are standing in front of the bass top, around its sides, and leaning against the wall behind it, a muttley crewe of pee and pull. Summer clumped conveare standing in front of the bass top, around its sides, and leaning against the wall behind it, a muttley crewe of pee and pull. Summer clumped conversationally to tether, laffing nervously, Zigarettenasche flying from al momento awkward arm movimenti, vile others stare moodily, at the ground, at the skype, anywhere but each other. A few tap their ped impatiens, cheek their horologues, phlip open their pfones and thumpb txt massages or PhasePage (NASDAQ 23.83 -0.05%) givz and oucHTee ML (not the Rhomanz, oh no, but if so 1zero5zero if you please). One eyepads, one printbooks, one even re-sells a goodnews, though truth to tell, there’s not macho that in these days of marinechant takeovers and arcandemic espionage and Hindus trial navel-gazing and corpus rates arrest.
Toot toot Toot toot
Neh, says one, shaking his head, nix bus. It’s him, one of the Up-the Arschelones. Computational freak. Moore likes than millipeeds hat legs. Pfifing about his neuest Strategie for ches–
Toot toot
Naf itchy dot, says another, breath smelling of whizkid socked hag. Is the bus. Hurry up. Check the blonde there, the quoit one? Try and grab a–
You still renning after Lydia? Hole a life! She’s not comin–
Plug yer Kraut trap, yer philistopher, or I'll bury yer in that club. The Keyra Knightly loox-licke. Foll–
Toot toot
A pair of beautiful and brightly fired lips mouth the words, watch where you’re going with the damn bike, ya cinque!
Very PinC of you, says the lips’ hersuite compunion. You’re tehribbly brave. Someone might flag you.
I’ve been fragged more times than you’ve had sticks poked at you, Hoop. Where’s the damn bus?
Toot toot Toot toot
Driver, stop here! This is the collection point, says a gorgeous garish imp in long swirling silk, clutching the arm of the traubadour stepping from the tuktuk as well. Spunk, is that Steve?
Steve? Spunk looks where directed. Rubicon crossing a skandal? Witchy switch?
Either ora neither, the imp shrugs, striding towards a group, and the traubadour follows, mumbling, y yo soy Steve, también. ¿Cómo es que yo soy Spunk?
Steve!
Hi, Steve!
Steve, good to see you!
Are you Steve?
Aren’t you Steve?
Whose Steve?
Mark my words, Steve’s more güey than Amman can handle.
Mark!
mark?
That Mark?
What mark?
Marque? Pire Langoust, natur.
Maque? Aber, quel con ce type!
Mac, aww, sweet! Love the new bird.
Mac, ow! Mai toh, obrigado.
Toot toot Toot toot
A 4WDSUV pulls up in a cloud of dust and the group of Travellers cough and splutter, peering through puffs of silt. A Bengal Priestess and a large, colour-haired, colour-skinned man? No, mad woman. Nomad, man...well, gonads aren’t important...woman has both sohgho with that, climb out of the car. Smiles of recognition, although confusion as to which Bandgirl it is; everyone seems to have their own idea of who, exactly, and no idea seems to coincide exactly, leaving those in the Noh and those nosing out of the gnou knowing neither one from the udders. A noisy interruption as the bus finally arrives and they pile inside. A tall figure, jaundiced, skeletal in form and well-spoken, accompanies a none to a middle seat, seeming to be apostolic. In front sits a purring white-furred cat, and opposite lounges a Lynx with silver whiskers. All turn at the sound of a name; no-one seems to be approaching and Nowyn is friendly, talking to Alland Sundry, and Efferiwon Injenneral, saying everything and hearing nothing.
With much ado about something, due sprigandosi hotcakes, trim and pre-served, special tickets, nudge nudge wink wink, say no moar, spring into the bus smiling winsomely at the driver, a dour Typ, featureless, like an Unidentified Avia Thar, initialed DJI.
It’s the Muse, hails a voice from the back. And that Irish gal, says another. We’ve just Woken Furies, they explain, skipping down the green Isle and smelling of clover. Hot on their heels is Bruise Nail, a heavy hitting recluse who is joined by the Nick of time, the Nick of Cheer, the Nick of Las, and the Nickin Gear. People applaud the latecomers, still a few stragglers, a phoenix engineer carrying quills, two brilled professors, the latter a Rabbi and the former in search of something lost. More smiles and greetings. A few Greek statues eye their Roman counterinsurgents but Gotts Peace prevails, twice; someone looking like Medusa with difficulty contacting eyes, a couple of forgotten portraits of famous persons, and a bunch of twitterers spectaculating on local issues of not-global importance. Anal & Isis, never seen separated, bored. Someone calls out, Where’s the Top Dog? Everyone looks at everyone else, murmurs, like drinks, all round.
Didn’t make it stick– –On the way to– –recensing– –never stops. Impossible to keep up– –like it’s hard– –going on ars–
Laddies and gentleladies, may I have your attention? Ihr piece and microbe arranged appropriately around her head, a blonde woman at the front of the bus smiles at the thong. Her face is intelligent, naturally, she is slender and neatly dressed, also naturally, and a small name badge pinned at her shoulder bears the words Mira Enketei. I am your Interpolator, she names herself, and I will be your guide during your attendance at the Annual Convention on Entreaty for Corporeality. You may notice that some of you are faded around the edges, worse for wear, some of you are practically insievable, others of you are solidly everdense. Undoubtedly, some of you have no doubts as to your reviewability while others are shaking in shoes and contemplating extinction (colour plates in a remembrance volume can be purchased later). Frier not. Any questions you have I will endearme to you to answer. If you are unable to avail yourself of me, my assistant Squirrel hair, she points to a bushy hered character grimacing beside her, will be more than happy to whelp out. Any questions before we foot to the airthought?
