Thrones at Play

How about a little mood music?

I know it’s a little late to be jumping on The Game of Thrones hype train. The first season of the HBO series has come and gone, and the recent release of A Dance with Dragons has ended George R.R. Martin’s 5 year publishing drought. The wait wasn’t all that awful for me, seeing how I only started the series this last spring, and I had to fight a bit to finish A Feast for Crows (more on that below). But after having spent literally thousands of pages in the world of Westeros, I feel compelled to share a few observations about the series.

These covers are nice and all, but I prefer the solid colors and 

simple imagery of the paperbacks.

As much as I love meta-level jokes and snarky self-awareness, it is extremely refreshing to read fantasy fiction that plays things straight. Yes, there is something of the post-modern in Martin’s multiple POVs, his willingness to kill off characters permanently, and his recent experiment with concurrent chronologies, but he never feels the need to gloat about how clever he’s being. Even though the plot is ponderous and labyrinthine, he lets his characters carry the tale. The pacing is slow at times. Glacial even, seeing how winter is just now arriving in Westeros even though the series is supposedly more than half over. But the political alliances are intriguing, intelligent and natural.

This is in large part thanks to Martin’s sparing use of magic. Even more than in Middle Earth, magic is a subtle and ugly force whose existence is doubtful and denied by most of the world. There is no established social class of wizards, no ostentatious fire and lightning based combat, and very little in the way of spell-casting rules for fans to analyze and play with. But there is magic. We’ve got an army of walking dead stalking the frozen north; a red sorceress who does some deeply disturbing things with fire, shadows and her vagina; dragons born from petrified eggs through dark and bloody rituals; and people who can psychically inhabit the bodies of animals. There is also the seasonal hook to consider: summers and winters last decades in the world of Westeros. But this later feature isn’t regarded as magick so much as an ugly, hard fact of life. All of Martin’s magick is rooted in physicality however, and even though the fantastic elements of the story escalate with every book, the world still feels credible and medieval.

Much has been made of Martin’s willingness to kill off major characters, but I think the best and cruelest aspect of his writing is his eagerness to maim, damage and otherwise irrevocably change his characters. Spoilers up to Storm of Swords follow, so those who have yet to read the books probably want to skip this paragraph. Still with me? Okay! Bran’s paralysis is the first and most obvious example. As he is presented at the beginning of the story, Bran is kind of bland and boring. He’s likeable enough to pass muster as the hero of a coming of age novel, but you’ve seen all that before elsewhere. After he suffers from a broken back that deprives him of his dreams of knighthood though, he becomes someone completely different. A character you have never encountered before in the epic fantasy tradition. Tyrion is another example. He starts out “damaged” by his dwarfhood and only gets more damaged as the series progresses. But the single most intriguing transformation in the series so far is when Jaime Lannister loses his sword hand. A man who has resolved everything with violence and cruelty is forced to walk a less impulsive, introspective path, and consequently, he goes from being a complete monster into a compelling and at times even likable character.

The series as a whole is superb, but it does have its high and low points. The first book, Game of Thrones, is great, introducing the central conspiracies and characters and moving things forward at a fairly rapid clip. It’s a good enough book to justify at least two sequels, and it establishes Martin as major force in Fantasy fiction. Does he live up to oft-marketed title of “The American Tolkien”? I would say “hell, yes!” but then again, I was never terribly taken with Tolkien. I respect the foundation he has laid, his poetical abilities and his masterful use of folklore, but I also had to struggle a bit to get through Middle Earth. Getting back on track, Clash of Kings, the second book in the Song of Ice and Fire, introduces more magic into Martin’s world, and for that I am willing to forgive it almost anything. That said, it does indulges in lots of plotting, politicking and characterization. Even though castles are sacked and people are displaced, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was mostly a build-up book. Fortunately, all that set-up pays off in A Storm of Swords. It seems to reach it's climax in the middle, but things keep escalating with a string of death, betrayal and salvation.

This is the high point of the series in my opinion. You'll laugh, you'll cringe, 

you'll feel like you're reading a much shorter novel.

A Feast for Crows deserves its own paragraph, because it fails in an interesting way. On the one hand, it features consistently good writing like the rest of the series. But after the excitement and revelations of Storm, it is an absolute chore to get through. Instead of writing about the characters you have come to loathe and love, Martin introduces a whole menagerie of asshats that have only been mentioned in passing, if at all. Meanwhile, many of the best-loved characters are left on the cutting room floor. The justification for this is that those better loved characters will be covered in A Dance of Dragons, which is supposed to occur semi-concurrently with Feast. I was vaguely offended that my favorite characters had been replaced by obscure and frankly, boring newcomers, and while there is something to be said for Martin’s willingness to take risks this late in an established series, the divide contributes little to the over-all story. Re-reading chapters that we experienced through Sam through Jon contributes very little to the overall story. Then again, I haven’t finished reading Dance yet, so maybe I should withhold judgment until I have.

As far as the TV series is concerned, it is the best adaptation of a long running fantasy series I have seen. Admittedly, that’s not saying much, seeing how the only thing I have to measure it against is Syfy’s awful adaptation of The Dresden Files, but for the most part, the series seems to be in the hands of people who actually care about it. Yes, the extra sex scenes are a bit ridiculous, seeing how the books have their fair share to begin with and the ramped up violence seems equally unnecessary. I imagine there is some sinister committee that has worked out a specific boobs and decapitation quota for each season to snag as many viewers as possible, but considering the books have their fair share of exploitive violence and sexuality already it leaves something of a foul aftertaste in the mouth. I’m willing to forgive them however because the quality of the plotting and dialog is preserved handsomely, and more importantly, 99% of the characters have been cast perfectly. My only complaints are superficial and ultimately sexist: Caitlyn seems a decade older than I imagined her, Cersei isn’t a jaw-dropping Helen of Troy-esque beauty, and Shay is less of a flirt than she is written in the books. So I guess I’m not much better than the sinister committee who is trying to shoehorn in as much extra sex as possible.

My only other gripe, and this is really picking nits, is that the armor and weaponry of the series do not live up to their printed counterparts. Martin’s descriptions of lamented plate mail, valyrian steel and sculpted pauldrons made me think of the ridiculously ostentatious armor sets in World of Warcraft. Admittedly, such things work better on pen and paper, (or in cartoonish polygons) than they do on screen, where actors actually have to wear the stuff and make themselves seem remotely credible while delivering their lines.

So is Game of Thrones for you? If you’re into dark fantasy, conniving politics and compelling characters, the answer is an emphatic yes. If not, I honestly don’t know what you’re doing with your life. As to whether you should read the books or watch the show, I would say both are worth your time, providing you have time enough to spare. If not however, this is one of those rare occasions where HBO’s offerings won’t lead you too far astray from the printed word. So watch the show or the buy the books, but don’t let yourself miss out on Martin’s masterpiece.

Gunpowder Dragons

Once again, I must apologize for the long drought of posts. The leisure time I used to devote to Sarcasmancy has gone towards weekly entertainment reviews for The Technique. There is also less leisure time to go around. Graduate school is hard work, but it is unlike a job in that you are never off the clock. There is this implicit pressure to be constantly refining your bullshit, or researching for your thesis, or practicing the skills that you have supposedly mastered after two one-hour lab sessions. At least that’s been my experience of it.  But you didn’t come here for whining and excuses. No, I imagine you want commentary, witticisms and what passes for insight on nerd-friendly fiction. I’m rusty, but I will do my best to satisfy.

