Book #77

Descartes' Bones
by Russell Shorto

I was having trouble deciding how to describe my experience of reading Russell Shorto's new history/philosophy book, Descartes' Bones, when I realized: that difficulty represents the experience itself. I found the book to be slippery. It was hard for me to focus on what I was reading, and yet I was interested enough to stop myself, when I realized I had just sped my eyes over a page without taking any of it in, and go back to read what I had missed when my attention wandered. Unfortunately, what often happened at that point was that my attention wandered again, and I had to repeat the process. I found myself re-reading the same page four or five times, on more than one occasion.

This is not a good sign. But then, when I think back on the book in order to summarize it, I can't pinpoint a specific problem. I like the author's writing, other than a few problems -- his attempts to inject a little modern humor were jarring, for instance, probably because the narrative is a touch pedantic and slow -- and I find the subject personally fascinating: Rene Descartes, the originator of Cogito, ergo sum and Cartesian dualism, which are the foundation of the modern era and the age of reason, along with all of the turmoil and conflict around Descartes' ideas of doubt and its resolution that have occupied so much of the last four hundred years. This is my meat and potatoes, my loaf of bread and jug of wine; I wanted to read this book. So why couldn't I sink into it? Why did I keep skittering off the surface and falling away, only to catch myself by the barest edge of fingernails before I vanished below the horizon, so to speak?

I think the answer is that Shorto chose the wrong focus. The story of Descartes' bones, while certainly far more interesting than the average tale of mortal remains after death, is not really an epic and inspiring tale. It is also not much of a metaphor for the schism between faith and reason to which Descartes was so integral, and which underlies so many of our modern problems and concerns. But Shorto tried very hard to make it so, to use the bones as a touchstone as he explored the history of the Enlightenment in France and the long-term effects of Descartes' philosophy on our modern age. Unfortunately, it didn't really work, no matter how much he wanted it to, and I wanted it to, and therein lies the problem.

It's too bad, really. The story of Descartes' bones should be perfect for bringing to life the history of the rise of Reason. Descartes himself was the single greatest influence on the separation of faith and reason, and on reason's rise to equal and then surpass faith as a source of knowledge; his bones passed through the possession of several other luminaries, including Alexandre Lenoir, the founder of the first Natural History museum, and two of the founders of neuroscience, Franz Gall and Pierre Broca. Descartes' proper place in history, and thus the proper handling of his remains, was a point of debate not only for the scientific community of France, but also of the republican governments of the French Revolution, and so Descartes' body has been reburied several times, displayed in several countries, and doubted and reconfirmed again and again since his death in 1650.

Sadly for me, as important a figure as Descartes was, the book does not go into much detail about his life -- certainly because the ground has already been well-tilled by previous authors. And while the men and women associated with Descartes' bones were related to the rise of reason and the struggle between reason and faith, they weren't really the most important figures in those events. So Shorto was forced to stray away from the line of the narrative again and again, in order to tell the history he was trying to cover, and then he was forced to cram and fold, spindle, and mutilate the historical character of the people involved with his narrative in order to make them fit in the history. For instance, the story begins with the fact that Descartes did not die in France, and so was not buried in his home country -- the decision to return his remains to France was the start of the controversies that would surround the bones for more than two centuries -- but the circumstances of his death and burial were not terribly momentous: he died of a fever he caught while visiting a friend in Sweden. The queen of Sweden, Christina, had wanted Descartes to join her court to act as a magnet for philosophers and scientists; had that happened, and the court of Sweden become a source of great new scientific discoveries, or great moments in the mind/body debate that Descartes was famed for, then it would have made this story better. But no: Christina and Descartes didn't get along, he died suddenly, and Christina abdicated her throne and converted to Catholicism. As interesting as her story is, it isn't terribly well connected to Descartes, and other than Christina, there was nothing in Sweden at the time that would relate to the conflict between reason and faith. And so it goes with the rest of the people involved in the tale. Lenoir and Broca, Gall and Georges Cuvier and everyone else that tried to put a finish on the wandering of Descartes' bones were interesting, but not the main players in the story I really wanted to hear, and which Shorto's prologue promised: the journey of Descartes' bones as a path through the landscape of the Enlightenment, as a key to unlocking the history of our current age's struggles between Reason and Faith.

In retrospect, I would have enjoyed this book more if I already knew the basic story. If I had already read a biography or two of Descartes, and if I knew the story of Spinoza and Kant and Hobbes and Locke, and Newton and Bacon and Leibniz and -- everything else that led to, and came from, the Enlightenment and the Age of Reason, then this book would have made a nice confection on top of the meal. It's an interesting anecdote, but not enough of a history or a biography to serve the needs of this particular layman.

Book #76

Tree and Leaf
by J.R.R. Tolkien

I've always wanted to read Tolkien's other works; I've read the Silmarillion a couple of times, and never really enjoyed it as much as the Hobbit or LOTR. But nonetheless, I've had an old copy of a Tolkien book called Tree and Leaf for years -- it was my parents' originally -- and I finally dove into it.

It's short, only two pieces, but it was excellent -- and excellent in a way that makes me ten times more eager to look for other Tolkien ephemera than The Silmarillion ever did. The first part of this is an essay, expanded from a lecture Tolkien gave, called On Fairy-Stories. And not only was it interesting and well-written, it had some absolutely brilliant insights; I don't know if they were Tolkien's or simply common knowledge among Oxford literature dons, but I loved reading about the power of adjectives, and the concept of the sub-creator, and the idea that a fantasy world does not require a suspension of disbelief, but rather an acceptance of an internal continuity that allows a sub-creation of a new world within the pages, a world that, if well done by the author and well-read by the audience, requires no suspension of disbelief but merely a shift in sensory input, from direct input to that which is imagined from the words. Great idea that I'm not doing justice to, but intend to revisit and clarify further in my own mind, and use to my advantage. It certainly reaffirmed my belief that Tolkien was the leading light of the fantasy genre, both because of his immense gifts as a writer, and because he understood fantasy, its advantages and disadvantages, its requirements and its place in literature and our lives.

And as a final piece of proof, the second piece in the book is a fairy-story that Tolkien wrote, called "Leaf by Niggle," which was simply lovely from start to finish. Twenty pages, and it encapsulated the sense of being a frustrated artist in the real world, and the advantages of living, therefore, in an invented world -- advantages that are not just for the artists, but also for their neighbors -- in addition to having a nice moral on the power of art to lead us home. Once again, Tolkien takes his place in the big chair.

Book #75

Micah
by Laurell K. Hamilton

A nice, short, well-written book after the last hunk of indigestible nonsense. I finished this one in an afternoon, a very pleasant afternoon spent curled up in a recliner, reading about sex and love and the undead, with murders being solved and new ones occurring, an averted procreation emergency, and secrets revealed all over the place. It was fun.

This was the shortest and easiest of the Anita Blake books I've read so far; it most likely should have been called a novella, since the 280 pages was a stretch: the font was larger, the printing had more white space as well as headers and footers, and there was a title page for each chapter, blank but for the chapter number. Reminded me a little of a student essay that doesn't quite hit the requirements. But going into it with the expectation of a shorter story, it was very nice, a little friendly visit back to Anita's world before moving on to something else.

The story was fine, with Anita going to her most annoying zombie-raising to date. It's for an important mob informant who had a sudden heart attack before he could testify, and so there is a judge and two sets of lawyers present at the raising. The raising starts off bad, because this is the first time Anita has walked into a graveyard as old as the one where the informant was buried since her triumvirate reached a new power plateau, and so the dead begin whispering to her, trying to goad her into raising all of them -- or perhaps not; the whispers are not coherent. The pressure she feels, however, is, and there's a great suspense scene where Anita is trying to move the whole raising along so she can get it over with and leave, and the lawyer trying to delay the proceedings -- we assume for the sake of slowing down the conviction, but it turns out to be a much nastier reason -- while the judge slows everything down even more simply because he is a bombastic pedant, and demands Anita explain every step of the procedure in proper legalese, with proper respect to the court, of course.

The unusual aspect of this plot was that it actually wrapped up quickly once the action started -- and what's more, Hamilton skipped the bloody scene. For maybe the first time in these books, Anita was simply knocked unconscious at the beginning of the fight, and when she wakes up it's all over. I was a touch disappointed, as this has been one of the draws for me -- the fact that Hamilton goes into glorious, gory detail with all of the bloody bits as well as all the sex scenes -- and there was a detailed sex scene earlier, but at the same time, it felt like a nice bit of balance: there is no way that Anita can make it through every single fight she gets into without being sidelined at least once. Accidents happen, and sometimes, no matter how good you are, the other guy gets in a lucky shot. It was nice to see that happen.

So part of me wishes it had been longer, and part of me was glad I was able to move through it so quickly. In the end, I just liked it.

Book #74

I, robot
by Howard S. Smith

Why would you take a title that's already been used? And not used by just anyone, but used by one of the greatest and best-known science fiction writers in history? And not just used by that author, but later turned into a massive Hollywood blockbuster starring one of the most popular actors of the day, thereby assuring that, unlike many famous science fiction titles, every person in the US knows this particular title? I would think you'd have to be either paying homage in some way to the previous works with the title, such as a depiction of how the book became a movie or some form of biography, or else you'd have to be terribly, terribly stupid.

After reading Dr. Howard S. Smith's novel I, robot, I have to go with the second option, with a qualification. Dr. Smith is an MIT-trained engineer and clearly an intelligent and learned man. Unfortunately, as an author, the man is a complete buffoon. Hence the title -- which Dr. Smith actually tried to justify by pointing out that his title uses a small "r" in "robot." Thereby proving that he doesn't understand grammar, or the purpose and value of a title on a work of fiction, and also resurrecting the memory of Vanilla Ice claiming he didn't steal the melody from the Bowie/Queen song "Under Pressure" because "Ice, Ice, Baby" used an extra beat instead of a rest in the drum track.

