Review of "The Master Miller's Tale" by Ian R. Macleod

Ian Macleod’s The Light Ages and The House of Storms are core steampunk texts.  Not only do they utilize what have come to be the central tropes of the sub-genre (anachronistic technology, class struggle, and Victorian England), they also feature superb prose and an uncanny intertwining of vividly realized characters with theme.  Published two years after The House of Storms, “The Master Miller’s Tale” (2007) is a wonderful addition to the world that distills elements of the two prior novels into one exemplary novella.

“The Master Miller’s Tale” is the story of Nathan Westover, the latest in a long line of Westovers manning the grain mill on Burling Hill in Stagsby, a rural English community.  Taught the spells that keep the winches and pulleys turning by his mother, and by his father the necessities of bargaining with the wind-seller for the knotted ropes that will unleash the skies when they become calm, Nathan spends his youth learning the ways of the big wooden windmill, getting dusty with flour along the way.  Coming to understand every aspect of the trade as he grows, Nathan is ready to take over when his father suddenly passes away, the family business in good hands.  But something new appears in Nathan’s lifetime that his ancestors never had to deal with: aether technology.  Finding the new competition stiffer than his upbringing taught him to handle, Nathan pushes himself harder and harder to stay ahead, working the old windmill on Burling Hill to its limits.  Problem is, even the most well-maintained mill has a breaking point.  And so too do people.

Review of "Souls" by Joanna Russ

There are many characteristics universal to the sexes, and among them is the respect confidence commands.  A person may speak utter rubbish, but if they do so in a firm voice, with an active body, and in a dynamic tone that implies they know what they are talking about, it may take some time before the listener figures out that it is indeed bullshit.  (Watch any televangelist for a fine example.)  Joanna Russ’ 1983 novella “Souls” is the story of one such person.  Their ideas, however, are the opposite of bullshit.

“Souls” is the story of the Abbess Radegunde, as told through the eyes of the novitiate Radulphus.  Their abbey falling under Viking attack one day, instead of organizing the defense of the grounds Radegunde rushes out to face the group of rape-and-pillage minded men, alone.  Swords without ‘s’ her weapons, at every turn she surprises the men, negotiating terms for the safety of the abbey and its people.  Disaster is not completely averted, but the hostile takeover yields bigger surprises yet—even for the sharp-tongued Abbess.

Review of "The Least Trumps" by Elizabeth Hand

Fabulism is a term that has almost faded from the taxonomy of literature.  Rooted in the idea of ‘fairy tale,’ that is, the departure from realism into the fantastic, it is a term that has been largely pushed aside in favor of magic realism.  I would like to go back to it, however, as there are a number of modern fantasists whose works qualify as genre only for the usage of one or two unreal elements—not the multiple intrusions of the surreal or the literary absurd implied by magic realism.  It seems a much better term to describe writers like Mervyn Peake, Andy Duncan, JeffreyFord—writers who are not overtly straying from reality, only hinting at, or touching up what are otherwise works of literary realism.  Another writer who I think perfectly represents the ideal is Elizabeth Hand.  Mimicking reality yet adding one or two elements of the fantastic to enhance the story, her 2002 “The Least Trumps” is a wonderful example.

The novella is the story of Ivy, a young woman born to a successful yet fanciful author of children’s books.  Growing up on an isolated island off the coast of Maine, she takes over the house when her mother moves to an old age facility and converts it into a specialized tattoo parlor.  Called the Lonely House, her exclusive clientele are a mix of former lovers, trusted friends, and repeat customers who appreciate her work.  Possessing a Sartre-esque nausea thinking back on a particularly heart-breaking relationship, visiting her mother at the facility one day brings about an extreme bout of sickness, but is quickly offset by the purchase of an antique deck of tarot cards at a rummage sale.  But what changes the deck holds, even fate cannot know.

Review of The Secret of this Book by Brian Aldiss

Brian Aldiss is one of, if not the most versatile writer in speculative fiction.  Published in a variety of forms (poetry, plays, short fiction, novel length, and non-fiction), a variety of genres and sub-genres (fantasy, science fiction, and realism—to cover the big ones) and in a variety of writing styles, his dynamism, willingness to try new modes, and experimentation with prose make him one of the most important science fiction writers alive—and still writing as he closes in on his 9 th decade.  Capturing this versatility is Aldiss’ 1995 collection The Secret of This Book.  Showing off nearly all the tools in his kit, it’s a mature collection of well-wrought stories that are perfect for the reader looking for variety in their genre reading.

From the opening salvo to the last, Aldiss lets the reader know art is one of the main motifs of The Secret of This Book.  “Common Clay”, which opens the collection, is the story of a starving artist living in Geneva.  Despising fellow artists who go commercial, he stubbornly sticks to his squalid apartment and poor ways for the principle of it all, that is, until meeting a mysterious woman.  Given the conclusion, “Common Clay” may be the ultimate starving artiste tale.  In fact a trio of stories, “Her Toes Were Beautiful on the Mountains” is the salvo closing the collection.  Ostensibly sci-fi, each nevertheless delves into human concerns beyond the tropes of the genre.  The first is the derailing of military propaganda at a shuttle launch, the second a brief piece in which Gaugin is brought to virtual life, and the third is a dialogue between two scientists about primitivism and its relation to art.  Moving briskly, each vignette stands alone yet is linked thematically to the others, Gaugin, and his work in the Pacific, the centerpiece.