The crowd is silent, appraising her. The first few minutes are always crittercal. The point of introduction, the establishment of credibility, the willingness to be lead, not sinking. She resists the temptation to razor her eyebrows, tsk exasperatedly, and convey an impression of facepalm pique, instead turning to the bus chew-fur. Driver Jü, let’s go. She grips one of the bus’ steadyon bars as she turns back to the group and continues to smile. In antemancipation.
Is there a schedule? says one.
Where’s the lecture on how to get liked? A colonel commotion at this, from those who know and want no others knowing, to those who know nothing and want to know, amongst those disdaining such obvious man-oeuvres, although secretly wish it was all that easy. A leader without followers is a shepherd without sheep. Although sheep prefer food to pointification.
Can I change my program if I don’t like it?
Where’s the lecture on the Art of Commenting so as to Attract Applouse?
I want to attend Like Management, when to give and how to avoid being seen indiscriminate – is that included this year?
I’ve got too many friends, LOL, I can’t keep up with them. I need a hands-on weeding session about this :D
Will there be a Library - I’d like to catch up on reading. I'm poor.
I am a Dispenser of Soporification. How can I garner acolytes at my altar?
I’m dumb at talking books. No-one gets it. I never get likes or anything! I’m mortal danger. Are there special clinics? I’ve got money, I can–
One at a time please. She adjusts her hair. She’s heard it all before; each year, they line up, same old bag of tricks to trot out in the hope of plate-forming. But this year it’s all been shaken up. The great invasion. The great deflation. The great car-shout and all’s well that end swell. As of now. She beams at them, lifting one hand in bene fies. They are more dear to her than they can possibly prêtend. Squirrel will distribute your programs, your personal coaching schedules, all primed to your individual requirements. Your hothells have been booked, you’ll find details in the age pack. She looks at her watch. We’re only a few minutes from the airthought. Customs clearance and passport control have been forearmed so body examination should be handled smoothly. Thank you for your attention.
She turns and sits down beside Squirrel. So far, so good, so near, but she could do with some food.
***
Once on the Errorpain, Mira Enketei conduces a rooster cawl and Squirrel distributes proscribed packages.
Arson Ants? Uprising arm faster than a fire-cracker and Squirrel delivers.
Alternating Current? A hand languidly lifts and the bundle is passed along from the I’ll. You’re scheduled guest Filospeaker, Mira flashes a grin. They're both Fellows but Alternating Current keeps a low profilo.
Barons & Nobels? All over the Errorpain, nods and insistent that’s mies. Squirrel darts back and forth until the pissprize-holders and tight heels are quietened.
Braid? A package like the Monster Book for Sci-Fi/Fantasy buffs is tossed like a hot potato.
Cray Field? Squirrel scuttles forward, saying, das ist fire Dich. Viel Spassimodo.
Giovanotto? Squirrel squints at a face at the back of the Errorpain. Eh beh. Albanesi, no? Ponsay. Vedi se c’e qualcosa di bonne nuit in denti. Squirrel smirks and lurches back to Mira.
Hawaii? A stunning-looking brune jeune receives a file, slants eyes sideways and smiles knowingly at Squirrel.
Jonathan? A Forrest of hands shoot into the air. Seconds later the owners of the appropriated information are satisfied.
King’s Inn? A hand is timidly raised, head ducked, apology for any trouble caused. Mais too penses troppo, says Squirrel. By now it’s clear that Mira’s side kick is, if not a candidate for a lunabin, missing many marbles. Someone mutters about Salvatore. Somebody laughs and says Echo.
Narcissus? Squirrel holds up a gilded mirror, over which a brief scuffle occurs.
The list continues. Mira pauses while refreshments are served, covertly watching her flock. Drinks always brake the ice, but things can slow down very quickly. She remembers one year when a newcomer, hinting about not getting enough, was in and undated faster than she could blink. It took considerable work to revive the victim of its own success.
Pariah Mixmost? A slim set of notes sails down the corridor to be caught by a nondescript occurrence.
Dr Raignore? Whispers and titters ensue. Well known for a distinktive style, this stalwart’s presence is unexpected. Mere discussion of books has been interesting but not enough for this castle of discrete analytics. Mira takes pity and alludes to one of the reasons. You’ve prepared your speech on the Perils of Futile Conjectures? Dr Raignore nods calmly, unperturbed.
Ms Rarebit? Gasps all over the Errorpain. No-one sexpected a Tune to be real. Squirrel eyes the curved carving, mumbling about Kerbe in Bettpfosten.
Stiff Hint? Squirrel groans at the proliferixity of Wanna Bs and rushes up and down the gang sway. A book of yellow drawings falls to the ground and is rapidly recovered red-cheeked. Squirrel grimaces at the offender and Mira frowns. Shut it, she whispers. The Client is Always Right.
Eventually the last few names are called, U Toupee Ha, Vala Diction, Whyte Akre, XZLNZ, Zebedyeah. They begin the descent into the City hosting the Convention.
