaning and sort through the variety of representations as they relate to the work’s ultimate message.  That Bulgakov is likewise able to draw in threads of religion and history into an already powerful theme elevates his work to a height achieved by few novels ever written.  If you thought you had read all of the best literature of the 20th century but not yet picked up The Master and Margarita, by all means do, if not for the re-read value alone.

(This review has also been posted at www.fantasyliterature.com)