Author: katenepveu

Posted on

Emerson, Jane: City of Diamond

Arrgh. Sharply limited typing + being ahead on school reading = lots of time to read, but also = limited ability to update book log. (I’m tempted to slide into secret diaries writing style. “Wrists update: somewhat painful. School v. boring. Classes *so* silly. Still not employed.”)

Last night, I finished Doris Egan’s (writing as Jane Emerson) City of Diamond. When I brought the Ivory books up on sf.written, opinion was mixed—but everyone recommended this. They were right; it rocks. Thanks to Pam for sending me a spare copy.

No Comments

Posted on

Peters, Ellis: (07) The Sanctuary Sparrow

The good news is that I’ve finished the last big paper required for graduation (handing it in tomorrow, and good riddance). The bad news is that my wrists hurt again; I’ve clearly pushed my recovery too hard. So, very briefly: The Sanctuary Sparrow is the seventh Cadfael novel; a little darker than most of them, I think, in its claustrophobic portrait of a rather messed-up family, but still enjoyable. (And hey, if anyone out there wants to read 20K words on special verdicts in criminal jury trials, just let me know . . . )

No Comments

Posted on

Gaiman, Neil: (201) American Gods

I found Neil Gaiman’s latest novel, American Gods, extremely frustrating the first time I read it. I thought perhaps I would like it better upon re-reading: perhaps my high expectations, or my narrative expectations, got in the way unfairly. I regret to report that I do not, in fact, like it any better now that I’ve re-read it. (This seems to be the week for frustration in this book log.)

Why is it frustrating? Oh, lots of reasons. I did have high expectations for this book, and justifiably so, I think. Since the amazing Sandman comic series concluded its 75-issue run, Gaiman’s novels had been enjoyable but slight, lacking the kind of power and depth Sandman displayed. The tale of a war between the old and new gods of America was just the kind of project I’d hoped to see Gaiman take on.

It may be unjust to compare American Gods to Sandman, since a ten-year monthly epic and a 400+ page novel are quite different formats. But too much of American Gods invites me to do so, to the book’s detriment. There are, of course, the gods, whose incarnations in America are quite different from the ones who dealt with Dream, which is somewhat disorienting, at least at first. (The other disorienting thing about the gods in this book is that Bast’s feline form is exactly what I’ve always pictured myself as in the “If you were an animal, what would you be?” game.) There’s the very basic theme of belief and story, painted over a broad canvas with stories embedded inside the larger tale.

More importantly, there’s the main characters. It’s been observed that Gaiman apparently has a thing for passive protagonists; Dream was passive, but for interesting and ultimately tragic reasons. Shadow just is. He is, in fact, one of the major sources of my frustration; it’s very annoying to be mad on behalf of someone who doesn’t appear to care.

The other main (and related, in spoilery ways) source of frustration is the plot. I don’t object to violating narrative expectations, but I want there to be a payoff for it. Here, I ended up saying, “That’s it? So what?” which is not what you want to do after 400 pages. To be sure, those 400 pages were a very smooth and easy read, with some great stories, characters, and lines (of which my favorite is probably, “Media. I think I have heard of her. Isn’t she the one who killed her children?” “Different woman. Same deal.”). But they don’t, to me, add up to anything: the plot’s resolution, its effect on Shadow—they just leave me frustrated.

A lot of people seem to really like this book, and it’s received quite a lot of critical attention. That’s great; Gaiman has an impressive body of work and deserves the attention. But whatever it is that people are seeing in this, I’m missing it.

5 Comments

Posted on

Ford, John M.: Last Hot Time, The

Since John M. Ford and Neil Gaiman will both be at Boskone, I thought I should re-read their latest novels before then. I started with Ford’s The Last Hot Time (although maybe Ford isn’t going to be at the convention, because I don’t see his name on the preliminary program any more. Bummer; hope he’s well.). In a way, I think this is the silver lining of having the early stages of carpal tunnel syndrome in my left wrist and having to cut way back on typing: I really like this book, but it’s oddly difficult for me to be coherent about it, so I have an excuse to make this short. Short-ish, at least.