Busy as I’ve been, I managed to read a lot quality modern fantasy throughout the past two semesters. After wrapping up Strange & Norrell and The Road, I devoured Naomi Novak’s Temeraire series (up to Tongues of Serpents). Like all good alternate-history fiction, the series centers on a simple but potent hypothetical: What if the Napoleonic Wars were fought with dragons? More specifically, what if the French and the Brits had aerial corps where soldiers rode dragons like bombers, with nothing but courage and leather straps keeping them on board?

An admirable cover, though Temeraire looks a little more spindly than I suspected.

Dragon is a tricky meat to prepare. It is the chicken of fantasy writing. There are a billion and one different ways to cook and serve it, but everyone has had it so often that they think they’ve had them all before. You have got to serve it up with something savory and exotic for it to really sink in and stand out. Primitive gun powder is just such a seasoning. It obliterates the familiar dynamic of knights in shining armor and maidens fair, and gives mankind a weapon that can match—but not yet easily over-power— flying fire-breathing serpents with armored scales.

“Yes, yes,” you say, haughty and impatient “but what of the writing?!” Naomi Novak is a strong author. Her language is faithful to the period, but much plainer and more readily readable than Strange and Norrell. Her main strength is making these big, fanciful creatures feel plausible and conceptually tangible. Usually dragons are beings of incredible, ludicrous power, or fairly straightforward monsters in need of a good slaying, and in either case they are loosely defined creatures filled-in with amorphous magic. Novak presents readers with several discrete classes of dragons with several different yet distinctive abilities. Yes, some of them can breathe fire or spit acid, but they can also bleed and tire and get sick and hungry. In fact, Novak’s dragons’ most fanciful ability is their capacity for human speech.

The implications of an animal that can coherently speak a human language are huge, and fortunately, they are not lost on Novak. While the intelligence of dragons varies greatly from breed to breed, they are generally quite intelligent and the series seriously grapples with issues of draconic rights. The series’ titular dragon is particularly bright and extremely passionate about bettering the social station of his race. The captains and admiralty often jokingly refer to Temeraire as “that Jacobin dragon,” and accuse him of fomenting radical sentiments amongst the British Aerial Corps.

Then again, the Corps is quite radical for the time itself. Certain breeds of dragons conveniently demand female captains, giving Novak an excellent pretense to include strong-willed independent women in her Napoleonic period piece. Much of the first book deals with Captain William Lawrence’s uneasy transition from the stiff regulations of the Navy to the atypical informality of the Corps.

The high point of the series.

Even though the series is primarily focused on the Napoleonic wars, it spends a surprisingly small proportion of time in England and Fance. The second book sees Lawrence and Temeraire off to China, and the third book details their return through West Asia and Eastern Europe, only for the fourth book to pack them off to Africa. The fifth book is a something of a treat as it brings the series back home and features battles fought in occupied Britain, but then book six takes place in Australia. The globe-trot is a mixed bag. I think Throne of Jade’s trip to China was brilliant and perhaps the high point of the series, using the radically different dynamic between humans and dragons to emphasize the real-world cultural differences between Britain and the east. Black Powder War’s whirlwind tour of Turkey and Prussia felt rushed and ill-defined however. Empire of Ivory is even worse as it manages to make Africa seem blandly primitive by focusing on the evils of slavery, and introducing a number of characters who simply die off without making any kind of significant impact. These grievances aired, I have to give Novak props for finding a formula that makes each book different and shows off her world-building talents in the process.

The books lend themselves to quick reading, so you may want to pick up 

the Omnibus like I did.

If you are a fantasy fan who also enjoys action packed period pieces like Horatio Hornblower and Master & Commander, this series was written for you. I also suspect that my fellow gamers will get a lot of mileage out of this series. Naomi Novak worked on Neverwinter Nights, and her fight sequences and varied classes of dragons are clearly informed by RPG conventions. Long story short, if you like the sorts of things I write about on this blog, you’ll want to give His Majesty’s Dragon a try.

Walking The Road

I'm sad to admit The Road is the only book I've read by Cormac McCarthy as of yet, so I don't know what to make of the claim that it is his most accessible book. The words come easily from the page without being overly simple, and the story will hold you until you finish it, even though the situation is bleak and the image is dark. If I had to boil it's Pulitzer winning tale down to a  trite, writerly bullet point, it is that you only need one strong relationship to carry a book; you only need one strong relationship to carry humanity.

Accessible as it is, the book is challenging. At least, I was challenged by it. I am used to more superficiality in my fiction. More lighthearted relationships and more artificial situations, especially where Science Fiction is concerned. I crave it like high fructose corn-syrup. Getting a story that is as real and as raw as The Road is jarring. The utter lack of adornment, down to the absence of punctuation, makes for a powerful presentation, and it emphasizes McCarthy's greatest strength: the gravity of his details. Each word has a weight that grounds you by reminding you of the mortality of the situation, or of the relationship at stake. His descriptions are poetic at times, but never florid and rarely excessive. He allows each event of the narrative to speak for itself. The necessity of self-defense, of mercy, of recovering from sickness and showing kindness to a stranger.

This is a cover that does its book justice. You can't even see the black background against the site. If you squint, you can make out McCarthy's faded name above the title though.

The core of the book is the father's love for his son. The concept of "carrying the fire," keeping humanity alive in a world that can longer sustain it, is almost incidental. Most popular post-apocalyptic fiction romanticizes the setting and uses it as an excuse for an almost fanciful feudalism. The world is too lean for governments, but somehow civilization endures. Pockets of people cultivate things, while others scavenge and others still cannibalize and pillage. There is no hope of cultivation in McCarthy's world. The ground is barren, the sun is blotted by ash, and all the animals are dead. The father is not grooming his son to be a hero, he is teaching him to remain a person, so he can die as a person. There is an important hope here, but it's a sad kind of hope. The hope of dying human as opposed to leaving the world a better place.

As you might expect, the book is not about happy endings. The fact that the book ends hopefully at all feels a little like an obligation. After such a horrifying journey, readers are desperate for some redemptive truth, and I imagine McCarthy was, too. If the father died and left the boy alone, the journey would seem meaningless, or worse yet punitive. At the same time, the father has to die to make the story complete. If the father and the son settled down somewhere, if they remained at the safe-house they found for instance, their growth would stop. If the book has a message, it is that we all have to keep moving, regardless of how difficult it is, despite the fact that we all reach a common destination. It isn't didactic. It isn't preachy. But it does have a lesson to be learned.

And here's the cover of my copy. It loses a lot with the laudatory quotes.

 The story is incredibly simple, and it is simply told, and the message too is simple. If you can write as well as McCarthy, you don't need to get complicated. Even if I could write as well as McCarthy, I will never be able to tell a story like this, though. I would be too concerned with who the man was before the world died. I would need to address the apocalypse. I could not resist the urge to build cardboard civilizations, to cast the shadows of whatever war caused the catastrophe, and to anthropomorphize this ashen world. These things don't belong in McCarthy's tale though. They aren't real enough.

Strange Magic

It's terribly hard to talk about magic and books without bringing up The Boy Who Lived, especially if the book in question is British. I'm especially guilty of this. I mean, look for godsakes! I've gone and brought him up before I could even tell you what other book I'm talking about. For shame! Bad writer. No Biscuit. Anyway, there is magic to be found in Britain beyond Hogwarts, as proved by Susanna Clarke's Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.

