A is for Anomie and Anti-globalization

TITLE: Generation A
AUTHOR: Douglas Coupland
PUBLISHER: Windmill Books

RATING
5/5 “Double rainbow. All the way”; 4/5 “Where the hell is Matt?”; 3/5 “Sneezing panda baby”; 2/5 “Gummibear song video”; 1/5 “Miss teen USA 2007”
SCORE 4/5

“A" is for apple, and where would we be without them? It's funny to realize that although apples, like the letter A, were there at the beginning (think Adam, think Eve), the last apple you ate probably didn't exist until about 100 years ago. Granny Smiths started in 1868, Golden Delicious in 1900. Mucking about with nature doesn't always end in disaster.

Canadian author Douglad Coupland's 2009 novel, "Generation A", is also about beginnings, and apples, and mucking about with nature, though his take is more acidic Granny than sweet Golden. Despite some excellent writing, however, the book is an excellent beginning in search of an end, and A without a Z, a flower waiting for a bee.

Mr Coupland first buzzed into the public conscience on the wings of his high-flying 1991 novel, "Generation X", which for better or worse helped popularize "Gen X" as handle for those born in the 60s and 70s. I admit that, in a fit of contrarianism familiar to anyone who has ever been 17, I never read the book precisely because of its popularity. My confident predictions that Mr Coupland would be quickly swatted away have been decisively disproved over the last 19 years, as Mr Coupland has continued to pollinate popular culture with a steady stream of both non-fiction work and novels, of which "Generation A" is his thirteenth.

Over the years I have at times bumped into Mr Coupland's works on bookstore shelves, each time experiencing the disquiet I normally reserve for new Pearl Jam albums or Rutger Hauer movies--are you allowed to stay popular for 20 years? It all seems so old-fashioned somehow. Fittingly, the disconnect between popular culture and the individual has been a recurring theme in Mr Coupland's novels over the years. His work has hovered between consistency and repetitiveness, always engagingly and amusingly written, balancing mysticism and realism, although he tends to revisit similar situations and themes. Often, the strength of the writing overcomes the touch of déjà vu you feel on cracking open one of Mr Coupland's books.

Not surprisingly then, "Generation A" (Aha! Thought I'd never get around to it, didn't you?) is in many ways an echo of "Generation X". The structure is the same, with a framing narrative used to set the stage for the five main characters to tell a series of stories. The characters themselves are Mr Coupland's usual suspects, social outsiders in various stages of anomie, twentysomethings trying to extract meaning from a random universe.

"Generation A" is set in a near-future in which bees are believed to be extinct (this was a topical issue in 2007-8, when there were stories of mysterious disappearances of bee colonies; it now appears reports of their extinction were exaggerated). Believed to be, that is, until five young people in countries around the world are all stung. First is Zack, an Iowan corn farmer with ADD and a reckless streak. Then there's Julien, a socially awkward shut-in who spends his life in World of Warcraft, Diana, a religious Canadian dental hygienist with Tourette syndrome and Samantha, a New Zealander gym trainer. Rounding out the quintet is Harj, a Sri Lankan orphaned by the 2004 tsunami who works as a telemarketer for Abercrombie & Fitch.

The five are first put in isolation, extensively studied, and then released. Thanks to the Internet, they each discover they have become major celebrities without the compensation of celebrity paychecks. It comes as a relief when one of the scientists whisks them all away to a secluded island off the coast of British Columbia, where he instructs them to tell stories as a way of prompting their bodies to secrete proteins that may have attracted the bees.

It's much like Mr Coupland's other books. If you haven't read them, it's a bit like Douglas Adams on drugs, or Chuck Palahniuk off of them. The other obvious comparison is to fellow Vancouver author William Gibson; the two share a fascination with popular culture and technology, though Mr Coupland seems less enthusiastic on where they are taking us. As a result, his tone is more direct and satirical than Mr Gibson's. In "Generation A", the words positively sting. Diana's ex-boyfriend smells "of Rogaine and failure", Harj's call-center job involves discussing "colour samples and waffle-knit jerseys with people who wish they were dead."

However, some of this waspish criticism feels cheap and easy. Globalization has become this year's political correctness, the soft target that nobody will stand up for. Abercrombie & Fitch are already something of a self-parody. And do we truly live in a "fame-driven culture, with its real-time 24-7 marinade of electronic information"? Maybe. Some people do, I guess. But that leaves millions upon millions who don't have a Facebook account, couldn't care less about Rihanna or Justin Beiber, and whose only use for a cell phone is, er, to make phone calls. Mr Coupland demolishes this straw man effectively, but I feel his anger is largely misplaced.