The Last Hot Time is connected to the Bordertown shared universe, but does not take place in Bordertown. (The connections are ambiguous enough, to my reading at least, that I will not venture to say whether the book is set in the same world or a similar one.) Elfland came back sometime in the 1990s; the book is set the Levee, the part of Chicago that borders Elfland. Danny Holman is a paramedic escaping his small-town life in Iowa for the big city; he is given a job by Mr. Patrise, the Levee’s leader, who also dubs him Doc Hallownight. Though the book is set, as best I can tell, in the equivalent of the near future, the style is very much of an earlier era: wide-lapel suits, snap-brim hats, big cars and Tommy guns and smoky nightclub singers and gang wars and all the rest. (Cf. Doc Sidhe.)

That’s the setup. I’m reluctant to talk about the plot, because it sort of unfolds and ties together in a way that might be easy to spoil. There is a plot, let’s just say, though the direction of it might not be obvious at first. And, of course, if a young man runs off to the big city, he’s going to learn a lot about life and himself, which Doc does indeed.

Why do I like this book so much? It’s very strange, but I can’t point to one thing; there are a lot of great things about it, but even naming them all seems oddly insufficient. I will point out that it’s a book that requires careful attention to who the viewpoint character is and how events get filtered through his eyes; I don’t know, maybe I like it so much because it’s a Ford book where I understood all of the key points on my first read! I think, though, that it probably just hit me in just the right time, place, and manner to really resonate. It’s very finely done (and short), so I certainly recommend it, even if I can’t be coherent about it.

(In case you were wondering: my wrist is feeling much better than it was at the end of last week, thank you; I’m just trying to be careful.)

No Comments

Posted on

Stout, Rex: (10) Not Quite Dead Enough

Found the only Nero Wolfe book I hadn’t read before, Not Quite Dead Enough, in a used bookstore this week, so naturally I bought and read it. Unfortunately, it was more exciting for its timing than anything else. Both of the stories in this volume are WWII stories; the first shows what an evolution Lily Rowan’s character, and her relationship with Archie, have gone through. I don’t know if she was throwing a temper tantrum or Archie was being a jerk—he doesn’t tell us enough—but it wasn’t very enjoyable, and I far prefer the way they are together in A Family Affair. The second is another bomb story, with the sort of ending that I’ve never really cared for.

I do have one more Wolfe story to find, but I’m not holding my breath. Maybe I’ll re-read Prisoner’s Base instead, one of the best Wolfe books, which I also netted during my bookstore run—as well as another stack of Ellis Peters, which I was particularly glad to buy because the store had recently had someone walk off with a whole shelf of books. People suck sometimes—it’s a Bryn Mawr bookstore, for goodness’ sakes, their money goes for scholarships.

No Comments

Posted on

Peters, Ellis: (05) The Leper of Saint Giles

In The Leper of Saint Giles, Ellis Peters’ fifth Brother Cadfael novel, we get a few more details about Cadfael’s crusading past. While I don’t think I’m interested enough to read a honkin’ big history on the Crusades, there’s something strangely evocative about the images Cadfael recalls—the storming of Jersusalem, Guimar de Massard breaching the gate, the battle of Ascalon against the Fatamids of Egypt, “Bohemond and Baldwin and Tancred, squabbling like malicious children over their conquests” . . .

The plot centers around the granddaughter of Guimar de Massard, who is being married off against her will to a nasty piece of work—until he’s murdered, of course. The story’s not as intriguing as The Virgin in the Ice, but it’s nice to see Brother Mark again, and these lepers are a lot better company than Thomas Covenant, for certain.

No Comments

Posted on

Walton, Jo: (101-102) The King’s Peace and The King’s Name

What is worse, to see good people fall to grief from their flaws, or from their virtues? I couldn’t put those in a hierarchy, and “tragedy” is a terribly watered-down term these days—but Jo Walton’s The King’s Peace and The King’s Name reminds one of why the term gets expanded.