***
The first morning of the Convention dawns with clear blue sky and a brisk autumn wind. The attendees gather, lining up at their respective registration tables. Mira stands with other Interpolators, disgassing the Key Note address, which scales middle C. There’s little for her to do once her group is dispatched so she studies the schedule and decides to attend the session on Copywright. Recent industry innovations, changes, mergers, purges, and splurges suggest it’ll be a lively debacle. Squirrel is in the Library pearloining books, tales of seamen and Meerjungfrauen being favourites for the ritual. Since all the books have been laminated, salivatoration is hardly a problem. Mira settles herself into a phew! at the back of the large lecture hall. Some introductory addresses, questions and answers limited to five minutes. Any longer and time can’t be adequately provided, and it’s a commodity very hard to acquire even without under-the-table palm-greasing with the Keeper, which adds to the cost of running the Convention. If it weren’t for the participants’ fees...
A sudden commotion at a side entrance and a troupe of twelve black-suited investment bankers run wildly into the room, brandishing swords. Since these are mightier than the pen, it’s appropriate to be brandishing swords, you wouldn’t expect sticks, would you? Let’s be realistic – if it’s not some kind of phallic object, you won’t make an automatic assumption about the gender of the sword brandishers, will you? Well, fooled you. They are all sexless robots with no discernible gametes beak-weaved characteristics. Since they are confections of a monetised corporation, that’s irrelevant. But back to the story.
Copywrite vests on us! shouts one, ripping off its suit to show a gilet with the words ‘COPYRIGHT BOT’ printed across it.
We own you now! yells another.
Your content is hours, cop that! screams a third.
What is the meaning–The speaker crumples to the ground with a sword thrust to the heart. Mira jumps to her feet. This was not in the script. All hell breaks wind as the crowd scrambles over chairs, the podium squeakers cling to their lecterns in terror, the stench is sickening and the bots move in a phalange through the participants until close to the stage.
All come quietly, and no-one will be heard, the tallest and most imposting of the bots says in a sinister fashion (the black suit, remember), surveying the trembling mass. Blancmange would wobble less, Mira thinks, circling from the back along the side corridor, texting EMERGENCY to Squirrel, probably worse than useless, so she texts another colleague, perhaps less useless, depending on the direction the narrative takes. Mira takes the direction for the stage and confronts the leader.
You’ve obviously been programmed here, she says thoughtfully, eyeing the sword. These recensionists are amongst some of the crème de la crème (they think) and you're proclaiming they're your property. Which, naturally, in order to commercialise at minimal costs, since you’ve created plate-forming opportunities for them to do so, their fecundity jinx are suborned to your capitalist contraption without concern. But why upset the status quo? It’s been working fine. Bliss has been ignorance.
Shut up, Child Bearer! The tallest and most menacing of the bots waves its mighty sword. Where is an Instillator?
The side doors explode open and a White Knight blinks into existence on a precious steed. Before anyone can react, the White Knight ejaculates acid which hits the robots and corrodes their bodies. The White Knight vanishes into vapour as the bots fall steaming into a bubbling morass of black bits. Everyone freezes at the sight. Mira sighs. It’s not as though it’s real. She’ll have to break the ice all over again.
Her colleague enters with a crowd of Polly Cysts, Squirrel is standing at the opposite doorway, gesticulating at another clutch of law-wielders, who run in with buttons on full alert. What happened here, Ms? The Chief Polly Cyst addresses Mira.
As you can see, it’s a disturb–
We’ll have to cordon off the area. Put the witnesses in the dog box. The Chief Polly Cyst scratches a scalp and looks around. Is there a dog box here in the Convention Centre? It’d be easier than having to Angela Carter hysterrier across town. The Polly Cysts move among the surgelé recensionists, laying them onto library carts conveniently located, as best as sub-zero temperature arms and legs allow. The Chief Polly Cyst strides away, talking into a teletalk and giving orders that are pertinent to the situation.
How’re we going to revive them, Mira wonders. Adulatery, Squirrel winks. If they hear they’re being leggered, they’ll réchauffer. Hmm, Mira thinks. The idea is meritocratic. She watches the Polly Cysts collecting the participants, some of whom belong to her own group. She’ll have to persuade the rest of her group to help with reading allowed, she and Squirrel can’t ménage à trois on their own. She follows the cart bearing her group members outside of the theatre, Squirrel trailing her, into an empty meeting room which has already been cleared of desks and chairs, and where frozen lecture attendees are already arranged like statues from a Dali painting, (Squirrel photographs it for posteriority). Mira checks her watch. The first lectures will be finishing now. Squirrel, you take half the list and I’ll take the other. Go round up our group. Tell them it’s an emergency. Tell them, Mira drops her voice, which unfortunately hits her big toe, I’ll make sure their worst fears are realised if they don’t move their butts down here. Squirrel nods and grins. Evilly. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
***
The Conference is abuzz with news of the ATAC. The organisers have called a staff meeting, but Mira wants her recensionists fine in fettle and ignores the commandment to attend. She and Squirrel have finished rounding up her group and they are now sitting huddled around each of the frozen recensionists belonging to Mira. For all of lunch they read, like, comment, discuss, disparage, disparrot, disappropriate, discombobulate and various other verbs with the prefix dis- the frozen recensionists' recensions. Nothing happens apart from minuscule body temperature rises. Mira calculates this amount of effort will not thaw the frozen recensionists until the last day of the conference next year. She makes a decision and addresses her group.
We don’t know when there’ll be another attack. Or what sort of anaphylactic shock could be provoked. It could be anyone of you in here suffering; it could still happen.