It is a rightly celebrated book that's been out for a few years now, and while it's not nearly as accessible and inherently joyful as Rowling's septology, it is also more Literary. Therefore you can read it and then tell people you read it, and then feel smug about yourself even though it's a book about magic and that sort of thing is generally not something you're supposed to be proud of reading. Think of it as the opposite pole on the fantasy spectrum from Twilight: A grownup book for earnest readers who appreciate complicated characters, nuanced relationships and smart prose.

This is a fine cover. It was enough to get me curious about the book and once I read the jacket, I knew I had to read the rest.

The book is also very much a period piece. A Victorian period piece set amidst the Napoleonic Wars no less; a scenario some might consider the 'periodest' of period pieces. Consequently, the writing is not streamlined to suit the modern tastes of text messaging and net slang. The stilted properness of the era feels like it has been slightly exaggerated to poke fun at itself. Clarke has more in common with Austen and Dickens than Rowling, Lewis or Carroll. The book is thoroughly contemporary in it's fusion of society and magic, however, a trend that currently dominates the fantasy genre. There is also a wink of meta-fiction in Clarke's writing. The entire book is riddled with footnotes referencing a vast corpus of magical scholarship and history that Clarke has dreamed up. Many of these footnotes are short stories unto themselves; brief fairy tales of the old school with archetypal characters in need of harsh social lessons.

So what is the damn book about? Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell of course. Two men who have been destined to bring magic back to England. The practice of magic is deeply ingrained in the history of Clarke's England,  but recently, actual practical magic has all but departed in Britain, leaving a bunch of pompous old men practicing "magic theory." Enter Mr. Norrell, a neurotic, highly introverted man who stuns the world by doing actual magic. Later on in the story (further along than I would have preferred in fact, we meet Johnathan Strange), a romantic, mercurial young man who takes up magic on a whim, and ends up as Norrell's apprentice. The book details both magicians' efforts in the Napoleonic Wars, and the strains of their social relationship caused by differing opinions on magical practice. There is also a scheming fairy who must be overcome, distressed damsels in need of rescuing, and several human antagonists of varying degrees of despicableness.

The book is in part, a comedy of manners. We have well-intentioned oafs, ill-fated everymen, scheming control freaks, sharp tongued servants, superficial rakes, saintly wives and flawed husbands. One of my writing teachers once told me that dialog is as much about what characters hear as it is what they say, and that is extremely evident in Clarke's writing. Miscommunication, both supernatural and mundane, pervades the book. There are segments of the book, particularly at the beginning of the narrative, where the pompous social interactions feel quaint and not quite as clever as they are supposed to be. At times, the book moves at a tediously deliberate pace, and there were some passages where I was desperate for Clarke to just get over herself and get to the point.

The point being the magic, of course. Clarke's haunting scenery and her magical phenomena are equally wonderful to read. Spoilers are sprinkled throughout this paragraph, so you may want to skip it. We have ships made of rain, ornate fences that have turned rosy with rust, chilling ruins of the fairy realm and comical geographic juggling. There is very little in the way of combative magic in the book however, even amidst the war, which on the one hand is tremendously refreshing, but also somewhat disappointing. We never get to see a magical duel between the titular magicians, which struck me as a tremendous lost opportunity. Their reconciliation is also too abrupt, and I think it skirts some of the personal issues that played a hand in their separation. I'm not saying that Norrell is in love with Strange, and that he felt betrayed on both a personal and intimate level, or that Strange blames Norrell for the death of his wife and trying to control him and English magical society in its entirety... no wait, that's exactly what I am saying. There is a lot of fascinating subtext that gets no real resolution. The brief glimpse we get of the enigmatic Raven King is suitably climactic but it's also a terrible tease, as we are no wiser of his intentions or motivations.

The Man With Thistle-down Hair is an awesome antagonist.

The fact that the book uses illustrations, albeit sparingly, is a nice touch, and one that I heartily approve of. I was surprised to learn, via Wikipedia, that some reviewers found them to be overly sentimental and inappropriate. I'm all for mixing text and images, especially since illustrations were a fairly big deal during the narrative's time period, and given that contemporary society is increasingly visual, I don't see how their addition is a anything less than an awesome move. It's a fusion of past and present tastes and Portia Rosenberg's are pretty damn good.

So, do I agree with Neil Gaiman's assessment that it is "Unquestionably the finest English novel of the Fantastic written in the past 70 years?" No. At least, not without some tricky qualifiers. If we are invoking 'finest' in the sense of Fine Arts and use "English novel" to refer to a specific novel of exceptional Englishness, then yes, perhaps. Clarke's prose are tremendously more complicated than Rowling's and her characters are more subtle and complex. And Anglo-files will be in heaven with the book's Victorian pomp. I have to say that I prefer Potter's saga however. Up until the very end of Strange and Norrell, there is very little urgency to Clarke's prose. Things simply happen, or don't happen, and it is frequently hard to appreciate what is at stake in the grand scheme of things.

That said, I can't wait for the sequel, and I'm glad I didn't read this right as it was released in 2004. Given that the first novel took 10 years to write, I'm not holding my breath for the follow up, or for the film adaptation that is supposedly in the works. Seeing how it's going to be a long wait, you might as well snatch up Strange and Norrell now. It'll keep your mind warm throughout the long winter.

Mythologies of Violence in The Modern Video Game

As I mentioned on twitter, I recently started reading Roland Barthes' Mythologies for a class I'm taking on Popular Culture, and it's a text after my own heart. Rather than droning on about his ideas through pages and pages of recondite abstraction, Barthes approached philosophy by analyzing various elements of French bourgeois society (covering everything from soap to striptease) and discussing their associated cultural connotations, or Mythologies. Essentially, he did what I do here, only with more class, sophistication and academic merit. He was French after all.

While I pretty much leave you to draw your own conclusions about my analyses, Barthes' concludes his book with a comprehensive essay called "Myth Today," where he makes the case that myth is a language. A language of languages in fact. Using Saussure's semiological concepts of the signified, signifier and the sign, Barthes presents myth as a system where the sign of language becomes a signifier in and of itself. Honestly, it's a hell of a lot easier to understand if you look at the picture:

The nifty thing about myth and it's recursive structure is that it allows for an infinite chain of self-reference. Objects can exist simultaneously as objects and discourse on themselves. A similar sort of recursion; this 'object existing as an action' phenomena, is present in video games. Games exist as a composite of predefined computer programming, graphical design and computer hardware, but they also exist as dynamic processes; realized through dynamic exchanges between player and computer. Games and myth share this capacity for metaphorical recursion. Given this similarity, I thought it would be particularly fascinating to briefly analyze the mythologies and myth-making processes associated with modern videogames.

Most of the Mythologies surrounding video games pertain to violence, which is unsurprising as the vast majority of video games are essentially platforms for virtual violence. Like Barthes, I am generalizing. In fact, I am speaking even more broadly, as I am describing the trends of an entire medium. That said, I believe the chief mythology of modern videogames is the presentation of violence as an acceptable solution to almost every problem. This is particularly prevalent in fighting and shooting games, where players' abilities to interact with the virtual world are exclusively limited to movement and acts of violence.  

More mythical videogame lessons, linked from Movieposter.com. I also consulted IGN's list of 101 things we've learned from videogames. 

Even when the player's control over his avatar is suspended, violence dominates the narrative.I can't think of a better scene to illustrate my point than this scene from Gears of War 2. After spending years searching for his wife, Maria, Dom finds her a broken, tortured husk of a human. He looks to his comrade in arms, Marcus, who tells him gravely, "It's okay" and just as little Travis squeezes the trigger on Old Yeller, Dom kills his ruined wife. Now, I realize that some wounds never heal, and that mercy comes in many harsh forms, but I think the phrase "It's okay" and the action "shooting your tortured wife dead" should never co-habit, even on the battlefield. But that's most video games for you. Could you turn Maria's tedious psychiatric evaluation into a game? If you could, would it sell better than blasting aliens with assault rifles?

