Possession
by Chris Humphreys
I read this one for my librarian friend; normally I would have passed on this, because it's the third book in a trilogy and I haven't read the first two. But I wanted to help her out with her stack of books to be reviewed, and I liked the guy's name (heh), so I picked it up; my friend pointed out that one of the measures of a good book is whether or not you can pick it up without having read the entire series, and understand and enjoy it. Made sense to me, so I went for it.
So according to that standard, this was not a terribly good book. It did not stand alone; too many references were made to the earlier two books. The biggest problem in coming into the series at this point was that the villain's villainy has already been well-established, and so is mostly assumed. There were also apparently a plot twist or two and a serious betrayal of the main character by the villain, and so much of the dramatic tension stems from that; since I didn't read that part, the struggle between the hero and the villain seemed a little bland.
The basic idea of the book is strong: it focuses on a pair of modern teenagers, cousins, who have the ability to use Nordic runes to perform a sort of astral projection -- though again, much of the explanation of the mechanics of this came in earlier books and was only glossed over here; I'm still not sure whether the spirit form in these books, referred to as the Fetch, is material or not -- and can turn themselves into animals, or travel back into the past along their family tree, or even possess another person, which is the major plot device in this book, as evidenced clearly by the title. The best parts of the narrative are the flashbacks to other times; the author has a nice grasp of history, particularly the more mundane, human aspects of it, and has chosen his moments well. The witch in their ancestral tree, for instance, is a woman in the 1600's, who we encounter at the tail end of the siege of York by the Puritans, following the English civil war when Parliament overthrew the king -- the onset of Oliver Cromwell's Protectorate, if my own shaky grasp of history has the right grip. It's an interesting glimpse, made more interesting by the fact that this woman's husband is one of the besieging Puritans, who accuses and convicts her of witchcraft after the city falls. Another flashback is to a Viking invader who fights on the side of the Saxons, whom he just fought with his fellow dragonship raiders, against the Normans during the Battle of Hastings. The explication of the runes, too, including the ways they shift meaning depending on the combinations of different runes, was also quite interesting. Unfortunately, without the buildup of the first two books, the climax in this one was simply -- anticlimactic.
In the end, I would recommend the book as the third in a series, but not by itself.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Book #85
Blood Noir
by Laurell K. Hamilton
So I tried reading Eldest, the sequel to Eragon, because apparently, between Eon and Temeraire, I don't have enough books about dragons in my life. Dragons and vampires; what is it with dragons and vampires? But what I failed to consider is that Naomi Novik and Alison Goodman can write; Christopher Paolini, for all the hype he's gotten -- and all the GINORMOUS ego that has come as a consequence of being hailed as a boy genius -- couldn't write his way out of an anti-writing forcefield. Well, the paper bag thing never made sense to me. It was completely overblown, filled with Paolini's bullshit "languages," none of which are necessary, all of which are ripped from Tolkien, and every word of which obstruct easy reading of the actual story; the book started with a summary of Eragon -- which was great because I didn't remember it very well -- and then the first chapter was a narrative summary of what happened over the last few months. Almost like he doesn't have any respect for his readers. Which, considering how arrogant his author's note and glossary introduction were -- he made quite a deal of comparing his "journey" to Eragon's, though he was quick to point out that Eragon isn't that smart (whereas, of course, his creator is a SUPER GENIUS) -- it's pretty clear that he doesn't. We are the foolish children, gathered wide-eyed at the master's knee as he spins a tale to amuse us. I think deep down inside, he's smart enough to recognize the fact that his books actually are pretty shitty, and so his success is simply evidence that the average reader is a moron compared to him. Which makes him both a whore and a tool, with a serious inferiority-superiority complex, but hey, we all got issues, right?
Anyway, after a few days of plowing through that mound o' crap, I switched to something good: the last (sniff) Anita Blake book we have, Blood Noir. Luckily, it was excellent -- better, in a lot of ways, than most of the books before. The Harlequin was a good one because it had what I thought was a great vampire story; this one was better because it had a good human story, and that was more interesting, after this long reading about these characters. Though the vampire element had its moment, too.
The basic plot follows Jason and Anita as Anita accompanies her friend (and one serious complaint I have about these books is Hamilton's consistent use of the term "fuck buddy" to describe Anita and Jason's relationship. I have no problem with their relationship, any more than they do; neither one of these two should scruple at casual sex. But it's an ugly damn term, and such a simple relationship to describe: friends with benefits seems far more poetic to me, but bed friends, or sex pals, or snugglebuddies -- the possibilities are limitless, and any one would be better.) on a difficult trip: Jason's estranged father is dying, and his mother has asked her only son to come back and see his father before he goes. And, if possible, bring a girlfriend to prove that their dancer-stripper son isn't gay, as his father has always assumed, and hated. So he brings Anita, who realizes as she agrees, and over the course of the trip, that Jason means much more to her than a hump-chum.
The trip is complicated not only by Jason's relationship with his family -- a real batch of sweethearts, they are; it's like Hamilton took every possible aspect of an uncomfortable meeting with your sweetie's family, and stuck them all together into one group -- but by the fact that Jason looks like a twin to the son of the governor, who is about to make a bid for the presidency while Jason's doppelganger marches through a huge wedding, in the same week when Jason, the clone, shows up with another woman. It was quite well done: I liked the explanation for Jason and Keith Summerland's resemblance, as well as the connection to vampires that ends up causing even more trouble for all those involved. The visits with Jason's family were uncomfortable and obnoxious both, which means they were well done; I also enjoyed the scene when Jason goes to a bridal shower filled with women he dated in high school. I didn't like the subsequent scene when the Mother of All Darkness takes over Anita and makes the ardeur sweep her and three men away completely, though I was glad it happened in blackout and we didn't get much description apart from flashbacks, but I'm frankly sick of the MOAD popping in once a book and screwing things up. I am intrigued by the calling of the weretigers, but the MOAD is becoming too much of a deus ex machina, a handy explanation for any plot complication Hamilton wants to throw in the pot. She needs to wake up, or die already.
On the other hand: Richard has the ardeur, and he lost control of himself within seconds after he gained it. That was sheer poetry, and I loved it. That's a complication I can't wait to follow in the next book.
But overall, I was very pleased to see Hamilton using her range as an author to offer a different kind of story, without losing the thread of the overall narrative. But I think she and her fans would be best served by ending the MOAD plotline and moving back to smaller, simpler stories; that seems to be her real strength as an author. I think she stretches out the grand plotlines over too many books. Not that I'm doing anything other than waiting on pins and needles for the next one to come out. Sigh. Maybe I'll read Merry Gentry . . .
by Laurell K. Hamilton
So I tried reading Eldest, the sequel to Eragon, because apparently, between Eon and Temeraire, I don't have enough books about dragons in my life. Dragons and vampires; what is it with dragons and vampires? But what I failed to consider is that Naomi Novik and Alison Goodman can write; Christopher Paolini, for all the hype he's gotten -- and all the GINORMOUS ego that has come as a consequence of being hailed as a boy genius -- couldn't write his way out of an anti-writing forcefield. Well, the paper bag thing never made sense to me. It was completely overblown, filled with Paolini's bullshit "languages," none of which are necessary, all of which are ripped from Tolkien, and every word of which obstruct easy reading of the actual story; the book started with a summary of Eragon -- which was great because I didn't remember it very well -- and then the first chapter was a narrative summary of what happened over the last few months. Almost like he doesn't have any respect for his readers. Which, considering how arrogant his author's note and glossary introduction were -- he made quite a deal of comparing his "journey" to Eragon's, though he was quick to point out that Eragon isn't that smart (whereas, of course, his creator is a SUPER GENIUS) -- it's pretty clear that he doesn't. We are the foolish children, gathered wide-eyed at the master's knee as he spins a tale to amuse us. I think deep down inside, he's smart enough to recognize the fact that his books actually are pretty shitty, and so his success is simply evidence that the average reader is a moron compared to him. Which makes him both a whore and a tool, with a serious inferiority-superiority complex, but hey, we all got issues, right?
