Ryan

I quite enjoyed this exquisitely crafted short novel, which reflects on the way we reshape our memories, creating a self-justifying narrative that might lead us away from the complete truth. On page, the protagonist, a retirement-aged man named Tony who's led an unremarkable, solidly upper-middle-class British life, recounts what sounds at first like idle reminiscences of his schoolboy and university days in the 1960s. We learn of a brilliant schoolmate and friend named Adrian, a former girlfriend named Veronica, and the falling out that drove them out of each other's lives and towards different fates.

However, an enigmatic letter in the present day brings the half-forgotten past back to life, forcing Tony to come to new terms with what happened and why. As the story progresses, it becomes evident that we're hearing more than just a casual recall of long-ago events, and that Tony might not be the reliable narrator he wants to believe he is. Or connected to events in the minds of others the way he wants to be.

Like Jonathan Franzen's last novel (and what I remember of Flannery O'Connor's short stories), this is the sort of literature that relies on discomfiting the reader, first testing our sympathies for the characters, then making them cross some ill-defined frontier of reasonable behavior where we ourselves would probably not go. The implicit question, naturally, is: how far would we go? And when would our self-deceptions become apparent to us? This kind of literary screw-turning doesn't work for every reader, of course, but given the book's short length, I think it's bearable.

Both the writing and plotting are marvelous, the story winding delicately around a hidden truth that's not fully revealed until the last page. Each unwinding puts previous information in the story in a new light, until even the seemingly throwaway exchanges between smarmy British prep students and pedantic schoolmasters raise questions about how a mind might plant its own evidence in the past while searching for clues about it. Or, as one character puts it, how “history is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”

All in all, a complex, self-enfolding work of fiction, showing that the acts of rearranging the future and rearranging the past are never disconnected, and even a path towards reconciliation and sincerity can hold its own subtle self-delusions. Like other brilliant examples of the craft, it feels satisfactorily ended but leaves me with questions that continue to swirl in my mind.

I’m a sucker for unreliable narrators, so the structure of this book grabbed my interest right away. A man named Changez is having a conversation at a cafe in Lahore, Pakistan with someone who might be a CIA agent. Or, maybe not -- we only hear Changez’s side of the conversation, and it becomes less and less clear, given his overly solicitous tone, that it really is a conversation. What’s going on here?

However, Changez proceeds to confess his life story, telling the phantom agent (and the reader) how he won a scholarship to Princeton as a young man, graduated near the top of his class, met a girl, and went to work at an elite global consulting firm, the kind that gets hired to “trim the fat” from struggling companies. Then September 11 happens, and Changez finds himself feeling less and less in love with America, and more and more like an outsider, alienated its by its imperial power structures, including his own employer, and the self-righteousness and xenophobia that the attacks bring to the surface in Americans. More and more, he finds himself identifying with the country he came from, however numerous its problems. It’s a story that's not hard to imagine happening, and Satya Bhabha’s fine audiobook reading makes the voice ring true.

Unfortunately, the narrative and its indictments are weakened by the addition of a transparently allegorical romantic relationship between Changez and a depressive girl named Erica (hmm, what does that rhyme with?), who still pines for an idealized past with a now-dead former boyfriend. Poetic, sure, but Hamid doesn't logically connect this experience with breakdown and disappointed love to anything that's symptomatic of the US or Pakistan in particular. It was hard for me not to suppose that if things had worked out with Erica, Changez probably would have overcome his angst towards the US and stayed. Is that really the point? Also, the word "fundamentalist" in the title is a bit misleading, since religious fundamentalism doesn't figure much into this novel. It's really just a play on the word "fundamentals", which is used in a different context.

But, even with the flaws in execution, I enjoyed the concept of the book, the sincerity of its voice, and the ambiguity of its framing and conclusion. Hamid spins evocative moments out of just a few simple details, doing more with four and a half hours (of audiobook time) than some writers do with fifteen. When the protagonist recounts his exasperation at cynical US policy during the frightening 2001 military confrontation between India and Pakistan, I had to admit, to my shame, that I had only the vaguest memory that this event even took place. I can probably tell you more about what Playstation games were popular that year. So, maybe he has a point about our indifference towards the rest of the world here in the US? In sum, while not as penetrating as it could have been, the Reluctant Fundamentalist still got me to think and is a good example of fiction’s increasingly international voice.