The book has two main elements, which are the necessary parts for any good (and, of course, any bad) near-future science fiction novel: it has science, and it has fiction -- a storyline, with plot, characters, setting, and so forth. Dr. Smith does one of these well. The robots described are, I'm sure, well-designed; not being a roboticist myself, I did not try to decipher the technical descriptions (nor answer the technical questions that Dr. Smith included in his "Discussion Questions" at the end of the novel, as if this -- thing -- is ever going to be an Oprah book pick or a standard school text) nor the diagrams, of which there are several. I didn't have any desire to analyze the technical diagrams, as they have nothing to do with the story, and I took this book up as a novel, not as a textbook on robotics with a sidebar in nuclear weapons technology. What I cared about was the storyline, the characters and the setting, and in those areas, the book showed about as much style and grace as did the aforementioned rap "song."

So what's wrong with the fiction elements? First, the novel is set in 2010, and at the beginning of the book, North Korea successfully tests an ICBM with a nuclear warhead, thus threatening Japan, and terrorists in Lebanon (Versions of Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda so thinly veiled by imaginary names they might as well be called Losama in Baden and el-Qaedo. Or maybe he could have used a small "r" to show the enormous difference between his version of the name and someone else's.) fire rockets at Israel. And somehow, despite the US and China and all the other nuclear powers having a very serious interest in any country becoming nuclear and developing attack capabilities, particularly if that nation is North Korea, somehow Japan is left to deal with a nuclear North Korea all by itself. And despite the fact that terrorists have been attacking Israel since its creation as a sovereign country half a century ago, when these rockets are fired, the Israeli military lets them land because their countermeasures are expensive and "they [the terrorists] never hit anything anyway." Then when the terrorists do hit their target, and the military are finished standing and staring like slack-jawed yokels, Israel counterattacks in the dumbest possible way, with an airstrike without gathering any intelligence -- despite Israel's preeminent intelligence-gathering ability, one of the tools that nation has used to survive these sorts of attacks for the last half-century -- and when they bomb innocent civilians in Lebanon (something that has happened repeatedly over the course of Israel's struggles), all the other nations of the world immediately turn on Israel, declaring sanctions and threatening to arrest any Israelis within their borders. Despite the fact that Israel has never been sanctioned for defending itself against terrorists. Maybe it was because the Israelis turned so stupid overnight -- a problem that is compounded when the Israelis send their tanks into Lebanon to deal with the terrorists directly, and all of them are wiped out by terrorists with anti-tank weapons. Because the Israeli army has no idea how to deal with anti-tank weapons. Not like they won a war in six days, or anything. But because these two nations have these suddenly insurmountable problems, they strike a deal: Israel will give Japan several working nuclear weapons, and Japan will give Israel several hundred thousand robot foot soldiers, with which they can invade Lebanon and remove the terrorist threat.

Once the setting has been established, the characters come in. The main character is a Japanese police inspector named Haruto. Haruto has obsessive compulsive disorder, and is thus a stickler for the rules -- he turned in most of the detectives in his precinct for taking free meals from a restaurant, thereby destroying their careers and his own marriage. Fortunately for Haruto, his obsession with following the rules -- which leads him to blow the whistle on the secret nukes-for-robots deal, as he can't abide his nation breaking the rules and possibly leading to a second Hiroshima/Nagasaki defeat -- only rises when it is convenient: when he is falsely accused of murder, he says that sometimes you have to break the rules, and he refuses to turn himself in. Whenever he gets into trouble, he makes up new rules to get himself out of trouble -- when he falls overboard into the Pacific Ocean, for instance, he makes this new rule for himself: "Find the lifebuoy and conserve energy until a passing ship comes by and picks him up." (Please ignore the use of third person within an internal dialogue; it happens to people who don't know how to write.) That's a good rule. Good thing he thought of it. Good thing he has such wonderful control over his obsessive compulsive disorder, which is usually characterized by the need to perform actions that obstruct a normal life, rather than preserve it.

The story doesn't get better. The love story is ridiculously cliche -- she is an Israeli kibbutznik, whom Haruto impresses when he beats up her former (now abusive and threatening) boyfriend, impregnates almost immediately thereafter, and declares his undying love for. The war scenes are described with mathematic precision but little else, as we are given repeated instances of Dr. Smith's multiplication ability -- the Israeli robotic units are made up of one human soldier, 22 biped scout robots called Alphas (who are depicted on the front cover and look almost exactly like the robots in the film I, Robot, but I'm sure that's a meaningless coincidence), and eight multi-legged carrier robots called Betas, and Dr. Smith repeatedly used lines like, "Lieutenant Chaim Dayan, 32 soldiers, 704 Alphas and 256 Betas -- nine hundred and ninety-three men and machines, were in Lebanon now." But when they attack, it's more along the lines of, "Then the robots ran up and set off the explosives, which killed all the terrorists. The end." (Not a direct quote.) When Dr. Smith cannot turn to mathematics or technical jargon, he falls back into the ivory-tower science-nerd's obsession with trivia: he uses the word "amaranth" to describe a character's red shirt, he has a Japanese character pause in the middle of a serious argument to give a small dissertation on seppuku -- the colloquial term is hari-kiri, not hari-kari, and there is almost always a second man called a kaishakunin who decapitates the samurai after the disemboweling, and aren't you glad you know that now? Me too -- and Haruto's karate is described in loving detail, with the Japanese names for the specific blows and a running tally of the duration and time elapsed between strikes -- he lashed out with an oi-tsuki strike that shattered the man's nose in one-eleventh of a second, that sort of thing.

What else can I say? The story ends badly, with Haruto coming to an epiphany too late and ending in tears -- albeit totally cured of his OCD -- and the nations of the world falling into a new and deadly arms race, putting the lie to the claim on the back cover that "The love one man has for a woman has the power to save the world. Or destroy it." Because in the end, Haruto had no effect on the robots-for-nukes deal, nor on the events that follow. Then the last chapter jumps ahead 800 years to a world where humans have died out but the robots remain, a future completely unrelated to the novel's plot or themes (what there is of those) except for one thing: the robots have Haruto's OCD. After that there is an extensive glossary, with lengthy explanations of all technical terms used throughout the book, and an annotated bibliography that would fit much better at the end of a scholarly article. Which is probably what Dr. Smith should have written, instead of inflicting this bunk on the science fiction world. All in all, this is a terrible book, a poorly written, poorly considered, and amateurish attempt to do what Isaac Asimov did so very well fifty years ago. Dr. Smith should have left the writing to the writers.

Book #73

Incubus Dreams
by Laurell K. Hamilton

This one was good, but not as good as the other books in the series so far. I liked the new development of the second triumvirate with Nathaniel and Damian (Though I admit I got annoyed that the publishers misspelled the word "triumvirate" throughout; you'd think that they'd put a little time and effort into editing a novel from an author as successful and prominent as Hamilton), and I like the new character Requiem, and I like the added complications of the London vampires losing their master and the arrival of Wicked and Truth and the flaws in Malcolm's Church of Eternal Life and the mysterious vampire villain, scarred worse than Asher, and the increase in power of the original triumvirate. All of those were interesting, and they all made me want to read the rest of the books immediately, right now, so I can find out what happens -- except I know Hamilton's still writing these books, so there's no way for me to learn everything that will happen. Both good and bad, that.

The sex was a bit much. Not that it was too dirty -- I liked the scenes, I liked the way Hamilton described it, I was very happy to see Anita coming to terms with her own preferences, and also to see Richard taking a step toward real reconciliation with Anita and his place in the triumvirate and so on -- but only because there was so much of it. It took up too much of the book. I saw the need for all of it, between the ardeur and the need for more power to fuel the new triumvirate, but I wish there could have been another way to handle the problem, so there could have been more of a focus on the non-bedroom action. But this has never been a series that has shied away from graphic description; Hamilton never does a fade at the climax of an important moment, ending a chapter and then skipping ahead a few hours. It's one of the things I like about this series; it gives it weight and drama, as the gritty, tough moments are all taken seriously. When Anita kills someone, we get to experience every second, every reaction, every thought and feeling she has about it, even the negative ones -- and the scene when she executes a vampire with her pistol is a prime example of that. When Anita has sex with someone, it's the same thing, and it keeps the sexual elements -- which are truly integral pieces of the story, rather than cheap thrills added to cover up weak parts of the plot -- from becoming boring or tawdry. These are important experiences for Anita, and so they should be equally important to the book and the reader, and I'm glad that Hamilton was able to face them squarely and write them as honestly as she writes everything else. Myself, I'd have been blushing and giggling way too much to pull this off, so I have to tip my hat to her for doing what I couldn't.

I'm just glad I get to read it.

Book #72

Black Powder War
by Naomi Novik

The third book in the Temeraire series was better than the second but still not quite as enjoyable as the first; I think it's a natural progression, since the first book is fun because it is nice and uncomplicated, like Temeraire himself, and the subsequent books naturally get much more complicated as Temeraire grows up and becomes more of a complete being, and as the situation with the Napoleonic Wars grows more and more serious. I liked this one more than the second because I preferred the encounters they had as they went overland to the difficulties with the sea voyage. Though I have to say I'm impressed that Novik could do both: in Throne of Jade, most of the tension was between people kept in close quarters without bonds of trust or friendship for many months, and in this one it was between strangers who encounter each other unexpectedly. It worked quite well. Though these books are starting to make me shake my head in exasperation just as I do with the Anita Blake books; when I read those, I think, "Freaking vampires." When I read these, I think, "Freaking governments."