[I read this Friday on the train back to New Haven, but have been putting off writing it up because I knew I had a lot to say. You’ve been warned.]

This variation on the Matter of Britain is set several worlds over from ours, where the gods are indisputably real and magic works. (A very solidly built world, as well. I like Chad’s description that it has “a sense of coarse and grubby realism without reveling in the dirt.”) It’s fantasy as history not yet turned into legend, as remembered by one who was there: Sulien ap Gwien, armiger to Urdo ap Avren ap Emrys, the High King of Tir Tanagiri and, in Sulien’s view, “the best man of this age of the world.” (We as readers are not terribly inclined to disagree, though a ballad quoted about Urdo’s Queen, Elenn, says that “The two best men in all the world have loved me,” and we’re going to meet the other one in the forthcoming The Prize in the Game. Which is my fault, so I’m looking forward to it even more than I usually would.)

I’m coming to realize that what I value most about narrative voice is the sense that an actual, highly individual person is doing the talking. This is probably why I enjoyed the Ivory books more than some people, and certainly why I bought Ovid’s Amores, and also why I have an abiding fondness for the well-done First Person Smartass. Sulien also has a very distinctive voice and personality, to such an extent that I was just boggled when other people tried to fit her in the established pattern of the legend—”She’s Lancelot!” *choke* “No, she’s Sulien.” (There are in-story reasons to think she’s not Lancelot, also, but those weren’t why I choked.) On a slight tangent, this is why I don’t care for the “academic” Prologue to The King’s Name; it jars me out of Sulien’s narration. (I’d read it on the web in a slightly different form, so I just skipped it this time.)

Sulien claims that her “story has no drama; a land defended, vows unbroken, faith upheld. That is not the stuff of legend.” Well, maybe so, but it does not lack for drama all the same. Her narration, looking back from the end of her long life, is finely balanced and plausible; Sulien as a character does just enough reflecting on future events (things like “It’s strange to think of them being grown-up and married now”) as someone would, remembering, but (usually) not too much to spoil the suspense. She also notices the kinds of things that her character should, well, notice, and doesn’t explain in detail the kinds of things she wouldn’t think about. This means a reader must pay attention, but I would not call this a difficult book.

The story spans about twenty years and is divided into three books: The King’s Peace, which is the story of how the Peace was won; The King’s Law (published in the same volume as the first), which is the years after, making and holding the Peace; and The King’s Name, when civil war threatens the Peace. (The first line of Name is destined to feature prominently in “identify the book by this first line” threads, I am sure: “The first I knew about the civil war was when my sister [name omitted] poisoned me.”) The story is studded with some wonderful and well-realized characters; even the skin-crawling villain has his reasons, he who, of any character I’ve met, most deserves the description “that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” (Far more than the killer in the Rex Stout novel.)

More importantly, the key parts of the story have that sort of dread inevitability that accompanies your classic tragedy—you can see exactly where and why it’s all going to go smash, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it—but, as I said, there are no fatal flaws here (though perhaps there is harmartia; I’m working off high-school English classes and couldn’t really say). We know, from the Prologue of the first book, that Urdo falls but the Peace survives; but seeing it happen is (of course) entirely different, and, well—I cried, anyway. (The ending’s mix of bittersweet emotions reminds me a bit of my reaction to Lord of Emperors, for people who’ve read that as well.)

From the sheer length of this, you’ve probably guessed, but yes, I think these books are very strong, well-crafted down to the small details, and enjoyable, and not just because I know the author. If this were a Hollywood pitch, I’d describe it as “sort of like if you took Guy Gavriel Kay doing the Sarantine Mosaic, and Lois McMaster Bujold doing The Curse of Chalion, and John M. Ford doing The Dragon Waiting, and Caroline Stevermer doing When the King Comes Home, and then shook them all up”—but it’s not, and aren’t you thankful? Those kinds of pitches can only capture pieces of a work, not the entire thing, and The King’s Peace and The King’s Name are, like Sulien, entirely themselves and their own, for which I am glad.

