Author: katenepveu

Posted on

Hughart, Barry: (02) The Story of the Stone

I don’t like Barry Hughart’s second novel, The Story of the Stone, as well as I like his first, Bridge of Birds; I also don’t like the third, Eight Skilled Gentlemen, as well as the second. Some have suggested that one prefers Hughart’s novels in the order one reads them, which would be one explanation, but I’m not so sure about that. It’s true that part of the charm is the novelty, and as the series goes on, one begins to see some plot patterns.

However, I always think of the later books as being darker than the first, and this re-read supports that. In Bridge of Birds, Master Li and Number Ten Ox are trying to rescue the children of Ox’s village from a mysterious illness; in this book, our odd pair are asked to solve a mysterious murder, the partial destruction of a valley, and the apparent resurrection of a madman. I didn’t re-read Bridge of Birds, so I can’t be certain whether they also encounter much more creepy stuff along the way, but I have the distinct impression that they do.

There are certainly lovely bits here, most notably the extended scene where Master Li takes Ox and a companion to the Temple of Illusion for a trip into Hell. Ox, the narrator, treats it as an actual trip, and thus the reader tends to do the same; but I particularly like how Master Li consistently speaks of it, after they emerge, as an exploration of his inner mind. There’s also cheerful depictions of homosexuality and polyamory, making this an unexpectedly timely read. And I’m always glad to have Ox’s company.

I was in a rotten mood last week when I picked this up, and while it’s not as perfectly cheering a read as Bridge of Birds, it’s not half bad either. Unfortunately, I think it’s gone out of print again: all three had been reprinted in an omnibus from the sf store Stars Our Destination, but I assume that with the store’s folding, it’s not going to continue to be printed. Fortunately, Bridge of Birds remains in print from Del Rey.

5 Comments

Posted on

Stout, Rex: (36) Gambit

The very last Nero Wolfe book we didn’t own, Gambit, arrived at the end of January as a present, and I read it shortly thereafter. This is the one that opens with Wolfe burning the third edition of Webster’s page by page, as his latest client lays out the situation. I was rather tickled by this exchange at the end of the chapter:

 . . . when I finished there was no more dictionary except the binding. . . .

“Will this burn?” he asked.

“Sure; it’s buckram. It may smell a little. You knew you were going to burn it when you bought it. Otherwise you would have ordered leather.”

This is also the chess one, as the title suggests. It’s nice to be able see the solution to the mystery at the same time as Archie and Wolfe, but I don’t believe the revelation that allows the mystery to be solved: that it would have happened at all, I mean, not that it would have been revealed at that time.

A minor Wolfe, but there could have been a worse one to be last into the collection.

No Comments

Posted on

Bryson, Bill: Mother Tongue, The

Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue is the first of his non-travel books, and one of two about the English language (Made in America is the other). Like the rest of his books, this was perfect before-bed reading: interesting and amusing, to clear my mind, but not much in the way of narrative drive, to keep me awake too long.

Nearly every page of this book has something good on it, that I want to write down or tell someone about. Just the first chapter includes: a Danish word that means “instantly satisfying and cozy,” hygge (anyone know how to pronounce that? I think we need to adopt it); a “Highlands Scottish” (Scots Gaelic?) word for “the habit of dropping in at mealtimes,” sgiomlaireachd; and an introductory discussion of why English is so flippin’ hard. This last was very relevant this week, as I did paper-torture with an intern at work: some things I could explain, or hand over photocopies from Woe Is I and The Elements of Style, but for a few, I had to resort to, “I’m sorry I can’t adequately explain why this is wrong. Just trust me.” Flipping through later chapters, I’ve lighted on the assertion that Shakespeare created approximately 1,700 words; a mention of a Broadmoor inmate’s tens of thousands contributions to the original OED; and a discussion of the British crossword which reminds me why I just skip past most of the Wimsey short story “Uncle Meleager’s Will.”