On a technical level, there is a lot to like here. The first half of the book, as we are introduced to each character and watch their reactions to becoming specimens in a jar, is some of Mr Coupland's sharpest, juiciest writing. The second half, not so much. As amusing as it all is, the whole thing starts to feel a bit false. I don't for a minute believe any of the characters introduced in the first half would come up with the stories presented in the second. Mr Coupland champions story-telling as a means of creating order in our lives, but the ending is a chaotic, gooey mess. It's the literary equivalent of "Lost", 300 pages leading up to and ending that leaves you feeling a bit cheated.

It's as though you're reading two books awkwardly grafted together--one, a smart, biting social critique set in a nicely downbeat near-future, where mankind's doom is more apathetic than apocalyptic; the other, a weird mish-mash of offbeat short stories suddenly cut off by a "what the--?" ending. No guesses which of the two I'd rather be reading.

Still, grafting is what gave us the Golden Delicious, and there's still plenty to savor here. Just don't let the ending leave you with a bitter aftertaste.

Men who hate "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

TITLE: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Original title Man Som Hatar Kvinnor): Millennium, Book 1
AUTHOR: Stieg Larsson/Translation by Reg Keeland
PUBLISHER: Quercus

RATING
5/5 “Full-body tattoos of Buddhist demons”; 4/5 “Chinese characters you can’t even read yourself”; 3/5 “Bands of any type”; 2/5 “Anything Celtic”; 1/5 “(Ex) Girlfriend’s names”
SCORE 3/5

Shrug. Sorry, that’s the best I can muster after finishing Swedish author Stieg Larsson’s serial bestseller, “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”. I know, phenomenon like this tend to produce tsunami-wave cycles of popularity, of crest and trough, of adulation and backlash, and back again, pushing opinions to the extremes and drowning out the middle ground. Does anyone find the Twilight series, “OK, I guess”? How many people finished “The Da Vinci Code” and thought, “Ho hum”?

You can’t doubt “Girl” and the other two books that make up the Millennium trilogy are very much at the peak of the crest now. Last month Amazon announced Mr Larsson had become the first author to sell over one million e-books for the Kindle. The Huffington Post reports that sales of trilogy exceeded 30 million worldwide. But after wading through 500-plus pages of turgid exposition, choppy dialogue and wet characters, the most I can say for this book is, It’s OK, I guess. Ho hum.

I admit though, it is refreshing to read a novel set in such a little-known nation, and there’s no denying the old-world charm that rises like perfume from place-names like the Furusund Strait, Arholma, Gotgatan and Gamla stan. True, some of the cultural references may be hard to follow, such as to Sweden’s interest rate crises in the early 90s, but in a way that kind of adds to the enjoyment of experiencing something new and foreign. But that’s just about the only nice thing I can say about the book.

Much of the hype surrounding the Millennium series focuses on its characters, and they are the book’s first disappointment, but not its worst. Theoretically, the hero of the story is political/financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist, but the publisher knew what they were about when they changed the title to focus on his partner, dragon-tattooed computer hacker Lisbeth Salander (the original Swedish title translates as “Men Who Hate Women”). It’s undoubtedly a smart publicity move, but sadly Salander, billed as a Goth-punk Bourne with an extra X chromosome, instead comes across as yet another fantasy figure, the kind of kick-ass girl introverts dream of dating, one whose real turn-on is diffidence. “Dammit, he had treated her like a human being” she thinks to herself before hopping into bed with Blomkvist.

If Salander is a disappointment, Blomkvist is a disaster. His defining characteristic is passivity. He’s accused of libel by a shady businessman, but refuses to defend himself, and is disgraced as a result. Luckily, he’s then hired by octogenarian industrialist Henrik Vanger to investigate the case of a child that disappeared 40 years previous, but for much of the book he manages to do little but drink coffee and have sex. Blomkvist’s only other character trait, you see, appears to be his alarmingly omnivorous sexual appetite. He sleeps with every single major female character in the book, a list that includes a woman half his age (Salander), the (married) editor-in-chief of the magazine he works for, as well as the (married but separated) niece of Henrik Vanger, a woman much closer to 60 than 16. For Mr Larsson, a journalist, to write about a journalist having such success with the ladies, will probably a too-transparent bit of wish fulfillment for some readers.