This is an outrage! A few nods and lemmings. The speaker is a brain drain that Mira knows well from previous years. She smiles sympathetically. Absolutely. If you want to put yourself at risk by attending lectures be my guessed. I’m sure most of you would rather have the opportunity to continue with the private coaching and receive fee refunds for the lectures you’ll miss, in exchange for your efforts here to revive your confreres Jacque, yes?
At the mention of free funds, several of the recensionists continue reading, willing to demonstrate their committee to the plan. The drain rejects the idea and Mira indicates the door. A few others leave as well. She makes a note on her list and nods at Squirrel. Nothing a few sock puppet accounts can’t fix.
For the wrest of the week, Mira, her recensionists and her side kick (often worse than a butt kick) work feverishly to revive their Eistern block buddies. It is not until the very last minute, with time to retour to hothells and pack and comprehendez, slowly, that a week has passed in a solid state torpor, that the recensionists are brought back to malleable states of stupor, having missed the entire Entreaty for Corporeality. In the Errorpain, much discussion is underway about the attacks, occurring in a series and a smokescreen for a bigger conspiracy. Since Mira has missed the emergency methings, the narra tiff cannot reveal what she has mist.
The Driver Jean transports them back to the collection point and they alight, bags are unloaded, Mira smiles and waves and breathes a sigh of bas relief. Squirrel is snoring in a corner seat of the bus. So that when ...more
With certain reviews floating around Goodreads and the jacket cover description, I was reluctant to slip between the covers of this book – it is not o With certain reviews floating around Goodreads and the jacket cover description, I was reluctant to slip between the covers of this book – it is not one of the most entrancing subjects, the idea of someone sleeping more than half a life-time through both world wars and awakening to discover loss in all its myriad forms. And this description, since it is the seeming device with which the story is rendered, is the first step along the voyage to misunderstanding the nature of this book. It’s an easy hook to catch a reader, but it is as misleading a reduction of what the book concerns as asserting that Moby Dick is about a big whale. Whether the other books, The Stain, Entering Fire and The Jade Cabinet comprising the Tetralogy, a composition of the elements Earth, Fire, Water and Air, have been read in no way affects the enjoyment of The Fountains of Neptune since it is perhaps Ducornet’s most brilliant and least understood work....more
Jeffery and Trudie recently reviewed an Angry Robots book Dead Harvest, an imprint of which is Strange Chemistry. Af Serendipity, what a strange thing.
Jeffery and Trudie recently reviewed an Angry Robots book Dead Harvest, an imprint of which is Strange Chemistry. After finishing reading their reviews, what should pop up in my inbox but an invite from Strange Chemistry to review an ARC of Emilie and the Hollow World, which I accepted.
If you are a fan of steam-punk, this is a good, fast, light read that takes no risks with the formula nor sets new standards in the genre. The story reminds me strongly of the more memorable moments of Jacques Tardi's The Adventures of Adele Blanc Sec and the cover is quite an enticing eyeful.
My issues centred around the technical - the text would have benefited from both in-line and structural editing - some of the minor plot points don't bear too much scrutiny, commas incorrectly placed, incorrect speech attribution, redundant sentences and doubling up of description - if something is round, a young adult reader doesn't need to be told twice to grasp the picture. Some author ethics filtered through Emilie which strained belief in her as a character and Emilie's dialogue veered at times between ridiculously juvenile and suspiciously adult, not to mention including colloquialisms or epithets which simply don't fit in a the mouth of a character set in a squarely Victorian steam-punk world. A little more attention to the mechanics of Victorian society would have helped with the world building.
Plus points that bear mention: gently sarcastic nods in the direction of sexism in the genre; a assured and unobtrusive handling of the magic (aether) without any long-winded explanations for why it worked; zero gratuitous violence, and for the most part, a crisp and clean prose style (which emphasised the sub-par editing, but as this is an ARC, I presuming these issues will be remedied before going to press) that rendered description of Emilie's Hollow World, as well as her home, readily imaginable.
Drat! Two books in one week where the star system leaves me severely miffed. It's not just two but neither does it deserve three.
Hmm.
I'll admit, I did Drat! Two books in one week where the star system leaves me severely miffed. It's not just two but neither does it deserve three.
Hmm.
I'll admit, I did go into this prejudiced, in both directions. Colfer had utterly failed to impress with his abysmal attempt at following in Douglas Adam's fabulous footsteps. But given that the Fowl series was brought to an end last year and the first in the series was a free giveaway, plus the amount of hysteria Fowl fans seem to generate in heaping accolades on their hero (Eoin or Arty, take your pick) persuaded me that, having bothered to read the other Harry Potter follow-ups (Percy Jackson, The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel, and The Children of the Lamp") it was hardly fair not to bother with this one.
Well, it was hardly fair to bother with it, to be honest. However, it was fast, junky, and consumed in a couple of hours. It's better than a lot of other YA twaddle on offer, and while the author fell short of his grand designs, he at least had them. I can see the appeal for kids, and it's no worse than the aforementioned series.
The main protagonist is a morally ambiguous anti-hero (I'm not really convinced that the "I'm so smart I can get away with anything and therefore I'm likeable" is such a great message), there's a bit of eco mumbo-jumbo thrown in (but neither realistically nor sincerely enough to make much difference to attitudes), the science is not just questionable but downright shoddy - if you want to give kids a science lesson, at least do it with a little accuracy, there's nothing wrong with mixing fantasy and science in fiction but make the effort to write the science right - and the patriotic elevation of Ireland as the source of all original magic borders almost on jingoistic.