Review of Odd John by Olaf Stapledon

At a time when American sci-fi was wallowing like a pig in mud on a hot summer’s day (the pulp era), what little science fiction existed was swimming almost entirely in literary waters. Save for H.G. Wells’ staid presence and C.S. Lewis’ thinly veiled apologetics, very few other writers were on the UK scene regularly using the ‘yet possible’ to tell stories.  But quantity was made up for by quality.  One of the most questioning, challenging, and influential writers to ever pick up a pen, regardless of era, was published in this time: Olaf Stapledon.  A doctor of philosophy, he applied knowledge to humanity’s deepest questions in thought experiments that pushed at the limits of understanding in ways other writers have yet to equal.

Odd John is Stapledon’s third novel (1935).  Though continuing to work with the supermind idea that comprises parts of his previous works (Last and First Men and Last Men in London), the novel sees Stapledon breaking fresh ground—or at least a new tangent in a familiar domain.  The story of a boy born into a normal British family, his semi-mutated features give rise to the possibility he will be limited in some fashion when he grows up.  John, as the baby is named, proves to be the exact opposite.  Remaining silent for the first couple of years, he suddenly bursts into coherent language, and thereafter offers one intellectual surprise after another.  Physically slow in developing, his brain, however, is obviously multiple degrees more intelligent than the average human’s.  Coming to terms with his abnormality, John follows his own path toward adulthood and realizing his dreams.  Problem is, will humanity let him?

Review of The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Vol. 6 ed. by Jonathan Strahan

2011 was a very solid year in short speculative fiction, and Volume 6 of Jonathan Strahan’s ongoing The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year series proves it.  Ken Liu’ story dominated awards, while K.J. Parker, Paul McAuley, and Kij Johnson’s were also winners.  Several others nominated and/or added in more than one collection or anthology, Strahan captures a very readable snapshot of what 2011 was in short speculative fiction.

The fourth time to be included in Strahan’s ‘best of’ and the second time to open the anthology, Neil Gaiman again makes an appearance, this time with “The Case of Death and Honey”.  A Sherlock Holmes story (surprisingly), Gaiman portrays the fictional detective as he always dreamed but was never portrayed: in retirement as a beekeeper.  Unsatisfied with his honey making efforts in Britain, Holmes’ pursuit of the perfect honey takes him to China, where, another life feels the affects of his search.  As advertized, it is a bittersweet note on which to open the anthology. Another story of bees and China, this time from the point of view of the insects themselves, “The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees” by E. Lily Yu is a story that makes an impression at first read, but upon deeper thought threatens to crumble like the fragile nests described.  Weird (capitol ‘W’) and seemingly political, Yu’s story at least makes for a nice piece of eye-candy.  “Tidal Forces” by Caitlín R. Kiernan is a superb story about a writer and her lover attempting to come to terms with the unquantifiable aspects of life.  Written in non-linear yet flowing prose that moves like the titular tide, it is a story that can be read multiple times given the layering.  High quality science fiction, the usage of scientific theory (a riff on an Einstein quote) is so intelligently subsumed into a story of modern human interest that I find myself rambling…  “Young Women” by Karen Joy Fowler is decidedly more conventional—in the realistic sense.  Written in sharp, intelligent sentences that snap off the page, one evening’s encounter between a snoopy mom and her fifteen-year old’s boyfriend has all the drama one would expect, but thankfully more poignancy. More an art piece than fiction, “White Lines on a Green Field” by Catherynne M. Valente is 50s’ nostalgia after having undergone a Coyote myth transformation.  Salaciously written, but still looking for the substance…

Review of Son of the Tree and Other Stories by Jack Vance

The material so similar, it is no easy task to parse Jack Vance’s short fiction into collections.  Chronologically in order of publishing one option, the creators of the Vance Integral Edition instead went another: thematic -as challenging as it is.  While some are easier to identify than others, Golden Girl and Other Stories, for example, brings together the stories Vance wrote starring women and The Dragon Masters and Other Stories his three most successful novellas.  Others are less easy; The Potters of Firsk and Other Stories seems to simply have been a pot collecting miscellaneous stories.  Son of the Tree and Other Stories is a collection somewhere in the middle.  The common thread not immediately apparent, but once the reader delves in, the motif of space mystery becomes clear—at least for most of the stories.  The following are brief summaries of each:

“Phalid’s Fate” – A man is surgically altered to become a bug-like alien—a Phalid—so that he can get revenge upon the aliens for killing his brother in their inter-planetary war, but instead becomes involved in a massive plot.  Golden Age science fiction, this novelette is a middling example of Vance’s style of planetary adventure.