Anyway, after a few days of plowing through that mound o' crap, I switched to something good: the last (sniff) Anita Blake book we have, Blood Noir. Luckily, it was excellent -- better, in a lot of ways, than most of the books before. The Harlequin was a good one because it had what I thought was a great vampire story; this one was better because it had a good human story, and that was more interesting, after this long reading about these characters. Though the vampire element had its moment, too.
The basic plot follows Jason and Anita as Anita accompanies her friend (and one serious complaint I have about these books is Hamilton's consistent use of the term "fuck buddy" to describe Anita and Jason's relationship. I have no problem with their relationship, any more than they do; neither one of these two should scruple at casual sex. But it's an ugly damn term, and such a simple relationship to describe: friends with benefits seems far more poetic to me, but bed friends, or sex pals, or snugglebuddies -- the possibilities are limitless, and any one would be better.) on a difficult trip: Jason's estranged father is dying, and his mother has asked her only son to come back and see his father before he goes. And, if possible, bring a girlfriend to prove that their dancer-stripper son isn't gay, as his father has always assumed, and hated. So he brings Anita, who realizes as she agrees, and over the course of the trip, that Jason means much more to her than a hump-chum.
The trip is complicated not only by Jason's relationship with his family -- a real batch of sweethearts, they are; it's like Hamilton took every possible aspect of an uncomfortable meeting with your sweetie's family, and stuck them all together into one group -- but by the fact that Jason looks like a twin to the son of the governor, who is about to make a bid for the presidency while Jason's doppelganger marches through a huge wedding, in the same week when Jason, the clone, shows up with another woman. It was quite well done: I liked the explanation for Jason and Keith Summerland's resemblance, as well as the connection to vampires that ends up causing even more trouble for all those involved. The visits with Jason's family were uncomfortable and obnoxious both, which means they were well done; I also enjoyed the scene when Jason goes to a bridal shower filled with women he dated in high school. I didn't like the subsequent scene when the Mother of All Darkness takes over Anita and makes the ardeur sweep her and three men away completely, though I was glad it happened in blackout and we didn't get much description apart from flashbacks, but I'm frankly sick of the MOAD popping in once a book and screwing things up. I am intrigued by the calling of the weretigers, but the MOAD is becoming too much of a deus ex machina, a handy explanation for any plot complication Hamilton wants to throw in the pot. She needs to wake up, or die already.
On the other hand: Richard has the ardeur, and he lost control of himself within seconds after he gained it. That was sheer poetry, and I loved it. That's a complication I can't wait to follow in the next book.
But overall, I was very pleased to see Hamilton using her range as an author to offer a different kind of story, without losing the thread of the overall narrative. But I think she and her fans would be best served by ending the MOAD plotline and moving back to smaller, simpler stories; that seems to be her real strength as an author. I think she stretches out the grand plotlines over too many books. Not that I'm doing anything other than waiting on pins and needles for the next one to come out. Sigh. Maybe I'll read Merry Gentry . . .
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Book #84
Fifty Acres and a Poodle by Jeanne Marie Laskas
This was an extraordinary book. Not only was it beautifully written, but the story it told was both magical and humble, entertaining and realistic. It is the story of a pair of city-dwellers moving onto a farm in rural Pennsylvania, where they are forced to deal with strange neighbors; sexism so ingrained in the social interaction that it begins to affect their educated, enlightened, liberated selves; the realization that their beautiful foliated land is in fact overrun with the strongest weed since El Seed, the mad dandelion king on The Tick (I made a Tick reference! Spooooon!); the tragedy of cancer; and the wonder of a happy marriage, complete with a fairy tale wedding that features the gift of a flower-strewn horse-and-mule team in lavender halters.
But it begins as books about real people should: with doubt. Jeanne Marie Laskas is a columnist and freelance writer who lived in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Pittsburgh; she has what sounds like a beautiful home and wonderful neighbors, a carefully-tended garden and two wonderful pets, a beautiful big-eyed dog named Betty and a tall, orange, prodigiously-tailed cat, named Bob, who has been her constant companion for ten years -- she says they are a unit, she and Bob. She is self-sufficient, capable and satisfied with things the way they are: she is in a happy long-term relationship with a psychologist named Alex (Who owns the poodle mentioned in the title -- a standard poodle, not one of those yappy things.), she has a close group of friends with whom she can chat and have dinner and go to see movies, and she knows her neighbors and her neighborhood. In other words, she is home.
But somehow, it is not enough. Laskas manages to capture the feeling of wanderlust without actually coming out and saying it or saying exactly why she has it or what she is looking for -- which is how it should be described, since wanderlust is never that specific or that easily diagnosed -- but it is enough to know that she isn't happy, not completely. She has a farm dream, as she puts it. There is a part of her that wants to get away from the annoyances of city life, that wants the wide open expanses she remembers from her childhood, that wants the solitude, and the ability to thrive in isolation, that she has read about in Thoreau. So she and Alex occasionally drive out to the countryside and look at farms that are for sale -- never, she says, with the intention of buying. Just to look. But then the inevitable happens: they find the perfect farm, fifty acres on rolling green hills, in true farm country yet only an hour away from Pittsburgh and their offices. So they buy it. Despite doubts, despite misgivings, despite not being totally sure why they are buying it when Laskas loves her home and her life in Pittsburgh; it is their dream, and they do it.
And things work out, over the course of the book. They work out because their neighbors are helpful and friendly -- though not universally so; they find what could only be called a truce with their sheep-farming neighbor who has been known to shoot dogs that get after his flock -- and because the author and her sweetie truly love each other. That has to be the final message of this book: that dreams are difficult, and frightening, and can come on you without warning and without ever being fully realized and analyzed in your head beforehand, but they can be achieved. Despite a never-ending stream of obstacles such as hunters on your property (and you an animal-lover!) and a spring that never seems to come, leaving your beautiful green hills reduced to mere mud-brown, your dreams can be achieved with the help of those who love you, and those who may not know you, but are still willing to lend a hand. It's a fabulous and inspiring story, and I'm very glad I read it.
I still don't want a poodle. But I do want a mule. And my dreams to come true.
