FSF, March 2009
Page 4
"You see what the curandero did, don't you? He couldn't bring back King, but he could change what it was to the Swede. Could trade out sorrow for rage. Black folks in America, even ones like the Swede, they got a particular kind of wound. Indians like that Sahkyo girl? They got one too. Hell, maybe we all do, but not like them. And they can't heal it any more than we can. All anyone can do is change what the wound means. That's what folks like the curandero and the queer can do. They can change what stories mean. That's why they've got power. You understand what I'm saying to you? You understand why I'm telling you this?"
"Sure,” I said.
"You do not,” he said, stabbing at the air between us. “Look here, I ask you to tell me about meeting the love of your life, and you tell me one thing led to another. What the hell is that supposed to mean? This Abby girl, she seems like a fine woman. I like her. But you two don't have a chance in hell, you hear me? Not a single solitary chance in hell.
"If you came here telling me you were getting married, and you had a sixteen-year-old Chinese hooker on your arm seven months in with someone else's baby but you had a good story about it, I'd think you might make it. You come here with this girl, and you love her. I'm not a fool, I can see you love her. But that love doesn't mean anything. And if it doesn't, it will wither and it will die, and you'll be here three years from now telling me about the divorce and how one fucking thing just led to another. And please Jesus you're not changing a diaper while you do it."
The contempt in his voice was like a slap. He drew one last long pull on his cigar, the ember bright and angry under its darkening ash, then threw the dead butt out onto the lawn. The scent of the smoke was acrid and close. I tried to laugh, to make a joke of it, but the sound was hollow.
"I don't know what to say,” I said.
"Think of something,” Dab said, and the anger was cut by a sense that he was pleading with me. I opened my mouth, and then closed it. Aunt Mary's voice came out of the gloom, wide as a whale.
"Dab? You didn't just soil my yard with your leavings, did you? After all this time, I did not just see you throw your disgusting old cigar on my grass."
"Now darlin',” Uncle Dab said with a grin, “you know it's good for it. Nicotine's a pesticide. Keeps the chiggers down."
Aunt Mary and the other women of the family came up onto the porch. The old wood creaked under them, and Aunt Mary swatted Dab gently on the back of his head. From inside, we could hear the electronic sounds of the kid cousins at play. Abby detached herself from my mother and sister and came to sit at my side. She looked beautiful. All the small signals of unease that had haunted her—the thinning of her lips, the lines at the corners of her eyes—had vanished. She was among my family now, no longer that northern girl I'd been seeing but my fiancée. The same woman, but her meaning changed. I wondered what it would be like to lose her. I thought I knew, and the fear was like a hand laid gently across my throat.
She tilted her head, a question in her eyes.
"And what have you two been talking about all night?” she asked.
"We've been trading stories is all,” Uncle Dab said. “Matter of fact, he was just getting set to tell me about how you two met."
Abby's brows rose. A tiny half smile—amusement, apprehension, pleasure—touched her lips. I was halfway to denying it when she spoke.
"Really?” she said. “I'd like to hear that."
The eyes of the family, all of them including Abby's, turned to me. Uncle Dab folded his hands over his belly, his eyes upon me, daring me, goading me, praying for me. My heart thumped like sneakers in a dryer. My mouth tasted like tin foil and pennies. I didn't have the first clue what to say. I looked at Abby, then at Dab.
He nodded me on.
"Well,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling, “actually it's a pretty good story."
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Books To Look For by Charles de Lint
Half World, by Hiromi Goto, Penguin Group Canada, 2009, Cdn$20.
I love discovering new writers, especially when I come upon their books in manuscript or galley form (prepublication copies that don't have blurbs about the author and story, and have little or no cover art). I get to explore the book with no idea as to what to expect, and no surprises are spoiled. And the pleasure is doubled when the book is as innovative and good as Hiromi Goto's Half World.
But while it's great to discover a new writer, it can be a little embarrassing, too, when it turns out they already have a body of work except they were still completely off your radar.
Such was the case with me for Goto. I thought this was a first novel, but she has four other books out, and what great titles they have: Chorus of Mushrooms. The Kappa Child (which won the Tiptree Award). The Water of Possibility. Hopeful Monsters. I would have tried any of those books just because of their titles.
Half World isn't quite so evocative a title, but it's entirely suited to the book, which mostly takes place in the half world between our world and the one from which spirits are reborn. If you're looking for touchstones, think of China Miéville's Un Lun Dun (for Goto's madcap imagination running wild and how she turns the tropes of fantasy characters on their head), or Neil Gaiman (again for the imagination, but also for how deeply Goto cares about her characters).
The novel opens much like Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon's Mind the Gap, with a young schoolgirl coming home to discover that her mother is missing and nothing of her life to date is really what she thought it was. Safety is gone and danger surrounds her. But from there the books go in very different directions.