Even titles from studios like Bioware that emphasize diplomacy and negotiation regularly throw players into situations where violence is the only recourse. Violence is a means of wish fulfillment. It's a simple, and for my part, tremendously gratifying solution to a lot of problems. But in real life, violence is rarely so clean and convenient. There is a myriad of lesser mythologies that support the central myth of violence as a solution. When you kill or destroy things in a games, they disappear or transform into something useful. Many games are arranged to ensure that a fair fight is in order; balancing your avatar's might with an onslaught of weaker foes just waiting to be brought to justice. Perhaps most important of all, life and death are things of little consequence in video games. Life is a thing which is not only objectively quantifiable, through gauges and extra lives, but a thing that is commoditized.

Consequently, I would argue that the modern video game promotes a visually-idealized abstraction of violence rather than real violence. The virtual cruelty they present is endlessly creative (if brutal), but it is also sanitized and inconsequential. In games like World of Warcraft that force players to kill X amount of Y enemies to receive rewards, mass murder becomes mundane, and indeed, even tiring. Competitive Multiplayer games are a step closer to actual combat, but even in those virtual death matches, the goal is abstracted to a numerical goal; players must gain more points than their opponent. Just as Barthes asserts that French striptease is more a sport than an actual sexual act, I would argue that games are more sporting than they are violent. In a certain sense, they co-opt the imagery violence as a convenient and compelling short-hand for adversity.  Somebody would have to be an absolute maniac to take the bombastic mythologies of video game violence seriously; not that I think it hasn't happened before or that it isn't impossible.

Unlike the socially accepted mythologies Barthes discusses, many videogamers are well aware of the mythologies they are buying into. One does not attempt to double jump after playing Mario. Or if they do, they spend a couple weeks recovering from their injuries and never attempt to do it again. By and large, I would assert that gamers are consciously aware of the mythologies they buy into while playing games. Some of the subtler mythologies, like the hyper-masculinization of protagonists, or the sexual-objectification of female characters, or the commodifying habit of trying to accrue more points will inevitably rub-off on players' behavior, though those myths are pervasive in modern society as well. The myths of violence and behavior however are generally appreciated as part of the game's rules and not rules of reality. As a result, these violent mythologies occupy an even deeper semiological rank than the one Barthes' presents: They are myths that are conscious of their own mythological context.

Life After Hogwarts

I know I'm not the only one who misses Hogwarts. Horrible epilogue be damned, I wanted to know what happened after Harry and company 'graduated' and went on with their lives. In fact, I think the reason that so many readers were pissed off by Rowling's implied "happily ever after" is that we knew there was more growing up to be done. What happens after you finish your fantastic adolescent journey and find yourself faced with the less magickal world of adult responsibility? What happens when people with godlike powers start getting drunk and screwing other non-adults wielding godlike power? If you've had these questions, boy do I have a book for you.

Lev Grossman's The Magicians is a work of astonishing, and thoroughly refreshing cynicism in the fantasy coming of age genre. There is hope at its heart, and a thin thread of optimism underlying the narrative, but the pervading tone is sullen and its message is intended to be sobering. Despite my inevitable Harry Potter comparison, Lewis' Narnia series is a stronger influence than Rowling, but the book addresses issues that haunt both series and others like them. In fact, it presents a bold but compelling thesis about the deficiencies of fantastic coming of age novels: Fondness for fantasy ultimately stems from a dissatisfaction with the world we are given, and by extension, people who yearn for magical power are not merely harmless escapists, but those who are determined to warp and change the world beyond normal means. Like I said: cynical.

Harry Potter was occasionally very sad, but I never found it truly heartbreaking. All things considered, death is a fairly neat and clean fate for a character, especially when it is construed as 'noble' or 'heroic.' Grossman is crueler to his characters. He has them make the sort of mistakes that haunt and scar you for life. The book may not be more honest than other fantasy novels, because I believe there are important truths to be found in those sunnier texts, but Lev Grossman is certainly wields his truth more aggressively. And frankly, I think that is what I love most about his prose. Every word is edged with a type of tension, or grim humor. Even the celebratory scenes are tempered by recklessness and risk; this sense that things could get very bad and very out of control at the drop of a dime.

Stolen from xkcd.

In addition to being a criticism of genre, The Magicians is a serious critique on modern society as well. Grossman's fictional Magician class is a wonderful metaphor for over-privileged, self-interested, upper-middle class America. Main character Quentin Coldwater is a genius living a charmed life that grows more enchanted with every passing second. Yet he is unhappy and unsatisfied, even when he is accepted into Brakebills (think Hogwarts on the coast of the Hudson River) and he starts to master the awesome powers of magic. Even when he finds a place with the powerful "Physical Kids" clique. He can't escape the feeling that he was meant for something bigger and better, like the adventures in the Fillory and Further books he read while growing up.

I want to write more, but I don't want to give anything away. Honestly, I think the book's website and jacket give away too much of the plot. It's solid gold. Though to be honest, a disclaimer is in order. I am a 22-year-old, soon-to-be college graduate with a borderline Peter-pan complex. This book was written for me. Your millage may vary. But if you're a fan of Potter, or Narnia, or D&D, or World of Warcraft, or anything along those lines, you should pick up The Magicians.

Men Who Hate Women

...is the original title of Steig Larson's The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, and it suits the book much better. Then again, a title suggesting blatant misogyny is a hard sell, so it's easy to see why the publishers changed it to a more buzz-worthy title. Buzz is still worth something with books, which is one of the reasons I cherish the medium. Games, movies and TV all enjoy million dollar advertising budgets that effectively obliterate the boundaries between buzz and corporate hype. Throw enough commercials and billboards up and people will inevitably talk about your thing, if only to bitch about how over-exposed it is. There is a little of that in literature, but when lots of people talk about a book, particularly the first book in a series, or if you find yourself repeatedly running into people reading said book, chances are it's worth a read. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule.

 Kudos to whoever came up with this cover. It's vibrant and slightly punkish but respectable.

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo is definitely worth reading, but it's not without it's faults. It's difficult to sum up the premise with a neat one line summary, but the book is a locked-room murder mystery that fleas from conventional characters, situations and plot structures. These are good things, but it takes Larson a long damn time to get to the main story, and the first few chapters are packed with exposition about a financial journalism subplot that bookends the main mystery, and when we do reach the main mystery, there is even more exposition to set it up. Later on, there is even more exposition about legal guardianship in Sweden. His explanations are clear and they make sense, but they need more editing in accordance with the old "less telling, more showing" maxim.

Along similar lines, the two tangentially related plot threads take a long time to intertwine. We know main characters Mikhail Bloomkist and Lisbeth Salander will eventually end up working together from the moment each character is introduced, but they don't team up until the last quarter of the narrative. Consequently, throughout the book I found myself waiting for Larson to get to the point. The constant switching back and forth between perspectives derailed the narrative momentum of the mystery, resulting in an investigation that was remarkably laid-back, low-key and not terribly suspenseful until the end. There may very well be subtleties in play that I am too impatient to notice, but the pacing frustrated me frequently.

A prettier cover, but much more conventional. The girl doesn't look like the titular heroine either.