“Chateau d'If” – Mario is a bored architect until seeing an advertisement for the mysterious Chateau d’If.  Promised an adventure, he gets more than what he pays for, and must find a way to get himself out of a major hole.  Fully deserving of novel length treatment, this story is unfortunately a rushed affair full of gaping plot holes.  Though a fear of trans-humanism plays itself out in realistic style, the remainder has plot gaps the size of cadillacs, all characterization lost in the process. 

Review of Shriek by Jeff VanderMeer

City of Saints and Madmen was a phantasmagorical mélange of (sur)reality. The past and present of Ambergris like shards of stained glass lying on wet pavement, the themes of art, history, culture, and humanity colored what was otherwise a fungally Weird vision of urbanity.  Underlying realities forever hinted at but never revealed, the collection proved to be a course of appetizers that whet hunger but do not sate it. In 2006 VanderMeer unveiled the main course: Shriek: An Afterword, which is, thankfully, infinitely better than my food metaphors.  Presenting the character studies of two siblings living in Ambergris in tumultuous times, the novel expands the ideas of City of Saints and Madmen in subtle, layered fashion, helping to define the Ambergris books as one of the most important works of 21 st century fantasy.

Shriek begins as an afterword to a re-printing of The Hoegbotton Guide to the Early History of Ambergris by Duncan Shiek.  Written by the author’s sister Janice, it opens on a biographical note recounting the details of her brother’s youth.  But very quickly it becomes apparent the afterword is not standard historical material.  Duncan’s own words appearing in the text (in such parentheses), the narrative becomes reminiscences, revelations, and running commentary from both Janice and Duncan.  Janice’s personal issues rising slowly to the top, the narrative becomes autobiographical as well.  Scenes from her involvement in the art scene intertwined with Duncan’s own good and bad luck as professor and writer are featured.  Events in Ambergris at large taking shape in the background, the rivalry of the city’s two main publishing houses escalates into a civil war, and finally all-out war when the neighboring Kalif invades.  Known from the outset that Duncan eventually disappears into the underground and that Janice’s self-destruction moves continually downhill, the mystery of Janice’s ultimate fate, as well as how Duncan came to annotate Janice’s narrative, are mysteries needing resolution.

Review of The Best of A.E. van Vogt by A.E. van Vogt

Please note: this review is for the 1974 UK publishing, not the 1976 US publishing of the same name.  For the record, the UK version is van Vogt's own selection, the US the publisher's.

The Golden Age of science fiction was witness to a large number of names trying to cash in on market demand.  Many, many of these names since fading into history, there remain some that echo, albeit fainter and fainter through the decades.  One of the biggest names echoing is A.E. van Vogt.  Making that name for himself with dense, dynamic stories, he would continue writing in Golden Age mode decades beyond the era.  Accumulating a lengthy backlist of short fiction in the process, its best of—selected by van Vogt himself—was collected in 1974 and is the subject of this review.

Clute and Nichols calling it “shuffling upon re-shuffling”, I can’t think of a better term myself to describe van Vogt’s plotting.  And, “Vault of the Beast“, the first story in the collection (and earliest, as they are arranged chronologically) is a perfect example.  Starting simple but quickly escalating to galaxy-wide implications, more events are packed into the novelette than many writers today put into a novel.  Van Vogt stating that he limited himself to 800 word action scenes, the tactic never lets the plot slow, as immediately following upon some excitement is the transitory ‘clean up’ that sees the characters, aliens, et al shuffled into new positions, with new implications and tensions, requiring a new action scene, and so on goes the re-shuffling. 

Review of The Three-Body Problem by Liu Cixin

The opening line of the canononical Chinese novel The Three Kingdoms reads:“A nation divided must unite, and a nation united must divide.” Implicit to this statement is that any given society is in continual transition between periods of social stability and times of war and chaos.  It begs the question: how to turn off this perpetual ferris wheel of existence?  How to apply the brake in a stable period, affording humanity peace and quiet?  None yet able to answer these questions in practical terms, Liu Cixin’s The Three-Body Problem (2014, Macmillan-Tor/Forge) removes the ferris wheel’s housing to get a better look at the motor inside. Triangulating classical and modern physics, alien contact, and 20 th century Chinese history, it is a deceivingly simple examination of perhaps the most relevant issue facing humanity as a whole: how to stay united?  The Three Kingdoms' scenario has become the three-body problem.

The Three-Body Problem opens on a powerfully symbolic scene.  The irrationality of China’s Cultural Revolution set as the benchmark for chaos, a physics professor dies for his understanding of the world.  His daughters, who happen to fall on opposite sides of the ideological fence, are left to carry on the family name, with one, Ye Wenjie, going on to become an astrophysicist.  But after transcribing a letter to help a friend, she nearly lands in the same pot of boiling water as her father, and is lucky only to be exiled to a rural mountain top radar installation where a secret government project is underway.  Many years later, Wenjie’s daughter meets a nanomaterials researcher, Wang Miao.  Miao heavily involved in a computer game called Three Body, his discoveries in the virtual environment gradually evolve into the real world as the secrets behind the game and Wenjie’s mountaintop project collide in a galaxy-spanning plot with life-changing implications for the future of civilization.