But...for all that, there are some snarky moments which (hopefully) kids find amusing, and it's certainly fun to come out trumps against the authority figures. There are some seriously over-dosed UK public school boy attempts at humour which failed to appeal (but then I'm not the target group) and the magic was...meagre. On the other hand, it requires no less suspension of disbelief than Percy Jackson, and Artemis (really, Mr Colfer, it's nitpicking I know, but an Irish familial heir christened with the name of a Greek Goddess? Wouldn't the masculine form Artemas, or at least the Asia Minor name Artemidorus, contracted to Arty as well, not have been slightly more...appropriate? Or did you really intend your audience to consider your protagonist's androgynous aspects?) snatches victory by brain rather than brawn (bodyguard notwithstanding).
The series deserves its place in the post-Potter canon - but are we ever going to see a return to quality prose, genuine characters, and properly constructed plot for young adult fiction again, if this is what's considered worthy of publishing?...more
Goodreads, and GRers themselves, fundamentally inspire the reading of books and the writing of reviews and the interactions that occur as a result of Goodreads, and GRers themselves, fundamentally inspire the reading of books and the writing of reviews and the interactions that occur as a result of the collisions of both. The variations that inspiration engenders could probably be calculated using non-linear mathematics by the author of this speculative fiction piece given his prodigious applied and theoretical background in computing science, his achievements in chess, and his other publications.
This collection of reviews is, in part, the author's attempt to demonstrate concretely the reviewing styles available to the reader, should he or she choose to depart from the orthodoxy. While it is not a how-to Emannuel per se, it does contain explicit examples of the more popular adumbrations that abound. However, the author has failed to incorporate an increasingly popular trend emerging from various regions which employs the counterbalance of adopted melodies to emphasise, or even explicate, the value of the work being appraised. This should not detract either the casual observer or the interested scholar from approaching Pooh as a useful tool in self-expression; on the contrary, it can aid in both the germination and release of new ideas, methodologies for analysis, and general pontification on the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.
In summary:
THE EURHYTHMICS: Love is a Stranger*
Reviews like a stranger in the world of books To tempt you in and lead you far away Reviews like a stranger in the world of books To tempt you in and whirl you far away
And you read them, and you read them, and you read them here's a confession And you read them, and you read them, and you read them it's an obsession
Reviews are a danger of a viral kind To seduce your senses and manipulate your mind And books, books, books are a dangerous drug You have to imbibe them and you still can't to-be-read enough
They're savage and they're cruel and they shine like destruction They're an inferno and a deluge and they create their own religion They're noble and they're brutal, they distort and derange They drench you in thought and leave you in carnage.
And you read them, and you read them, and you read them it's an obsession
Reviews guilt edged, glamorous and sleek by design Reviewers fabulous by nature, riotous and wild They dazzle and they drain you and it's totally cruel They touch you and tease as you wander through the melee.
And you read them, and you read them, and you read them here's a confession And you read them, and you read them, and you read them it's an obsession.
Don't even think about questioning the memories I have of my childish infatuation with this book.Don't even think about questioning the memories I have of my childish infatuation with this book....more
This book is an analogy for how we justify enjoying our good fortune obtained though the enforced suffering of others. Whether it is within the circleThis book is an analogy for how we justify enjoying our good fortune obtained though the enforced suffering of others. Whether it is within the circle of your own family, your neighbourhood, your state or your country, there is a chain of events, circumstance, belief and acquiescence which continues to sustain an amoral inequality in our local and global societies. We wouldn't need this book or others like it if reality was different....more
I have quite some things to say and so little time in which to say these. And now we have the great year of Proust...it may be some time before these I have quite some things to say and so little time in which to say these. And now we have the great year of Proust...it may be some time before these things are said, time being what it is, holidays being what they are, and my thoughts being scattered as usual.
So perhaps it's best to attempt the following:
Comparisons with Austen are appropriate for the social commentary and the (at times gently and perhaps not so gently snide) remarks the narrator makes about the actions of the characters. But this is not Austenesque prose by any stretch of the imagination.
There is an internal consistency to this book that makes it appear the author spent most of the ten years it took her to write the book in plotting - in fact, that wasn't the case, so even more impressive.
Comparisons with Dickens are odd - perhaps my knowledge of Dickens is lacking but the only resemblance is in the sprawling nature Dickens employed and which has been executed to good effect in this book. With respect to the development of social disparity, Dickens was far more caustic.
Was it really nearly 900 pages long? My goodness, I hardly noticed at all.
Footnotes in a fiction book - well, really. How delightful. Brilliant asides which added depth and flavour without detracting or distracting from the story - it helped that I simply read the footnotes at the end of each chapter in the e-book version, of course. But still. To be savoured rather than spurned.
The arbitrariness of the magic - well, yes. That was rather the point. Magic doesn't solve problems, particularly when it's been out of action for such a long time and its two lead proponents are two sides of the same coin (not quite Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, but definitely ivory tower scholar and mad, experiential scientist) both blind to their lack of understanding of its capriciousness - not for nothing is one labelled Fearfulness and the other Arrogance.
The villain - well, there wasn't. Actually, there was not one single (male) character (with the possible exception of the Hero (view spoiler)[Stephen Black (hide spoiler)] and Dr Greysteel) who did not display villainous tendencies of one or other inclination. The ladies remained virtuous and pure to the last (which was perhaps the only fault I would have with this book, a kind of inverted sexism if you will) and were a driving force for the action of the book because of their value as objects (sadly - but then, this is an historically accurate portrayal, therefore it would not be appropriate to have our 21st Century sensibilities criticising Regency ignorance/value systems).