The other attraction the novel offers is its choice of themes. Here, the situation is somewhat better. The overriding theme, as the Swedish title suggests, is violence against women, especially sexual violence. Each part of the book begins with a grim statistic such as “48% of the women in Sweden have been subjected to violence by a man”, and this carries over into Blomkvist and Salander’s investigation, as they turn up evidence (after much coffee-fuelled bed-hopping) that someone in Vanger’s family harbors a serious grudge against the opposite sex.

Mr Larsson has other irons in the fire as well. There’s his evident disgust with the cozy ties between financial journalists and their subjects, his hatred of both Sweden’s unrepentant Nazi movement and abuses of power, and perhaps more oddly, his airy dismissal of the role of stock exchanges. To be sure, Mr Larsson’s rage is evidently heartfelt, though Blomkvist’s sudden outbursts against these targets feel as though they come from the author rather than the character. Still, these doses of raw emotion help to enliven an otherwise lifeless plot.

The real drawback of the book, you see, is the positively somnolent progress from plot point to plot point. The convoluted backstory could probably have been dealt with in a fraction of the space. We learn a lot about the Vanger family but little that relates to the case. There’s a buildup of evidence but no corresponding narrowing of suspects, leaving the reader with nothing to get involved in, but instead watching the investigation at arm’s length. Just when the novel feels like it might be suddenly getting interesting—a Dan Brown mystery for grown-ups—Mr Larsson suddenly shifts gears, reveals the culprit and then just as quickly kills him off. The remaining 100 pages are an entirely unnecessary epilogue in which Blomkvist gets his revenge on the man who framed him in the libel case.

Partly, I suspect, this long-windedness is the result of the book’s rather unique genesis. As most of you will know, Mr Larsson died of a heart attack shortly after delivering the manuscripts of the series to his publisher (this wouldn’t sound nearly so eerie if he’d written, say, a work of adult erotica, but hey). So bang went any chance of give-and-take between editor and writer as they sought to hone the work into the finished product. Would you want to delete a dead man’s words? No? So that’s very much what it feels like we’re getting, a raw, unvarnished manuscript, one showing lots of promise but lots of rough edges, too.

Hic Sunt Cuddly Dracones

TITLE: His Majesty’s Dragon (In the UK: Temeraire)
AUTHOR: Naomi Novik
PUBLISHER: Harper Collins

RATING
5/5 “HMS Victory”; 4/5 “HMS Beagle”; 3/5 “HMS Bounty”; 2/5 “HMS Pinafore”; 1/5 “RMS Titanic”
SCORE 4/5

Time was, dragons were the stuff of nightmares, horrors lying beyond the horizon, "Hic Sunt Dracones"—here be dragons, and watch out, they're coming for you. How times change. Revisionism is in, and our old nemesis has gotten a makeover. "His Majesty's Dragon" shows this isn't necessarily a bad thing, provided you don't mind having your dragons declawed.

At first glance, "His Majesty's Dragon" seems like a one-trick dragonet, its one twist being that it puts dragons in the middle of the Napoleonic Wars. The idea of mashing up fantasy and Napoleonic adventure is cute, but not terribly original. It's been done before, most notably with Susanna Clarke's 2004 bunker-buster "Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell". Fortunately, that's not all "His Majesty's Dragon" has to offer. Like many good works of speculative fiction, it takes a well-worn concept and stands it on its head—here, deadly fire-breathing dragons are not monsters, but our friends and allies.

This too, has been done elsewhere, often in kiddie stories like "How to Train Your Dragon". But whereas these boy-and-his-dragon stories tend to present dragons as a geeky kid's dream pet ("does whatever I say, and if anybody gives me any grief, turns them into smoked baby back ribs"), the dragons in "His Majesty's Dragon" are more like a geeky adult's dream kid.

Dragons in Ms Novik's book are smart, sentient chaps who imprint themselves on the nearest suitable candidate after they hatch from their shells—much the way birds do in the real world. As the novel opens, Royal Navy Captain William Laurence captures a dragon's egg from a French frigate, and no prizes for guessing who the little critter picks to be his mommy-surrogate when he hatches. A panicked Laurence names his new companion "Temeraire" (French for "rash") after a ship in the Royal Navy—which sounds about par for guys' choices of baby names. We're always trying to get the kids named after our obsessions: I know one soccer-mad father who planned to name his son Zidane, while in Japan a certain Mr Hayashi (the name translates as "Wood(s)") was thwarted in his attempt to name his son Tiger.