In the last one, Laurence and Temeraire get a load of crap from the Chinese government, though it turned out that was largely because of the internal plotting of the conspirators against the Emperor; once they were dealt with, things went pretty smoothly. In this one, they get a load of crap from the Turkish empire, from the Sultan and his flunkies, but not because there is some small faction at work: no the Sultan himself is trying to mess with England, and is thus messing with Laurence and Temeraire. As the book intended, I didn't particularly like or trust the Eurasian guide Tharkay, who tries to be irritating throughout his time under Laurence's command; I did like how that turned out, though. But starting with the Sultan, and the British government's bad orders and failed commitments, and continuing on through the Prussian and Russian losses to Napoleon, the governments in these books are just -- dumb.

The scene when Lien, the albino Chinese dragon, explained to the very young and innocent Temeraire why she didn't need to fight him to get her revenge, was both frightening and outrageous; I wanted to reach into the book and punch her in the snoot for threatening my Temeraire, and also for being all devious and underhanded. She's a pain. And then the battle scenes were painful to read, not because they were too long or overcomplicated, but because they were so frustrating. It seems apparent to me now that while Napoleon was smart enough to grasp the basic strengths and weaknesses of his army, his greatest trait was simply that he wasn't an idiot. Everybody who fought him, was. Lord Nelson of the British Navy wasn't an idiot, and so he kept his head dealing with Napoleon's fleet -- which was led by Napoleon's fairly idiotic admiral, of course, not Napoleon himself -- and Nelson won. I'm betting that as these books finish up the story of the Napoleonic wars that this trend will continue: idiots like the Prussians, who expect their battle plan to work simply because it worked decades before for Frederick the Great -- because warfare never changes, and if it worked once, it will always work after that, forever and ever amen -- those idiots will fail. People who grasp the modern warfare that Napoleon is employing, and Laurence and Temeraire seem able to grasp it, will have success against l'Empereur. I can't wait to read about Waterloo with dragons, though I have to say I'm impressed that Novik has, I believe, stayed pretty true to history despite putting dragons in the mix. This is actually an excellent alternate history. With dragons.

Last thing: I'm glad Granby got his dragon, but that little pain better grow up quick. And I'm on Temeraire's side with dragon rights, and I'm glad Laurence has seen the light.

Book #71

Cerulean Sins
by Laurell K. Hamilton

Geez, what am I going to do when I finish all of these books and I no longer know exactly what I'm going to read next, half the time? I know -- I'll read the Merry Gentry series. Ha. Take that. And by the time I've finished that set, Hamilton will probably have written four more books that we'll need to buy and read. Stupid prolific authors.

All right, so in this book we have several subplots, as has become the norm for this series. The main plot has to do with vampires, as the book before focused on weres -- Narcissus and Chimera and the werehyenas, and Anita becoming Bolverk for Richard and so on -- and I bet the next book will focus on humans, in some way. The vampire plot here started with Belle Morte, the sourdre de sang (Source of blood, and though I love these characters and it fits them well, I still hate the French language) of Jean-Claude and Asher's bloodline. She has been negotiating an official state visit to St. Louis, and now she breaks the rules and sends her emissaries early, just to mess with our heroes. Freaking vampires. I loved that this book got deeper into the psyche of those freaking vampires; Belle Morte is the way she is because she considers herself the most alluring woman in the world, and she is confused and offended that there are two men who left her -- and since those two men are Asher and Jean-Claude, here she comes to St. Louis. She also believes that everything that she thinks belongs to her descendants also belongs to her; makes sense for someone so egomaniacal. So she wants Anita, specifically, and maybe Richard and the wolves and the leopards and anyone else who she feels like taking over or just messing with.

So she sends Musette, a lovely little thing, who was a great character because she wasn't actually terrifying herself; in fact, she was kind of stupid. There's a great scene when she tries to insult Anita, and it doesn't work because Anita doesn't have the same values -- but then Anita insults Musette and cuts her to the quick without even trying, because Anita is not an idiot. The horrifying vampires in this book were Belle Morte, who possesses Musette in order to make an appearances in St. Louis despite being in France -- and I assume Hamilton did that so that Anita wouldn't have a chance to kill Belle Morte quite yet, as she seems to whack any vampire who appears in these books other than those in Jean-Claude's circle (And she kills some of them, too.) -- and the Mother of All Darkness, who has begun to awake, and who finds Anita interesting. She's particularly creepy, an effect carried off by the use of a nice little plot device: the creepiest vampire in this bunch, the child Valentina, thinks the MOAD is creepy. Creepy at one remove; I liked it. Anyway, Belle messes with our heroes again and again and again, with some limited success; I liked that Musette was the undoing of Belle's plans, and that the two child vamps, Valentina and Bartolome, show some honor and drift away from Belle and Musette.

The subplots involve Anita bringing Asher into a menage a trois with her and Jean-Claude, which kind of worked but not completely; I liked that he and Anita had trouble dealing with their impasse, because I thought it kept true to the characters, but I dislike that there's an impasse. I got really ticked at Anita for being mad at Asher, but I also understood why she didn't want him rolling her mind; I was extremely happy when she worked it out in her head, and I hope the issue is resolved, now. Then there was the murders, which brought Anita into a final conflict with Dolph and his anti-monster prejudice; Dolph has finally gone off the deep end and now Zerbrowski's in charge of the unit. Probably a good thing, really, but I was sad to see Dolph go; I liked him in the beginning. The murders were nicely done, really, since they tied in to the main story. It made it easier to handle the limited space that was dedicated to the mystery itself, as so much of the book has to do with the vampires and the ardeur. Oh, one thing about that -- there's a rather difficult scene when Belle is messing with Anita's head, giving her ardeur lust and then bloodlust, and she can't keep herself from attacking either Jason or Caleb or Nathaniel, none of whom she wants to screw or eat at the moment, while they are speeding down the highway in a Jeep. And I just wondered: why didn't someone just knock her out? I know she's all badass and stuff, but come on: somebody could have clocked her in the head, and it would have been so much easier to deal with the situation then. Well, maybe they couldn't. Anyway, I liked the murder mystery and how they finally got to the solution, and I really liked how Anita ended it.

Now I hope we get some more detail about Micah and maybe some resolution of the RPIT squad, and maybe even Animators, Inc. That would be cool.

Book #70

The Drunkard's Walk: How Randomness Rules Our Lives
by Leonard Mlodinow

I got this one from Dad, who loaned it to me when he came for a visit, after he read the whole thing on his train ride up here from Paso Robles. This book reminded me quite a lot of The Wisdom of Crowds by James Surowiecki, another popular science/math book that I enjoyed and got some insights out of. This one, though maybe not as well written as Surowiecki's book, offered me even more insight and interest; not only did I love reading it, I feel like it has given me an opportunity to change much about my outlook on life, and only in good ways.

A lot of the book is taken up with the history of the study of randomness and chance, starting with an Italian physician and scientist named Gerolamo Cardano, who made a fortune by learning how to gamble intelligently, in a time when people believed games of chance were controlled by the fates, or by God. Cardano paid attention to what rolls of the dice came up more often than others, and used the information to make better bets; he wrote a book about what he learned after it paid his way through medical school and carried him past a bitter feud with the other doctors of Milan -- who didn't like Cardano because he had written another book that pointed out that they were a bunch of quacks. The most interesting part of the history, to me, was the new knowledge that most of the great mathematicians of the past were, well, pretty messed up. I wonder if it has something to do with having a mathematical mind in a disorganized and messy world, especially in the European Middle Ages, a society so focused on determinism and fatalism that they believed that attempting to understand the world was basically blasphemy, as it implied that you could understand the mind of God. But whatever the reason, the list of mathematicians who contributed to the study of randomness include religious zealots, liars, thieves, and madmen; it was most entertaining to read about.

My favorite part of the book, though, was the conclusions that Mlodinow drew from this history, and from what we have learned about randomness in the last few centuries. The biggest ones for me were these: first, that random chance influences the outcomes of every chain of events, everywhere in the universe, and every second of our lives, and second, that we don't understand this truth. Because of this, we believe that we can control things that we can't, and we see patterns where there are none; I've never read a better explanation of hindsight's apparent clarity, and it's something I plan to spend quite a bit of time pondering. The other inspirational conclusion Mlodinow drew was the idea that failure, and success, are both influenced far more by random chance than we normally believe. He says that our failures do not represent a lack of ability, but show the inevitability of chance's influence on the world; we do not fail for a reason, not always. More importantly, we do not succeed for a reason, either, and so the key to success, and to overcoming failure, is truly just to keep trying, to never lose faith -- because if there's one thing we can have faith in, it is this: random chance will sometimes put us under the bar, and sometimes, it will put us over. We will win, we will succeed, as long as we keep putting ourselves out there. Knowing that the reason we fail is often no reason at all, but merely dumb luck, should help us to overcome the agony of defeat and keep trying until the dice fall our way.

I liked that message more than I can say, and I'm extremely glad I got to read it.

Book #69

Narcissus in Chains
by Laurell K. Hamilton

It is too perfect that this book, which I am writing about after I finished the next book about how our minds find patterns and order in chaos and random chance, about how we ascribe meaning to meaningless coincidences often perceived only in hindsight, should be #69 on my list. Or is it too Beavis and Butthead of me to notice that?