I wouldn't call this 1981 novel the deepest book out there, but it's fun pleasure reading that mixes science fiction and fantasy in a creative way, and doesn’t feel too dated. The pitch is that people who are misfits in the safe, civilized world of the 22nd century have the option of going through a one-way time portal to six million years in the Earth's past (the scientist who invented the portal never discovered how to make it go to another time or place). In classic form, Julian May introduces a cast of ten or so main characters who come from different walks of life, but all have reasons for choosing "exile". There's a retired paleontologist, a nun/doctor seeking spiritual peace, a self-centered starship captain, an incorrigible sociopath, a teenage athlete with an unusual talent, a roughneck driller with fantasies of being a Viking warrior... and several more. After a few introductory chapters in which we get to know these individuals separately (a fine example of interesting but economical setup), they arrive at the portal in time to make the jump to together.

As it turns out, though, the Earth of the past is already occupied by out-of-towners, in this case two related groups of aliens that bear a strong resemblance to mythical beings from humanity's prehistory. Upon arrival, the travelers find themselves sorted into different categories, depending on their skills and latent "metaphysic" abilities (telepathy, telekinesis, hypnosis, etc.). The aliens have a society that everyone is free to join, provided, of course, that humans cooperate with the aliens' goals. For those less than perfectly willing, there are mind-control collars called “torcs” -- or being hunted by prehistoric animals if one tries to escape. Naturally, many of our protagonists select "none of the above".

I wouldn’t say that the characters are particularly original or deeply written, but May is imaginative, and her background as a science and biography writer is in evidence. The middle portion of the novel is a little slow and somewhat confusing, as she sets up the world of Pleistocene, giving us a lot of characters and cultural details to keep track of, but things pick up in the last third, which builds to an action-packed finale. This is one of those series where, if you’re going to bother at all, you might as well assume that you’re going to read the second book. It’s odd that Blackstone hasn’t done audio productions of any further entries so far.

Speaking of, I didn’t mind the voice of audiobook narrator Bernadette Dunne, but I found her reading a little sloppy. Characters start off with accents and lose them, or have ones that aren’t quite right for their background. At one point, she mispronounces the word “Polish” (as in nationality) as “polish” (as in floor). How did that get by?

Did did the Indians that interacted with the Massachusetts pilgrims have a more civilized society than history books give them credit for? Was the “pristine wilderness” that explorers are said to have found in North and South America actually land that had been cultivated by previous inhabitants, who planted fruit trees in abundance? Did humans reach North America far earlier than had been supposed? In 1491, Charles Mann, a science journalist, explores the evidence that the traditional classroom picture we have of America's first peoples as primitive, history-less savages that roamed in small groups through untouched wilderness might be wrong, or at least incomplete.

The questions are intriguing. Did the Americas have complex trade networks and huge populations that lived in "beehive-like towns", which were wiped out by European disease before Europeans themselves arrived? Were Mesoamericans responsible for major agricultural innovations like corn, beans, tomatoes, and potatoes? Did the Spanish really conquer South America's empires by technological superiority, or did they get a big assist from the fractured politics of the Indian world, cultural confusion, and disease? Was the codified libertarian-style democracy practiced by Indians in what became the eastern US a big inspiration for the founding fathers? (Note that Mann uses “Indian” because he found it to be the prefered term with which modern indigenous people refer to themselves.)

Being a journalist, not an academic, Mann keeps his style informal and doesn’t hold back his enthusiasm for the subject matter. Mostly, this approach kept my interest, though, at times, he forgets himself and reaches for conclusions that seem a little unjustified. For example, he takes a snippet of an exchange between Peruvian and Spanish priests, and reads into it a nuanced dialogue that didn’t seem evident to me in the the words actually spoken. Elsewhere, he compares an ancient city in the Yucatan to “a combination of the Vatican and Disneyworld”. Um, maybe a little too much presentism there?

