Review: Never Knew Another by J.M. McDermott

Never Knew Another (Book Depository, Powell’s Books, Indiebound) is J.M. McDermott’s sophomore effort following up on the critically acclaimed, Last Dragon (Book Depository, Powell’s Books, Indiebound), and the first book in the Dogsland Trilogy. Never Knew Another is not your typical fantasy story – call it literary, new weird, urban, or demon-spawn-punk. It’s the tragic dream of finally meeting someone just like you…poison.

Never Knew Another is the story of two shape-shifting outsiders entering a city to hunt down and destroy the taint of demon-spawn. They are blessed by a religious order and hold all the authority of the monarchy. But the real story is buried within – it’s the tale of how two demon-spawn meet, how they are tormented by what they are and their affects upon others and relieved to find another.

Never Knew Another is told from the point of view of one of the demon hunters, the female shape-shifter who is ‘feeling’ the story through the remains of dead demon-spawn. This story within a story allows McDermott to get a bit meta as the narrator is admittedly not (necessarily) reliable in the feelings she gets through these remains. In this deeper story, the book mostly explores the idea of being a completely isolated individual. The demon-spawn literally cannot get close to people and they are so rare that they are very unlikely to ever meet one like themselves. And even though the temptation is to apply this metaphor to some ostracized portion of society, it doesn’t hold up well – the demons and demon-children are clearly infected with pure evil. Their blood, sweat and tears are acid, people who touch them get sick and can eventually die – essentially everything they touch becomes infected to some degree.  But they are also innocent creatures struggling to live and love, lending a real tragic feel to it all.

Never Knew Another is described by McDermott as literary fantasy, which is no surprise for those familiar with McDermott’s writing. The prose is dense, poetic and dream-like. Think of McKillips, but darker and more depressing. However, it’s hard to call it a depressing story – it’s simply too dream-like, too surreal to truly be depressing, in spite of being far from uplifting or happy.

The book description almost reads like two star-crossed lovers meeting, but the love story is actually a very small part of it. It's there, but this is no romance. Or maybe the 'love' story is everything. Think of two people who have been completely isolated their entire lives, who are different from all other people, who literally cannot be close to others because it will kill them. They are drawn to one another because they are the same, they have lived the same challenges, faced the same problems. They can actually talk about themselves with someone who could understand. They can be physically intimate with someone without literal death and destruction resulting (though the physical intimacy is only implied rather than explicitly shown). It's not love and isn't really portrayed as love. It's both more and less.

And everything is shown through a ghostly, dream-like view of the woman who is hunting these demon-children to kill them, burn their remains and burn essentially everything and everyone they have ever touched.

In terms of a traditional conclusion or climax there is none. A good argument could be made for a thematic conclusion/climax or at least major shift, but largely it's unresolved. I think this trilogy will read like three volumes in one book, rather than three books that make a trilogy.

Someone on a book forum saw my description of the book’s style and said something to the effect of ‘so I take it that you really liked it’. My reaction to this was ‘did I?’ I certainly appreciate the style and the way it’s done – it's really quite spectacular. But if I'm truly honest, it's not exactly my cup of tea. But Never Knew Another is one of those books that stuck with me for quite some time after I finished. Is it the tragedy? Is it the interesting view of civilization? Is it love and evil? Is it my wondering just what McDermott is trying to say with it? I really don’t know, but when a book haunts me in such a way it’s a rare and powerful thing. 8/10

Review: How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu

How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu (Book Depository, Powell’s Books, Indiebound) is about many things, one of which is that classic science fiction time-travel trope of paradox and time loops. Therefore I find it rather ironic that I entered my own self-fulfilling time loop prior to reading this book. I rarely read any reviews about books I plan to read, and I often avoid even reading the synopsis on the back cover. But prior to picking up How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, I read this short commentary by Jeff VanderMeer. Thus I entered my own time loop, one in which I knew that I was going to like this book, that I would see it as a touching story about a dysfunctional relationship between a father and son, that it would be humorous and clever. I knew my own future?