Also like some new parents, Laurence isn't overjoyed at the prospect of giving up his career and private life to look after a needy, grasping infant. The two of them are packed off to join Britain's Royal Aerial Corps, currently going tooth-and-claw with the French emperor Napoleon's own squadrons of dragons. The training scenes that follow are more 'Cosby Show" than "Karate Kid", as Laurence helps Temeraire to make friends, learn about where he came from, and steers him through the treacherous shoals of adolescence. This is light, breezy fun, as we watch Laurence go from reluctant parent to proud father, and Temeraire from shy stripling to king of the skies. There is skullduggery and violence of course, even a climactic aerial battle against the foul and most foreign French, but this is a kind of "Princess Bride" combat, deadly without every feeling threatening.

This is to the fantasy genre what the marshmallow is to Irish cream cheesecake; soft, squishy and sweet, simple yet a little bland. "His Majesty's Dragon" under-does the action, adventure or humor in favor of "awww, shucks" moments of bonding between Laurence and his dragon. Characterization is also marshmallow-simple, especially among the human cast. It's "The Black Stallion" with scales, surprisingly without bite for a book about dragons. The best that can be said of its Hornblower-meets-Helm's Deep setup is that Ms Novik at least explores how this might change history, with the Battle of Trafalgar as a sneaky deception to hide Nappy's real plan for invading England (this compares well with Ms Clarke's work, in which a powerful magician uses his wizardry to enable the British to beat Napoleon at Waterloo—which is, er, precisely what happened historically).

The real joy of the book is found in the energy Ms Novik invests in her scaly heroes. Thought has gone into getting the tone of each dragon right—from the dim-bulb chirpiness of the smallest dragons, to the earnest inquisitiveness of Temeraire himself. Speaking as a father, I'd say that in Temeraire, Ms Novik also strikes about the right balance between children's clinginess and their desire for independence. Ms Novik also obviously takes great joy in devising weird and wonderful breeds of dragons, with names to match, from the Winchesters and Parnassians of Britain, to the Pecheur Couronne (crowned fisher) and Flamme de Gloire (flame of glory) of France, and the Imperials and Celestials of China. Perhaps it's not surprising her human characters seem deadly dull next to these flamboyant butterflies.

Still, just as not every movie needs to be in 3-D, not every fantasy novel needs blood and guts. "His Majesty's Dragon" is a gentler kind of tale, as warm and cuddly as a dragon itself. And if that doesn't make sense to you, you're behind the times!

Can You Dig It?

TITLE: Warriors
EDITORS: George RR Martin, Gardner Dozois
PUBLISHER: TOR

Rating
5/5 "Can you dig it?"; 4/5 "OK, let's get down to it, boppers."; 3/5 "Warriors, come out and play-a-ay!"; 2/5 "The chicks are packed!"; 1/5 "What's the matter? You turning faggot?"
Score: 3/5

"OK, let's get down to it, boppers"

Call it the antidote to the Amazon effect. Modern technology is good at helping us find things similar to the ones we already own or like, but it's completely duff at leading us to new discoveries. Enter the short-fiction anthology. In the foreword to "Warriors", Editor George RR Martin compares anthologies to old-fashioned wire spinner racks, with "all the books jumbled up together". In "Warriors", he and co-editor Gardner Dozois set out to break the walls between genres by mixing up stories from all shades of the literary spectrum.

It's a laudable effort, and one that feels especially timely now, with the rise not only of chain superstores, as lamented by Mr Martin in his foreword, but also of on-line retailers offering sophisticated recommendation engines. It's a pity that much of the material in "Warriors" is not up to the task.

"Warriors, come out and play-a-ay!"

Partly, this is due to the subject matter. Mr Martin and Mr Dozois have made stories about warriors their unifying theme, and this has inevitably limited the range of stories they have collected. The 20 stories gather mainly around the poles of science fiction and historical fiction, with only a few pegs from other genres to support the idea that all fiction can fit under one tent. However, there are one or two exceptions, which not coincidentally turn out to be some of the best in the book.

It is also partly due to the very uneven quality of the stories on offer. While there are a few which are genuinely worthwhile entries, there are far too many which feel merely phoned in or hastily scribbled on the back of an envelope. Surprisingly, Mr Martin himself is one of the culprits here.

Now, let me say I stand in awe of Mr Martin's literary talent. I have encountered few writers in any genre with his gift for instant, vivid, believable characterization and ability to communicate this personality through the character's own voice. I am also staggered and humbled by the man's ability to juggle a best-selling fantasy series, a spin-off TV series, convention appearances, and still find time to edit this collection. So I call automatic BS on anyone who suggests I am insufficiently appreciative of his work.