If you’re reading this, you obviously care at least somewhat about language. Therefore, you ought to read this book. Go on, I’ll still be here when you get back.

4 Comments

Posted on

Gaiman, Neil: (201.5) “The Monarch of the Glen”

Gaiman’s story in Legends II, “The Monarch of the Glen,” is set in the universe of American Gods. Shadow finds himself in Scotland, hired to bodyguard a party against gatecrashers, by a little doctor who calls him a monster and tells him, “I am something of a monster myself. Like calls to like. We are all monsters, are we not? Glorious monsters, shambling through the swamps of unreason . . . “

Yes, we’re in a monster story of a sort, a sort that is probably transparently obvious to everyone who isn’t me. I took much too long to figure out what was going on, partly because my background in some literary traditions is sketchy, and partly because I read this late at night while suffering from insomnia. For me, my principal impression of the story is that I still can’t get into Shadow’s point-of-view. Interesting things happen around him, but as a character he continues to slip through my fingers: which, yes, may well be the point, but I find it frustrating to a degree that overcomes my fondness for difficult narrators.

At the end Shadow decides to go back to America. I’ll read the stories to come about this, but again, I’ll dial my expectations way down, having determined that my problems with Shadow extend past the setup of American Gods.

Trivia note: we learn what name is on Shadow’s birth certificate in this story, which knowledgeable readers will have guessed already.

4 Comments

Posted on

Gabaldon, Diana: (201.5) “Lord John and the Succubus”

It’s a bit odd to log an anthology when I’ve only read two stories out of it, but as I bought it for those two stories and have no interest in reading the rest, I might as well. The anthology is Legends II, edited by Robert Silverberg; the two stories are Diana Gabaldon’s “Lord John and the Succubus” and Neil Gaiman’s “The Monarch of the Glen.” [*]

“Lord John and the Succubus” is a sequel to Lord John and the Private Matter, in which Lord John goes to the Continent as a liaison to the Hanoverian army. I think this story will seem odd whether or not one has read prior books in the series, but in entirely different ways. People who haven’t encountered Gabaldon before may well wonder what this story is doing in a fantasy anthology: there’s fantastic elements in the atmosphere, but no overt magic. (There are more overt sf elements in other books, including time-travel and ghosts; all the same, I feel the series is too obviously cross-genre to be labeled fantasy or sf.)

People who’ve read the first Lord John book may well wonder, as I did, at how the forthcoming middle book in the trilogy, Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade, will handle the events of this story. Basically, this novella appears to tell the complete story that was promised at the end of the prior book, “Lord John goes to Germany, sparks fly with big blond man” (to plagiarize myself). (Yes, the point-of-view character is gay; if you have a problem with seeing homosexuals as people, you shouldn’t read these.) I suspect that the transition between the first and second novels is likely to be odd for people who haven’t read this novella—”hey, we’re missing a story!”—which seems unfortunate to me.

As a story, I like it better than the first Lord John novel, because it does have more personal tension. On the other hand, the unalterable boundaries of canon do limit the possibilities on this front: the reader knows that Lord John’s not going to die in these books, because he’s alive some fifteen or twenty years later, and further knows that he remains entirely in love with someone who is 1) offstage and 2) completely and in every way possible unavailable. I suppose I should lower my expectations on this front a bit, because of the stories’ nature as prequels.

[*] The other contents are:

  • Robin Hobb, “Homecoming”, Farseer/Liveships universe (“Realm of the Elderlings,” per the Table of Contents).
  • George R.R. Martin, “The Sworn Sword,” Song of Ice and Fire universe.
  • Orson Scott Card, “The Yazzo Queen,” Alvin Maker universe.
  • Robert Silverberg, “The Book of Changes,” Majipoor.
  • Tad Williams, “The Happiest Dead Boy in the World,” Otherland.
  • Anne McCaffrey, “Beyond Between,” Pern.
  • Raymond E. Feist, “The Messenger,” Riftwar.
  • Elizabeth Hayden, “Threshold,” Rhapsody series (“The Symphony of Ages”).
  • Terry Brooks, “Indomitable,” Shannara.