This was an extraordinary book. Not only was it beautifully written, but the story it told was both magical and humble, entertaining and realistic. It is the story of a pair of city-dwellers moving onto a farm in rural Pennsylvania, where they are forced to deal with strange neighbors; sexism so ingrained in the social interaction that it begins to affect their educated, enlightened, liberated selves; the realization that their beautiful foliated land is in fact overrun with the strongest weed since El Seed, the mad dandelion king on The Tick (I made a Tick reference! Spooooon!); the tragedy of cancer; and the wonder of a happy marriage, complete with a fairy tale wedding that features the gift of a flower-strewn horse-and-mule team in lavender halters.
But it begins as books about real people should: with doubt. Jeanne Marie Laskas is a columnist and freelance writer who lived in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Pittsburgh; she has what sounds like a beautiful home and wonderful neighbors, a carefully-tended garden and two wonderful pets, a beautiful big-eyed dog named Betty and a tall, orange, prodigiously-tailed cat, named Bob, who has been her constant companion for ten years -- she says they are a unit, she and Bob. She is self-sufficient, capable and satisfied with things the way they are: she is in a happy long-term relationship with a psychologist named Alex (Who owns the poodle mentioned in the title -- a standard poodle, not one of those yappy things.), she has a close group of friends with whom she can chat and have dinner and go to see movies, and she knows her neighbors and her neighborhood. In other words, she is home.
But somehow, it is not enough. Laskas manages to capture the feeling of wanderlust without actually coming out and saying it or saying exactly why she has it or what she is looking for -- which is how it should be described, since wanderlust is never that specific or that easily diagnosed -- but it is enough to know that she isn't happy, not completely. She has a farm dream, as she puts it. There is a part of her that wants to get away from the annoyances of city life, that wants the wide open expanses she remembers from her childhood, that wants the solitude, and the ability to thrive in isolation, that she has read about in Thoreau. So she and Alex occasionally drive out to the countryside and look at farms that are for sale -- never, she says, with the intention of buying. Just to look. But then the inevitable happens: they find the perfect farm, fifty acres on rolling green hills, in true farm country yet only an hour away from Pittsburgh and their offices. So they buy it. Despite doubts, despite misgivings, despite not being totally sure why they are buying it when Laskas loves her home and her life in Pittsburgh; it is their dream, and they do it.
And things work out, over the course of the book. They work out because their neighbors are helpful and friendly -- though not universally so; they find what could only be called a truce with their sheep-farming neighbor who has been known to shoot dogs that get after his flock -- and because the author and her sweetie truly love each other. That has to be the final message of this book: that dreams are difficult, and frightening, and can come on you without warning and without ever being fully realized and analyzed in your head beforehand, but they can be achieved. Despite a never-ending stream of obstacles such as hunters on your property (and you an animal-lover!) and a spring that never seems to come, leaving your beautiful green hills reduced to mere mud-brown, your dreams can be achieved with the help of those who love you, and those who may not know you, but are still willing to lend a hand. It's a fabulous and inspiring story, and I'm very glad I read it.
I still don't want a poodle. But I do want a mule. And my dreams to come true.
Book #83
Sandman III: Dream Country
by Neil Gaiman, et al
I got this for Christmas last year, and never got around to reading it; sometimes I think I've spent almost too much time reading this year, and then I think about all the books I haven't gotten around to reading, and I think I haven't spent enough.
Luckily for me, the Sandman books are fast and easy, though never simple. This one starts with a lovely tale of an author who captured and enslaved one of the original Muses from Greek mythology; he trades her off to another author who is suffering fatal writer's block. The new author rapes the muse and then gets idea after idea, becoming world-renowned almost overnight. Until Morpheus comes, that is: the Sandman asks the author to release his captive, and the author refuses because he says he needs the ideas. So the Sandman gives him ideas: so many he can't stop thinking of them, and he feels compelled to write them down -- and, in a very Gaiman-esque moment, he realizes he doesn't have paper, so he writes in blood on a brick wall, wearing his fingers down to bloody claws. He capitulates and releases the Muse. But the most interesting thing for me was the flow of ideas: I thought immediately, This is what it's like to be in Neil Gaiman's head. I'm sure the Sandman's curse brought the ideas faster, but after all, every one of those ideas came from the author's mind. And some of them are pretty funky: a train full of silent women plowing through the night; a were-goldfish who transforms into a wolf at full moon; a rosebush, a nightingale, and a rubber dog collar. I can't decide if I am envious of Gaiman's brain, or thankful for mine.
The second story is the true history of the world as told by cats. In it, cats used to be the top of the food chain, the size of horses and filled with regal splendor; humans served them, and occasionally became their prey. Until one day a human convinced other humans that they could change things if they dreamed of a different world. So a thousand of them did so, and the world changed to what it is now; and in this story, a cat who had her kittens drowned by her human owner has become a prophet and crusader: she travels the world talking to cats, trying to convince a thousand of them to dream the world back to the old way, where cats were in charge. This was a fantastic story -- but again, and I happy that Neil Gaiman had an idea similar to mine, or does it irritate me that his was published, albeit in a totally different form, while mine is not?
The third story was about Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream; Gaiman had the Sandman commission it from Shakespeare as a gift for the Fae, who come back to the Earth one last time to see the premier, presented in a field on the day in question. This one was beautiful and lyrical and so much sweeter than the average Sandman tale, it was nice. The fourth and last story was not as good, focusing on a woman who suffered an odd curse and became hideously deformed, but also immortal. She wishes for Death, and Death shows up and talks to her for a while before granting her request. It has some neat elements, and I love the happy, carefree attitude of the Sandman's sister, but it wasn't as interesting as the others. I did like reading the script they included afterward, but I don't think I would want to do that. So I won't be writing any comic books. No surprises there.
by Neil Gaiman, et al
I got this for Christmas last year, and never got around to reading it; sometimes I think I've spent almost too much time reading this year, and then I think about all the books I haven't gotten around to reading, and I think I haven't spent enough.
Luckily for me, the Sandman books are fast and easy, though never simple. This one starts with a lovely tale of an author who captured and enslaved one of the original Muses from Greek mythology; he trades her off to another author who is suffering fatal writer's block. The new author rapes the muse and then gets idea after idea, becoming world-renowned almost overnight. Until Morpheus comes, that is: the Sandman asks the author to release his captive, and the author refuses because he says he needs the ideas. So the Sandman gives him ideas: so many he can't stop thinking of them, and he feels compelled to write them down -- and, in a very Gaiman-esque moment, he realizes he doesn't have paper, so he writes in blood on a brick wall, wearing his fingers down to bloody claws. He capitulates and releases the Muse. But the most interesting thing for me was the flow of ideas: I thought immediately, This is what it's like to be in Neil Gaiman's head. I'm sure the Sandman's curse brought the ideas faster, but after all, every one of those ideas came from the author's mind. And some of them are pretty funky: a train full of silent women plowing through the night; a were-goldfish who transforms into a wolf at full moon; a rosebush, a nightingale, and a rubber dog collar. I can't decide if I am envious of Gaiman's brain, or thankful for mine.