Still, it’s clear enough that the theories discussed are evolving and less controversial than they used to be. Towards explaining the uncertainty, Mann provides a sense of the problematic interaction of politics and anthropology. If Indians had populous societies that modified their environment, some argue, modern people can't really be faulted for doing the same. On the other hand, goes the response, if Indians lived in harmony with nature, their example should be paid attention to. Some tribal groups in the US worry that archaeology is being used to minimize their heritage and equivocate away the past misdeeds of whites, while some archaeologists fret that political correctness is interfering with the search for facts.

Overall, I found the book interesting, and it made me appreciate the magnitude of what past peoples have contributed to our current world, and all that was lost with the death and marginalization of so many cultures. What further lessons, ideas, and ways of thinking might a world that developed out of contact with Asia, Europe, and Africa have brought to us? We’ll never totally know.

I can see why Neil Gaiman felt that Fritz Leiber deserved to have some of his work brought to the attention of 21st century readers in audio form. This book is a delight, a mix of classic swords-and-sorcery adventure, sardonic, dark fairytale, and imaginative world creation, with a little tales-of-ribaldry kinkyness thrown in. While it's fifth in a series, I don’t see any reason you can’t start here. The hairy barbarian Fafhrd and the small, quick-witted Gray Mouser are two instantly familiar roguish heroes, no introduction required beyond the first chapter, and Lieber quickly pulled me into their world with his deliciously visual, textured descriptions and playful, literate command of language. Fans of Jack Vance will find his style familiar, though it’s less absurdist.

The story here has Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser low on cash, and compelled to take a commission guarding a grain barge for the amusingly decadent ruler of the impressive, seedy city of Lankhmar. Once out to sea, they learn that their convoy is also carrying a not particularly innocent maiden and her collection of preternaturally intelligent rats. Soon, things go amiss, and our heroes find themselves headed, by separate routes, back to Lankhmar, which is now having some serious rat problems. Any not just any rats, but ones that seem to be more and more humanlike, and to be coming from somewhere under the city. I won’t spoil what happens next, but before all is said and done, there will be duels, ill-advised romances, spying in magical disguise, battles, grotesque sorcerers, strange creatures, otherworldly travelers, and a few mildly naughty scenes.

IMO, this is fantasy that’s a happy medium between the grimness of Howard / ponderousness of Tolkien and the silliness of Vance, pulpy but actually creative. It’s not hard to to see the influence Leiber had on more modern writers in the genre, from Terry Pratchett to David Eddings to China Mieville (particularly the weird romance) to Neil Gaiman himself. Audiobook narrator Jonathan Davis does a fine job as usual, his calm, arch style a great fit for Leiber’s writing (though his scene switches are a little abrupt).

Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow was a beautifully complex human drama, which happened to be dressed in science fiction clothing. In it, a diverse cast of people set off to another star system, in hope of making humanity's first contact with another intelligent species. Though the mission was successful at first, it ultimately shattered in tragedy, leaving one survivor, a maimed, spiritually broken priest named Emilio Sandoz. Through his eyes, the story told is one of faith disappointed, and the struggle to come to terms with what the word "faith" might still mean after such trauma -- whether in humanity, in the people of other planets, or in the ultimate design of the universe.

I'm not sure if The Sparrow was a book that needed a sequel, but Russell felt that Emilio Sandoz's story wasn't finished, and contrives a way to bring him back to Rakhat, as well as a mission for him when he gets there. Thus, we get a second space expedition, with another crew of history-freighted characters. Meanwhile, on Rakhat (decades pass during transit), the native aliens find their attitudes changed by their contact with the foreigners, which sets in motion a civil war between the plant-eating "slave" species and the dominant, but less numerous predatory "master" species.

Children of God is as thoughtful a book as its predecessor, and Russell does an admirable job of expanding on the themes she established in the Sparrow, finding hope, meaning, and connections to religious ideas in events on Rakhat, while maintaining a vision of a God that’s ultimately mysterious. The plotting, however, feels more labored this time around, an obvious process of getting pieces into place with plenty of glossing over of logic. Other than Emilio Sandoz, most of the characters feel like talking biographical dossiers who don’t have all that much to do other than push the protagonist in various directions. I missed the organic friendships of the crew in the Sparrow, and found it hard to care about Danny Ironhorse and Sean Fein in the same way.