The setting - perfect. Just enough historical realism so that suspension of disbelief was never even an obvious factor in slipping into a world where odd occurrences had as much a surreal as a rational explanation.
Accuracy and research of both English folklore and Regency England - could not be faulted. Natty little snippets included Lord Byron being jinxed and a footnote as to his later death.
But the highest accolade I can pay this book - I was not aware I was reading it until I was (forcibly) interrupted and suddenly became aware of my own existence again. This book is that good....more
Oh! Just need to catch my breath. WOW. Btw, those are 10 stars, not five.
A book has to work very hard to counteract my ADHD. I know, I should make more of an effort to stop being a serial book-adulterer but that is...like asking me to stop breathing.
I stopped for this book.
What happened that a relatively unknown Melbourne-based Aussie writer of a young adult (it's suitable for upper middle grade, too) fantasy realism novel that's good enough to keep an (old) adult enthralled into the wee morning hours attracted my attention in the first place?
At the behest of every known person and what passes for their pet, I finally decided to broach the twitterverse. And amazingly enough, I like the chatty one-liners and the light-speed back-and-forth (yeah, you don't have to tell me, it's probably my ADHD!). Even more astonishing is the fact that people besides you-must-read-my-latest-incredible-outpouring-of-words-authors follow me.
Being a twitter neophyte also meant that I've learned some lessons the hard way. Such as if you follow someone it pays to at least check who they are first, because DUH! when you follow them back they can DM (I thought it was some new kind of kinky sex term at first - you know, shorthand for BDSM!) you with one of those you-must-read-me-NOW missives.
When Myke Bartlett followed me my first thought was 'Oh no, not again.' But being a stickler for my own rules, I read his tweet tagline and bingo. The man won THE TEXT PRIZE last year. In case that has no significance for you it is a MAJOR Australian publishing prize open to any Aussie/NZ resident, any age, published or unpublished, with a Children's or Young Adult manuscript.
Fast as a tweet I was on his webpage and looking up his book. And the man is a tease, I tell you. A total tease!
Three figures shot up from the harbour depths. They rose ten metres in the air, trailing saltwater, and then dropped onto the wharf. Their hair was knotted and foul and their faces warped and discoloured. They wore tight-fitting, tarnished armour: chain-mail vests stained with verdigris and heavy bracelets on bony wrists. Helmets masked their eyes and exaggerated their brows into curled horns. One carried a double-bladed axe, one had a sword strung from his rotting leather belt, and the last gripped a trident.
That was it. THAT WAS GODDAMN IT. And he used the word verdigris. Swoon.
Now let's just stop here for a minute and read that paragraph again. What a picture. What a pace. What lean-and-hungry prose.
That is why I DMed him (not the other way round) begging for a review copy. His publishers kindly obliged and within half an hour of never having heard of Mr Bartlett and his book, I was glued to my laptop and nothing short of nuclear war would have stopped me from reading.
The comparison of Sadie, the lead heroine, to that other famously-wooden-I-will-be-the-last-fashionably-dressed-mancontestant-standing aren't justified (and yes, Victorian State Library's blog says Fire in the Sea is what would happen if Suzanne Collins and John Marsden co-wrote a fantasy novel) because Myke Bartlett just does it better.
Sadie is you or me, or your next-door-neighbour's daughter, who's lost her parents in a car crash and is living with her averagely nice grandparents, just trying to be a not-too-typical-and-not-too-different teenager in Perth. All Sadie really wants is to escape the need to 'soldier on', to leave Perth's middle-class suburbia behind her, and find a life somewhere else, much to the dismay of her best friend Tom, who's just at that awkward age where he wants Sadie to be more than best friend, but has no real clue as to how to change the status quo.
Enter old man Jacob who dies and leaves Sadie his house with the proviso she live in it for a year and guard its contents. Before she has a chance to commit, someone's already broken into the house, claiming to be the old man returned.
Now if that happened to you or me, what would you do? Yup, that's right. Roll your eyes and look at hot, young Jake and say "You're like, seriously hallucinating, dude." Which naturally Sadie does.
But then Jacob/Jake's lawyer is murdered right in front of Sadie's eyes, and she can't keep ignoring what's going on. Tom is gored by a wild bull - except it's the Minotaur made into somebody's pet. And that somebody has some very nasty plans for Jake, and now Sadie and Tom.
If I go on any further, I'm going to be entering spoiler territory and this book is SOOOOO GOOD I'm going to stop right here.
If you love nicely drawn characters and finely hewn prose, if you like twisty turns of plot and beautifully rendered depictions of setting, read this book. NOW. YESTERDAY!
Disclaimer - I approached the author for a review copy, kindly provided by the publishing house Text Publishing. I received no remuneration or payment in kind for this review. And even if I had, I wouldn't stop telling you to READ THIS BOOK....more
Sometime before my tenth birthday I read this book for the first time. I hated it. And I read it again. And again. I still hate it. And the Disney verSometime before my tenth birthday I read this book for the first time. I hated it. And I read it again. And again. I still hate it. And the Disney version is even worse....more
I saw the movie on the plane (where else) and was frantic to surf the 'net to find out more about it when we landed. I wanted to understand more aboutI saw the movie on the plane (where else) and was frantic to surf the 'net to find out more about it when we landed. I wanted to understand more about the book, its author, the concepts, and background. Big screen (well, in this case, the small screen on the back of a plane seat) is terrific but ephemeral, whereas with a book I have time for distractions, cogitation, re-reading (and checking things on the net!). You might argue that I can fiddle with 'Pause', 'Rewind', 'Forward' and (several iterations later) 'Play', but this tends to have the undesirable effect of tossing me out of my utterly physiological entrapment within the film. The beauty of a book is that it is really all in my head! And that's what I would like to discuss here.