The second story is the true history of the world as told by cats. In it, cats used to be the top of the food chain, the size of horses and filled with regal splendor; humans served them, and occasionally became their prey. Until one day a human convinced other humans that they could change things if they dreamed of a different world. So a thousand of them did so, and the world changed to what it is now; and in this story, a cat who had her kittens drowned by her human owner has become a prophet and crusader: she travels the world talking to cats, trying to convince a thousand of them to dream the world back to the old way, where cats were in charge. This was a fantastic story -- but again, and I happy that Neil Gaiman had an idea similar to mine, or does it irritate me that his was published, albeit in a totally different form, while mine is not?
The third story was about Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream; Gaiman had the Sandman commission it from Shakespeare as a gift for the Fae, who come back to the Earth one last time to see the premier, presented in a field on the day in question. This one was beautiful and lyrical and so much sweeter than the average Sandman tale, it was nice. The fourth and last story was not as good, focusing on a woman who suffered an odd curse and became hideously deformed, but also immortal. She wishes for Death, and Death shows up and talks to her for a while before granting her request. It has some neat elements, and I love the happy, carefree attitude of the Sandman's sister, but it wasn't as interesting as the others. I did like reading the script they included afterward, but I don't think I would want to do that. So I won't be writing any comic books. No surprises there.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Book #82
Eon: Dragoneye Reborn
by Allison Goodman
There were two times, while I was reading Allison Goodman's new novel, when I didn't like the book. In the very beginning, while the author was trying to introduce the invented world of her dragoncentric fantasy -- based largely on feudal Japan and Mandarin China, but changed into something of the author's own creation -- I got lost; too much information was put forward too quickly, with details that could have been given over a broader span of the narrative. It made me feel a bit annoyed with the whole endeavor. On the other hand, the main character, the girl Eona who masquerades as the boy Eon, was interesting enough and sympathetic enough to keep me reading. From the first scene, Eon is faced with almost insurmountable odds: not only is she female -- a secret that must be kept at all costs, as girls are not allowed to do what Eon is trying to do: become the new Dragoneye apprentice, the one who will learn to link with one of the twelve spirit Dragons whose power protects the kingdom from earthquakes and monsoons -- but she is also a peasant and an indentured servant, bought from a slow death at a salt mine because she is her master's last chance at winning glory as the teacher of a new Dragoneye. And, of course, she is crippled: she has a badly-healed hip injury that gives her a limp and makes her untouchable and unworthy in the eyes of the arrogant nobility of her land. But despite all of these disadvantages, any one of which would have a modern youth (including myself, twenty years ago) throwing up our hands in defeat and returning to the couch for potato chips and another round of Halo, Eon perseveres, and wins. She becomes one of the chosen few, destined to become one of the wealthiest, most revered and most influential people in the kingdom, holding a position second only to the Emperor himself.
Except for one thing: one of her fellow Dragoneyes, Lord Ido, is conspiring with the Emperor's brother to overthrow the lord of the kingdom and usurp his power. Eon finds herself in the middle of the power struggle from her very first day. But luckily, she is not without allies, and the author has built an excellent cast of characters into this story: Ryko, the eunuch guard and secret revolutionary; Lady Dela, the noble woman assigned to teach Lord Eon court etiquette, who has a secret of her own; Rilla and Chart, two other servants of Eon's master who have been her allies during her training and remain so after her ascension; and several others of varying importance. All of them are nicely realized, interesting in their own right, and all help bring the story to vibrant life, without ever taking the focus from where it belongs, on this strong female (though that is, of course, one of the key issues of the book) main character, something that is too rare in fantasy, and a real strength of this book. Eon was what kept me reading, and what made me enjoy it.
Until the second moment when I got irritated in reading the book. In all stories, and most especially in epics such as this, the hero must reach a low point, just before the climax of the action and the long struggle upward to victory. I expected no less from this book. Unfortunately, the descent of Eon reaches depths I haven't seen since I read Kafka: Eon doesn't just hit bottom, she starts digging. She loses so much, so quickly, that I went past sympathetic into angry; it seemed like the author was just being cruel for cruelty's sake. It went too far, and it made it hard to enjoy the book because the reason for Eon's downfall was, well, silly; I knew what the basic problem was from the first major plot point, when Eon became a Lord, and the idea that not only couldn't Eon figure it out, but that something so simple could cause this much suffering, was hard to swallow.
Fortunately, after some few minutes when I was cursing under my breath and gesticulating violently as I read, the problems work out and Eon eventually saves the day. I was very gratified to see, though, that her success does not come easy, nor cheap, and also that the villain is not cast simply into the fires of Hell from whence he came, but is treated as a more genuine and fully-fleshed character, as he deserved.
Perhaps those two moments of ire helped to increase the savor of the pleasant moments, offering a contrast and a balance to the enjoyment, but even if they were simply detractions from the overall experience, the good parts more than made up for it. This was an excellent book, and I will look forward to the sequel and the conclusion of Eon's tale.
by Allison Goodman
There were two times, while I was reading Allison Goodman's new novel, when I didn't like the book. In the very beginning, while the author was trying to introduce the invented world of her dragoncentric fantasy -- based largely on feudal Japan and Mandarin China, but changed into something of the author's own creation -- I got lost; too much information was put forward too quickly, with details that could have been given over a broader span of the narrative. It made me feel a bit annoyed with the whole endeavor. On the other hand, the main character, the girl Eona who masquerades as the boy Eon, was interesting enough and sympathetic enough to keep me reading. From the first scene, Eon is faced with almost insurmountable odds: not only is she female -- a secret that must be kept at all costs, as girls are not allowed to do what Eon is trying to do: become the new Dragoneye apprentice, the one who will learn to link with one of the twelve spirit Dragons whose power protects the kingdom from earthquakes and monsoons -- but she is also a peasant and an indentured servant, bought from a slow death at a salt mine because she is her master's last chance at winning glory as the teacher of a new Dragoneye. And, of course, she is crippled: she has a badly-healed hip injury that gives her a limp and makes her untouchable and unworthy in the eyes of the arrogant nobility of her land. But despite all of these disadvantages, any one of which would have a modern youth (including myself, twenty years ago) throwing up our hands in defeat and returning to the couch for potato chips and another round of Halo, Eon perseveres, and wins. She becomes one of the chosen few, destined to become one of the wealthiest, most revered and most influential people in the kingdom, holding a position second only to the Emperor himself.
Except for one thing: one of her fellow Dragoneyes, Lord Ido, is conspiring with the Emperor's brother to overthrow the lord of the kingdom and usurp his power. Eon finds herself in the middle of the power struggle from her very first day. But luckily, she is not without allies, and the author has built an excellent cast of characters into this story: Ryko, the eunuch guard and secret revolutionary; Lady Dela, the noble woman assigned to teach Lord Eon court etiquette, who has a secret of her own; Rilla and Chart, two other servants of Eon's master who have been her allies during her training and remain so after her ascension; and several others of varying importance. All of them are nicely realized, interesting in their own right, and all help bring the story to vibrant life, without ever taking the focus from where it belongs, on this strong female (though that is, of course, one of the key issues of the book) main character, something that is too rare in fantasy, and a real strength of this book. Eon was what kept me reading, and what made me enjoy it.