How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu is a book about a young man named Charles Yu who writes a book called How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe. Is it fiction? Is it autobiography? Is it both? Is it neither? Is it an instruction manual? Yes, no, I don’t know. It is a young man’s search for an absent father. It is his coming to know his depressed mother. It is his coming to know himself. It is a very literary novel. It is also an incredibly clever and amusing piece of science fiction. Charles is accompanied by a loyal retconned dog that doesn’t actually exist but shows love for Charles regardless – does the love exist, the smell of dog seems to. It’s an adventure through time and space in a slightly incomplete universe where Charles encounters the son of Luke Skywalker and several other people attempting to change the past.

How does one really characterize a book that swirls in and out of paradox, digs deep into the science fiction of time travel, that gets a little depressive, a little existential, that delves deep into the relationships of father-son, mother-son, self-self, and defines the metaphysics of time travel in the terms of literary narrative? In my case, I attempt to relay the first half (or so) of the book through out of context excerpts.

When it happens, this is what happens: I shoot myself.

…

I’ve never met Linus Skywalker before, but I’ve heard stories from other techs, so I feel like I have a good idea what to expect.

…

But the reason I have job security is that people have no idea how to make themselves happy. Even with a time machine. I have job security because what a customer wants, when you get right down to it, is to relive his very worst moment, over and over and over
again. Willing to pay a lot of money to do it, too.

…

Reality represents 13 percent of the total surface area and 17 percent of the total volume of Minor Universe 31.

…

Chronodiegetics is the branch of science fictional science focusing on the physical and metaphysical properties of time given a finite and bounded diegesis. It is currently the best theory of the nature and function of time within a narrative space.

…

Once upon a time, I am ten years old and my dad is driving me home from the park.

…

Read this book. Then write it. Your life depends on it.

…

No, this woman standing in front of me is something else, she is the one and only Woman My Mother Should Have Been, and I have found her. Looking for my father, I have found this woman, I have traveled, chronogrammatically, out of the ordinary tense axes and into this place, the subjunctive mode.

…

“So why am I being retconned?”

The style Yu uses in How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe varies widely and may be a barrier to some readers. The book is largely told from first person, sometimes told with excerpts from the book How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universal, and is sometimes both at once. The writing ranges from short, clipped phrases to long, run-on sentences spaced out with numerous commas. It can very dense, very technical speak about the mechanics of time machines and metaphysics of time travel. It can also be touching, if sad, reminiscing about a father and son working long hours in a garage. It has one foot in the literary world and one in a science fiction world, meeting in a space that can be equal parts brilliant and unappealing to both.

For the most part I flew through this book. Eagerly reading, digesting and laughing. Unfortunately, once the time loop is entered, the book slows down. The first portion of this time loop is one of the better parts of the book, but it’s the tail end that drags. I can see what Yu is doing – he is defining the past relationship between father and son, he bringing the son to a self-realization, he is setting up the end play. But it’s too often rather boring, and simply depressing as hell. It works because it achieves its goals, but it doesn’t work because it far too unappealing. Perhaps this is the SFF fan in me reacting to one of the more literary sections of the story. Perhaps I’m just uncomfortable seeing such a gloomy portrayal of a father and son’s relationship. Perhaps it was just too sad and boring.

So, was my own time loop self-realized? Did I like How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe because I knew I would? Did I like it because of its own merit? Did I break the loop by only liking it with a few reservations? Will this paradox send me into a parallel universe very similar yet strikingly different from this one? A blogger could get confused trying to be this clever (especially one with a relative lack of pedigree in the realm of hard science fiction). But I do know that How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe is a fun, entertaining, depressing, and uplifting story of father and son, a mother and son, and a son and himself wrapped in a bunch of interesting science fictional ideas, full of clever homage and sarcastic, yet touching humor. The book is a paradox, literary and genre, and at least for me, a self-fulfilling time-loop – sort of like review blogging in the SFF world, though that is a different discussion that I’ll try not to have another day. 8/10

Review: The Engine's Child by Holly Phillips

The Engine’s Child by Holly Phillips (US, UK, Canada) has been received with very mixed acclaim. Reactions seem to vary from love it to hate it with very little in between. In many ways, this is entirely appropriate for a novel that is all about contrasts, polar values and divisions. I find myself in odd place with neither loving, nor hating the book – appreciating the stylistic skill with which it was executed yet not feeling the connection necessary to truly enjoy a book.