Either I haven’t read the source material, or I’ve read some of it and don’t feel like going back into the universe for various reasons.

No Comments

Posted on

Snicket, Lemony: (04-06) The Miserable Mill (audio); The Austere Academy (audio); The Ersatz Elevator

In late January, I drove to Massachusetts for two baby showers in two days. As is my wont, I listened in the car to Lemony Snicket audiobooks, in this case The Miserable Mill and The Austere Academy. Mill, the fourth book in A Series of Unfortunate Events, is almost entirely to pattern. The only change is that Violet, normally the inventor, has to read something to help them escape the latest series of unfortunate events, and Klaus, normally the reader, has to invent something; alas, it’s something that breaks my suspension of disbelief—which is very, very generous for these books.

Academy is much more interesting, because for the first time, we have an ongoing plot. In the present, we meet the Quagmire triplets, Isadora and Duncan (their sibling, Quigley, was killed in a mysterious fire), who fall victim to a series of unfortunate events that will carry over at least the next two books. And our narrator discloses more about his past, suggesting that he has a more-than-academic interest in researching and documenting the story of the Baudelaire orphans. (Also, Sunny’s getting better at talking!)

These audiobooks are read by the author, who isn’t as good at is as Tim Curry—but “not as good as Tim Curry” still leaves a lot of room, and I fell into them sufficiently that I had to suppress the urge to call people “cakesniffers” for a couple of days.

When I got back from my trip, I wanted to find out what happened next, and Chad just happened to have the next book, The Ersatz Elevator, out from the library. More tantalizing hints, no resolutions yet, but ends with the series taking a slightly different direction. In our near future is a trip to the library to get the next ones.

(Occasionally, I admit to wanting a little more complexity than I’m going to get out of these. In Mill, for instance, I badly wanted to know what was up with Charles. I could spin half-baked psychological theories out of perceived subtext: but ultimately, I just don’t think there’s that kind of subtext in these books. Terrible puns made literal, sure; meta-narrative, absolutely; but psychological depth, not so much. Oh well, one can’t have everything.)

(Though, speaking of subtext, did anyone else read the Quagmires as being set up as future romantic interests for the Baudelaires? [Violet/Duncan and Klaus/Isadora, I feel the need to specify.] And was anyone else bothered by this? I mean, they’re pre-pubescent.)

Finally, I would normally end these entries with quotations, but the items have gone back to the library. Fortunately, one can rely on Chad for these things: The Miserable Mill, The Austere Academy, and The Ersatz Elevator.

7 Comments

Posted on

Sayers, Dorothy L.: (01) Whose Body?

Some time ago, I needed a novel to read at lunch, and found Whose Body?, the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel by Dorothy Sayers, in the work paperback exchange. “Ah-ha!” I said, “I will start re-reading Sayers over lunches when I need a break, and this will give me an excuse to fill the inexplicable holes in my collection: as I get to a book I don’t own, I can buy it.” And that is just what I did.

I’d read this before, of course, and so whodunnit was blindingly obvious from the very beginning. I suspect it would be a fairly obvious mystery to new readers, too, even if their edition didn’t have a spoilery blurb. I was more interested in how different this book is from later ones, such as Gaudy Night, which I re-read not so long ago. The main thing, of course, is Peter, who is much less rounded than he becomes. I don’t say that he’s flat, because I liked him from the start and he does have the shell-shock; and I utterly deny that he’s a Mary Sue (per some at a Boskone panel), because to include him in the category renders the term nearly meaningless. But the strong prominence of his verbal tics makes him appear rather more a caricature than in later books. (I’d noted this with reference to Strong Poison as well, but I think it’s even more pronounced here.)

The other major difference I noticed—even different from Strong Poison, I think—is the narration. Or, rather, the narrator, who is a palpable presence: footnotes, for goodness’ sake, as well as that odd dip into second-person towards the end (which chapter I really like). I’ll be interested to see how this evolves over my re-reads.