Until the second moment when I got irritated in reading the book. In all stories, and most especially in epics such as this, the hero must reach a low point, just before the climax of the action and the long struggle upward to victory. I expected no less from this book. Unfortunately, the descent of Eon reaches depths I haven't seen since I read Kafka: Eon doesn't just hit bottom, she starts digging. She loses so much, so quickly, that I went past sympathetic into angry; it seemed like the author was just being cruel for cruelty's sake. It went too far, and it made it hard to enjoy the book because the reason for Eon's downfall was, well, silly; I knew what the basic problem was from the first major plot point, when Eon became a Lord, and the idea that not only couldn't Eon figure it out, but that something so simple could cause this much suffering, was hard to swallow.
Fortunately, after some few minutes when I was cursing under my breath and gesticulating violently as I read, the problems work out and Eon eventually saves the day. I was very gratified to see, though, that her success does not come easy, nor cheap, and also that the villain is not cast simply into the fires of Hell from whence he came, but is treated as a more genuine and fully-fleshed character, as he deserved.
Perhaps those two moments of ire helped to increase the savor of the pleasant moments, offering a contrast and a balance to the enjoyment, but even if they were simply detractions from the overall experience, the good parts more than made up for it. This was an excellent book, and I will look forward to the sequel and the conclusion of Eon's tale.
Book #81
Things Fall Apart
by Chinua Achebe
This one was homework, in a way; I'm teaching Senior English for the first time, and since it is supposed to encapsulate World Lit and British Lit -- y'know, pretty much everything that's been written, anywhere, ever -- one of the required novels is Chinua Achebe's book about Africa, which I've never read, even though it was recommended to me several years ago -- umm, I think by a professor at SJSU, but it might have been before that. It also might have come from the book room at San Pasqual, since this was part of the canon there, too.
I won't be teaching this book. Not because it was bad; it wasn't. Achebe is a good writer, and managed to sweep me up into the story; considering the book's beginning, that's pretty impressive. Because apart from some generally interesting parts, the first part of the book is largely given over to yams. A lot of yams. Because not only are yams the staple of the Ibo tribe's diet -- the pro-colonialization Ibo being the focus of the novel -- but also the general determinant of wealth and success, and also manliness: women grow the other foods, like cassava and melons and leafy greens. Yams are a man's crop. And the main character, Okonkwo, is a man's man -- so he grows him a lotta yams. And I didn't particularly care about the world of yams, and I know my students wouldn't, either. Not even the farmers.
No, the reason I won't be teaching this book is because it is, first of all, very clearly against colonialism, particularly the invasion of Africa by Christian missionaries, and secondly, because it is damned depressing. Okonkwo's clan is eventually torn apart not by their own, erm, savage uncivilized behavior, but by the assault on their culture by white men, led by Christians. They have no particular problems with their world when it is run by their ancestral traditional rules, even the weird ones, like the need to mutilate the body of an infant who dies young -- because it may be an evil spirit who will continue to usurp the children of a certain woman, ensuring that child after child will die in infancy, and mutilating the body of one of its changeling victims may convince it to leave the woman alone -- or the abandonment of twins, another evil sign, or the rather silly-seeming superstitions concerning their gods. All of that stuff, though it seems ridiculous to modern ears, it works for the Ibo. Their wars are considered particularly brutal when twelve men are killed on one side, and only two on the other. When Okonkwo accidentally kills a man, he is exiled for seven years, and it would have been forever if he had done it one purpose, because the killing of a clansman is the ultimate crime. But he doesn't give up hope: he goes voluntarily into exile, takes care of his family, lasts out the seven years, and then triumphantly moves back to his home -- only to find that it has changed, because the white men have built a church.
Suffice it to say that the Christians eventually win, and Okonkwo, and the Ibo, lose. And if I read this with my class, I feel quite sure that they would see the Africans as simply weird beyond all comprehension or sympathy, and they'd probably be on the side of the exploiters, the invaders, the Christians. And since I have vocal, devout Christian students, I wouldn't be able to argue the other side -- which is most definitely the side I'm on. So, forget it. I'm glad I read it, because it helped answer some things I've never really understood about the ability of Christianity to conquer so many other cultures, but I won't be teaching it.
by Chinua Achebe
This one was homework, in a way; I'm teaching Senior English for the first time, and since it is supposed to encapsulate World Lit and British Lit -- y'know, pretty much everything that's been written, anywhere, ever -- one of the required novels is Chinua Achebe's book about Africa, which I've never read, even though it was recommended to me several years ago -- umm, I think by a professor at SJSU, but it might have been before that. It also might have come from the book room at San Pasqual, since this was part of the canon there, too.
I won't be teaching this book. Not because it was bad; it wasn't. Achebe is a good writer, and managed to sweep me up into the story; considering the book's beginning, that's pretty impressive. Because apart from some generally interesting parts, the first part of the book is largely given over to yams. A lot of yams. Because not only are yams the staple of the Ibo tribe's diet -- the pro-colonialization Ibo being the focus of the novel -- but also the general determinant of wealth and success, and also manliness: women grow the other foods, like cassava and melons and leafy greens. Yams are a man's crop. And the main character, Okonkwo, is a man's man -- so he grows him a lotta yams. And I didn't particularly care about the world of yams, and I know my students wouldn't, either. Not even the farmers.
No, the reason I won't be teaching this book is because it is, first of all, very clearly against colonialism, particularly the invasion of Africa by Christian missionaries, and secondly, because it is damned depressing. Okonkwo's clan is eventually torn apart not by their own, erm, savage uncivilized behavior, but by the assault on their culture by white men, led by Christians. They have no particular problems with their world when it is run by their ancestral traditional rules, even the weird ones, like the need to mutilate the body of an infant who dies young -- because it may be an evil spirit who will continue to usurp the children of a certain woman, ensuring that child after child will die in infancy, and mutilating the body of one of its changeling victims may convince it to leave the woman alone -- or the abandonment of twins, another evil sign, or the rather silly-seeming superstitions concerning their gods. All of that stuff, though it seems ridiculous to modern ears, it works for the Ibo. Their wars are considered particularly brutal when twelve men are killed on one side, and only two on the other. When Okonkwo accidentally kills a man, he is exiled for seven years, and it would have been forever if he had done it one purpose, because the killing of a clansman is the ultimate crime. But he doesn't give up hope: he goes voluntarily into exile, takes care of his family, lasts out the seven years, and then triumphantly moves back to his home -- only to find that it has changed, because the white men have built a church.