The part of the novel set on Rakhat isn’t uninteresting, though the alien characters feel more human than they did before and I had some trouble keeping their identities straight. Russell seems to be going for a parallel between the Runa and the Biblical Jews in Egypt, but with a different kind of outcome, which I thought went well with all the other religious themes in the book. I enjoyed seeing how the herd mentality of the Runa, which had previously kept them docile, could be turned into an advantage against a foe with a less collective-minded, more aristocratic society. It would have been interesting to see, in a third novel, where things on Rakhat went after the war ended, given the future issues Russell hints at, but we’ll just have to use our imaginations.

Though the last chapters of Children of God are somewhat predictable, I thought they provided an emotionally satisfying conclusion to Emilio Sandoz’s story. Was a whole novel necessary to get there? Maybe not, but I think Russell accomplished what she set out to do, and it was worth my time to complete the two book series. 3.5 stars.

Audio notes: Anna Fields is a competent narrator, but nothing special. I happened to have a paper copy of this book as well, and might recommend that format more. The contemplative quality of the writing is more evident without the sometimes overwrought accents that Fields employs.

I’ve always enjoyed philosophical ideas and discussions, but never knew all that much about the history of philosophy. This book turned out to be a fine corrective, and was a surprisingly accessible, engaging read as well.

Durant covers what he considers the major figures of Western philosophy, starting from the ancient Greeks and working his way up his own time, the 1920s. Some get more attention than others, but you’ll find most of the “household names” here, and Durant follows a formula that works pretty well. He sets up each philosopher’s life and historical context, provides a collage of the philosopher’s ideas, then adds some criticism of his own. Between his dry wit and his lively exploration of biographical details, the examination feels more like a good documentary than a lecture. Grover Gardner’s light, warm audiobook narration helped, too.

Beneath each figure and his ideas, Durant traces the evolution of thought, and shows the way philosophy laid the groundwork for science, ethics, systems of political ideas, and various ways of thinking about the nature of existence. In reading about Plato’s Republic, we see that the problems of government that we wrestle over today are nothing new at all -- indeed, his notion of “philosopher statesmen” expresses a set of ideals all too compromised in our current democratic system. In Spinoza’s determinist rationalism and Voltaire’s sharp, savage wit, we see the currents of reason and enlightenment pushing against previous centuries of superstition and dogma. In Kant and Schopenhauer we see the pendulum swinging the other way again, towards an understanding that rationality does not exist apart from human experience and its limitations, and that any framework of thought or ethics must grapple with this. This reaches full extension in the strident views of Nietchze, who views existence as a Darwinian struggle for mastery. Considering all the things Durant (or anyone else living in 1926) didn’t yet know about how far Nietzsche's philosophy would be twisted ten years hence, his calm analysis of “a few issues” in it is chilling.

Later chapters provide a short overview of early 20th century thinkers, such as Bertrand Russell, George Santayana, and John Dewey, who attempt to steer philosophy away from its 19th century idealism, and back into a more scientifically-grounded, analytical realm.

The Story of Philosophy definitely isn’t a comprehensive overview of Western philosophy (as others have noted, there could be more on Locke, Hobbes, Descartes, and Hume), but it’s a great introduction, written on a higher level than a “For Dummies” guide, but hardly dull or incomprehensible. It's a little humbling to recognize that, for virtually every political, ethical, moral, or religious debate I can imagine getting sucked into, the underlying questions have all long ago been well-pondered by towering intellects.

PS. For an amusing supplement, be sure to search youtube for "Three Minute Philosophy"

I got through to the end of this one more out of dogged commitment to finishing a book than from thinking it was very good. While the story is entertaining enough in a "fun mystery to read at the beach" sense, it's filled with pretty much every predictable trope you can think of for a novel set in the American Colonies in 1699. There's an _Accused Witch Who Isn't Really a Witch_. There's a _Pompous, Self-Interested Town Father_. There's a _Firebrand Preacher_. There are some _Pitchfork-Waving Villagers_. There's a _Too-Smart-For-His-Britches Young Man_ who suspects that _Something Fishy Is Going On_ and applies _Logic and Reason_ to the situation. There's a _By-the-Book Judge_. There are _Helpful, Earthy Indians_ and negro slaves. There are several characters who are _Not What They Seem_. There are _Convenient Coincidences_.

