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 Fifth Head of Cerberus" by Gene Wolfe

Gene Wolfe’s 1972 The Fifth Head of Cerberus is such a wealth of ideas rooted in significant subjects that it seems impossible to review in any reasonable amount of space without skipping a vital perspective or ignoring an important element.  Certainly a result of the fertility of Wolfe’s initial premise, what follows should be considered a loose breakdown only, the text itself (amazingly only 250 pages) defining the questions leading to the river delta of afterthought.

From a structure standpoint, The Fifth Head of Cerberus is comprised of three individual novellas.  Character and theme interwoven throughout each to form a larger whole, the eponymous first tells the story of #5 and his brother, and their strange relationship with their father.  Raised in a brothel under mysterious circumstances, a secret they uncover leads one to act in drastic fashion.  The second, “’A Story,’ by John V. Marsch”, is the “Neolithic” tale of the twins Sandwalker and Eastwind who, after being separated at birth, meet in life under the most mythic of circumstances.  The third and final novella titled “V.R.T.” is the story of the anthropologist John Marsch, who after visiting the brothel, runs afoul of the law, his journals and records revealing the strangest of histories.

The setting of the novel two planets rotating around each other, Sainte Anne and Sainte Croix, twinship becomes an idea binding the three stories together.  Each of the novellas features a pair of people, the survival and identity of each anything but certain.  Cloning, shapeshifting, and lifelike holograms all influencing storyline, nothing is fixed regarding the appearance of things between the duos.  Connected to the overall scope of the book, the motif is strong commentary regarding the value of identity to society.

The growth and development of young men also a feature of each of the novellas, coming-of-age is likewise a connecting theme.  #5 in the first, Sandwalker in the second, and the unnamed V.R.T. in the third, all undergo rites of passage that usher them into more mature stages of their lives—what exactly lies at that stage and its meaning to the others is for the reader to discover.

But, as The Fifth Head of Cerberus was written around the time of the Vietnam war, the strongest theme underlying the novellas is post-colonialism.  The back story of the novel being that Earthlings have come and taken over the two planets—first the French, and later an unnamed global group, the shapeshifting natives of Saint Anne and Croixe are dealt with according to a paradigm not dissimilar to US involvement in southeast Asia in the late 60s and early 70s.  The distance forced between the cultures in the book so great, some character accounts doubt whether the natives ever existed.  In fact, Marsch’s mission in the third novella is to journey to their rumored location in the mountains to discover whether any remain.  (For scholarly info on this topic see this great article—and website—though be warned, spoilers abound.)

Wolfe’s style studied and prosaic, the only “flaws” of the novel are a matter of preference.  For example, the narratives, though comprehensive, are not always laid out in an easily understandable fashion.  Wolfe scatters hints and clues allusively and elusively throughout the narrative, leaving the reader to put two and two together as to the “real” story.  For example, Marsch makes a few brief appearances in the first novella, though his actions are unclear.  The entirety of the third devoted to him, the pieces start falling into place what exactly his role is the closer events move toward the conclusion, the other chips on the board revealing themselves.  And there are other examples of interesting scenes requiring a second and third thought to puzzle out their reality.  The other problem some readers may have is that the overall narrative is anything but linear.  The end coming before the beginning, and the middle told from several perspectives and time stances, some may get confused in the process, though most will have few problems.  Suffice to say, it is not a standard novel regarding structure and style.

In the end, The Fifth Head of Cerberus contains a strong variety of ideas, both thematic and conceptual.  The number of possible perspectives to take on the book, as can be seen, is a treasure trove just waiting to be unearthed.  Wolfe’s idea rigidly fixed in the details, the book is thereafter pliant to the point of accommodating a wide scope of storylines, timelines, and themes.  From globalization to identity, totalitarianism to post-colonialism, a wealth of material is available to the attentive reader—an amazing feat for such a short book.  As such, it makes for an excellent introduction to Wolfe’s work.  For those concerned that his Book of the New Sun may be complex beyond comprehension, Fifth Head is a good litmus test. On a wider spectrum of authors, fans of Brian Aldiss, Christopher Priest, Stanislaw Lem, and particularly Ursula Le Guin, will want to take note; this is intelligent sci-fi that does not patronize.

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.