The fact is, "The Mystery Knight", the latest in his "Dunk and Egg" series of short stories set in the same world as the "Song of Ice and Fire" novels, is just plain no good. Rather than building on our investment in Sir Duncan and his squire, Egg, Mr Martin invents a host of new characters, gives us no reason to care for them, then abruptly resolves the whole situation in an unsatisfying deus ex machina. Considering Mr Martin's name and the prospect of another entry in the Dunk and Egg saga was my main reason for buying the book, this is a terrible letdown.

"We're gonna rain on you, Warriors!"

Mr Martin can perhaps take small comfort in the fact that he has plenty of company. For a bunch of warriors, there are a disappointing number of misfires. Mr Dozois's own entry is not so much a letdown as simply baffling. Some of the big names, including Robin Hobb and Tad Williams, produce only shrug-inducing duds.

There are worse offenders, though. "King of Norway" by Cecelia Holland features a long, tepid battle scene followed by an escape that is pure hokum. David Weber's "Out of the Dark" is a shambling patchwork of Roland Emmerich's "Independence Day", Tom Clancy style military techno-fetishism ("the fifteen-pound round from the M-136 light anti-armor weapon struck the side of his vehicle's turret at a velocity of 360 feet per second") and a truly cringe-worthy Gothic third act. Diana Gabaldon's piece is utterly twee and far too taken with its own preciousness.

"You Warriors are good, real good." "The best."

Fortunately for those of us who already paid full-cover price for the hardback, the collection is not a total loss. In a development that's almost worth a "warriors" story on its own, the day is saved by the veterans of the old guard. Robert Silverberg, 75, turns in a melancholy yet thought-provoking piece on what warriors would do once there is nobody left to fight. Peter S. Beagle, 71, takes the warrior theme in an interesting direction, in a story that unfolds like a dream, which may be appropriate, since the hero may not--if you want to get technical about it--actually exist. S. M. Stirling, 56, gives us a light-hearted, fast-paced romp in a neato retro-future that mixes Napoleonic with post-apocalyptic settings. There are also solid entries from veterinarian James Rollins and closet botanist Naomi Novik.

Five out of 20 hits might be a good average in pro baseball, but makes these warriors look decidedly amateurish. Mr Martin's fumble as the slugger of the team is especially galling for us fans that were rooting hardest for him. We can only hope this shows his entire attention is going into the "Ice and Fire" series. Sadly for Mr Martin's lofty aims, none of the stories here were impressive enough to make me want to read more from the contributors. Though in a weird way, this is also a defeat for the Amazon effect he rails against, since I only got the book because Mr Martin's name was attached to it.

Call it a draw, then.

Not Dead Yet

TITLE: Before They are Hanged
AUTHOR: Joe Abercrombie
PUBLISHER: Pyr

RATING
5/5 “Hang ‘em high”; 4/5 “Just hangin’ out”; 3/5 “Hung jury”; 2/5 “Hung out to dry”; 1/5 “Hangover/Sexual hangups (tie)” DNF “Hanged, drawn & quartered” DISQ “Hung like a horse”
SCORE 4/5

Iconoclasm is fun at first, but it's got a shelf life shorter than a Japanese pop band. Once the glitter rubs off, what once seemed glam feels about as hip as Jefferson Airplane.

"Before They are Hanged" doesn't fall quite so far, but the biting satire is beginning to dull. I confess, I had a whale of a time with Joe Abercrombie’s first book in the series, “The Blade Itself”. Here, Mr Abercrombie cheerfully vivisected some of the ropiest fantasy clichés, from savage barbarians to kindly old wizards. Logen Ninefingers, the barbarian, spent more time screaming in pain than anger. The old wizard proved as kindly as Vlad the Impaler, and the nicest bloke in the whole book turned out to be the torturer.

Mr Abercrombie returns to the bonfire of the inanities in the second book, this time stoking the flames with the concept of heroic journeys and quests, heroes who get through battles without a crease in their woolens, traitors and sieges, heroic romance and famous last words. Nothing is sacred. Again.

The action quickly picks up where “The Blade Itself” left off, with the ramshackle kingdom called the Union facing threats on multiple fronts. The armies of the prophet Khalul, led by a coterie of invincible, cannibalistic Eaters are bearing down on the Union city of Dagoska from the south, while those of the barbarian King Bethod threaten the province of Angland to the north. Inquisitor Glokta arrives in Dagoska to shore up the defenses and unravel the mysterious disappearance of his predecessor.