It's the characters that really make the story. Mikhail Bloomkist is a charming, intelligent everyman with a uniquely complicated history. In addition to being a disgraced, famous financial journalist, he is a divorced father, an editor, an occasional lover to his magazine's co-owner, and a former soldier, currently working as an informal private eye/biographer. The titular dragon tattooed girl, Lisbeth Salander, is the real crown jewel of the piece, however. She is a laconic, blunt and rebellious hacker/researcher who has been declared incompetent by the government due to her repeated run-ins with the law, and her refusal to emotionally connect with anybody. My greatest complaint of the story is not that so much time is spent in exposition, but that the exposition robs us of time we could be spending with Salander as she hacks computers and takes out bullies with her own brutal brand of justice. Incredibly enough, the secondary and tertiary characters in the novel are comparably well-developed to the main duo. The supporting cast is uniquely likable and believably flawed, while the villains are sick, repellent fucks.

Larson's gift for characterization extends to an ability to create meticulously complicated interpersonal relationships for his characters. Every interaction in the book, from casual business negotiation to rape is credible and realistic. It must be noted that this work has been translated from Swedish to English, and while some credit must be given to translator Steven Murray, the fact that these exchanges can emerge from translation so handsomely is a testament to Larson's ability to convey genuine human emotion.

I don't want to delve too deeply into the specifics of the plot here, seeing how it's a murder mystery, but as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, the original Swedish title of the book is a more accurate portrayal of the novel. The plot accurately portrays the lingering evils of misogyny in society without belaboring the point, and Lisbeth Salander is a sober and compelling modern feminist.

All in all, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is a rewarding experience, if a bit slow at times. I haven't seen the Swedish movie adaptation, but I have it on good authority that it is a good watch with dead-on casting. It's also playing in artsy theaters now, so give it a watch if I have intrigued you and you don't like books. In the interest of full disclosure, foreign films frequently contain subtitles, so you may still have to do some reading.

Dresden'd for Greatness

About two years ago, I was perusing the Sci-fi/Fantas section in a local bookstore when a description caught my eye; "Think Buffy the Vampire Slayer staring Phillip Marlowe." I may have been aware that the quoted book's title was Small Favor, though I didn't devote much attention to the cover, or who wrote it. The statement crackled with such potential that I snatched up the hardcover, and proceeded to the checkout, only dimly aware of the possibility that I was stumbling into the latest installment of a long running series. If somebody told me I was about to start on Book Ten of the Dresden Files, I may have tried to start at the beginning. A glad thing I didn't know any better. It was one of the best impulse buys of my life. Starting out late didn't hamper my enjoyment of the earlier books in the series, in fact, knowing what was in store made me more charitable toward Jim Butcher during his "warm up period."

The first two books are enjoyable enough, but things really start to pick up here.

Needless to say, the book delivered on the promise of Entertainment Weekly's one liner. The Dresden Files are a helluva lot of fun. The series isn't for everybody; grandma probably won't get it, and fans of "higher literature" including Tolkien devotees will probably look down upon it as low-brow genre fiction. I've even heard people, or at least internet people, refer to it as the Y-chromosomes' answer to Twilight. There is a shred of accuracy to this statement, insofar as the books are clearly written for a male audience, just as Twilight is obviously written for women folk, but the parallels stop there. Unlike Meyer, Butcher can write. The pacing is fast, the plotting starts out serviceable and gets increasingly tighter as the series continues, and the characters, while archetypal, are memorable and believably developed. And most importantly, Butcher doesn't take himself, his protagonist, or his series too seriously. On the contrary, self-deprecation runs high in the Dresden Files. Each book has an element or two which rib's the fantasy genre in one way or another, be by featuring a Billy Goat's Gruff as an antagonist, or a subplot involving a pack of teenage LARPers who gain the ability to turn into were-wolves.

If you do not find this even a little bit awesome, The Dresden Files is probably not for you. Also: seek medical attention.

Despite the fantastic trappings and occasional absurdity of the situations, the action in the Dresden Files is typically driven by very real issues; chiefly, responsibility and relationships. I don't mean the spider-man sort of responsibility about using your powers for good either. There is a bit of that here and there, but usually, the books are concerned with the responsibilities of us mere mortals: sticking to your principals as much as practicality will allow, asking for help despite putting other people out or putting them in danger. These are universals, even if they are broadly drawn, and the fantastic elements of the narrative make them far more interesting and enjoyable than they are in real life.

DOING IT WRONG

Not everything that is Dresden Files is golden however. The Syfy channel (or Sci-fi Channel back at the time of productions) mangles the original series something fierce. Some people liked it well enough, though it tried my tolerance with rather weak writing, and a host of totally unnecessary departures from the source material. Harry Dresden wears a leather jacket as opposed to his signature duster, negating the wild-westish aesthetic of the series. His wizard's staff is now a hockey stick; was this modernization supposed to make him seem hipper some how? Bob, the wisecracking, randy skull that serves as Harry's sidekick is anthropomorphized as a British dandy, and not the good kind like you want. Karen Murphy is now inexplicably a mother. Michael, and the rest of the carpenter family are completely absent. There's really only one way to sum up my feelings about these changes. But like I said, some people really dug it, and it's on Hulu, so you might as well give it a go if you're interested.

The books however, are definitely a must for modern fantasy fans. If you've completed your term at Hogwarts and are wondering where to head next, spending some time in the windy city with Harry Dresden would be a good call.

Still Lost Among the Dunes

Let's head back to Arrakis shall we? There was very little in the way of literary analysis on the first book of Dune, mostly because I have very little to say about it beyond "this book is so cool and you should read it." To address that deficiancy, this post will analyze both the second and third books in the original dune sextology, and it will also be absolutely saturated with spoilers, so consider yourself forewarned. Last I left off, I was broaching a discussion of Children of Dune, having completely skipped over the second book in the series, Dune Messiah. This was not intentional, though frankly there isn't much to say about the second novel.

Unlike Star Wars, Indiana Jones and Batman, Dune lost some of it's rich complexity when translated to Lego.

I read Dune Messiah in the fall of last year, just a couple months after reading Dune, and it struck me as little more than an extended epilogue to the story which hand already unfolded. It didn't introduce any terribly compelling new characters or convincing threats (Sorry Scytale, you just aren't as cool as your name suggests). Herbert did introduce Ghola cloning technology to the series, but left the concept rather under-explored. That being said, the story does bring added closure to the original, and it brings it very well, beggining with the backlash to Paul's assendency and continuing on to his tragic fate.


I say Children of Dune is a proper sequel, because it runs counter to the first two books in almost every way. The energy dedicated to exploring Paul's ability to predict the future has been redistributed to his children's genetic total recall. Paul's heroic decision to die a mortal death and avert intergalactic Jihad is reconstrued as an act of selfish cowardice. It is revealed that Paul didn't even die at all when he walked off into the desert. Even though the plot twist initially excited me, (for it's hard not to get excited about characters coming back from the dead), I was it left me sad later on, because it's the sort of inorganic story telling Herbert never resorted to in his earlier novels. Admittedly, he does soften the effect of this revelation by repeatedly foreshadowing it and repeatedly stressing that Paul has become a different character, but it still feels like some sort of cheap trick.


Sadly, this is not the most preposterous plot point in Children of Dune. Characters who have been well established as intelligent and wise suddenly suffer from attacks of idiocy, only to display mind boggling insight moments later. Lady Jessica is a prime example. Even though Leto II (Paul's son and the new protagonist) makes her look like an idiot fool in conversation, she somehow mannaged to see past his elaborate feign death and trap him in the desert, even though he is presient and she is not. More messily developed characters like Alia and Duncan (or the Ghola formerly known as Hayt) spiral out of control destroying the few consistent threads of personality which had been previously established. These gaping holes in logic and continuity detract from the wonderfully density Herbert's world displayed in the first book. Even though we have lots of plots twisting around eachother and tangling together like sound trout, they never quite form a worm, or a god-emperor for that matter.