(The only problem with my lunchtime-reading plan is that I was given a copy of The Lord Peter Wimsey Companion as a birthday present last year. On one hand, it rather defeats the purpose to not have it at hand when reading the books, but on the other, I really don’t want to bring it into work. I suppose I shall just have to make notes or use sticky-flags when necessary; I didn’t really see anything in Whose Body? that I wanted to look up.)

[ For excellent, very spoilery commentary on Whose Body?, I recommend Truepenny’s LiveJournal post; all of her thoughts on re-reading Sayers are linked to from this “memories” page. ]

2 Comments

Posted on

Kelly, Carla: Miss Grimsley’s Oxford Career

And now for something completely different: Carla Kelly’s Miss Grimsley’s Oxford Career (recently reprinted with Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand). This is a Regency romance, via an author recommendation from Melymbrosia on LiveJournal.

This was charming, warm fun; I can tell it’s flawed and I don’t really care. Partly I’m well-disposed towards it because it was clearly written by an author who’s read and loved Gaudy Night—not, I hasten to add, that they are particularly comparable works, except that they’re set at Oxford and are suffused with a love of reading and a respect for intellectual endeavor. Partly it’s because it takes the plot furniture of the genre and tweaks it: the “girl in disguise as a boy” doesn’t fool the hero for a minute; the “noble hero comes in and fixes lives of everyone in heroine’s family” is nicely modulated; and the plot-driving secondary characters are given touches of nuance. So yeah, the plot’s overstuffed, and it’s anachronistic, and there’s bits of stupid deception, but the characters are just nice people and I really enjoyed reading about them.

6 Comments

Posted on

Tolkien, J.R.R.: Silmarillion, The

I started re-reading J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Silmarillion on January 3, Tolkien’s birthday, on the theory that hobbits give presents to others on their birthdays and his books are the best presents he could give (if he were still with us, of course). I’m a couple re-reads past the point where I started understanding and enjoying the book; like a lot of people, I tried reading it too young (or soon) and bounced hard off it. Before this re-read, I appreciated it as mythology, with many wonderful stories sketched in a remote and stylized manner. This time, I discovered a number of new reactions, a few years after the last re-read.

[ There will be spoilers below, vaguely phrased but present nonetheless. ]

First, I don’t recall it raising the hairs on the back of my neck before. I did most of my re-reading in exceedingly mundane environments—my office, a car dealership while my car’s oil was changed—and even there, things like the Doom of the Noldor, or the host of Fingolfin blowing their silver trumpets at the first rising of the Moon, send actual chills up my spine. The early parts seemed much more likely to do this than the later, and also stick with me more between reads. (Even the first two portions stick with me, about the creation of the world and the Valar and Maiar, but I’m weird and used to re-read them to relax and go to sleep. I did, however, skip the geography chapter with no feelings of guilt whatsoever.) It’s possible that the sheer density might have come into play: I’m more able to infer emotion from this style now than when I first read this book, but I may have gotten tired of doing so by the end. I think it’s more likely that a problem with the content of the later stuff, though, of which more below.

Second, speaking of Fingolfin, something I’d known but had forgotten the extent: I read by word recognition, rather than phonetics, and as a result the names are very difficult. For instance, so many people have names of the form F—— that I had a little slip of paper marking the first of the family trees, the House of Finwë, and referred to it nearly every time an F—— name appeared. Keep this in mind when creating your own languages, writers.

Third, I either hadn’t registered or hadn’t remembered the underlying ethical or moral decisions that structure all the history. That’s a very cumbersome way of putting it, so let me give examples. I spent a bit of time trying to classify the two major falls of the work, Melkor’s and Feanor’s (and much of the Noldor with him). There must be dozens of papers exploring this in much more depth than my lunchtime musing—all the same, they seem to both be ambition thwarted and thereby twisted into selfishness and coveting. And while they didn’t have to react in those ways to being thwarted, I can’t help but having a little bit of sympathy for their ambition—the summons of the Valar never seemed that wise to me, and if I were told that “hey, you think you’re doing your own thing, but it’s all My Ineffable Plan after all,” well, I’d get a bit cranky too.