Moth, a young woman in her early twenties, is training in the scholarly-priestly order that rigidly controls society under the direction of an elite few. Unlike most of those in her order, Moth’s origins are not aristocratic – she comes from the tidal slums. Through Moth and her contacts we learn of the deep political divisions and a society of the have’s and have not’s. The world is an island – a refuge of humanity that only barely escaped the sins of the past – the sins of magic and technology and Moth just may control its future.

Moth chafes in her religious role and rebels against the rigid rules. Her love affair with an engineer threatens her position as both a priest and as the key member of the secret organization seeking the freedom of the downtrodden tidal poor through blasphemous and magical means. Her actions become the lodestone of political tensions and secret organizations.

The Engine’s Child is all about the contrasts – one society seeks to save the world by looking to the past, one by looking to the future. One utilizes magic, another science and technology. One is for the rich and elite, another is a way for the poor to thrive. One is lead by a woman, another by a man. One is lead by an elder, another by a relative child. These contrasts are but a few in this world that is threatened by uncontrollable rain and impending disaster as well as its own overpopulation.

Phillips writes with poetic prose and with thematic depth. The stylistic strength of Phillips’ writing will equally attract and detract potential readers. This relatively dense style clearly demonstrates skill yet slows the pace and raised a significant barrier me forming a connection with the plot and characters and my overall enjoyment of the book.

Feelings about characterization will be largely determined by one’s like (or dislike) of Moth. At times she’s easy to relate to, at others she is completely moronic – I think an appropriate range for a relatively young, conflicted, and confused woman thrust into importance. One aspect I really enjoyed is that Moth acts – others react, and this is strangely rare for a protagonist in SFF. However, the secondary characters often steal the show – particularly Lady Vashmarna who seems the most rationally human of them all.

As The Engine’s Child defines the contrast of its world, the action takes place where these opposites come together – in the middle ground. So in a way I find it oddly comforting that my own reaction to the book is also found in this middle ground. I’m not singing its praises and calling for The Engine’s Child to win awards, nor am I proclaiming it a mess of book and waste of my time. To me the book is what it is – a story of the polarity of humanity – a skillfully stylistic novel – and a novel that failed to connect with me. Perhaps that’s reason enough for it to be read. 6.5-7/10

Review: The Judging Eye by R. Scott Bakker

R. Scott Bakker’s The Prince of Nothing Trilogy took the standard epic fantasy template very seriously. While it utilizes many of the usual tools, it also presents a literary and philosophical depth largely absent from the genre. The Judging Eye (US, UK, Canada) is the first book in a follow-up trilogy, The Aspect Emperor, and Bakker shows maturity as an author and demonstrates why his name belongs among the best epic fantasy authors.

The Judging Eye takes place 20 years after the conclusion of the previous trilogy – Anasûrimbor Kellhus has risen to become the Aspect Emperor – a human god who has forcibly united the nations of the south into a New Empire. Much of the intervening time has been spent in preparation for a new war with the No-God and Consult in an effort to avoid a Second Apocalypse. The Judging Eye shows us the start of this great march to war, known as the Great Ordeal.

The Judging Eye is told through three primary story arcs that generally rely on just a few points of view. The Empress Esmenet is left behind to manage the Empire as her husband leads the nations to war. The old, exiled Wizard Achamian lives as a hermit and finally sets out on a perilous journey to discover the very origins of Kellhus and the mysterious Dûnyain sect. A young barbarian King and his realm is absorbed into Aspect Emperor’s New Empire and he is forced to march into the wilds of the north under a new banner.

Anasûrimbor Kellhus has elevated himself as the God of Gods – no longer human and the central figure of a new religion, and the only religion tolerated in his New Empire. Bakker plays with the points of view – in The Prince of Nothing Trilogy, we got frequent views from Kellhus that slowly decreased in number as Kellhus increased in power and influence. In The Judging Eye, we don’t get a point a view from Kellhus the god like we had from Kellhus the man. The previous trilogy was about the origin of this newly acclaimed god and in The Judging Eye we can only look up to see him without the privilege of seeing his thoughts. The god Kellhus seemingly only looks forward to inevitable conflict with a rival, the no-god. This contrasts with the hermit-wizard Achamian, whose point of view dominates one of the three main story arcs. Achamian is obsessed with the past and finding the true origins of Kellhus the man.