I loved Goto's protagonist: Melanie Tamaki, an overweight, unliked girl without a lot of self-esteem who finds herself in the position where she has to save not only her mother and herself, and not only this world of ours, but all three worlds. She feels particularly unsuited to the task, but the delight is in watching her grow into a capable young woman, comfortable in her skin, who makes the right hard choices when it would be so much easier to simply let go and give up.
I'm not sure where Goto got her half world and its imaginative inhabitants (like Mr. Glueskin with his meters-long white tongue, or the girl with a starfish face, or the bridge of crows). The three worlds might be from some obscure myth or bit of folklore, but I think it's safe to say that everything else is hers. What makes it all work—no matter how bizarre the plot turns, the characters, the strange world in which Melanie finds herself—is that we're always grounded by Melanie's point-of-view. Because she finds it all as strange as we would in her shoes, we're willing to accept it as well and come along for the journey.
Half World is an absolute treasure of a book, one of those hidden gems that deserves as wide an audience as possible.
* * * *
The Knights of the Cornerstone, by James P. Blaylock, Ace Books, 2008, $23.95.
I didn't realize how much I missed James Blaylock's distinctive, quirky voice until I started this novel. Has it really been nine years since his last book, The Rainy Season? I know there have been a couple of collections and a handful of short stories since then, but I was really surprised to realize we haven't had a new Blaylock novel since 1999.
The Knights of the Cornerstone has a familiar cast. There's the slightly befuddled protagonist, the capable woman, the older men and women with deep, hidden knowledge, and the villains, dastardly and vile, but only slightly more capable than the protagonist. There are also secret societies and family secrets, mysterious artifacts and arcane knowledge about rather obscure things, from books to Biblical references.
But none of that's a bad thing. Reading Blaylock is like putting on a familiar record by a favorite artist (and yes, it has to be vinyl because by this analogy, only vinyl—preferably an old 78—suits the charm of a Blaylock story). You put the record on because you want that voice and instrumentation, that style of music. The same goes for a Blaylock book. It's the distinctive voice we're returning to, the new story told in a way that has charmed us before.
It also doesn't mean that his books lack insight into the workings of the human animal. The opposite is true. The difference with his characters is that, unlike many in contemporary fiction, his have a heightened sense of doing the right thing and are willing to sacrifice much if they're called upon to do so.
These are characters who would make good friends, and so we're happy to be in their company. We might wish the protagonist was a bit more forceful, a bit more willing to take charge of a situation, but for all the fantastical elements that peer slyly at us from between the lines of the story, for all the quirks of the characters, Blaylock plays this out as though it were taking place in the real world. And let's face it, most of us wouldn't spring into action when there's a gun pointed in our face.
But as I said, the characters do stand up when they need to, and in the long run, that's what is important. We can only hope that we would do as much in a similar situation.
I realize that Blaylock's books aren't necessarily for everyone, but if you're looking for someone who writes with great heart, who tells a story with great charm and wit, in his own individual fashion, a novel like this might be exactly what you're looking for.
Let's just hope the next book doesn't take as long to come out.
* * * *
The Age of Entanglement, by Louisa Gilder, Knopf, 2008, $27.50.
This book is subtitled “When quantum physics was reborn.” In it, Louisa Gilder has taken a page from dramatized biographies to explain one of the fundamental concepts of quantum physics (entanglement, the seemingly telepathic communication between separated particles) through re-created conversations between some of the twentieth century's greatest physicists: Einstein, Schrödinger, Oppenheimer, and the like. But though she imagines the face-to-face conversations, they are based on meticulous and thorough research into the letters, memoirs, and scientific papers of the participants.
What this does is allow us an insight into how their theories grew. It wasn't just these brilliant minds coming up with their insights out of nowhere. Rather, it was through conversations with their peers that the theories were hammered out and explored.
I just love the way Gilder humanizes the men at the heart of such studies and makes it possible for people like myself (whose eyes would normally glaze over) to get an actual understanding of quantum mechanics through seeing how it was developed over time. She also provides a number of charming art sketches of some of the book's “characters."
As Matt Ridley (author of Genome) says in a blurb, reading this book, “for a moment I almost thought I understood quantum mechanics.” I know exactly how he feels. But regardless of my understanding or not of the actual theories, I was entranced to see scientific minds at work outside of the institutions where one might normally expect to find them, and I think you might be, too.
* * * *
Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P. O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.
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Musing on Books by Michelle West
Anathem, by Neal Stephenson, William Morrow, 2008, $29.95.
The Bell at Sealey Head, by Patricia McKillip, Ace, 2008, $24.95.
Nation, by Terry Pratchett, Doubleday, 2008, $7.99.
Anathem, the latest novel by Neal Stephenson, is, as far as I can tell, an entirely stand-alone volume that takes place in a world that seems remarkably similar to a strangely tilted version of our own—if you ignore the Concents, in which our narrator has spent most of his life.