Suffice it to say that the Christians eventually win, and Okonkwo, and the Ibo, lose. And if I read this with my class, I feel quite sure that they would see the Africans as simply weird beyond all comprehension or sympathy, and they'd probably be on the side of the exploiters, the invaders, the Christians. And since I have vocal, devout Christian students, I wouldn't be able to argue the other side -- which is most definitely the side I'm on. So, forget it. I'm glad I read it, because it helped answer some things I've never really understood about the ability of Christianity to conquer so many other cultures, but I won't be teaching it.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Book #80
The Harlequin
by Laurell K. Hamilton
The second to last book we have at present -- though she's still writing more, I'm happy to say, plus I still have that whole Merry Gentry series to read, woot! -- and one of the best so far. The Harlequin starts off like Burnt Offerings, with a harbinger of vampiric doom; this time it isn't the Council itself coming to visit, but rather the long arm of vampire law: the Harlequin. These are the silent assassins of vampiredom -- the Justicars, for those who know White Wolf, and that was immediately how I thought of them -- who enforce the Council's law, observing and eliminating vampires who break the rules. I read another book not long ago that used Harlequins as a name for a group; in that book, the use of the name was, well, lame, because the Harlequins were hardcore killing machines, trained from birth to feel nothing and to kill everything (It wasn't a very good book, as you might surmise) in pursuit of their mission (Though why you'd continue on with a mission when you don't have any feelings and thus no real motivation to do anything is beyond me -- but then, there's that bad writing again), but in this book, the use of Harlequin worked, mainly because the name itself was not supposed to project their badassness: it was more a reflection of the vampire love for melodrama, and for that, the references to Commedia dell'Arte worked just fine. They use masks to communicate -- if you get a white mask they are observing, a red mask means they're going to hurt you, and a black mask means they're going to bake you brownies. No, not really. -- and they wear costumes and use the names of the original characters of the Commedia, Columbine and Pantaleon and so on. And since these vamps come from the founder of the council, the MOAD, it seems very likely that the characters came from these folk, not the other way around, and that makes them much more interesting than a bunch of people who use single names like Cher and live in hiding from the Vast Machine.
Anyway, the Harlequin come to town (and ruin Anita and Nathaniel's anniversary date night, which is too bad because the date has implications for their future relationship, and also too bad because the thread of Nathaniel and Anita's relationship gets lost in the events that follow, which probably has further implications for their relationship) and then immediately start screwing with Jean-Claude's power base, by going after the weak link in the St. Louis vampire world: Malcolm and all of the un-blood-oathed vampires of the Church. Anita is understandably freaked out by these things, and she calls in the big guns: Edward. Who brings not only Olaf, but also his newest back-up: Peter.
So here's the thing with these books. The characters are so real, and so honestly multi-layered, that they do unpredictable things, and they do things that have serious repercussions, repercussions that may very well keep on echoing again and again and again. What's more, since the series is as long as it is, there have come to be many characters who are multi-layered and thus unpredictable but always fascinating. Peter and Olaf are prime examples of that. When Edward brings these two, all Hamilton has to do is write down their names, have Anita see them just once; we immediately understand several things about this. We know that Olaf is going to cause real problems for Anita, since he wants to hunt her and kill her, and we know that Peter's coming is not only dangerous for Peter, but also for Edward, and for Donna, Peter's mother (who we remember as a character in her own right), and we have ideas and opinions on all of these things. We also wonder if this means that Edward has gone soft, since he had to have given in to sentiment in bringing his 16-year-old semi-adopted son, and the old Edward didn't have that sentiment; then we have to wonder if his softening will be a strength, as it is for Anita, or a weakness. Then we just have to wonder what will happen when a 16-year-old assassin-in-training is brought into this world. And then, when Edward reveals a few things about how Peter has been affected by his experiences -- mainly his sexual abuse from two years before, in Obsidian Butterfly -- we have to wonder about the implications of those factors, and how they will affect Anita, and Edward, and Peter, and Donna, and so on, so on.
The complexities just keep multiplying until it's almost dizzying. It was getting hard for me to remember all of the characters I was supposed to remember -- there's a moment at the end of this book when something is revealed about one of the bodyguards, and when it was revealed, I couldn't remember any details about that bodyguard's character in the first place, so I was confused -- but that's been taken care of: two of the bodyguards have died, and one other person, Sampson, the would-be siren, has gone back where he came from. The issue with Malcolm's church has been mostly resolved, and we've seen what stunning badasses Wicked and Truth are -- which was totally sweet -- and Haven, aka Cookie Monster, has returned to take over the lion pride, which will probably be helpful in the long run but will certainly add complications to Anita's life. Along with a new character for us to try to fathom.
And, I was glad to see, Richard may just have broken his last straw. Oh, happy day. But whether this ends the Richard saga or not, there were several threads that got taken care of, either by weaving them solidly into place in the overall story, or just by cutting them off. This book definitely made up for the problems of the last one, which focused a bit too much on the ardeur, to the detriment of the plot; although there are ardeur issues in this one, they offer new insights, not just repetitions, and the final revelation about the ardeur and its uses for Anita and Jean-Claude was truly excellent. Maybe I liked it more than others would because it ends up flipping the bird to Richard, in a way -- but it was cool, no matter what. Great book.
by Laurell K. Hamilton
The second to last book we have at present -- though she's still writing more, I'm happy to say, plus I still have that whole Merry Gentry series to read, woot! -- and one of the best so far. The Harlequin starts off like Burnt Offerings, with a harbinger of vampiric doom; this time it isn't the Council itself coming to visit, but rather the long arm of vampire law: the Harlequin. These are the silent assassins of vampiredom -- the Justicars, for those who know White Wolf, and that was immediately how I thought of them -- who enforce the Council's law, observing and eliminating vampires who break the rules. I read another book not long ago that used Harlequins as a name for a group; in that book, the use of the name was, well, lame, because the Harlequins were hardcore killing machines, trained from birth to feel nothing and to kill everything (It wasn't a very good book, as you might surmise) in pursuit of their mission (Though why you'd continue on with a mission when you don't have any feelings and thus no real motivation to do anything is beyond me -- but then, there's that bad writing again), but in this book, the use of Harlequin worked, mainly because the name itself was not supposed to project their badassness: it was more a reflection of the vampire love for melodrama, and for that, the references to Commedia dell'Arte worked just fine. They use masks to communicate -- if you get a white mask they are observing, a red mask means they're going to hurt you, and a black mask means they're going to bake you brownies. No, not really. -- and they wear costumes and use the names of the original characters of the Commedia, Columbine and Pantaleon and so on. And since these vamps come from the founder of the council, the MOAD, it seems very likely that the characters came from these folk, not the other way around, and that makes them much more interesting than a bunch of people who use single names like Cher and live in hiding from the Vast Machine.
Anyway, the Harlequin come to town (and ruin Anita and Nathaniel's anniversary date night, which is too bad because the date has implications for their future relationship, and also too bad because the thread of Nathaniel and Anita's relationship gets lost in the events that follow, which probably has further implications for their relationship) and then immediately start screwing with Jean-Claude's power base, by going after the weak link in the St. Louis vampire world: Malcolm and all of the un-blood-oathed vampires of the Church. Anita is understandably freaked out by these things, and she calls in the big guns: Edward. Who brings not only Olaf, but also his newest back-up: Peter.
