Always with that contrived, ripped-from-the-headlines-plugged-into-a-thriller-type feel and the distracting sense that his characters are just cameos of folks he met while researching his book, but you would think that after decades (and even centuries) of SF exploring the ramifications of AI and the afterlife, Sawyer would come up with something more insightful than just murderous AIs and an imaginary proof of soul-life resulting from a few taps on the keyboard. Another example of hailed Hard sci-fi that relies on arbitrary fantasy tools and measurements that are just as fuzzy as any magic spell. As a nineties novel, it can be valued for its projections of the current form of the digital age, though most interesting is the optimistic ending for his highly flawed protagonist. Given Sawyer’s commercial success and formulaic approach, it’s hard not to wonder if he and his readers have overlooked the fact of the protagonist’s abominable, sociopathic behavior. But surely… Continue reading
Thanks to Gene Wolfe, I know by now that any book about a book might be the actual book. From a writer like Wolfe, that means some hardcore forehead knuckling and a few rereads. (And maybe some supplemental analysis, and maybe some research on Jungian archetypal symbolism, and maybe a look at biblical allegories—nope not gonna do that last one.) In those cases, The Book will likely invite inquiry, controversy, morphing interpretations. In those cases, the story is not the actual story.
With that kind of training in mind, one might approach a book called The Diamond Age: or, A Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer (1995) expecting a similar kind of authorial shade, a narrative fogginess to prod the reader into dissonance and eventual interaction with commentary about women heroes and raising young girls. However, while the commentary is there, it’s neither veiled nor fogged, it’s hardly interactive, and from a writer like Stephenson, it means you’ll get it in the time it takes to make a sandwich, though it takes 500 pages for Stephenson to articulate it amidst some tech exposition. While there is some intertextual feedback, including a kind of mirrored moral guidance that oversees the main characters, it’s really just a long book of stitched-together narratives contrived to belong between the covers of the same book, in order to further the author’s argument, and whatever else interests him at that very moment.
This is cruel, violent, unexplained, and almost certainly illegal. It has blighted my own life (121).
I have seen [his] new illusion, and it is good. It is devilishly good. It is the better for being simple (194).
I still do not know how [he] works that damnable illusion (205).
I am at a loss for how to review The Prestige. I have started and restarted this review a dozen times, delayed posting it, rewritten it again. It’s not that it’s difficult to describe: epistolary collage, dueling protagonists, unreliable narrators, metafictional misdirection… all that fun stuff to think about. Page magic about stage magic, the self-awareness so loud and clear, with bells on. There I go with my highlighter when he talks about intrinsic secrecy and puzzles and the Pact of Acquiescence. I smirk along with him when he splays and rotates his hands while speaking of misdirection. As if I’m on stage with him, as if I’m the volunteer, as if I’m in collusion with the master. As if I won’t get fooled. Continue reading
REVIEW CLICHÉ #16: The Half-Assed Parody/Tribute
REVIEW CLICHÉ #42: The Canon Criticism (usually follows REVIEW CLICHÉ #41: The Canon Dump) Continue reading
Huck shrugged two stalks, as if to say she couldn’t be bothered with petty legalistic details. (62)
Set within his Uplift Universe crowded with sapient species, Brin abandons the Earthling-dominated dolphin-chimp-human narrative for something less familiar and (slightly) more alien. Like Startide Rising (1983), it still feels youthful, even childish, which makes it hard to take seriously at times, and when it does get serious, sometimes the dump of moral entanglements and plot movements musses up what could be a fresh little tale.
I felt a twirl in my heart-spine. (94)
Nalo Hopkinson’s Brown Girl in the Ring (2003) can be viewed two ways. From inside the ring, it defies tired urban fantasy tropes by employing a magic system based on Orisha, a Yoruba import embedded in some corners of Jamaican culture. This just might satisfy fans looking for a magic system that’s not based on drugs or vampire sex.
From outside the ring, Brown Girl in the Ring feels just like any other urban fantasy: two-dimensional, limited, with predictable grit and cartoonish mobsters.
“This is a tough city, right? You people see a lot of terminal injuries?”
Seen,Rudy agreed wordlessly. Half the time, is we cause them. That amused him (4). Continue reading
The Time Machine (1895) by H. G. Wells
(a.k.a. The Communist Manifesto, Part II: Eat the Rich)*
With The Time Ships shimmying up my TBR, it was about time I committed to finishing the 1895 classic, The Time Machine. Years back, I decided to sample some pre-20th sci-fi classics and, along with Mary Shelley and Jules Verne, H. G. Wells joined my reading list. At least for a few pages.
Then I decided to read another Verne, instead.
As with a lot of the early genre writers, old Herbie G has this issue with trusting the reader to suspend disbelief, so his narrator spends a large chunk of the book setting up the premise for the story, rather than just starting the story with an omniscient third party. The first quarter of the novella centers on Unnamed Protagonist explaining the story to his friends (one dude happens to be a writer): explaining the time machine, demonstrating the time machine, coming back from a time trip and explaining his tale over a proper gentleman’s feast. Lots of explaining.
That’s The Time Machine part. It’s incredibly boring. I never got past that part the first time. I thought the whole book was going to be like that. Continue reading