Fortunately, Herbert's philosophical musings remain poetic and potent, and conceptually he continues to engage. I resonate with the book's central message, assuming I correctly understand it to be the sentiment that people are far too eager to submit themselves to the will of heredity. At the same time the Golden Path, Leto II's infallible plan to ensure the survival of the human race, strikes me as an inherently evil concept because it is contingent upon the idea that man must submit to the rule of a single godly tyrant. Indeed, Paul deliberately avoided such a path in the first book for the same reason. Leto denounces this is cowardice, since Paul created a universe that looked for divine justice by becoming a messiah, only to deprive it of such guidence. While I'm willing to concede that Paul's suicide may not have been the best decision for his empire, Leto never provides a convincing explanation as to why tyranny is a better alternative.

In fact, the end of Children of Dune serves as a dark reflection of the original novel's conclusion; the main character storms into his enemies lair, laying waste to all resistance, and coerces the survivors into submission, though for some reason when Leto did it, I felt like evil had won. I think my primariy problem is a lack of motivation. Paul was finally attaining retribution against the Harkonens who had killed his father and brutalized the people of Arrakis, while Leto (who didn't feel human even before merging with worms) is simply killing his demented aunt. The fact that he claimed his sister for a wife and whored her out to his cousin doesn't sit well with me either.

On the pluse side, Leto is primed to be a brilliant villian in God Emperor of Dune, though I think it will be a good long while before I head back to Arrakis.

Lost Among the Dunes

Despite my love for science fiction, I am not really all that well-read in the genre, especially where the classical authors are concerned. This is not due to deliberate omission as much as culture diffusion and osmotic pressure. The ideas put fourth by Asimov, Wells and Heinlein, concepts like time travel and interstellar empires, have already seeped into the cultural conscious and attained a familiarity which I cannot help but take for granted, so I feel little compulsion to read the original source material. I realize this historical indifference is the mark of a foolish young man, but I'm wise enough to be in no hurry to grow older. Fortunately, I have friends and family who are wise and insistent enough to get me to read classic sci-fi.


Such was the case with Frank Herbert's Dune, a novel I now refer to as The Lord of the Rings of science fiction. Like many off-the-cuff descriptions, my comparison serves as a point of reference more than anything else: Both works share the same staggering scale; epics which establish fictional universes whose detailed histories exert genuine gravity on readers. Yet the actual structure of Dune's mythology bears a greater resemblance to Middle-Earth than to that of Asimov's Foundation, though now that I write it, Dune might be better summed up as the middle ground between those two novels.

The most impressive thing about Dune, the thing which elevates it above Tolkien in my opinion, is that it is as dense as it is broad and deep. Yes, Herbert gives you rich detailed lore, and poems, but rather than forcing it into long chapters about walking, riding or hiking, he presents them as footnotes before each chapter so they don't become insuferable tangents which swallow the story's momentum. The first novel Dune novel feels like a complete trilogy in and of itself, as it follows young Paul Atreides journey from prince of Caladan, to rebel leader, to religious figure and emperor of the intergalactic Empirium. Over the course of that journey, Herbert delves into heady topics of ecology, religion, sociology to develop the distinctive culture of intriguing factions like the semi-nomadic, religiously fantic, worm-riding Fremen warriors and the scheming Bene Gesserit, who resemble ruler-cracking mother superiors schooled in Jedi mind tricks and yoga, mixed with a dash of dominatrix for good measure. Among these colorful factions we find unforgetable characters such as Stilgar, the wise warrior-priest cheiftan, the treacherous yet sympathetic Wellington Yueh, and my personal favorite, Gurney Halleck the silver-tongued bardic assassin. All these disparate elements blend against the amazing backdrop of the desert planet Arrakis whose unique ecology is the sole producer of the life-prolonging precience enhancing spice, Melange. Also, gaint god-worms of death.



The sci-fi concepts which guide Dune's story are as intriguing and densely presented as the story itself. Classic sci-fi tropes like laser weapons, force fields, and faster than light travel are all present and accounted for, and they are accompanied by other fantastic technology such as Ornithropters (aircrafts that fly by flapping their wings like birds) and water-recycling suits. These are mere set pieces however. The details of such technology pales in comparison to Herbert's exploration of concepts like hypnotic suggestion, evolution and presience; things which literally change the dynamic of what it means to be human. He takes a mystical approach to these concepts, much like how somebody from the eighteenth century might address cellphones, rather than a highschool science teacher trying to establish hard rules.

Herbert's books aren't any poorer for the omissions. On the contrary, they remain readable. Trying to sort through that sort of intellectual detritus in addition to navigating all the disparate philosophies and politics at work would merely exhaust readers: an important lesson I repeatedly fail to remember when working on my own fiction. Whenever the plot particulars points in a story get difficult (a character is being difficult, I forget where I'm going with something, etc.) I preoccupy myself with the grand questions of the fictional universe said story takes place in. Last week this led to wikipedia binge on quantum physics that led me to look at the universe as a perpetually splintering thread of possibility. Interestingly, I was reading Children of Dune at the time (the inspiration for this post), and I found both my thread concept, and the mind numbing confusion surrounding it reflected in Leto II's struggle with pressience and past lives. I'm still not sure if my life was imitating art or merely being fucked up by it.

Anyway, I think this is a suitable stopping point for today. I'll continue with Dune Messiah and Children of Dune next time. Expect more in the way of actual lit criticism.

Dumbledore Dies

This Tuesday I did the "wait out in line for the midnight opening with your friends" thing with Harry Potter and The Half-blood Prince. I really did try to think of a more tasteful title for this post but nothing else seemed to have the same punch. Normally I try to be much more respectful with regards to spoilers, but if you couldn't see it coming from book 1, you could use a glass of cold water in the face. Also, the book came out like four years ago, so I think we're well past the moratorium on this one.

Anyway, I was curious to see how this movie would turn out, as the book struck me as the weakest thread in Rowling's tapestry. As the next-to-last installment in a long-running series, it had a lot of set up to do. Consequently, the pace of the plot was very similar to a climbing roller-coaster. Normally that slow ascension fills one with a delightful anticipatory anxiety, but since I knew I would be waiting at the top of that dramatic hill for another year or few before I would actually be able to take that plunge, the climb was boring and frustrating, especially after the thrill-ride that was Order of the Phoenix, my personal favorite book in the series. Most of this lengthy setup was focused on shipping, which is actually a very important undercurrent in the Harry Potter universe. In the preceding books however, all the affections and potential pairings are buried in the adolescent anticipation of what could be. Rowling lays it all to bare in this book, and frankly it fell short of expectations.



The romantic centerpiece of the series is not actually Harry and Ginny, but Hermione and Ron, because they have provided readers with the long-running, pins and needles anticipation necessary for fans to really care about the romance. Keep in mind, caring is not the same thing as approving. I know a great many fans wanted to see Harry and Hermione together, and others still were hoping for Snape and Hermione. Nobody really seems to like Ron, and I think this book is a large reason as to why. An exorbitant amount of text is spent describing his obnoxious relationship with Lavender Brown, and after about the fifth instance it stops being cringe-some humor and just becomes cringe-some. Harry's affection for Ginny is also disappointing because of the abrupt way it manifests. Even though we might have seen it coming from The Chamber of Secrets, it's difficult to be invested in their coupling because their courtship was so brief and unremarkable. At the same time, we could see it coming so it's not surprising either.