So here it finally is, ten books (My god, I can't believe I've already read ten of these! When did I start reading them, June? July? Ridiculous.) into the series and the dreaded moment has come: Anita has gained the ardeur. Anita decided in the last book to make up for the psychic wounds she gave herself, Jean-Claude, and Richard when she broke off their connection and stopped seeing both of them, and so in this book, the triumvirate go through the step of "marrying the marks," allowing their auras to intermingle and fill the holes made by their connection and separation. But in the process, Anita gains Jean-Claude's ability to gain power through lust and sex, and with it she gains his need to do so every single day. Oh yeah, and Anita also gets into the middle of a were squabble, and one of her wereleopard accidentally wounds her, maybe turning her into a wereleopard for real, so we have that thread running through the book as well. Oh, and she finds a new lover, a werelopard king named Micah who is instantly and intimately connected to her by their shared place at the head of their respective wereleopard pards. And then there's the conflict between the werewolves and the wereleopards, when Richard blames Gregory for infecting Anita and maybe killing her -- and, much worse though he won't admit it, ending his secret guilty fantasy that maybe someday he could make Anita a werewolf and have her be his perfect mate -- and has the pack sentence Gregory to torture and death, a sentence that sticks even after Richard finds out that Anita is not dead because Richard has allowed the pack to become a pseudo-democracy, and he has new enemies that are trying to take over the pack from him and are using this to undermine his authority. Until Anita comes to get her leopard back. Oh right, and Anita and Richard finally end it completely, when they have sex, she feeds off of his lust, and he pitches a hissy-fit about her being more monstrous than he could ever be, and even worse, she is comfortable with the monsters in a way he will never be, and so he dumps her. Finally. And of course, there's the invasion of the werehyenas, an unknown but suddenly powerful faction in the shifter world, who get attacked by a remarkably nasty bad guy, the panwere Chimera, who tries to use the werehyenas as a stepping stone to taking over all of the shifters in the city, and maybe eventually the world.

And people read this book and get upset because there's sex. And they say that the plot becomes weak at this point in the series, and it all devolves into little more than porn. Are they reading the same book I did?

I thought the sex scenes were as well done as every other graphic, visceral moment in this very graphic series. I thought the moment at the end of the shower scene, when Anita ends up crying on the floor of the shower because she thinks she has finally turned completely into a monster was incredibly poignant, and I loved the way Hamilton managed to bring Anita around to some kind of acceptance over the course of the single book. I love how this author has managed to bring Anita a step closer to monsterhood, without ever taking away her basic humanity and her core beliefs and strengths, and her intrinsic conflicts and vulnerabilities, in every single book of this series. Anita has been forced by her own values and her basic nature into becoming a radically different person, one she herself would have hated -- and yet, because she has never betrayed her basic values, has in fact given up almost everything else she held dear in order to keep to her most basic values, she can accept the new person that she has become and even like herself. I think it is amazing, and incredible fun to read. My only complaint about this book is that it was too full, as the list above implies; there were just too many things going on, and so some of the plots, particularly the title one of Narcissus and the werehyenas, got short shrift, and that was too bad. But since the book is already 650 pages long, and took me longer to read than any of the previous books have required, I can understand why the final fight with Chimera ended up shorter than I would have liked. It focused on Anita, which was really what I wanted to read about, anyway.

Book #68

Throne of Jade
by Naomi Novik

The second Temeraire novel, this one is both slower-paced and more interesting than His Majesty's Dragon. The first book is so exploratory, going through the basic details of living with dragons and being a dragon, that not a lot else happens; this one moves on from there and has much more action, but at the same time, there is almost no dragon action in this book at all. So I can almost see being disappointed by the lack of flying combat -- though it does have a scene or two of that, definitely -- but I felt the opposite. I was impressed that the author could change gears so smoothly, and still stay true to the character and the basic feel of the first book. This is not a one-dimensional series, it seems, and I was very glad to see that.

In this one, the Chinese try to get Temeraire back, because as a Celestial dragon, he is the rarest and finest type of dragon in the world, and they cannot abide the thought of him living beneath his station, being treated as an animal, used in warfare, and partnered with a lowly military officer. So right from the get-go, these people suck. The simplest answer is that Temeraire should be given his own freedom to choose what life he prefers, as allowing freedom of choice is the highest honor you can bestow; since they do not want him simply to choose, but want him to choose the life they want him to have, their whole argument rings hollow -- and it is hollow, as we find out by the end. But the bad part is that the British government, fearing China's power as a potential ally of Napoleon, gives in to whatever demand the Chinese envoy makes, up to and including separating Temeraire from Laurence and shipping the dragon back to China, bowing and scraping and apologizing all the way. So the British government sucks, too.

Luckily, though, Temeraire and Laurence don't suck, and so they act as they should -- Laurence determined to give Temeraire the chance to see all of his options, and the freedom to choose once he understands the choice before him, and Temeraire determined to stay with his dearest companion regardless of any blandishments or criticisms leveled at him -- and that makes the book a joy to read, as you keep nodding fiercely for Temeraire and Laurence, and shaking a fist at everyone else. The depictions of the historical peoples and societies were, to my unprofessional eyes, outstanding, and so this book has much more of the feel of an alternate history, or even just a historical novel, with the dragons interwoven seamlessly into the past of our world. It was great, and I can't wait to read the next book.

Book #67

Obsidian Butterfly
by Laurell K. Hamilton

All right, so we're up to Book 8 in the series now, and I still haven't lost any interest. Reading these as quickly as I have been has made them seem like one extremely long novel, rather than a series; I can't decide if it's better or worse this way. But the fact that the characters are still fascinating to me and the stories haven't lost anything over the course of -- what, 3000 pages? Something like that -- shows me that this is a series that is worth pursuing, something that I plan to read and enjoy more than once. Maybe next time I'll read them with a little more space in between.

This one was excellent, though slower than the ones before it. Slower partly because it was longer, jumping 150, 200 pages in length over Blue Moon; slower partly because I had to start my life outside the home again (sigh), and slower partly because it was just slower-paced. There was much less action and much more investigating and talking to different people in this one, which was a little disappointing inasmuch as it was Edward's book, and I expected that to be nothing but slaughter. But after reading it, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way, because it was fascinating to examine the disparate attitudes and morals and desires of the Four Psychos of the Apocalypse, Edward, Bernardo, Olaf, and Anita. These four run the gamut of serial killers, since that's what all of them are, and I loved comparing them over the course of the book.

You have Bernardo, who isn't really in it for the kill, but is simply good at what he does and has found a place where he belongs in his role as killer-for-hire. Since he doesn't love the kill, he does as much bodyguard work as anything, and he chafes the worst under the necessity of waiting for a break in the case. Then you have Olaf, who is a true serial killer -- a sexual sadist. He's in it for the kill, but not this kind of kill, so he has trouble with this case as well, but for a different reason: he has trouble because he has a terrible time resisting his own desire to kill Anita. The case becomes something he just wants to get finished so he can get back to what he loves: murder. Then there are our two heroes, Anita and Edward; throughout all the earlier books, Anita has worried that she is becoming too much like Edward, too willing to kill for too little reason. Not surprising, as she has dropped several hints that Edward had much to do with making her the way she is; most of her guns are either given to her or suggested to her by Edward, and her biggest internal struggle -- the conflict between her connection to her two boys, and Edward's most basic philosophy, "You don't sleep with the monsters, you kill the monsters" -- comes directly from her desire to live up to Edward's example in some way. So she has been worrying that she will become as bad as, if not worse than, Edward. In this book, it turns out, she really has reached Edward's level, but not because she sank that low: rather, Edward came up. The empty, cold-hearted killer, who exists only for the thrill of a challenging hunt and a deadly climax, has found love. He has found a family. And when he comes together with these other three murderers, they actually become friends, as much as these people can. Even Olaf -- though his perception of Anita, particularly, is pretty far from what I'd call friendship. But it fit perfectly with his character.

How many writers can do that? How many can not only write a convincing serial killer, but four convincing serial killers, of disparate types, and also portray their interactions in what seems a realistic way? The only other one I've known is Stephen King, who's done similar things in novels with multiple villains -- like It, with Pennywise and Ace and Beverly's father all playing different villain roles at different points. I think it says quite a lot about Laurell Hamilton that her name goes next to his with this accomplishment.

The story was okay; I liked Obsidian Butterfly, both her story and her power/character, and I liked the mystery surrounding the deaths. I didn't think much of the "god," though his outfit was the ickiest thing in this oft-icky series since the rotting vampire sex or the zombie scenes in The Laughing Corpse. Good to see the theme of horrifying-multi-person-zombie come back around again, thanks to that twisted little nutjob Nicky Baco. Glad he's dead. I was a little bummed that even after 600 pages of Edward's story, I still never got to see him cut loose and slaughter people by the score; that was Olaf, Bernardo, and Anita. Which was still cool. And I liked Anita's difficulty in dealing with celibacy and her final decision regarding Richard and Jean-Claude -- and it was nice to have a book without the two of them flexing and ma-petite-ing all over the place. Though now I want them back in it, so we can see what happens next!

Book #66

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
by Dee Brown

Yeah, so we suck. I started reading this book, hmm, two summers ago, I think? Maybe only last year. But I had to put it down because it was too depressing -- and also too boring, at times, with the dry descriptions of tribal movements and the huge cast of characters, too huge to keep track of. But I'm glad I read it all this time, because it gave me some interesting ideas for writing essays about, and it was a lot of history that I didn't know and should know -- because this is the stuff that we are doomed to repeat, and doomed if we repeat. This is the history that we have to bear in mind because it still echoes in our institutions and culture today: there are innumerable places named after Indians, we have Indian themes everywhere we go, from sports teams to movie characters to Columbus day protests, and once again, white Americans are resentful of what the Indians have: now we want their casinos and their tribal payments. Because we suck. A lot. I knew it already, but now I have even more reasons why we suck. It's good to know.