Bayaz, the First of the Magi and former brother-in-arms to Khalul, journeys in search of a weapon that can stop Khalul’s unnatural underlings. He is joined by a mismatched band of five would-be heroes: Logen, Bayaz’s apprentice, a talkative guide, a dashing swordsman and a feral escaped slave.

A third story arc follows another band of misfits with colorful names like Dogman, as they accompany a Union army heading north, under the dubious leadership of the Union’s vain and cretinous Crown Prince.

We've already been introduced to this identity parade of characters, which leaves Mr Abercrombie more time to expand and enrich his world. We get a little further under the unwashed, flea-bitten skin of Logen and Dogman in particular, and these fatalistic, straightforward yet blackly humorous heroes are easily Mr Abercrombie's best inventions. The backstory to the adventure also contains intriguing hints that all this has gone before--hints that Mr Abercrombie has something to say other than "high fantasy sucks!"

All the same, there’s still plenty of fun to be had in “Before They are Hanged”, watching a string of stale genre staples receive a well-deserved comeuppance. Sword fights become interesting again once you realize Mr Abercrombie is unlikely to let his heroes escape unscathed. Their mask of invulnerability gets its face quite messily mashed in, knocking one hero out but waking the reader up to the possibilities inherent in a story that doesn’t handle its characters with kid gloves. The sex is almost as messy as the fighting, uncomfortably believable, mildly embarrassing and—because hey, it’s not you—sniggeringly funny.

However, all this relentless stereotype-bashing is starting to wear a little thin. There’s now something almost predictable about the character’s inability to dig themselves into anything except more trouble. Some of the catch lines too, such as “Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say…”, have outstayed their welcome, and feel shoehorned into the narrative to suit the author’s desire for continuity. Some of Mr Abercrombie’s deconstructions have themselves become stereotypes—the hapless Crown Prince being a classic example. If Mr Abercrombie really wanted to surprise, he’d have the foppish Prince suddenly turn out to be a military genius. Surprise—nepotism works!

It’s always easier to destroy than make something new, and I hope that before the end Mr Abercrombie builds something on the smoking rubble of fantasy conventions he’s created. In any event, after two books in the series I wonder if he’s run out of targets to obliterate. I kind of hope so, otherwise he might be heading back to the remainder bin with all the other glitter boys.

Pop Goes the World

TITLE: The Windup Girl
AUTHOR: Paolo Bacigalupi
PUBLISHER: Night Shade Books

RATING
5/5 "Led Zeppelin"; 4/5 "99 Luftballons"; 3/5 "Balloon boy"; 2/5 "The Hindenburg"; 1/5 "Lead Zeppelin"
SCORE 3/5

Dirigibles. I knew we were in trouble as soon as the story introduced dirigibles. They’ve become a sort of billboard for an entire class of bloated speculative fiction, an all-too literal metaphor for lardy, lumbering stories flogging thinly-veiled allegories of modern ills—Goodyear blimps for the beard-and-ponytail set. My advice to authors is, you see a zeppelin lumbering into the airspace over one of your stories, show no mercy—shoot that bastard down. Kill your darlings, as Faulkner said. You’ll be glad you did.

Mr Bacigalupi’s novel has rightly won praise and awards for its original blend of futurism and steampunk, a kind of retro-future that preys on modern fears, but the whole structure is a bit like a dirigible itself—the impressive-looking frame most just holds a tub of gas.

“The Windup Girl” is set in Thailand, in a near-future where pretty much every bad thing you’re worried about happening, happened. It’s a kind of scrapbook of apocalyptic newspaper headlines. Oil and gas have run out, leaving civilization dependent on muscle power and a bit of coal (peak oil fears, check!). Airplanes and cars have gone the way of dinosaurs and mammoths, which is ironic, since thanks to genetic engineering, mammoths (“megadonts”, sorry) are back in fashion as a source of muscle. Oh yeah, zeppelins are back in too. Sigh.

Speaking of genetic engineering, geneticists at a “calorie companies”, a bunch of evil corporations located in Des Moines for some strange reason, have deliberately created super-parasites and crop blights, to wipe out the world’s food sources and make everyone dependent on their genetically-modified (GM) products (GM food fears, check! Large, faceless company fears, check! Fears of Midwestern states, che—wait, what?!).

Genetic engineering ain’t all bad though, since it’s allowed the Japanese to neatly solve their problem of a declining population without having to rely on any foul-smelling foreigners. They’ve created “windups”, tailor-made test-tube people, smarter, faster and stronger than ordinary folk, but with deliberate built-in weaknesses to stop them taking over the planet, such as the stuttering motion that gives them their nickname.