While I expect novelists to take creative liberties with historical accuracy, there are so many flagrant anachronisms here, it gets a bit ridiculous. For example, not only does one character say to another, "put that in your pipe and smoke it", but there's actually a scene where two characters light up some joints. I wouldn't have been surprised, at that point, if they'd wheeled out a steampunk microwave and cooked some burritos. Where McCammon does get in some plausible detail, there's rarely a sense that his research went much deeper than the level needed for a theme park.

I wouldn't go so far as to call this novel TERRIBLE; the characters, despite their cliche, are well-drawn. The first half of the book is reasonably entertaining. The author seems to mean well. But, I'm bumping what might have been a three star rating down to a two because the resolution to the mystery was so phoned in. If all you care about in an audiobook is that it provide diversion during your commute to work, Speaks the Nightbird might be worth your while, but if you're looking for any kind of complexity or depth, it's thoroughly mediocre.

I can't fault audiobook narrator Edoardo Ballerini for his performance, though. He does as capable a job with the material as can be expected.

I hadn't read anything by Karen Russell before (the mixed reviews of Swamplandia suggested an overhyped young author), but thought I'd check out this collection of short stories.

The pieces all have the kind of whimsical-but-serious premises you'll recognize if you've ever opened a copy of McSweeney’s or listened to a song by The Decemberists. A vampire in a state of ennui is hung up on behaving in stereotypical vampire ways, even though his vampire girlfriend has assured him it's not necessary to drink blood or fear the sun. Seagulls bring objects that alter the life of a teenager in 1970s Australia, and reflect his mixed admiration and jealousy towards his older brother. Girls in a 19th century Japanese mill are biochemically transformed into human silkworms, but later stage an unprecedented work stoppage. A massage therapist finds that her fingers can alter the memories -- and past -- of a young Iraq War veteran, but not without cost. President Rutherford Hayes is reincarnated as a horse, in a barn housing other former US presidents (or at least popular caricatures of them) who are now horses, and frets that his former wife may be a nearby sheep.

Most pieces evoke a mood that’s an enjoyable mix of absurd, wry, poignant, unsettling, and haunting. Russell has a gift for artful physical description and crafting voices. The skillful cast of voice actors who performed the audiobook probably deserve part of the credit for that, too.

However, there’s somewhat of a sense of a natural stylist still finding her feet in other departments. The two duds (IMO) were the krill vs. whales piece that tried for laughs, but came off more like a Dave Barry column with f-bombs, and one that had a teenage bully of a protagonist who was a little too unconvincing for me. I wouldn’t have minded had she pushed her more "unfinished" endings a little further -- I think ambiguity is a delicious ingredient, but teaspoons, Ms. Russell, not tablespoons.

Still, if you're a fan of magic realism in the same vein as Kelly Link's fiction, you'll probably enjoy this book. Russell's talent might have yet to reach its full bloom, but it's well on the way.

3.5 stars

I found this one to be a fascinating example of what can be done with alternate history. Not only does Dick build a plausible world-that-might-have-been, but he uses it to grapple with deeper themes, like the human prejudices and biases that drive history, the way the human mind understands reality and its shifting realities-within-realities, and the concept that there's some deeper underlying meta-truth. Like with other PKD works, there's a sense of a brilliant mind finding so many connections, that what he ultimately wants to say feels a bit scrambled, but that's part of the fun of reading him -- you have to think about what he's after. This may well be one of his more coherent books, even if the I Ching supposedly helped him write it.

Anyway, the setup posits that the Axis powers won World War Two, and that it's now the mid-1960s. The US is split into three parts, one controlled by the Reich, one controlled by the Japanese, and the Rocky Mountain States an independent buffer country. The Nazi empire continues to be driven by a frenzied vision of mastering the universe, which has led to rocket planes and space exploration, but also seems to be splitting from political infighting (Hitler has gone crazy from syphilis and has been quietly committed). Meanwhile, Japan, under its veneer of formality and emotional guardedness, is starting to have a few (rather understandable) doubts about where the new world order is headed.