This interesting aspect of looking back as the world moves forward is furthered in the story arc dominated the Empress Esmenet’s point of view. Much of this reflection focuses on the regret of choices made. Esmenet has the distance and history to see into the life of Kellhus. While she’s still dazzled when in his presence, in his absence she sees the horror and fears of past, present and future. Esmenet reveals fear of her and Kellhus’s children – each strangely powerful like their father (if not as strong) and each is not entirely sane. This backward look reveals much of the potential future – and it’s as bleak as I’ve come to expect from Bakker.

In The Prince of Nothing Trilogy, Bakker’s writing was heavy on the internal dialogue and philosophical end of things, turning off a number of potential fans. In The Judging Eye, Bakker lightens up significantly on the internal focus previously utilized, showing the deeper philosophical aspects in a much more subtle manner. The result is a much more accessible book with a faster pace that should appeal to a wider range of fans. Bakker doesn’t sacrifice the depth of his previous writing – he just shows improvement as an author as he keeps the intellectual feel to the book while making his writing more fun to read. Bakker even attempts a gallows sort of humor at times – though he has some improving to do in that area and the book’s overall feel is still depressingly dark and serious.

The Judging Eye shows influence from other epic fantasy works rather than the almost historic feel of the crusades of The Prince of Nothing Trilogy. The depth of the worldbuilding feels much greater and easily rivals works like The Lord of the Rings with its feel of a deep and tragic history to the world. Bakker further honors Tolkien with an homage to Moria – and Bakker truly stands on the shoulders of the giants that came before with an enthralling journey into the depths where you can feel the terror of the haunting dark. This series of events showcases Bakker’s writing at its best – the internal and external conflicts build, collide, and repeat in a crescendo that I could not set aside.

The Judging Eye opens The Aspect Emperor Trilogy, and as an opening book it doesn’t stand alone. Only one of the three main arcs comes to any sort of conclusion, and even that conclusion is just the end of the beginning. While the promise of greatness to come is huge, I can’t help but be a bit unhappy that I’ll have to wait for it. The Judging Eye is more accessible than The Prince of Nothing Trilogy – I suppose that one could read it without having read the previous trilogy, but to fully appreciate this book I feel that knowledge of the previous trilogy is important.

As if The Prince of Nothing wasn’t proof enough, Bakker shows again in The Judging Eye what can be done with epic fantasy – and what Bakker does is nothing short of excellence. 9/10

Related Posts: Scott Bakker Interview, Review of Prince of Nothing Trilogy (The Darkness That Comes Before, The Warrior Prophet, The Thousandfold Thought), Review of Neuropath

Review: The Man on the Ceiling by Steve Rasnic Tem & Melanie Tem

The Man on the Ceiling (US, UK, Canada) is the re-imagined and expanded version of the novella of the same name that won the Bram Stoker Award, International Horror Guild Award, and the World Fantasy Award, the only work to ever win all three. With such a pedigree I’ve been looking forward to this one for a while, only to find disappointment as the unexpected lingering reaction.

This loose mosaic tells the near-autobiographical story of the Tem’s family, at times sad, tragic, and heart-wrenching, yet always hopeful. The madness in their method brings forth an often horrific life to the text – these tag-teamed stories cross back and forth from a world of magical realism to surreal, playing with reality to reveal the truth.

As shown in The Man on the Ceiling, the Tem’s lead an extraordinary life – they adopt troubled and abused children, raising and loving them as their own. The exploration of their past, and their lives with their children and all the fears of life lies at the heart of this mosaic. A year ago I would have reacted very differently to this book, but now I have entered the world of parenthood. Part of the Tem’s journey that is shared deals with the death of a child. In the past I would have found this appropriately tragic, but not having children, I would not have had a true connection and relation to such a tragedy. As a parent nothing causes more dread than the even the thought of a child dying, much less my own. It’s this aspect of the book that affected me most.

In many books the reader can’t help but wonder home much is taken from an author’s own life. The Man on the Ceiling repeatedly emphasizes that ‘everything we tell you is true’. With this statement a line is crossed, the world of fiction blends into the intimate lives of the authors. So assured of the autobiographical elements, I eventually found myself questioning that very ascertain of truth – have the Tem’s turned a common reaction upside down?