The book starts with the first-person viewpoint of Erasmus, a young man who lives and works in the Concent of Saunt Edhar, which is on the butt-end of nowhere. The outer trappings of the Concents make them feel very much like religious orders, with the usual factionalism present within them. They're not. They're places in which people study, learn, and question. The avout, the people who live within the Concents, aren't governed by the laws that exist outside of the Concents’ bounds; they don't have the usual citizenship cards and paperwork (which becomes an issue later in the book, but I digress).
But in order to be avout, they're not allowed to mingle with normal people, the people who live outside, except in almost ceremonial ways. They can choose to walk away, and they can be Anathemized, which is a form of excommunication; they can also be pulled out of life in the Concent at the request of the Secular Powers. If this last happens, they are no longer considered avout, but they are not disgraced; they cannot return to the Concent, however. The third possibility is a Convox, which means a large number of the avout are pulled out at the same time to attend to matters in the world outside. When this happens, the avout are expected to live and work together, and they are allowed to return at the end of their labor.
All three of these occur in Anathem.
The Concents are divided into maths—which is what they call the areas in which different avout live and work. There are also rules governing who lives in which math; Erasmas is a Tenner. There are also Unarians, Hundreders and Millenarians. The naming of these groups, and their maths, is connected to the timing of their window to visit and interact with the world outside. The Unarians have ten days each year. The Tenners have ten days once every decade. Yes, the Hundreders and the Millenarians follow about as you'd expect; ten days in a century and ten days in a millennium.
Erasmus and his cohort are facing two things. The first: their first Apert, the ten days in which they are allowed return to the outside world. The second: their choice of which school or faction in their math they will study in for the rest of their lives. They came to the Concent at the last Apert ten years ago (except for one orphan). The children who join them at this one will become their successors in their duties upon the Millennial clock and the bells that are sounded daily and for special occasions.
All of this information unfolds slowly in Anatham, and interspersed with it are the details of daily life in the Concent, the rules that govern it, and the rules that are broken in such a way that someone can be thrown out. But it's a glorious, detailed type of slow, in which the studies, the struggles, and the philosophical thoughts of the students themselves are brought into play, much in the way that discussions about rock bands, movie stars, and sports would come into play for most readers now.
Stephenson has created a milieu in which the characters care, and care deeply, and their philosophical arguments, rather than making them appear like talking heads, add to our understanding of the way they think, and of why they think as they do. Erasmus has friends when the book opens: the brilliant and envied Jesry, the stuffy and exact Arsibalt, and the martially minded Lio. They're the clockwinders for this decade. He also has Tulia and Ala, two of the girls who are on the bells, and Orolo, the master of whom he is most fond, and by whom he's most frustrated. Erasmus also adopts one of the newest members of his math: Barb, a young boy who shows classic signs of Asperger syndrome, although that term is never used in the book.
They experience their first Apert, and during that Apert, they experience the start of what will be an avalanche, for Orolo is removed in disgrace from the Concent, and sent out into the world.
There are many rules that govern the Concent; the Concent being what it is, however, means there is no way to tell its various students not to question. Erasmus and his friends are going to figure out what exactly caused Orolo's ejection. They cannot act in the open; they are, however, like any good high school students, perfectly capable of avoiding unwanted attention from the various authorities who watch over them. But as they are piecing together the bits of the puzzle, their numbers are lessened by two: Ala and Jesry are called out by the Secular Powers.
They have no way of communicating; it's a type of death, a permanent good-bye. Erasmus and his friends continue their attempts to figure out what happened to Orolo, or why, and in the midst of this, they, too, are summoned. With them go a few of the Hundreders, and, to Erasmus's shock, one of the Millennials, a man named Jad. The Millennials are, to the Concents, like little cloistered demigods; they are revered. Jad, however, doesn't have much truck with that.
But he does tell Erasmus to find Orolo. And since it's pretty much what Erasmus wants to do anyway, he sets off on a quest, while the rest of his friends go to meet the Seculars and discover what exactly they fear so much. It's a quest that will open up Erasmus's world and change it entirely by the time it's over.
I can't do justice to the book in so few words. What I can say about it is this: there's an enormous amount of thought and detail that's scattered almost carelessly across its many pages; there are very strong SFnal elements buried and unearthed. There's the obviously political world outside of the Concent doors—and this is a world that is never fully understood because Erasmus and the other avout have so very little interest in it. But what they have interest in—their theories, their sciences, their philosophies? These glow.
The book won't be for everybody. I know some readers will feel it suffers from an authorial need to convey all research directly to them. I didn't have this reaction because if Stephenson clearly cares about all of his research—and he does—he just as clearly cares about the characters themselves, and those characters care passionately enough to make their long and theoretical conversations real and immediate to me. They ask questions constantly. They never stop thinking. They never stop questioning. At one point in the book, when they're told they have to stop and just make a decision, it's almost a shock because by that point, every long and involved conversation felt entirely natural.