So here's the thing with these books. The characters are so real, and so honestly multi-layered, that they do unpredictable things, and they do things that have serious repercussions, repercussions that may very well keep on echoing again and again and again. What's more, since the series is as long as it is, there have come to be many characters who are multi-layered and thus unpredictable but always fascinating. Peter and Olaf are prime examples of that. When Edward brings these two, all Hamilton has to do is write down their names, have Anita see them just once; we immediately understand several things about this. We know that Olaf is going to cause real problems for Anita, since he wants to hunt her and kill her, and we know that Peter's coming is not only dangerous for Peter, but also for Edward, and for Donna, Peter's mother (who we remember as a character in her own right), and we have ideas and opinions on all of these things. We also wonder if this means that Edward has gone soft, since he had to have given in to sentiment in bringing his 16-year-old semi-adopted son, and the old Edward didn't have that sentiment; then we have to wonder if his softening will be a strength, as it is for Anita, or a weakness. Then we just have to wonder what will happen when a 16-year-old assassin-in-training is brought into this world. And then, when Edward reveals a few things about how Peter has been affected by his experiences -- mainly his sexual abuse from two years before, in Obsidian Butterfly -- we have to wonder about the implications of those factors, and how they will affect Anita, and Edward, and Peter, and Donna, and so on, so on.
The complexities just keep multiplying until it's almost dizzying. It was getting hard for me to remember all of the characters I was supposed to remember -- there's a moment at the end of this book when something is revealed about one of the bodyguards, and when it was revealed, I couldn't remember any details about that bodyguard's character in the first place, so I was confused -- but that's been taken care of: two of the bodyguards have died, and one other person, Sampson, the would-be siren, has gone back where he came from. The issue with Malcolm's church has been mostly resolved, and we've seen what stunning badasses Wicked and Truth are -- which was totally sweet -- and Haven, aka Cookie Monster, has returned to take over the lion pride, which will probably be helpful in the long run but will certainly add complications to Anita's life. Along with a new character for us to try to fathom.
And, I was glad to see, Richard may just have broken his last straw. Oh, happy day. But whether this ends the Richard saga or not, there were several threads that got taken care of, either by weaving them solidly into place in the overall story, or just by cutting them off. This book definitely made up for the problems of the last one, which focused a bit too much on the ardeur, to the detriment of the plot; although there are ardeur issues in this one, they offer new insights, not just repetitions, and the final revelation about the ardeur and its uses for Anita and Jean-Claude was truly excellent. Maybe I liked it more than others would because it ends up flipping the bird to Richard, in a way -- but it was cool, no matter what. Great book.
Book #79
The Sea of Trolls
by Nancy Farmer
I picked this one up at Powell's because I liked The House of the Scorpion, which I read earlier this year, and when I went to look for other books by the same author, I found one about trolls. And Vikings. How could you go wrong with that?
You can't. This is a good book, a nice little action/adventure with quite a lot of brain behind the brawn. It tells the story of a young Saxon lad, Jack, who is tapped to become an apprentice Bard, meaning he will learn to use magic, in addition to music and the recital of great epics. Farmer placed the book squarely into a specific historical era, which worked very well -- especially since she included fantastic elements such as magic and trolls, and so it felt like these things had the same historical accuracy as the Vikings. The bard that teaches Jack is actually the one who wrote the song of Beowulf, as he himself was there in Hrothgar's hall at the time of those events. That was cool.
Before Jack can finish his training, however, he and his little sister are kidnapped by Vikings, and carried off to Scandinavia to be made into thralls. Farmer did a great job with Jack and his family, because his family is largely obnoxious -- his father is constantly critical and complains about everything, and his sister is utterly and completely spoiled -- and at the beginning of the book, Jack can't stand them, and neither can the reader. But then Jack has a revelation, thanks to his training in the bardic arts, and he sees them in a new light -- and Farmer manages to make it stick. The family is much less annoying after that, even Lucy, the spoiled little girl, despite the fact that Lucy doesn't change her behavior. It was impressive.
The main thing, though, is that there's a great adventure story here. Jack and Lucy are brought to Scandinavia and Lucy is given to an evil queen, who is half-troll -- like Grendel's mother -- and beautiful but treacherous, as half-trolls are. One other thing I liked was the idea that trolls themselves are not so bad, even though they are often the enemies of humans; trolls are at least trustworthy. It's the half-trolls you have to watch out for. And this queen is a piece of work. Anyway, events ensue, and Jack has to go on a quest to save his sister. Farmer also managed to weave in a tremendous amount of Norse mythology, primarily the idea of Yggdrasil, the great ash tree that supports all of the worlds; Jack's quest is for Mimir's Well, the well of knowledge, which Odin drank from after sacrificing his eye; the knowledge Odin gained made him king of the gods. Jack has to travel through Jotunheim, the land of the trolls, and on to another world, past the Norns, in order to find the well, and then he has to sacrifice something important to him in order to be allowed to drink from the well.
The book ends extremely well, not overly happy but not sadly, and there's a great twist that explains a large question that runs through the book. It's an excellent story, by a very good writer; if there was any flaw, it was simply that it might be a tad too young for me. But only a tad.
by Nancy Farmer
I picked this one up at Powell's because I liked The House of the Scorpion, which I read earlier this year, and when I went to look for other books by the same author, I found one about trolls. And Vikings. How could you go wrong with that?
You can't. This is a good book, a nice little action/adventure with quite a lot of brain behind the brawn. It tells the story of a young Saxon lad, Jack, who is tapped to become an apprentice Bard, meaning he will learn to use magic, in addition to music and the recital of great epics. Farmer placed the book squarely into a specific historical era, which worked very well -- especially since she included fantastic elements such as magic and trolls, and so it felt like these things had the same historical accuracy as the Vikings. The bard that teaches Jack is actually the one who wrote the song of Beowulf, as he himself was there in Hrothgar's hall at the time of those events. That was cool.
Before Jack can finish his training, however, he and his little sister are kidnapped by Vikings, and carried off to Scandinavia to be made into thralls. Farmer did a great job with Jack and his family, because his family is largely obnoxious -- his father is constantly critical and complains about everything, and his sister is utterly and completely spoiled -- and at the beginning of the book, Jack can't stand them, and neither can the reader. But then Jack has a revelation, thanks to his training in the bardic arts, and he sees them in a new light -- and Farmer manages to make it stick. The family is much less annoying after that, even Lucy, the spoiled little girl, despite the fact that Lucy doesn't change her behavior. It was impressive.
The main thing, though, is that there's a great adventure story here. Jack and Lucy are brought to Scandinavia and Lucy is given to an evil queen, who is half-troll -- like Grendel's mother -- and beautiful but treacherous, as half-trolls are. One other thing I liked was the idea that trolls themselves are not so bad, even though they are often the enemies of humans; trolls are at least trustworthy. It's the half-trolls you have to watch out for. And this queen is a piece of work. Anyway, events ensue, and Jack has to go on a quest to save his sister. Farmer also managed to weave in a tremendous amount of Norse mythology, primarily the idea of Yggdrasil, the great ash tree that supports all of the worlds; Jack's quest is for Mimir's Well, the well of knowledge, which Odin drank from after sacrificing his eye; the knowledge Odin gained made him king of the gods. Jack has to travel through Jotunheim, the land of the trolls, and on to another world, past the Norns, in order to find the well, and then he has to sacrifice something important to him in order to be allowed to drink from the well.