Book #65

Blue Moon
by Laurell K. Hamilton

Having spent the last book almost exclusively on vampires, after the visit from the council, this book moves more to the lycanthrope side, which was nice. I enjoy the three main influences on Anita, her human life, the vampires, and the wereanimals; it's good to see the interplay between them. I'll bet the next book focuses on the human aspects more than either of the supernaturals.

I liked that this one left St. Louis, though honestly, I thought the reason Anita was drawn to Tennessee was a little bit lame. I mean, Richard's in trouble, she has to go help; I had no problem with that, especially since the reason Richard needs her help made perfect sense with his character -- the truth will set you free, yeah right; he already knew the cops were corrupt, the big dumb knight-in-shining-armor -- and I liked that the Master of the City told Anita no, and wouldn't back down from that, and tried to fight her off when she came and came pretty close to succeeding before she kicked his butt. I liked the vampire politics and such here; it seemed real, that Colin would be so afraid of people who managed to cow the Council, and who would, logically, be looking to expand into a territory they thought they could take over -- and why not his, since Richard has been spending so much time there getting in good with the local werewolves who resent Colin's control, anyway. I liked Richard's family, especially their relationship with their mother -- she was a great character -- and I liked the way Anita handled it all.

My problem was with the conservationist aspect. As much as I love nature and believe that it should be preserved and kept safe from human depredations, I am not willing to take up arms and fight people who are more careless and cold-hearted than necessarily evil, in my eyes. I mean, poachers are one thing, but the bad guys here were not after the trolls that Richard wanted to protect, and while I thought Niley should definitely be kept away from the land and richly deserved what he got in the end, I just don't agree with fighting quite that hard for it. So I thought Richard shouldn't have gone to the lengths he did, nor forced Anita and company to the lengths they had to go to, just to protect trolls from someone who, while evil, wasn't really a threat to them. Basically I thought Niley should have shown up as evil earlier than he did, because there wasn't enough motivation for everyone to stay in town and fight Colin until we discover who nasty Niley was -- and then, when we found out the truth about Niley's treasure hunt, it all got pointless again. So I didn't like that.

But thank God, Richard and Anita had sex. I prefer Jean-Claude as a character and as a boyfriend for Anita, because Richard is way too goddamned petty and arrogant, but I'm so very glad we got past that sexual tension crap. I know, I know, it won't ever go away, especially not since Richard insists on banging other women who then feel the need to come after Anita to fight her for Richard's love -- and if one more goddamned supercreature tells Anita she wouldn't be so tough without her guns, I'm gonna start screaming -- but at least Anita and Richard should be able to cool their ardor, I hope. Maybe they can move towards some kind of resolution now.

I hate the munin, which means it is a very good subplot because I'm supposed to hate them and what they do to Anita, and I liked all of the interplay with the lycanthropes, especially between Anita and the wereleopards. It made them more fully-fleshed characters, and I like that. I liked that Jason got to kick a little redneck ass, and I hope to see more of Shang-Da and Jamil; both strong characters, I think. An excellent book.

Book #64

Stubby Amberchuk and the Holy Grail
by Anne Cameron

I picked this book up at a library book sale for a buck; I bought it, obviously, because of the title. But in retrospect, I'm not sure which part of the title interested me more: was it the idea that there could be a person named Stubby Amberchuk? Or the idea that said mellifluously appellated personage could seek out the cup of Christ? Having read the book, it has become a fairly significant question, because here's the thing: the parts of this book that could be put into a category labeled Stubby Amberchuk were quite good. The elements that left that category and entered into the realm of the Holy Grail were unadulterated hooey.

The story of Stubby is a nice little bad-childhood-rescued-by-love story; Stubby is the product of a shotgun wedding, and her parents divorce when Stubby is a few years old, at least in part because her lumberjack hail-fellow-well-met bonhomie-laden father, Dave, insists that his daughter be called Stubby and be allowed to wear the overalls and sneakers she prefers, and climb trees and wallow in mud puddles and play ball as she likes. Stubby's mother, Vinnie -- it is implied but never confirmed that her full name is Vivienne, and whether it is or not, the dramatic irony of a woman named Vinnie objecting to her daughter's nickname is, well, sort of sad in a train wreck/Jerry Springer show/barfly-in-a-tube-top kind of way -- prefers to use the name she gave Stubby: Sheilagh Amberchuk. Which sounds like the phonetic spelling of the action named by the final syllable of the family name. She wants Stubby to be dressed in little pinafores with lace and ruffles, and act like a little girl; she also expects her husband to act cold and aloof, as a husband should. When the lively Dave refuses to allow himself or his daughter to be treated coldly, Vinnie leaves and marries -- an assistant principal named Earl Blades. Perfect choice: he is aloof, cold, controlling, draconian; everything Vinnie thinks a husband and father should be. So despite the court order for shared custody -- or, more likely because of it and the pleasure Stubby gains from staying with her carefree father -- Vinnie and Earl kidnap Stubby and take her to a dusty, cold, empty hell on earth, many miles away from her hometown and father. She does manage to escape and get back to Dave, who takes her in and ensures that Earl and Vinnie will not be able to take her back to Vetchburg (Good name for hell, I think) but there is a problem: Dave was horribly injured in a logging accident, very nearly losing his leg. So he cannot go back to work, and he cannot live with the pain, so he becomes an unemployed alcoholic and eventually dies. Before he dies, however, Stubby becomes friends with the richest woman in town, Ada Richardson, and so when Dave dies, Ada takes Stubby in, encourages her love of softball and teaches her to play poker -- the wellspring of Ada's fortune. When Ada dies, Stubby is made her heir, and once she gets past some rough patches, the most satisfying of which is Earl and Vinnie's attempt to return to Stubby's life and take over both her and her money, satisfying because it is an attempt only, Stubby leaves to go seek her fortune, traveling as Ada did, playing poker professionally and being footloose and fancy free as Ada was.

That is where the trouble starts with this book, a little less than halfway through it. Because Stubby decides she is going to seek out the Holy Grail. No particular reason for it; she just feels she needs some direction in her life, and so she picks this one. She seeks it out by getting into a pickup truck and driving across Canada (where the book is set) looking in phone books for names similar to those of the Arthurian knights associated with the Grail. Why is she looking in Canada? Who knows? Why the Holy Grail in the first place, when there has been no strong religious feeling, nor the feeling that something in the world is amiss that was part of Arthur's search for the Grail. All that is amiss in Stubby's world is that she has lost her father and her best friend, and sadness seems a poor reason to seek out the Cup of Christ. But it's okay, because what are the chances she's going to find it through her Canadian phone book method?

Instead she finds a completely pointless and annoying fling with a would-be Tantric guru, and when she finally gives that up as a bad job and returns home, she finds a dragon. That's right, a dragon. No, there has been no hint that dragons might be a part of the story, no reason for there to be dragons, no reason for Stubby to be the one who finds dragons, no leadup to any of this other than a brief interlude when a whore who gave her dying father a last ride turns out to have been an archangel. Fine and good. The dragon grows incredibly fast, until it is able, after a day or two, to communicate with Stubby.

At which point it tells Stubby the history of the world, according to dragons. It is a history based on the idea that women are better than men and all civilization has been designed to oppress and control women so that the weak and useless men will be able to have an easy ride. It is heavy on male hatred and misanthropy in general, akin to the old saw about two people making a family, three people a country and four a war. Once it tells this sad tale, ending with how the more scientifically minded men managed to eliminate magic, mother-worship and therefore dragons from the earth, the dragon moves on to a tale of how a people go from freedom to enslavement through successive waves of conquest -- basically the story of the conquering and exploitation of the New World in the colonial era. And after the dragon tells that story, the book moves on to the tale of Royal Divine, a rather disgusting but charismatic and influential cult leader.

None of this has any place in this book. None of it, though it tries very hard, is clever enough or original enough to justify its invasion of Stubby's book or of the reader's mind. None of it is necessary to the story itself, since the remainder of the novel tells the tale of a girl who has a terrible childhood but breaks free of it through her own dedication and courage, and who returns to her hometown as a grown woman where she falls in love with Stubby Amberchuk. The ending of the book is actually quite nice, though the dragon's continued presence is still annoying, with its message that the magic has not gone out of the world, that it remains in all of the wonders around us like sugar and spice and everything nice. The second main character, Megan, is interesting enough to carry her weight in the tale, though the final connection to Stubby is both awkward and predictable, and, in the end, managed more by the reader's suspension of disbelief and familiarity with literary traditions than by any skill of the author; since I could figure out what was going to happen, I bought it. If it was less predictable, it would have been no less absurd than the emergence of the dragon from Stubby's woodpile. But it was predictable, and I bought it, so it worked, to a certain extent.

So what was with that part in the middle? Why is there a dragon in this book? The Holy Grail is never mentioned after Stubby gives up on her Tantric chauvinistic boyfriend, leading us to wonder: was he the Holy Grail? Was it sex, or the realization that sex does not mean love, that was the Holy Grail? Was it -- perish the thought -- the dragon? Is it Stubby herself, or Megan? We have no idea; it is never mentioned nor strongly implied. The history of the world, while clearly representing a satisfying axe-grinding for the author, has even less place in this book than the dragon or the grail; it does not give any final lesson about Stubby's life that we hadn't already learned, nor does it transition from Stubby to Megan -- the section about the cult of Royal Divine, even more pointless and unnecessary, serves as the awkward segue here.