Chris Nolan's treatment of the book was brilliant, precisely because of the medium; fast-paced, fore-shadowing, and with a judicious and welcome lack of gratuitous violence and special effects. But it doesn't do justice to the subject matter that Chris Priest wanted to, and effectively did, explore.
Priest's book is a marvel no less worthy precisely because it is a book! The book is written in three parts, each part representing one of the three elements of a magic act, and each part cleverly reflects the nature of the element it represents (bear that in mind when reading nay-sayers who think the opening setting is irrelevant). Nolan did condense parts of the book and the condensation works perfectly in a movie. Priest's original material is able to play with the nature of a magic act in a way Nolan could not, because of the shortening required for a screenplay.
Nolan made an emotional grab for the guts with the motivation he set up for the characters - and that is also a function of the medium. A film doesn't have the luxury of time that a book does. Priest's book, on the other hand, delves much more in the psychology of its protagonists without a quickly discernible (and emotionally acceptable) cause-and-effect providing the basis for the competition between the two magicians.
The book's haunting ending achieves a level of ambiguity the movie fails to translate (and Nolan is known for his lack of black-and-white, cut-and-dried endings). Images from the film still sit with me, but scenes from the book that I have imagined myself resonate far longer, and with far many more questions.
I think it is probably better at this point to recommend reading the book (keeping in mind that it is a book and the film is a successful adaptation) than saying anything else, because even if you have seen the movie, the book is sufficiently different that I would have to start on the path to spoilerdom. And this is a novel which deserves the innocence of an audience waiting in anticipation for the curtain to rise....more
I lost interest. Yes, I have attention-deficit syndrome. I'm also a dreadful pragmatist insisting on infAhh.
(That was meant to be a pain-filled gasp.)
I lost interest. Yes, I have attention-deficit syndrome. I'm also a dreadful pragmatist insisting on information (information!) spoon-filled into my needs-facts-for-fuel brain (there's a review somewhere by Greg about this despicable phenomenon and eventually I will hyperlink it).
Perhaps Mr Kay's editor was on holiday. I drowned in a sea of 'ly'. Continually. This was genre-bender of the gratuitous-sex-as-the-McGuffin-when-magic-fails kind. And in case I was so attention-deficit as to misplace character motive or forget where I was, I was reminded every few pages (oh sorry, chapters).
The premise was good, the plot should have worked. But in the end, I didn't care any more what was going to happen. Not even enough to skip the excruciating middle and read the end. Which, if other reviews are anything to judge, may have held a redeeming surprise or two.
I believe in hard-nosed, flinty-eyed, butchering editors. It's a pity that they only ever seem to make an appearance for debut novels....more
Some of us are still gallivanting around the cave, some of us are chained to the floor examining shadows. And some of us exist inside the consciousnesSome of us are still gallivanting around the cave, some of us are chained to the floor examining shadows. And some of us exist inside the consciousness of a malevolent artificial intelligence that derives its only amusement, diversion from unceasing monotony, in merciless torment of five surviving humans:
the scientist, the idealist, the existentialist, the prostitute and the Messiah.
The only escape is annihilation, and it is left to the Messiah to condemn himself to eternal suffering.
You're excused if you think I'm discussing The Matrix - my first thought on reading the title story is that the 1999 film owes its central ideas and plot to Harlan Ellison. But Ellison owes the juxtaposition of his primary characters to the Bible: AM, the self-realised AI trapped forever within circuitry is a vengeful God punishing humanity for its own actualisation - would God exist if humans could not imagine the concept? Ted is the lamb sacrificed to release his fellow companions from the hell of AM's nightmare world - the atonement of sins he provides is escape from AM's hell, while he remains to endure it. Is Ellen the Magdalene - not unless you accept the Magdalene really was a prostitute, although Ellen proclaims that she was chaste prior to AM's perversion of her psyche; the scientist becomes the simian, the idealist apathetic and the existentialist remains ambiguous. Analogy between the disciples and these other characters would be a stretch of the imagination unjustified, however the three are willing participants in the sacrifice of the Messiah.
Ellison's prose is a picture. I won't paraphrase - I couldn't do him justice:
Gigantic. The words immense, monstrous, grotesque, massive, swollen, overpowering, beyond description. There on a mound rising above us, the bird of winds heaved with its own irregular breathing, its snake neck arching up into the gloom beneath the North Pole, supporting a head as large as a Tudor mansion; a beak that opened slowly as the jaws of the most monstrous crocodile ever conceived, sensuously; ridges of tufted flesh puckered about two evil eyes, as cold as the view down into a glacial crevasse, ice blue and somehow moving liquidly; it heaved once more, and lifted its great sweat-colored wings in a movement that was certainly a shrug. Then it settled and slept. Talons. Fangs. Nails. Blades. It slept....
...And we came, finally, to the ice caverns. Horizonless thousands of miles in which the ice had formed in blue and silver flashes, where novas lived in the glass. The downdropping stalactites as thick and glorious as diamonds that had been made to run like jelly and then solidified in graceful eternities of smooth, sharp perfection.