Free will is a very problematic thing in The Silmarillion, it seems to me. Textually, no-one but Men (sic) have it, and it’s a gift inextricably tied with their mortality. Which sounds all well and good, until one sees how the deck is very carefully stacked against Men in every possible way to make them lesser. I could go on at length, but the opening pages of the chapter “Of Men” will suffice: “The Valar sat now behind their mountains at peace, and having given light to Middle-earth they left it for long untended, and the lordship of Morgoth was uncontested save by the valour of the Noldor. . . . To Hildórien there came no Vala to guide Men, or to summon them to dwell in Valinor; and Men have feared the Valar, rather than loved them, and have not understood the purposes of the Powers, being at variance with them, and at strife with the world.”

Apparently Men get free will, but don’t get the information they need to exercise it wisely. (There should probably be a reference to Freedom and Necessity in here somewhere, but this entry has languished unfinished long enough.) Really, I finished the book feeling small and unenlightened and dirt-grubbing and just unworthy; and very cross thereby, because that is not at all my normal state. I want to ask Tolkien, “Did you intend to create an elaborate mythology just to explain why humans suck?”

No wonder there are so many Elf fangirls.

Ahem. Anyway. Last time I re-read The Lord of the Rings, I didn’t have this reaction, and I think I probably won’t next time, because the time scale is smaller and it ends on a more optimistic note. I’m rather sorry to have discovered that The Silmarillion makes me cross, as it has much that I love. Maybe I’ll just re-read the Appendices to LotR next time I need my fix.

3 Comments

Posted on

Eager, Edward: (03-04) Knight’s Castle; The Time Garden

For Christmas, Chad got me some Edward Eager books, including Knight’s Castle and The Time Garden, which I read New Year’s Eve and Day. I loved Half Magic as a kid, and read its sequel, Magic by the Lake, two summers ago. The rest of Eager’s books, though, were the kind of thing I just never got around to buying, so these were a perfect gift.

Knight’s Castle and The Time Garden feature the kids of the Half Magic protagonists; there’s one or two connections between the two sets of books, but you needn’t read them in any particular order. In each of these books, as in the prior two, the kids come upon a form of magic, have adventures, and grow up a bit (though not too pedantically).

(I have another Eager, Seven Day Magic, which doesn’t appear to be connected to any of the rest of his books. Magic or Not? and The Well-Wishers appear to a set, and somewhat unlike his other books, so they may be library material.)

For absolutely no reason that I can think of, I keep wanting to compare these to food. The dessert that always reminds you of childhood? The lemon ice that some restaurants bring you to clear your palate for the main course? Hot sweet roasted cashews from a street vendor, the kind that are only good if they’re eaten hot? They bubble along putting me in a better mood, washing away any bad tastes left by prior books, and are best gulped down at once—they might lend themselves to slow thoughtful reading, I suppose, but I’ve no inclination to try. I like them too much to risk it.

Another fun thing is how book-oriented they are. Knight’s Castle is the most obvious example of this, being basically Ivanhoe fanfic, but the joy of reading pervades the works, as part of the overall theme of imagination and willingness to consider impossible things before breakfast. (I was a little troubled by the oldest protagonist in The Time Garden, thinking that his teen preoccupation with romance was going to turn him into a Susan-out-of-Narnia, but the narrative ends up treating him more kindly than that.) I’ve downloaded three Nesbit books as a result of reading these, for my later reading pleasure (print copies being apparently hard to come by). Should I get Ivanhoe, too? The author and all of the kids in the books are of the opinion that the romance comes out wrong.

Ahem. Anyway. Start with Half Magic, but definitely read these too.

5 Comments