It's like the author was making a movie at summer camp, and didn't know how to end the first part of the story -- so she just did the literary equivalent of a star-wipe and a big caption reading "Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch . . ." Actually, that would have worked better. If the book had merely jumped from one story to another, it would have been easier to handle. It seemed to me that the author had a story she wanted to tell, but it just wasn't working out; so one day she had this crazy idea -- the sort of thing that writing seminars teach you to do when you are blocked, the free association that gets you thinking outside the box, the brainstorm, the freewrite, the daydreaming. Which you are supposed to take out of the story once you get past your block. Anne Cameron kept them in, thereby wasting her good storytelling, and her readers' time.

So, if you are interested in reading a book about the Holy Grail, get one of those. If you are interested in reading about a child who survives a difficult youth and finds love, read any of a thousand books that do that well. If you are interested in seeing how badly an author can go wrong and still get published, read Stubby Amberchuk and the Holy Grail.

Book #63

Burnt Offerings
by Laurell K. Hamilton

Looking for a good vampire book after reading that twaddle, I dove back into Anita Blake. This one was excellent, again, though it moves more into the long-term action of a series, rather than a one-shot stand-alone as the first books were. I prefer this kind of thing, because it helps keep the characters moving and growing and changing, but doesn't have to have them do it at too frenetic a pace, as happened in, say, Rachel Caine's Weather Wardens series.

This book focuses on three long-term plot threads, one past, one present, one future. For the past thread, it closes the circle started in the third book, Circus of the Damned, because Anita and Jean-Claude have to answer for killing the Earthmover, Mr. Oliver. The rule is that whoever kills a member of the vampire ruling council takes that council member's seat; since the only way to get on the council is to kill one of the current members, only Jean-Claude can take Oliver's place. However, he doesn't want to, and even though he declares it is because he knows he isn't strong enough and would only become the main target for anyone itching to get a seat (which is certainly true), I think his main reason for not wanting it becomes clear almost immediately after we meet two of the council members, the Traveler and the Master of Beasts. Jean-Claude doesn't want to be on the council because these people suck. They are horrid. They are cruel, they are obnoxious, they are arrogant beyond all measure, and worst of all, as Anita points out, they are petty: they worry overmuch about small issues of precedence, they take umbrage at any word that is not purely sycophantic, they attempt to dominate and control and degrade anyone and anything around them. They are the ultimate bullies, but sadly, they have the power to back it up -- power they waste almost completely, because all they do with it is run their petty little games and try to get a leg up in their eternal squabbles. This is the perfect example of the corrupting influence of power.

It was fun to read because Anita has a very salutary effect on the council members: she intimidates one, and manages to find and bring out a shred of decency and honor in the other, and she keeps them from doing too much harm to the supernaturals in Jean-Claude's domain -- which might as well be called her domain, as she continues to take on the role of protector for more and more of the supernaturals, which is the second major long-term plot thread this book follows. She becomes the official leader of the wereleopards, and takes on more of the role of lupa for Richard's pack, a role that gives her the power to fight off the council and be of some use to the werewolves when they need her. And they need her, because Richard has finally turned completely into a petty, vindictive shrew. He is enraged and bitter by everything that has to do with Anita, he keeps trying to flaunt himself in front of her -- one of those, "See what you're missing, baby?" posturing things -- and yet the slightest hint of Jean-Claude in her life throws him into a complete hissy-fit. He can't stand the idea of anyone trying to help or control his pack other than himself, and yet he is not capable of handling his pack, because he can't face his own beast and he's turned into such an angry, screaming bitch that he is a terrible leader. One who uses cruelty to get his way, despite all of his high morals. The future plot thread sets up the theme of Richard trying to deal with his role in the triumvirate, although all he really tries to do is make them hate him so much that they'll throw him out of the triumvirate and he can go wallow in his self-pity forever and ever and ever. It's pathetic. Anita actually helps him deal with his beast at one point, and she tries again and again to deal with his immaturity, but he won't let her, and he won't let go of any of his rage. Frankly, I can't wait until he is put in his place. They seem to be leaning towards replacing him, which would probably make everyone happy -- except Richard, of course, who will never be happy, never ever ever because Anita didn't screw him and that ruined his whole life -- but for that to happen, Richard would have to leave St. Louis or die, since I can't see the triumvirate including any were other than the leader of the pack (vroom vroom) and that has to be Richard, who can't handle either his responsibilities as pack leader or as Jean-Claude's wolf. Unless Richard abdicates -- which he won't, the arrogant putz -- or gets killed. Which would certainly make things easier.

But then, that is one of the most attractive things about this series. Things are not easy. It's kinda like real life, that way. So, here's to Anita, and I hope she muddles through. And personally? I hope Richard gets put down, hard. But I want him to live, shamed and humbled and broken. I want his outside to be as weak and childish as his inside. But maybe I'm just being petty. Oddly, I don't feel bad about that.

Book #62 with added rage!

Breaking Dawn
by Stephanie Meyer

Oh, what can I say about this book? Hey, I know: Renesmee. This was the worst idea, the worst character, the worst conclusion -- and the worst name -- I have ever encountered in a series that I liked.

So you have this series of books that, as cheesy as they are in some ways -- Edward is literally too perfect, both as a vampire and as a boyfriend, and it's obnoxious from page one of book one -- are quite well written, with a large cast of characters who are all very enjoyable in their own way. The Cullens all have distinct personalities, with the possible exception of Esme, and each of them is intriguing in their own right. The same goes for Bella, and Jacob, and everyone else involved in the stories, from the Volturi to the werewolves to the humans, Billy and Charlie and the Quileutes and Bella's school chums. There were some minor missteps in the earlier books, like Charlie being overobsessed with fishing and baseball and thus giving Bella the freedom to do literally anything she wants, and the climax of the first vampire problem -- James hunting Bella in Twilight -- happening over the course of about two pages, but for the most part, these were excellent books. The characters had genuine problems they had to deal with, and they dealt with them in genuine ways: making mistakes, reacting emotionally and then regretting the things they had done wrong, and so on and so forth. All three books built the character relationships up and up, until they had to come to a head. In the fourth book. The climactic book. When all of the issues would have to be resolved, or at least brought to an ending, if not a satisfying one.

I should have taken the hint from the ending of Twilight.

Because, just like that, with absolutely ridiculous ease and unexplainable miracles, everything works out just fine! In fact, not only is everything just fine, but the plot points that should have led to difficulty and hard compromise, the kind of thing that leaves nobody happy, those things make everything even better than fine! They made everything wonderful! It was even happier than Cinderella and The Princess Diaries and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, all wrapped up in one.

The first problem: Bella and Edward's wedding, which Bella's mother is absolutely going to freak out about because Bella is too young and this is the one thing Renee opposes more stridently than anything else, as we have heard for three books, the wedding which scares Bella to death: no problem. Because, miraculously, Renee doesn't mind. Because Edward is the perfect boyfriend, and thus the perfect husband, for her too-young-to-be-married daughter. And since Alice handles literally everything, and of course, everything is perfect in every possible way down to the smallest detail, even Bella can't help but love her wedding. Isn't that just too, too perfect.

The second problem: sex with an immortal who can crush boulders and juggle Hondas and who eats people and who cannot resist the pull of his lover's scent. I was thinking of Larry Niven's essay, "Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex," about what would happen if Superman had sex with Lois Lane (Hint: Lois would die. In many different ways.) and expecting this to not quite work out. But when it comes down to it, no problem! Edward can control himself just fine, and even though he beats Bella black and blue unintentionally, somehow, her incredibly gruesome body-covering contusions don't even hurt. Now, even I could see the thinly-veiled analogy for deflowering a virgin, and I know that doesn't always hurt as much as rumor would have it, but this was ridiculous. She bruises easily, okay, so maybe the bruises look worse than they are -- but they're still bruises. Bruises hurt. I can understand Bella not minding too terribly much -- but they should at least hurt!

Next problem, and it's a doozy -- the one much of this novel's tension was supposed to be predicated on: Bella wants to be immortal, but Edward wants her to stay human. And a part of Bella wants to stay human, too, because she's afraid of the pain of transformation, and she doesn't want to be an animalistic Newborn for a year or two, unable to control herself and likely to kill at least some humans when she is overtaken by the thirst. Plus she doesn't want to cut herself off from her parents, plus Jacob will be gone from her life forever, plus there might just be some good things about being alive. But hey: no problem. Because Bella gets pregnant.

That's right. Never mind that Edward's been dead for a hundred years. Never mind that they only have sex once, and even though I know it can happen on one's wedding night and all it takes is once, it is still highly unusual for a child to be conceived the very first time. Never mind that, as Carlisle points out later, they have different numbers of chromosomes and are therefore scientifically, irrevocably, forever and ever amen, completely and totally unable to produce offspring together (And let me just say: the implication that Bella's 23 chromosome pairs and Edward's 25 chromosome pairs can combine to make 24 pairs of chromosomes, just like Jacob has, is the most appalling anti-science I have seen since intelligent design. Shame on Stephanie Meyer for putting that thought in the heads of America's youth.). None of that matters. Because miracles happen. Oh, I know what I'm supposed to think; I'm supposed to think that their love was so true and so perfect that it produced a child. This is what the author intended her audience to think, because her audience is a million prepubescent little girls. This is also why she started the book off with the perfect fairy tale wedding and the perfect fairy tale honeymoon -- and skipped the whole quandary of having to describe sex, because Bella blacks out with sheer ecstasy -- because that's what prepubescent girls want to hear about.