Emiko is the “Windup Girl” of the title, bred to be a businessman’s ideal personal secretary—sexy, multilingual, obedient, and when you’re done with her, pop her in the recycling bin. Her last boss didn’t want to keep her but didn’t have the stomach to mulch her, so she has been abandoned in Bangkok, forced to work in a nightclub where she is continually humiliated as subhuman.

There she meets Anderson Lake, whose name sounds like it should be the title of an accounting firm, ostensibly the owner of a factory manufacturing coiled springs, but actually an agent of the “calorie companies”, searching for Thailand’s secret source of new foodstuffs. His mission is complicated by his scheming factory foreman, Hock Seng, an ethnic Chinese from Malaysia who barely escaped an Islamic-inspired pogrom against his people (Fears of fundamental Islam, check!).

Mr Bacigalupi’s Thailand is filled with bowing and corruption, ladyboys and royalist-popularist tensions, a weird mish-mash that feels cribbed from the introduction to a Lonely Planet guide and the “Asia” section of the Economist magazine. This is symptomatic of the wider problem with the book—once you get past some rather neat ideas that went into building this world, there’s not much to keep you there.

The setting is relentlessly grim, and other than Emiko none of the characters is even remotely sympathetic. I enjoyed the book, I’ll admit, but I don’t think I smiled once the whole time I was reading it. It feels downbeat and didactic, more like a Greenpeace manifesto than a work of fiction. I wonder if Mr Bacigalupi isn’t preaching to the converted here, though. I imagine plenty of speculative fiction readers are already composting and bicycling to work and eating locally-grown organic vegetables, or at least wish they did.

The plot, too, feels as thin as a zeppelin’s skin, with events floating from point to point without any particular thrust or trajectory. The climax in particular feels just plain false, involving a sudden and near-psychotic change of heart on the part of one character, while the epilogue’s note of hope jars against the crushing despair of the rest of the book.

In short, I feel Mr Bacigalupi’s imagination and talent for twisting modern fears into future fables is not matched by his skills as a storyteller. I’ve already noted the lack of humor, or even humanity in his characters. At times, he slides into cliché—just once, I’d like to read about a band of evil misfits and rebels brought to heal by a benevolent faceless corporation, just for the hell of it. I’d read that.

Just so long as you promise not to put any dirigibles in it.

Pip of the Pacific

TITLE: Mister Pip
AUTHOR: Lloyd Jones
PUBLISHER: Vintage Canada

RATING:
5/5 “Oahu Island”; 4/5 “No Man is an Island”; 3/5 “Bikini Atoll”; 2/5 “Dan Ger Iland (unpublished manuscript by Giles Gammage, age 5)”; 1/5 “Island of Domination”
SCORE
4/5

Your first really good book is a bit like your first cigarette, your first drink, your first lover. It’s an experience that lodges within you, one you keep coming back to, so deeply unique and personal you cannot share it on anything but the most superficial level. “Mister Pip” is at once a really good book itself, and a book about reading really good books.

Matilda is a teenage girl growing up on Bougainville, a large island North East of Australia, during the early 1990’s. A war of independence against the rulers on the neighboring island of Papua New Guinea is in full swing, causing the entire white population and many of the black, including the local schoolteachers, to flee the island. Only one white man remains, a lonely eccentric named Mr. Watts, who begins to teach the children of Matilda’s village by reading from Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations.”

At first glance, there’s not much common ground between Victorian England and a tropical island, but the story of Mister Pip, the hero of “Great Expectations” who rises from poverty to riches, strikes a chord with Matilda and the other children, and their own dreams of escape. “It was always a relief to return to Great Expectations,” says Matilda. “It contained a world that was whole and made sense, unlike ours.”

Fantasy is not always healthy of course, and reality, if shut out, has a way of kicking in the door. At first there is resistance from some of the more religious parents, including Matilda’s mother, who feel the Bible is the only book worth reading. The not-quite-battle of words between Matilda’s mum and Mr. Watts is a triumph of understatement, a subtle thing that swims beneath the surface of otherwise placid encounters. Later, the war intrudes, as you knew if must from the beginning, with sudden, deadly consequences for the entire village.

Anyone who has ever felt affected by great literature will find resonance in the story. “Mister Pip” is a slim little thing, almost waif-like, weighing in at a hair over 250 pages. No Dickensian language or convoluted phrasing here: there is an economy of words and emotion in Matilda’s voice, which only underscores the horror as events go from bad to worse. Yet in the end the novel’s message is one of hope, if tempered by a realistic awareness of the limitations of what fiction can accomplish.