Today was the first time I read Harlan Ellison. It won't be the last....more
Northern Lights started out this series with a lot of promise. Unfortunately the anti-religion message became so strong the story took a back seat. AlNorthern Lights started out this series with a lot of promise. Unfortunately the anti-religion message became so strong the story took a back seat. Always a pity....more
*****Edit***** I'm even more of a slack skimmer than I thought. If I'd read more of the download, I'd never have added it at all :(. See the first two *****Edit***** I'm even more of a slack skimmer than I thought. If I'd read more of the download, I'd never have added it at all :(. See the first two thread comments (spoiler alert).
****Edit end****
This book sounded like a truly fascinating read. I downloaded the extract, read several pages, and thought, 'hmmmm - has piqued my interest. I like the sound of this'.
When I first heard of the book, I checked a few of the 4-5 star reviews, and most spoke well of it, particularly the ideas it contained. All well and good. Currently a friend is reading it and we agreed to pal-read (sorry Ala, I'm going to let the side down). So I checked over a few more friends' reviews, and marked it TR today.
Thank goodness. Ms Murphybylaw flagged the gruesome violence and ick factor. While I'm a great fan of the unusual, the play of ideas, history (fiction is my favourite, I'm pretty hopeless with the real thing - too many dates and places and people to remember) and sci-fi in general, blood and guts and violence leaves me gagging and ill (hey, I retired to bed with a migraine after the first chapter of The Hunger Games).
So, sadly, this book will not see the light of my eyes, and its wonderful sounding ideas will remain forever a locked secret. If you don't suffer the same sensibilities as I, please do read the first chapter and see what you think. It might just be your cup of herbal tea....more
A small piece of background is probably useful before plunging into the review 'proper'.
Caris (I've moved from Mr O'Malley to the more familiar term aA small piece of background is probably useful before plunging into the review 'proper'.
Caris (I've moved from Mr O'Malley to the more familiar term at his invitation) and I became acquainted during the manic month known as NaNoWriMo, he as the die-hard spewer of the requisite 1667 words per day, I as the innocent reviewer of said words. It wasn't really a match made in heaven, since he specialises in a level of violence which makes Tarantino seem like Peter Pan's Wendy on a bad hair day (think Pulp Fiction where Travolta blows the brains out of someone, blood spraying everywhere and messing up the car rear window multiplied by a factor of infinity), and my reading tastes tend to coincide with those of a young middle-grader. The one scene in his Clownstory where we connected was when the hand of his hero/protagonist welded itself to a knife. As a serious and critical reviewer, I asked whether he was intending that the protagonist's other hand should also weld to the knife, thus making 'our hero' a completely hands-on dispatcher of insane clowns. As it turned out, I'm given to understand the suggestion had merit, but related little to the underlying theme of violent television programs, thus the protagonist served the purpose better by having his other hand make irreversible contact with an idiot box, before proceeding to nullify said clowns.
We briefly colluded on his review thread of Mykle Hansen's Ethical Cannibals where he promised to complete a collaborative project with Mr Hansen as a Part II entitled How to Assemble the Perfect People Taco. The conception was Caris' reading this break-through author, who, in lamenting the overlap with his own work, forms the basis for beginning this review. Caris' idea was given further credibility when acclaimed activist K.I. Hope, described it as "the best idea in the history of literature."
Which left us both at an impasse. Caris' imagination clearly attracted my own. So, in a moment of supreme sensibility he crafted the The Egg Said Nothing - Puppy Version, which I will now proceed to review.
We have a number of different interpretations which can be placed upon this novel. A well-received existentialist explanation defies description. In the same vein, although somewhat more pragmatic, if a little phlegmatic, this reviewer noted many boxes had been ticked and approved the psychic aspect of The Egg Said Nothing.
At least once, a reader felt so removed from his own reality as to envision himself falling asleep at the wheel in order to remain 'at one' with the book. The lack of spelling mistakes also indicates the depth of meaning this book can inspire.
The existence of the Egg itself could be said to have sparked controversy. What is its true meaning? Is it, in fact, a metaphor for gender roles? Does it signify the potential for developing a nesting instinct? Is it an analogy for a future in which both sexes will reproduce?
In ending this review, which has attempted to explain the fundamental temporal and mannyfold premise upon which this novel is built, let us return to K.I. Hope, who provides a lucid metaphysical deconstruction repeated elsewhere, mirroring the coda of The Egg Said Nothing.
History and I have a rather sporadic relationship. Ancient Greeks (mythology as well) for a semester in high school, some WWI/WWII in another high-schHistory and I have a rather sporadic relationship. Ancient Greeks (mythology as well) for a semester in high school, some WWI/WWII in another high-school semester, Australian colonial history as part of Social Science, and that's about it. I was deprived of the joys of a literary/history option at Uni, being intent on acquiring a piece of paper which would bequeath some form of 'employable' status, and Arts didn't (at the time) fall into that category, I'm sad to acknowledge.
So I tend to be a sucker for books which (pretend to - how can I judge?) have some historical basis and morph into fantasy (that way I don't feel guilty about not knowing the dates, names and famous places). In this case, not only has the author covered much of the Plantagenet history, but also contrived to introduce English/French animal mythology. Fundamentally the book is an historical fantasy romance and a coming-of-age, but with some intriguing elements that are a departure from the norm.
The book did drag in the middle (there's only so much history one can absorb, and I started to become a little bored with the Fox - more a reflection on me than the author), so I admit to having indulged in my usual practice of skimming chunks of text until my attenion was firmly re-hooked. It is a long read, but worthwhile for those of you who like decent prose, a heroine who develops, a look at history and European mythology, and reasonably well-structured plot/characters.
Aside: and it was another one that I picked up in an aeroport somewhere....more