The book ends extremely well, not overly happy but not sadly, and there's a great twist that explains a large question that runs through the book. It's an excellent story, by a very good writer; if there was any flaw, it was simply that it might be a tad too young for me. But only a tad.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Book #78
Danse Macabre
by Laurell K. Hamilton
I have to admit, I'm getting a little tired of some parts of these books. But then, I've now read, what, fourteen of them? I have to think there would be elements of any series that would get tiresome after that many books. I know I got sick of the Aes Sedai in the Wheel of Time, and of Rand trying to make himself hard as stone, and of the regular theme of the battle of the sexes, and several other themes that Robert Jordan kept coming back to -- and those books are my all-time favorites.
In these books, it isn't that I'm tired of the sex scenes. I enjoy the visceral, no-holds-barred writing in these books, in both the violent scenes and the sexual scenes; I don't get many chances to read this sort of writing, and if I did move more into reading erotica, I'd end up with far more graphic sex and far less plot elements unrelated to the sex, so this is a good compromise for me. No, what I'm getting a little tired of is the necessity of sex, and all the discussion of the meaning of the sex or the lack of meaning of the sex. I don't mind that Anita needs to feed the ardeur, but I do mind that she needs to feed herself, and then Jean-Claude, and then Nathaniel and Damian, and then herself again, and then she needs to have sex with Asher because he feels left out, and so on and so forth. It's basically me having trouble with the same thing that Anita is having trouble with: there are just too many freaking men in her life. As a brief side note on that, Anita's greatest value to Jean-Claude, in terms of being his human servant and increasing his power, is that she can give him energy when she feeds; she can act as a power source. So how come Damian is nothing but a drain? I get that her power keeps him alive, but shouldn't he be able to maintain that power level, and even add to it for Anita, when he feeds? Is it just that he doesn't feed enough?
The other problem I had with this book was that I couldn't relate to the main tension: the idea that Anita might be pregnant. When I read that, and read the moment when she thought to herself that a child simply could not fit into her life and her relationships, I nodded; so when Richard confronted her and demanded to know if she could kill their child (Which, as a pro-choice person who believes in science over souls, irritated me right there, because it's a hunk of cells, not a child) and she said no, she couldn't, I was just annoyed. I realize that people feel that way about children, but I don't, so it was tough for me to be sympathetic; instead, I was just vastly annoyed by Richard's smug assumption that now he'd get Anita to move behind his white picket fence and dump everybody else that she loves. Every time Richard said, "But when you get someone pregnant, you marry them. It's just what you do," I wanted to slap him. So that whole plotline got on my nerves terribly -- though I loved how it ended up.
On the plus side, I liked the new City-Masters who were introduced, both Auggie and Samuel, and their separate concerns; I liked that Hamilton managed to write Auggie as this stunningly obnoxious overbearing male, and yet managed to keep him from being that and nothing more. As bad as Auggie behaves, he has his sympathetic moments and his good side, and so I liked him as a character and hope he recurs. I really like the mermaid connection, both the pushy bitch of a mother and the shy-but-eager virginal boys -- though I'm annoyed that numeric age keeps coming up as an issue; okay, Nathaniel is only 20, and the mermaid twins are only 17, but why does that mean anything? Age is not an indicator of maturity, and it annoys me that they act as if it is. Though I do, of course, understand the objection to having sex with minors, or taking the one boy's virginity. And I wonder how an ancient vampire like Samuel managed to father children, something that wasn't explained . . .
I liked the dance element, but wanted more information, and hope they come back, since there is the connection to the Mother Of All Darkness through Merlin -- who's a great character. I don't think much of London, or of his apparent role as the deus ex machina for dealing with the ardeur -- but since he may solve the problem I was complaining about at the beginning of this review, I guess I'll just take him as a blessing for now and hope a better solution presents itself.
Still enjoying the books, still excited about reading the next one.
by Laurell K. Hamilton
I have to admit, I'm getting a little tired of some parts of these books. But then, I've now read, what, fourteen of them? I have to think there would be elements of any series that would get tiresome after that many books. I know I got sick of the Aes Sedai in the Wheel of Time, and of Rand trying to make himself hard as stone, and of the regular theme of the battle of the sexes, and several other themes that Robert Jordan kept coming back to -- and those books are my all-time favorites.
In these books, it isn't that I'm tired of the sex scenes. I enjoy the visceral, no-holds-barred writing in these books, in both the violent scenes and the sexual scenes; I don't get many chances to read this sort of writing, and if I did move more into reading erotica, I'd end up with far more graphic sex and far less plot elements unrelated to the sex, so this is a good compromise for me. No, what I'm getting a little tired of is the necessity of sex, and all the discussion of the meaning of the sex or the lack of meaning of the sex. I don't mind that Anita needs to feed the ardeur, but I do mind that she needs to feed herself, and then Jean-Claude, and then Nathaniel and Damian, and then herself again, and then she needs to have sex with Asher because he feels left out, and so on and so forth. It's basically me having trouble with the same thing that Anita is having trouble with: there are just too many freaking men in her life. As a brief side note on that, Anita's greatest value to Jean-Claude, in terms of being his human servant and increasing his power, is that she can give him energy when she feeds; she can act as a power source. So how come Damian is nothing but a drain? I get that her power keeps him alive, but shouldn't he be able to maintain that power level, and even add to it for Anita, when he feeds? Is it just that he doesn't feed enough?
The other problem I had with this book was that I couldn't relate to the main tension: the idea that Anita might be pregnant. When I read that, and read the moment when she thought to herself that a child simply could not fit into her life and her relationships, I nodded; so when Richard confronted her and demanded to know if she could kill their child (Which, as a pro-choice person who believes in science over souls, irritated me right there, because it's a hunk of cells, not a child) and she said no, she couldn't, I was just annoyed. I realize that people feel that way about children, but I don't, so it was tough for me to be sympathetic; instead, I was just vastly annoyed by Richard's smug assumption that now he'd get Anita to move behind his white picket fence and dump everybody else that she loves. Every time Richard said, "But when you get someone pregnant, you marry them. It's just what you do," I wanted to slap him. So that whole plotline got on my nerves terribly -- though I loved how it ended up.
On the plus side, I liked the new City-Masters who were introduced, both Auggie and Samuel, and their separate concerns; I liked that Hamilton managed to write Auggie as this stunningly obnoxious overbearing male, and yet managed to keep him from being that and nothing more. As bad as Auggie behaves, he has his sympathetic moments and his good side, and so I liked him as a character and hope he recurs. I really like the mermaid connection, both the pushy bitch of a mother and the shy-but-eager virginal boys -- though I'm annoyed that numeric age keeps coming up as an issue; okay, Nathaniel is only 20, and the mermaid twins are only 17, but why does that mean anything? Age is not an indicator of maturity, and it annoys me that they act as if it is. Though I do, of course, understand the objection to having sex with minors, or taking the one boy's virginity. And I wonder how an ancient vampire like Samuel managed to father children, something that wasn't explained . . .
I liked the dance element, but wanted more information, and hope they come back, since there is the connection to the Mother Of All Darkness through Merlin -- who's a great character. I don't think much of London, or of his apparent role as the deus ex machina for dealing with the ardeur -- but since he may solve the problem I was complaining about at the beginning of this review, I guess I'll just take him as a blessing for now and hope a better solution presents itself.
Still enjoying the books, still excited about reading the next one.
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