Literary – the word comes with baggage in the genre world, yet literary describes The Man on the Ceiling well. Through the exploration of the Tem’s lives universal fears and conditions are revealed strait out of the American heartland. Plot is fluid, unfocused, even nonexistent. Reality twists, turns, and climbs on the ceiling to reveal truth. Such an exploration won’t appeal to all – in fact, it didn’t exactly appeal to me. As powerful as the Tem’s story is, it feels as if it pulls up short, not going the full length it could and should have. I expected a powerful affect on me that would linger for days and even weeks after finishing the book – not only is this affect absent, but the book is already fading away to obscurity. Combined with this not being my usual reading fare and the lack of that final, expected punch, I’m left with luke-warm (at best) feelings for the book. 6/10

Review: Lord Tophet by Gregory Frost

Stories within stories, layers on top of layers, bridges spanning a world and a journey alike, and players dance to the whims of a shadowy puppeteer – this is the Shadowbridge (US, UK, Canada) Duology by Gregory Frost and Lord Tophet (US, UK, Canada) the conclusion.

Like Shadowbridge, Lord Tophet is but one half to a whole – in other words, read Shadowbridge first. Events pick up immediately after the cliffhanger ending of Shadowbridge and the various mysteries introduced in Shadowbridge are explained – Leodora’s dealings with the gods, Soder’s past and what he is hiding about her parents, the coral man, and others. In fact, by the end of the novel everything is wrapped up rather neatly with a pleasing ending for a book about stories.

The stories within stories structure beautifully blends with the overall narrative and becomes less about the tales told by Leodora and more about stories of Leodora – her family, her past, her journey, and the mysteries that follow her. The moralistic lessons of her fables both mirror and anticipate those of Leodora’s own life as she grows into herself, learning her own heart and desires while realizing her role in the coming conflict with Lord Tophet. These economic, poetic and ultimately pleasant stories make Lord Tophet a joy to read.

The characterization suffers a bit in comparison to the stories, but in a way that fits. The characters seem like caricatures at times, characters in a play (or a story) and not real people. This feels intentional to me and it fits so well with the stories within stories structure and overall sense that these characters are all shadow puppets in Frost’s capable hands.

Shadowbridge and Lord Tophet evoke conflicting reactions in within me. Surficially, I love to see fantasy novels that don’t function well as doorstops – Shadowbridge weighs in at a mere 272 pages and Lord Tophet even shorter at 222. Another part of me then wonders why they couldn’t be published as a single volume – is this just a grab for more money? This is particularly grating with the cliffhanger ending of Shadowbridge.

However, Frost contends that these two novels were conceived as separate works, and after reading Lord Tophet this becomes clear. The thematic heart of these two novels is strikingly different – Shadowbridge is the beginning, the journey, a bridge at so many levels. Lord Tophet concludes – a tale of consequences, love and betrayal with all dancing to the predestined strings of a shadow puppeteer.

In my review of Shadowbridge, I said that its ultimate success would depend on the conclusion in Lord Tophet. The conclusion offered leaves me drifting somewhat aimlessly, making this pair of reviews some of the most difficult reviews I’ve written. The conclusion works – it even works well, but does it live up to its potential? The potential of the Shadowbridge/Lord Tophet duology was huge, and these could have been memorable, timeless works – the stuff classics are made of. Simply said, this potential is unrealized – these books are great and should be talked about, but the climatic moments lacked that extra punch needed to attain true greatness. The conclusion was ultimately expected, and while it was heartfelt – it needed to be heart-wrenching. This is disappointing since unrealized potential often tastes bitter even when compared to lesser works lacking potential. However, the Epilogue is the sweet refrain for the bitter climax and ends the book with a fitting upswing.

The Shadowbridge/Lord Tophet duology is a beautiful read and stylistic wonder with the weaving of stories within stories and the resulting thematic tapestry – the work of a true craftsman. Even with unrealized potential, these books stand apart and above much of the ‘standard’ fantasy offered and easily earn a label of literary fantasy. The world of Shadowbridge is rich with stories waiting to be told and I look forward to Frost answering that call. 7.5-8/10