No Comments

Posted on

Lovell, Jim, and Jeffrey Kluger: Apollo 13

Truly, I am a slave to my moods and my sleep pattern—at least when it comes to picking something to read. Yesterday it was my sleep pattern.

I used to have a copy of Apollo 13 (formerly Lost Moon), by Jim Lovell & Jeffrey Kluger, at my parents’ to read before bed; it has a few stand-alone chapters that work really well for that. Unfortunately, I left it on a low shelf in my room at a time when the puppy was still allowed in it. One chewed paperback and one torn-up bed underside later, the dog was barred from the room (literally; one of those pressure gates), and I needed a new copy of Apollo 13. I hadn’t got around to it until just now, though, using up the last of a gift certificate on it. I’d been re-reading this a bit at a time, but last night I had insomnia (gee, surprise) and finished it off.

As the change of title suggests, the very good movie was based on this non-fiction book. Having movie adaptations somewhat on the brain lately, it was interesting to re-read this and see the changes; some problems were ignored for simplicity’s sake, some were exaggerated for dramatic purposes, and some people were slower on the uptake than in the book, also for—I hope—dramatic purposes. The book provides excellent lucid descriptions of the challenges faced by the astronauts, and does a nice job of showing just how many people were working on the problem, without overwhelming the reader with different characters. If you enjoyed the movie, or are at all interested in space flight, I recommend this highly.

Trivia note of the day: There’s a chapter about Apollo 8, of which Lovell was also a member. Apollo 8 was not originally scheduled to circle the moon. In the hardcover of this book, which I read first from the library, there’s a note that the mission commander’s wife was rumored to be upset at the change, blaming someone in particular (I’ve forgotten who now). The reference to blaming a particular person has been removed from the paperback version.

The stuff clogging up my memory . . .

No Comments

Posted on

Peters, Ellis: (06) The Virgin in the Ice

Because I was sleepy yesterday on the train, I needed something less intense to read than what I’d planned (the sequel to The King’s Peace), so I read one of the Brother Cadfael novels I’d bought over the weekend, The Virgin in the Ice. Yes, that means I’ve skipped the fifth one, but hey, if I’d had it, I would have read it. (I have it back in New Haven from the library.)

Being an even-numbered Cadfael novel, the plot stems from the civil war. Empress Maud’s forces have sacked Worcester (I wonder if the English pronounce it the same way people in Massachusetts do?), and refugees have flooded the countryside. A pair of noble teens are missing, along with the nun accompanying them; they keep disappearing and reappearing through the course of the novel. And, of course, someone gets murdered.

This is a nice twisty one, with an interesting revelation at the end, and a good way to pass the sloooow train ride from Albany to Boston.

[Update: I’m told that yes, “Worcester” is about the same to the English as to us Massachusetts folks—I’d render it, very roughly, “whu-sta” (or “wuss-ta” or “woo-stah” or however you want to try to convey those vowels).]

No Comments

Posted on

Pinkwater, Daniel: Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death, The (audio and text)

I’ve read one and a half books since I last updated this, but I want to talk about the one—Jo Walton’s The King’s Peace—along with its sequel, which I’m planning to read next. So instead I’ll mention the half, Daniel Pinkwater’s The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death.

Why is this a half? Yesterday we were in the Book Barn, a local (to Schenectady, that is) used bookstore; while the cashier was ringing up my half-dozen Brother Cadfael novels (each about a buck fifty; I like that place), I happened to spot the audio book of The Snarkout Boys. Since Chad’s read and liked it, less than five bucks to hear the author read it seemed like a good deal.

We listened to the first quarter in the car, but I dozed off during the second back at the apartment. Taking this as a sign that I’m not cut out for audiobooks unless I’m in a car, I read the other half of the book over lunch today.

What a weird book. (As though you couldn’t guess from the title.) There are some great bits in here—listening to Pinkwater read the three different speeches in Blueberry Park was very funny, and I enjoyed the pure deadpan narrative voice—but overall, it wasn’t quite my flavor of weird, I think because I prefer my plots at least a little coherent.

No Comments