The movies have done a better job of foreshadowing Ginny's interest in Harry, though their coupling still leaves a lot desired. All of the directors can't seem to decide whether they want Ginny to be a Shy Violet or a fire-starter (which is how she came across in the book) and Daniel Radcliffe has better chemistry with Emma Watson and Evanna Lynch (who is, as Rowling herself stated, perfect as Luna) than he does with Bonnie Wright. As I said though, Ron and Ginny are the romantic heart of the film and their sixth book courtship is much more pleasing on the silver screen. Lavender Brown is every ounce the humorous annoyance she was in the text without being completely overwhelming. Emma Watson does some brilliant acting and really manages to seem heartbroken over Rupert Grint's Ron, even though her best scenes are still opposite Radcliffe. I was also impressed with how suggestive the movie managed to make the coupling. While the books always gave me the impression that nothing beyond snogging took place in the Halls of Hogwarts, the movie tells another story. I realize this design decision was probably motivated by the success of Twilight (which is just... Well you know), but sex is part of the teenage equation nowdays and it's nice to see people acknowledging it.

Aside from all the romance, the slow pace of the book is much improved by the movie. You may recall the book opened with a the former Minister of Magic describing the horrors of Voldemort to Britain's new Prime Minister. I found this endlessly annoying, because I really wanted to see all the delicious chaos being described rather than receiving a second hand account of it. The movie indulges me, beginning with the flight of three Death Eaters who tear through London and destroy a bridge. Now that's the way you get a story going! That danger does a lot to hold the story over to its conclusion, considering the threats interspersed throughout the plot are considerably toned down in comparison to those in preceding volumes.

This is one of the slickest movie posters I have seen in a longtime. Note the reflection in the glasses.

Returning to my titular spoiler, I'd like to briefly discuss the death of Dumbledore. Even though you can see it coming a mile off, its the sort of loss that still hurts. In some ways, the inevitability of it is the worst part, because the death of a grandfatherly figure acts as a mirror for such deaths which have yet to touch our own lives. Once one recognizes this emotional mirror however, it is harder to be affected by the emotions it's lens is intended to convey, which may account for I was so callous and indifferent to the conclusion of the sixth book. Yet the movie showed me another symbolic aspect of Dumbledore's passing that I failed to grasp through the text: the grandfatherly headmaster's passing is also commentary on martyrdom.

The sequence in Voldemort's cave where Dumbledore drinks the poison potion is analogous to Socrates death, save that Harry is forced to force-feed his mentor, where as Socrates drinks his hemloc freely. Both men drink for "The Greater Good," but while Plato's ancient account emphasizes Socrates' supposedly selfless sacrifice, Harry's involvement calls attention to the selfishness of dying on your own terms. I realize that Dumbledore doesn't actually perish until Snape shoots him, but the connotations of this scene are far from accidental. First, the entire sequence takes place in a shadowed cave which is an inherently allegorical setting, and the pair must use a boat (which has a clearly stygian design in the movie) to reach the island containing the potion. Finally, the regretful nature of Dumbledore's final request "Once again I must ask too much of you, Harry" recalls the title of Plato's account of Socrate's death: Apology. In hindsight, I feel foolish that it too me this long to recognize this parallel, but it is an excellent example of just how literary Rowling's writing is. This scene invites readers to reconsider Snape's involvement with Dumbledore's death as well; an examination that is absolutely crucial for a full appreciation of the series. While it is fairly obvious that Snape is a good guy despite his apparent alliance with the Death Eaters, its hard to appreciate just how noble his actions are. Killing someone you love, even if it is there wish and they have a good reason for it, is an act which sheers the soul, quite literally in the Harry Potter universe, as is explained earlier in the film.

My chief complaint with the movie is that Harry's misguided attempt to duel Snape and avenge Dumbledore's death is thoroughly abridged. Much like Dumbledore, he teaches Harry to the end by preventing him from using Unforgivable Curses and casually brushing aside his offense to demonstrate just how much stronger Harry needs to become if he hopes to defeat Voldemort. Minor grousing aside, the movie tells a good story and tells it well. The special effects in this series always impress, the music doesn't really deviate from past scores (which is a good thing), and there are some really funny laughs to be had. 'Til Next Time.

Odd Omens

As promised, this post will bring some closure to my earlier discussion of Neil Gaiman. I realize the last entry was rather light on critical insight, and I have endeavored to compensate with this post, but I'm afraid there's still a fair bit about me in here as well.

Just as I was not initially taken with Sandman, Gaiman's status as literary idol is a far cry from my first impression of him, which was half-formed during my first attempt to read Good Omens.



I say half-formed because Gaiman was not the sole creator of Omens: It's a apocalyptic, comedic affair that was co-authored with Terry Pratchet of Disc World fame, and my fondness for that series was the angle I approached Omens from. For those unfamiliar with Disc World, I like to describe it as fantasy done Douglas Adams style. If you are unfamiliar with Adams and the Hichhiker series: Don't panic! Simply exit the blog in a calm yet expedient manner, read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and everything will remain mostly harmless. Otherwise I'll make with the Vogon poetry.

/End ADD.exe: Omen's was enjoyable enough to begin with, but it began to wear on me terribly. Comedy is much easier to digest intellectually than drama but it's also much easier to walk away from, especially when its presented in ~300 pages of text as opposed to a performance you can just watch. Even when the fate of the world is hanging in balance of plots outcome, as is the case with Good Omens, you still know everything will end in laughter. Without any kind of emotional risk, the novelty of the jokes are the only hook for readers. Admittedly, this is usually how comedy works, but considering how ripe religion is for ridicule, most of the gags used are 'easy' enough that they seem to write themselves.

So Gaiman and Pratchet try to keep things fresh by going absolutely nuts. It seems like they threw every absurd character and awkward scenario into the plot pot, producing a tangeled stew of tangential madness. I think it was all about the fun as opposed to the craft, which is actually a good way to approach craft. They knew that no editor on God's could stand a chance against their combined insanity. Reading the result is like trying to follow a conversation between school girls as it gets swept up by some verbal Speed Force and enters the realm of precognition, where one is already "Omigawding" at what the other is about to say. Anyone whose has participated in such an exchange knows they can be exhilarating just as well as everyone whose has tried to follow them from the outside knows they can be profoundly alienating. I trust that High School has provided most of us with both experiences.

I happened to read the book during those dark days of adolescence, where I was uniquely tormented and miserable just like everyone else, so finding that same cliquish atmosphere within the fiction was thoroughly frustrating. There is no clear evidence of such an exclusive agenda within the story, because it was not intentional. It was like the text was being haunted by some phantom in-crowd which existed beyond the margin. This reaction is as impressive as it is pathetic. Anyone can be ostracized by other people. Being rejected by your own imagination takes a rare gift.

The inside-joke I was missing is that Crowley the Demon is standing in for Gaiman, and Aziraphale the Angel is a proxy for Pratchet. An intelligent casual reader may guess that from the beginning, but actually appreciating the subtle interplay between the two needs requires one to have read enough of each author's work in order to be familiar with the people behind the prose. Once you've reached that level of understanding, the conversational nature is a boon to the story because you feel like you could participate in it if the opportunity presented itself. You're one of the cool kids. Such familiarity also provides the reader with additional incentive to see the story all the way through. Who care's if there's nothing at risk? You know the guys involved!