But I resent the implication that having a child makes everything all right. I resent the idea that true love has to produce children. When two people who truly love each other come together, you know what you get? Two happy people. The production of a child does not consummate and complete their love, despite all of the claptrap I read over and over again about how the happy couple's love for each other doesn't decrease but is somehow doubled by the introduction of the little nipper. The production of a child makes the couple into parents, but it does not make them better people, and it does not make them better lovers, and it does not make them a better family. And I hate reading books that say all of those things. And this book did it. So screw you, Stephanie Meyer, and all of the rest of those baby-centric breeders who think that no life is complete until one has added to the world's population. Life is not about making more life, it's about living one's own life. And if anybody should live their own life, it is an eighteen-year-old girl who is deliriously in love.

But no. It's all about the cute little pink baby. And this book is all about the cute little pink baby. Every other problem just -- disappears. Bella is conflicted about becoming immortal? No problem: her labor kills her, and so Edward has to do it to save her life. (And Bella should be horrified and terrified by her unnatural and unpredictable pregnancy which causes her great pain and eventually death -- but no problem, because she's making a cute little pink baby.) Edward will suffer for having caused her the pain of going through the transformation? No problem: she was whacked up on morphine, and though it still hurts, she lies to Edward and convinces him it didn't, and he believes her. Bella will be a horrible brutal newborn for a year or two, eating humans and being all feral and animalistic? No problem: she is in control of herself from day one. No reason, no explanation (Though there's a definite implication that she has to be strong for her cute little pink baby); she just is. Isn't that nice? Bella will have to fake her death and lose her parents? No problem: Charlie decides he doesn't care that his daughter is now an inhuman monster, and so he comes to see her and ignores everything that should have freaked him out completely. Strong implication that he is so enamored of the damn -- I mean, the cute little pink baby that nothing else matters. Rosalie hated and resented Bella for giving up her humanity? No problem: the baby makes everything all right, because Rosalie loves babies so, so much. And, of course, the big one, the problem that has drawn millions of readers into this world and these characters' lives: Jacob loves Bella and Bella loves Jacob, and maybe she'd be better off with Jacob, and he will forever resent her turning into his mortal enemy?

No problem. Jacob imprints on the freaking baby and everything is fine. He doesn't love Bella any more, and now he has to be nice to the vampires, and now the werewolves have to keep the peace with the Cullens, because of the cute little pink baby.

And that's it, that's the book. Oh, the last few chapters deal with the Volturi, who come to destroy the now too-powerful Cullen family, under the mistaken impression (and the handy excuse) that they have broken the greatest vampire taboo and made a vampire baby; that was absolutely the best part of the book, except I had to keep reading over and over again about how Bella would do anything to protect her cute little pink baby, and how everyone who met the cute little pink baby couldn't help but fall in love with her and agree to protect her. Because nobody can resist cute little pink babies, right? Maybe everybody who read this book should go get pregnant and have a cute little pink baby of their own! Wouldn't that be perfect? Then all of our problems would just disappear, just like Bella! Hooray for cute little pink babies! But the Volturi section is only 100 pages out of 750; other than the second best section -- which was Jacob's turn as narrator, while Bella was pregnant and dying (but still happy as a clam, because she knew she was going to have a cute little pink baby, the miracle produced by her pure and eternal love with Edward, which really can't be that pure and perfect if it is only completed by the addition of a cute little pink baby, but I digress) -- the rest of it is wedding, followed by cute little pink baby.

And every time I read that cute little pink baby's horrifying name, I wanted to punch something. Preferably Stephanie Meyer, for influencing an entire generation to commit sacrilegious abominations like Renesmee on their own children. I mean, for god's sake, it sounds like pig Latin. It sounds like gibberish. It's a stupid looking name when you write it down, it's yet another chapter in the American love for bad, ugly, unpronounceable, unfathomable names as long as they are "unique," and, worst of all, it made me dislike a character I genuinely liked all the way up until now because she inflicts it on her child and then gets offended when it gets shortened to the much-cuter Nessie. Because Bella likes the name Renesmee. I hate even typing it. Makes me want to punch myself.

The book is a copout, a child's fantasy at the end of what was, for the most part, a real and interesting story. The characters lose all of their previously excellent depth and dimension, and Meyer's writing -- which is still as good as it ever was -- is ruined by the annoying story she's writing about. Worst of all, this book killed the whole series, because why would I want to go back and read the three books I like, when I know, looming at the end of the path, is Renesmee?

To hell with all cute little pink babies. And to hell with these books.

Book #61

Goblin Hero
by Jim C. Hines

I had to read this because I was still waiting for Toni to finish Breaking Dawn; I was a little annoyed at the time that it was taking her so long to read it, since we both whipped through the first three Meyer books in a day or so, but now that I've read it, I understand. I'm sorry now that she had to read it and stay silent, without having me to bitch to about it. I can't believe she held in the outrage that is any rational person's reaction to "Renesmee" for as long as she did. The very idea.

But anyway, this one is the sequel to Goblin Quest, which I enjoyed enormously; this one I enjoyed largely. I'm having trouble now putting my complaint into words, because when I think about it, I understand Hines's choices and I'm not sure I'd do this book differently if I were writing it. This book picks up on Jig's story a few months after he finished his quest and killed the dragon; now he is renowned throughout the caverns as Jig the Dragonslayer (And Hines kindly included the lyrics to Jig's new epic ballad, which were hilarious because they were set to the tune of Sweet Home Alabama) and has taken on the role of goblin healer for his tribe; with the help of his lost god, Tymalous Shadowstar, he heals all the injuries goblins inflict on themselves, which are numerous and often serious. But that's it: he never wanted glory and he doesn't want it now; of course, it seems he doesn't really know what he wants. It's odd to read about Jig because Hines captured what I now think of as the essential character of the goblin: Jig is pretty much miserable all the time, with no hopes nor goals, just trying not to get hurt or killed. It isn't that he sees a day without pain as a victory, because he doesn't think of himself as victorious, since he has no long-term goals to work towards. Day to day survival is all he is, and he doesn't even enjoy his life so that survival is really nothing more than avoidance of death; he doesn't even have the standard goblin enjoyment of cruelty and causing others suffering. That's a depressing way to live. But that's Jig the goblin.

Enter into this a goblin that does have ambition: Veka, the fattest goblin in the clan, who wants to be the hero that Jig became. She is inspired by a How To guide she found, along with a spellbook, when the denizens of the mountain plundered the dragon Straum's lair, and now she is trying to become a heroic wizard, seeking fame and glory. She wants Jig's help, but he has no advice or help to offer, because he doesn't think of himself as a hero and he doesn't want the attention. They are becoming more and more annoyed with each other every day.

And then add to that the new problem: pixies. Pixies, like the one Jig slew in the first book, are invading and conquering the caverns, starting with the lowest levels; an ogre has come to the goblin cave looking for the mighty Jig the Dragonslayer to help his people, who have been enchanted and killed by the pixies. Jig's chieftain, who wants to get rid of the threat that Jig poses to her power, sends him off to help, along with a couple of useless goblins, the oldest and the stupidest, respectively.

So what was wrong with that? First of all, Veka was annoying. She was made a point-of-view character, and she hated Jig and was irritatingly fixated on winning glory and prestige; she becomes Jig's enemy at one point, but then finally gives in and joins Jig in his attempt to stop the pixie invasion. In retrospect, I have to agree that the inner thoughts of any goblin other than Jig would be annoying and selfish and short-sighted in the extreme; even Jig is like that in some ways. And by the time Veka gets to the end of her character progression, she has become more interesting, and it happened in what seems to me a realistic way, so I like that. Even though I was annoyed with her at first.

The second problem I had was the villains: there were too many, between the ogres and the hobgoblins and the pixies and Veka and the goblin chieftain. But again, all of them acted in exactly the way they should, based on the world Hines created in the first book; and that one had plenty of enemies, too, between the Necromancer and the dragon and Jig's adventurer companions. So I don't know why it bothered me to have these villains given short shrift, as some of them were, especially the ogres and the pixie queen. Veka was handled well, as were the hobgoblins, but it felt like too much for a shortish book. Of course, when I think about it objectively, a goblin's life would be like that: surrounded by enemies, and unable to spend time coming up with and carrying out plans to overcome them in the best possible way. It's a miracle Jig manages to get through this; he does it because he is intelligent and pragmatic and able to think outside of the usual goblin mindset.

So by the end of the book, just like the last one, I am both impressed and amused by Jig and his travails; I love this character, and these stories. I love the world that has been created, and the author's ability to maintain continuity, to keep the world and the characters consistent with the way he has imagined them. This book wasn't quite as enjoyable for me, but I am even more enamored of the series as a whole.

Book #60

The Killing Dance
by Laurell K. Hamilton

This one went a different way for me than the last few have, which I think was the author's intention. In the last few books, the best part has been the character development and the memorably written scenes -- usually of gore and horror. This one had both, but the part I liked best was actually the plot: I liked that the danger Anita faced this time came from humans, rather than from monsters, and that it almost got her, twice. It was a nice reminder that as deadly and horrifying and brutal as the vampires and everyone are made out to be, they're a sight less so than good ol' humankind, which is neither one, as the bumpersticker says. I also thought the final villain showdown was wonderfully well set up; I had no idea it was going to go the way it did, neither the person behind the contract on Anita's life nor the surprise that comes after it, though I suspected the vampire. After the scene with Damian, in which yet another newly introduced vamp takes advantage of humans and tries to add an element of cruelty and manipulation to his encounter with a person, I find myself always suspecting the vampires. They're so often guilty.