Living in this alternate North America are several different characters, whose psyches reflect some of the larger currents of the world, from a shopkeeper who wonders if all the American cultural artifacts he sells to Japanese collectors are real (and, indeed, what "real" means), to a Jewish artisan in hiding, to an agent from Sweden who isn't what he seems, to a Japanese official who frets over the karma of his actions. There are so many clever ideas and sly little touches, I can't begin to cover them all, but I liked how PKD explored race and racism, shallow cultural appropriation by hipsters (with Americans as the victims this time), the way people unconsciously absorb whatever historical narrative they've been given. That so many characters consult the I Ching for guidance seems strange at first (and possibly a sign of Dick's impending loopiness), but it takes on an interesting meta significance.

Key to the novel is a story within-a-story, a fictional alternate history novel in which the Allies *won* WWII. Being banned by the Reich, this work has attracted a lot of readers and provokes interestingly different reactions from characters. Yet, it’s not the same as our history. What does that mean? Since this is a PKD work, reality blurs once the story unveils its author, the titular man in the high castle.

As with others novels by Dick, the plot is probably the dullest part, just a rough scaffold to hang his cerebral explorations off of. If you dislike mindf---ery, the “unfinished” feeling of the ending may put you off. And anyone who really doesn't know much about WWII history will probably be confused -- Dick relies on the reader’s being able to tell real and alternate events apart. But, those issues aside, if you want to explore one of science fiction’s most interesting minds, this is certainly a great place to start.

While it had some weaknesses, the first book in this series, The Knife of Never Letting Go, won me over by telling an original story with some interesting themes, and keeping the level of tension high. In it, Ness imagined a planet colony of religious settlers that had come to start over with a low-tech life. But, oh, by the way, there was a war with the native aliens, all the women are dead, and everyone can hear everyone else’s thoughts, all the time. The main character, Todd Hewitt, begins to realize that he wasn’t told the whole truth, and ends up fleeing the dark designs of his town's leaders, several enemies hot on his trail.

This book picks up right where the cliffhanger ending of that one left off, and adds Viola's perspective to the story, alternating between it and Todd's (I don't think it's much of a spoiler to reveal that women weren't totally gone, since we learned this fairly early in the first book). However, where the Mayor was simply a sinister bad guy before, he becomes a more complex character -- still ruthless, but with a paternal, reasonable side that keeps us guessing. Meanwhile, an uprising against the Mayor/President begins, with the opposing leader showing a few ruthless streaks of her own. And Todd and Viola end up on opposite sides, split first by circumstance, then by an unforgivable atrocity that both factions blame on the other.

What I appreciated about this book was Ness’s front-and-center focus on the issue of how decent people get sucked into monstrous things. Todd doesn't trust the Mayor, yet finds himself being maneuvered into positions of greater responsibility, until he becomes too culpable in events to be able to simply walk away. Of course, the Mayor is manipulating him, letting Todd’s desire to feel like he has some level of control over things work into the Mayor’s own plans. Meanwhile, something similar happens to Viola over in the opposing camp, as she gets pulled into a campaign of bombing attacks against civilian targets. Both feel believably conflicted, yearning to be reunited, but also uncertain and angry over the other’s perceived choices.

I also liked the way the “noise” creates a different power dynamic between men and women, one gender having a hard time hiding its thoughts and emotions, while the the other remains unreadable. Hard to imagine that some men wouldn’t take to this loss of privacy and control with great anger, while the constant bombardment of male thoughts might drive women closer together. Not that Ness digs into this issue too deeply, but it’s an interesting backdrop.

On the down side, I thought the drama could be heavy-handed and I eventually had issues with the believability of the central villains, who are a little too cartoonish in some moments, a little too smart in others. The final battle featured some elements that seemed lifted from the Star Wars movies, but with more speechifying. Another complaint is Ness’s tendency to contrive sudden events that conveniently interrupt something else that’s happening.

Still, there are some effective moments in the story, such as scenes involving Todd and a labor detail of Spackle, the native aliens, and the character development of Davy, who starts off as an overbearing bully, but becomes more human and sympathetic later. And the harrowing ending sets up a lot of possibilities for the last book.

On the audiobook experience, I liked (as before) the personality Podehl gives to Todd’s voice, though moments when he yells “nooooooo!!” remind me, unfortunately, of Adam Sandler’s “they’re all gonna laugh at you!” skit. Angela Dawe does a decent but unremarkable job as Viola.

3.5 stars.