This "inside crowd" sort of fiction is always a double-edged sword, and from an analytical standpoint, it's a very interesting variation on the Casual vs. Dedicated reader dialectic. In earlier posts, I've expressed, or at least implied the opinion that keeping things casual and inclusive is generally the best course of action. I know that probably seems hypocritical in the context of a blog post riddled with links to obscure references, but you'll notice that I also link to many relevant wikipedia articles that will help clarify my ravings. Furthermore, I frequently indulge in such hypocrisy because it's the only way I can deal with the unique strain my gift exerts on my mind.

A blog also differs from a book in many important ways. Conceptually, the act of publishing a story can be considered an invitation of sorts. If you approach the book with that sort of expectation, only to be confronted with some sort of exclusion, it's supremely off-putting. Many genres of polemic fiction defeat themselves in such a way. The author intends to solve one of the world's great problems by inspiring people with their words...only to alienate readers by condemning them as the root of the problem.

I understand that Good Omens was very well received as books go, and I believe this was because it was entertaining on two different levels. As the Simpson's has proven from over a decade now, easy and plentiful is a safe and profitable approach to humor, and Good Omen's follows the formula to produce a comparable level of appeal. On the other end of the spectrum, diehard fans have the satisfaction of watching their favorite author's bicker as angel and demon, producing a buddy comedy that plays out like an extended good angel bad angel sketch. Since I skewed in the middle of these two intended audiences, I was left out in the cold.

Now that I am more familair with the creatores, lots of little gags have come back to me, and one scene in particular captures the spirit of their duality effectively well. At one point, the pair needs to cover some ground, so Crowley conjures a sleek looking sports car (an act of superficiality suitable for a preening demon and astheticist dreamlord alike), only to have Aziraphael adorn it with hideous tartan luggage straps; a representation of humble functionality befittingan angel that also hints at Pratchet's fetish for luggage.

The reason that I bring this up with regards to Gaiman is that all of his stories have this semi-metafictional mutlilayered quality to them. Sandman is particularly appealing to writers because it is a collection of stories about stories. An epic about epics. The same is true of American Gods and to a lesser extent, Stardust as well. The Graveyard Book is enjoyable by itself, but all the more richer when one realizes it's a variation on Kipling's Jungle Book. I haven't read or seen Coraline yet (both movie and book are on my fictional to-do list), but from what I hear, it's engaging to children and absolutely terrifying for parents.

Ultimately, story-tellers are Gaiman's intended in-crowd. According to the writing workshops I've had in college, neither critics nor audiences are supposed to enjoy stories about stories, though you wouldn't know it from the opulent introductions penned by respected authors that preface each volume of Sandman. I'm not sure if that says more about the teachers I've had, or Gaiman's writing, but one day, I hope to beat the same odds.

Multiversal Truths, and Little Brother

Man, has it really been so long since I’ve written or does it just seem that way because of how busy it’s been? Anyway, because it’s been awhile, and because it may be another while before I post what with this being the holidays and all, this is an epic double post!

Finals have come and gone, momentarily satisfied with their pounds of flesh. All things considered, I’m pretty proud of how this quarter turned out. Plot was rather dull, but there was some nice character development, and enough laughs and tears along the way to keep folks watching. It felt more like a prologue than anything really, as my classes have given me a couple questions I plan on pursuing in the following academic stretch. In particular, I plan on exploring the effect of virtual worlds on the real one, now that cyber-realities have gone all mainstream.

This has been made all the more fitting since I have now officially fallen off the wagon.

Really, the only things keeping me from taking up current residence in Azeroth are my busy holiday schedule, my commitment to a Left 4 Dead quartet and a lernaean reading list that rolls longer whenever one of its members is scratched from the list. So it is official now: I am only rooted in this reality because it serves as the terminal which permits me to jump between other alternative realities.

Before I go on, one of the things I noticed over the term is the inherently ‘multiversal’ quality of the typical college day. Simply attending class is like wading through a reality storm, for what is an academic ‘class’ really, other than an extremely condensed exploration of a specific period or subject? After about three such ventures, one develops an irrational fear of being devoured by a rampant era, or errant discipline. The Jazz age may swallow you up on your way to math, or russian conjugation might toss your ass in the gulag on the way to lunch. This effect is particularly acute in the study of English, where students are frequently expected to read a full novel in a week. As I mentioned earlier, Through the Looking Glass was on the reading list, and it isn’t the sort of text one digests overnight.

Frankly I love the schitzophrenic nature of it all, but my brain is wired that way. Stockholm Syndrome turned Attention Defecit Disorder into a close friend a long time ago. Once you get accustomed to the daily or weekly agenda, you inevitably start to look for links between your subjects of study, no matter how irrelevant or disparate, just to give yourself a place to stand on. This leads the mind down some really innovative avenues of thought, and I think such contextual concatenation is an extremely useful skill to have in our modern world of links and five second media. But it has its’ downside as well.

Occasionally, you’ll be struck with the desire to revisit a class world from an earlier quarter, but these feelings are inevitably dismissed as whims as matter of necessity: There is simply no time for that sort of exploration when they pop up. It’s sad really, because many of these passing fancies hold tremendous academic merit and after being brushed off so callously, they don’t always come calling a second time.

Since I still haven’t moved through the inebriated “Wooow” factor of Lich King yet, I’d like to spend the rest of the posts going on about a book which made completing my final papers very difficult for me, because I wanted to be reading this and writing papers on it instead.

To tell it simple, Corry Doctorow’s Little Brother is a novel which explores how information technology figures in to the freedom of speech vs. homeland security dialectic. It is written for the web-savy generation: Hackers, gamers, and other people into cyber culture will get the most out of it, but as long as you are internet literate you’ll be able to enjoy the narrative, so congratulations, you’re already eligible! The book is set about five or ten years in the future, and there is some futuristic technology but it’s all based on stuff we have today, and the progression thoroughly makes sense. You might even learn some stuff about how the current internet works, seeing how Doctorow explains almost every piece of technology in the story.

Despite all of this, it never condescends to the reader. In fact, one of the best parts of the book is that it respects its audience. The characters are smarter than your average high school punks, but every invention and creative solution they conceive seems plausible. Really, one of the book’s messages is not to underestimate the young people. And mind you this is a message book.

The book is post-post-9/11, and unapologetically liberal. The main bad guys are The Department of Homeland Security. Other lesser antagonists frequently suggest that suspending freedom of speech and invading privacy are acceptable evils in the pursuit of the greater good. The opening is particularly ham-handed, but the edge it adds to the book is very effective from a literary stand point and philosophically deeply refreshing. Cautiousness has become so much a part of liberal rhetoric, that it is politically correct to the point of impotent paranoia. Doctorow’s take on liberalism is drawn from the proactive vein of the civil rights movements, and injected with modern punk sensibilities, making it a welcome alternative. That being said, the book doesn’t sacrifice the more mature diplomatic tone of the political left, and the characters in the story are most appealing and real when the reflect on the consequences of their radical actions.

It’s tempting to say that this radical slant is to blame for nobody having heard of the book, but I’m not that paranoid. Hell, I stumbled across the book because it was on display in the bookstore where I work. The cover quote from Neil Gaiman (who I respect and admire); “A wonderful important book…I’d recommend Little Brother over pretty much any book I’ve read this year” was what sold me. Excluding Alice and Dune, I’d say it’s true for me as well. Best thing is, THE ENTIRE BOOK IS AVAILABLE FOR FREE.

Well, I am being pestered to play Left 4 Dead as I type, and I also vowed to hit 71 in WoW. So I’ll tell you about those sometime soon.