I was also glad to see the romantic plot come to some kind of . . . well, "climax" seems both appropriate and highly inappropriate, so we'll go with "resolution," instead. I'm also intrigued by the possibilities of the triumvirate, especially now that the romantic story has gone where it has. And may I just say: oh, my. My, my, my, that was quite a scene. Yes indeed, quite a scene. I was also gratified to see the explanation of the vampires' fear of necromancers, and the power that Anita has over them; that is an incredibly clever idea of Ms. Hamilton's. Finally, I can't wait to find out how the promise Anita gives to Edward will play out. Lot of possibilities there, though I was sorry to see Harley go. He seemed a promising chap.

These books are now standouts in my mind not only because they are more entertaining than most other books -- especially horror books, a traditionally dry genre in my opinion -- but interesting as well. I just keep getting happier and happier with them.

Book #59

The Traveler
by John Twelve Hawks

Stop. Don't look. I said don't look! Oh, now you've done it: now the closed circuit camera on the building behind you, and the secret government agent sitting at that cafe with the digital camera implanted in his left earlobe, have both taken your picture. Your image will be put through facial recognition software, which will encode your features into a string of numbers which will be entered into a database that the government maintains. Today they will record your height, your weight, the colors, styles, labels, and fit of your clothing, cross-referenced by material and country of origin (With a red flag attached for clothing from questionable countries -- told you not to wear your Iranian burqa. Why can't you wear a nice Mexican burqa like the rest of us?). They will compare your haircut to that of all the celebrities on file, to see who you subconsciously wish to resemble -- and it had better not be someone like Richard Gere or Jane Fonda, or any of those hippie stars. They will also get an image of that book under your arm, "28 Ways To Shingle Your House With Tortillas," and it will put you into the following categories in the file: book reader, homeowner, do-it-yourselfer, potential homemade bomb-maker, idiot. Your file, already several megabytes of data just like this, will be e-mailed to dozens of different functionaries, who sit smugly at their desks and sip imported coffee while they page through the pictures of citizens and think, "If they only knew just how much we invade their privacy. But they don't. Mwahaha."

Then they will eat a danish. And skip to the next file.

If that description terrified you, then this book is the one for you. If you read it and thought, "Yeah, so?" then don't read The Traveler. Sadly, I fall into the "Yeah, so?" category, and so there was a fundamental disconnect all the way through this book. It's about an evil conspiracy, who call themselves the Brethren and who others call the Tabula -- because we couldn't decide on a name, could we, Mr. Twelve Hawks? -- who seek to turn the whole world into a Panopticon. This was a prison designed by the philosopher Jeremy Bentham a few hundred years ago, and the way the prison works, the prisoners can never know when they're being observed by guards, so they have to assume they're being watched all the time. Once you teach the prisoners that they always have to act as if the guards are watching, and that punishment for misbehavior is immediate and severe, then you don't actually need to watch them: they will make it a part of their natural behavior. Using the millions of cameras, and national ID tags and GPS chips in cars and phones and such, and the electronic trail we all leave, the Tabula are slowly teaching the world that we are always being watched.

And that would be frightening, except the Tabula doesn't plan to do anything but watch. Oh, they have a vague plan of making everybody the same and using mass entertainment to distract them and keep them docile while the Brethren rule, but they aren't going to do anything with their power except -- rule. And watch. Always watching. The author failed to take this evil world-dominating group to the next level: when they use their evil knowledge of everyone's habits and such to do evil things to them. The Tabula never do that, not even in the scenes when they use their evil knowledge to track people down. Sure, these guys are hard to hide from, but I'm not a Traveler or a Harlequin. Oh yeah, that's the rest of the book's plot: the greatest threat to the Tabula's control are people called Travelers, who can astrally project into alternate universes, and who use the perspective they gain to show people a better way to live. These Travelers, who conveniently include every major prophet and every influential person throughout history, are protected by cold-hearted killing machines called Harlequins. That's right, Harlequins. No, there's no reason for the name -- it just sounds really cool. Not true: there's a reason. But it's stupid, and the real reason for the name is, quite obviously, because it sounds really cool. The book's about the last two Travelers and the Tabula's attempts to find them, while one of the last Harlequins tries to protect them.

See, here's the issue. You can't actually control people by watching them. You also need to remove all influences that get people to act in ways that are counter to your uber-society's purpose. Because there will always be those people who are willing to be subversive, or just perverse, and fight against the machine. Even if they're being watched -- maybe sometimes because they're being watched, which is an even harder tendency to control in this watching world; how do you intimidate attention seekers by watching them? -- they will still do things you don't want, even if they get punished for them. Because our culture values rebellion and individuality, even now, even today. Our media-created images of what makes an individual are pretty screwed up, but we recognize them as screwed up, and we cherish those few individuals, either in public life or of our personal acquaintance, who seem to us like the real thing.

If you want to control people's hearts and minds, you need to do one of the three things laid out by the Big Three Dystopias: divide and conquer them through fear and double think as in 1984; control them with gene therapy and lots and lots of drugs as in Brave New World, or encourage them to drown in their own stupidity as in Fahrenheit 451. This book doesn't do any of those, though it has hints of all three. But the only thing it takes to a proper dystopian extreme is the invasiveness of cameras and electronic information tracking. And again, if all they're doing is watching us and writing down everything we do, a la Harriet the Spy, who cares? People have watched each other since the dawn of time: privacy has always been something of an illusion. How many books have described the small town atmosphere, where everyone knows everyone else's business? Or the crowding of big city life, where you're never really alone? So now the watchers have cameras and computers: so what? We're already being watched by our bosses, our neighbors, our families, our pets. A fear of that shows a level of paranoia that is more harmful than helpful -- and, might I add, feeds in to the real means used to control our populace, to whatever extent we are controlled: fear. This book gives a description of people living Off The Grid out of the watchers' view, and it sounds like an inordinate amount of hassle. And as the Harlequins in this book show us, when you put your effort into living Off The Grid, you don't really get to do anything useful, nor do you get to fight in the most subversive way: by having a happy life. The parts of the book that rang truest for me were the moments when the Harlequin character longed to give up the eternal struggle and just -- live. Happily, even if blissfully unaware of the people who are watching you and not doing anything to you. She should have done it: happiness is the true rebellion.

Wow, that's a whole lot more rant than it needed to be. But then, so was the book. In the end, the action scenes were okay, and the astral projection/Traveler scenes were better, but the characters were bad, the plot was shallow and silly, and the message was something I just don't buy -- the only thing it has going for it is the vague guilt I feel from imagining that I'm a tool of the system teaching people to scoff at the Vast Machine's control over us rather than helping them fight against it by following the wisdom of this book. But I won't give in to the mass-marketed subliminal influence of this book! You can't brainwash me into toeing your line, Twelve Hawks, can't use emotional control to get me to do as you think I should do, can't use your manipulative language and innuendo to make me believe you when you tell me who my enemy is! I will think for myself. And I think: meh.

Book #58

Bloody Bones
by Laurell K. Hamilton

Geez, I'm running out of things to say about these books. Let's see: Anita has stopped seeing Jean-Claude as a monster, because she had yet another direct contrast between Jean-Claude and some real monsters -- several of them, in fact, and each was nastier and more gruesome than the last. We start with Xavier, the vampire pedophile who likes to kidnap young boys, rape and torture them, and then turn them into vampires so he can keep doing it presumably forever; right after him we get Janos and his twin rotting beauties -- and oh MAN was that one of the most horrible things I've ever read -- and then Serephina and her damned evil arrogance and thirst for power, and finally we see Rawhead and Bloody Bones, who kills children who have been naughty because that's who he is -- that's what he does. And then on the other hand we have Jean-Claude. Who is really -- annoying. Suddenly he doesn't seem that bad.

The characterization still progresses; Anita steps back from her changing self, horrified about what she may be becoming, and returns somewhat to her former self who doesn't really want to marry Richard and who has enough faith to use a cross against vampires and prays when she has the chance. In the meantime, Jean-Claude seems to mellow in his obnoxious pursuit of Anita; I think since he had some evidence that it isn't truly hopeless, that she can have feelings for him apart from lust -- she is willing to save his life, which is a big improvement from when she sold him out in Circus of the Damned -- he is willing to slow down and be patient; it seems the worst parts of his wooing were because he was desperate for something, anything, that would give him the will to continue. I was glad to see Larry, the new animator and apprentice Anita, turning into a person of his own, strong enough to disagree with Anita along with intelligent enough to listen to her when she makes sense; it was fun to watch their changing relationship. I didn't care for the Bouviers, but not because they were badly done characters, just because Magnus was a scumbag and Dorcas was irritating and has a terrible name. Rawhead and Bloody Bones was extremely cool, as was his place in the plot. But it seems to me now that the strongest part of these books, apart from the evolving characters, is not the plots, as good as those are; it's the memorable moments. I don't think I've read another series that has so many scenes that strike me and stick with me. In past books it has been the murder scenes in The Laughing Corpse, along with the uber-zombies in that one; the lamia-in-the-cave scene and the child vampire working for Alejandro in Circus of the Damned, and the snuff film in Lunatic Cafe. Oh yeah -- and the swarm of stuffed penguins. Gotta love that. Now this book adds two to the list: the scene when the sheriff holds his dead wife in his arms, which almost killed me, and the scene when Pallas and Bettina (worst . . . name . . . EVER) raped Jason, which has definitely ruined the sexiness of vampires for me. Larry asked Anita how she can kiss and touch Jean-Claude after seeing that, and I know it's because she sees him as something other, as somehow alive despite being dead, but I'm on Larry's side. If that's what happens when you get snuggly with vampires, then that is the end of that fantasy. Forever and ever. Luckily for me, the vampires in these books other than Jean-Claude and Willie McCoy are so freaking unbelievably obnoxious with their jaded cruelty and their impossible arrogance that there was never much fantasy to begin with.

We'll see where they go from here.