Much could be made of white guilt in the setting of this novel, of the exploitation of Bougainville’s copper mines, which leads to the rebellion, and of the backing provided to the Papua New Guinean government’s efforts to crush it. Mr Jones acknowledges these issues, but never takes sides nor lets them overwhelm the main story.

You might also be forgiven for feeling there’s something a bit too “Dances With Wolves” about the story of a white teaching a black village, but Mr Watts is never presented as a heroic or wise figure, someone at the mercy of events rather than their master. The character of Matilda helps illustrate the interplay between the two cultures, with her fascination of Dickens balanced against her love of folk tales and stories, proving there is something for both sides to gain from the exchange. “We feel white around black people,” says Mr Watts, uncomfortable with the truth, only to be answered with “We feel black around white people.”

I like the book, really I do—see the rating I gave it at the top of this review—but allow me to let my cynical side show for a moment. It must be said there’s something a little self-serving about novelists writing novels that tell you how wonderful novels are—a bit too close to patting yourself on the back, that one.

Still, with a work this accomplished Mr Jones can probably be forgiven for patting himself on the back a little. I can’t say I will always remember it—the title of first great book is already taken for me—but it is one I will certainly be in no rush to forget.

The Killing of Words

TITLE: Succession (Risen Empire/Killing of Worlds)
AUTHOR: Scott Westerfeld
PUBLISHER: TOR

RATING
5/5 "Obsession/Nonagression (tie)"; 4/5 "Expression"; 3/5 "Impression"; 2/5 "Recession"; 1/5 "Depression"
SCORE 3/5

So much SF gets garishly tarted up in a bid to make it more appealing to 'mature' audiences, only for the end result to turn out like a five-year-old getting into Mommy's jewelry and make-up (anyone for midi-chlorians?). This is cute with kids, squirmingly embarrassing with adults.

So when author Scott Westerfeld proudly proclaims he wrote "Succession" as a space opera "for [his] 14-year-old self", the teenage part of my brain lights up like a video game played by preschooler after three cans of Red Bull. While "Succession" stays on this caffeine high for most of its first half, it crashes badly in the second half with some misjudged material and poor handling of pacing.

The key to impressing boys is, in a vulcanized, carbon-fiber machine-actuated cyber-nutshell: Cool Stuff. And early on, Mr Westerfeld delivers cool by the ice bucket.

In the fine tradition of space opera, Mr Westerfeld drops us straight into the middle of the action, as Laurent Zai, captain on the imperial frigate Lynx, prepares a mission to rescue the Child Empress held hostage by the cyborg Rix on the planet Legis XV below. Mr Westerfeld gleefully pushes us to the logical extremes of both technological and human capabilities, teetering just on the edge of scientific plausibility: millimeter-scale remote spy drones, orbital drops by imperial space marines embalmed in shock-absorbent gel, spaceships controlled via deliberately induced synesthesia (the perception of one sense being felt in another—seeing sounds as colors, for example).

The central Cool Thing in all of this is Laurent Zai's Emperor, who happens to be dead, and has been for quite some time. This slows the Emperor down less than you'd think, because 1,600 years ago he discovered a means of reanimating the dead by implanting something known as a Lazarus symbiont, which not only restores life but also keeps the risen dead in perfect health. For example the Emperor's sister, the aforementioned Child Empress being held hostage, is physically a child but over a millennia old.

The ever-growing ranks of the undead have produced an unstable, two-tier society in the Empire, which the recent Rix attacks threaten to tear completely asunder. A second strand of the novel, intercut with the action above Legis XV, revolves around empathic Senator Nara Oxham as she leads a sort of "loyal opposition' political faction against the aristocracy of the dead. Additional chapters taking place 10 years before the main action of the novel cover the romantic history between Zai and Oxham.

The cuts between characters come thick an fast, keeping the action zipping along like an overexcited nerve cell, spitting out new ideas and technologies on every page. The weightier questions hanging on Oxham's story—is death necessary for progress? Do new ideas only arise because the older generations pass away?—form a nice complement to the shoot-'em-up frenzy of Zai's rescue mission.

The neurons begin to misfire in the second half, however, as once-perky ideas are replaced with sluggish technobabble. There is much talk about virtual matter involving "quantum wells", hardly the space adventure fare the target audience is looking for. Oh hell, even if they were begging for it, it's still dreadfully dreary. To fill the gap, a subplot involving a self-building, sentient house suddenly gets more air time, which is about as exciting as it sounds. The already fractured plot speeds up, skipping whole blocks of time, before juddering to a sudden halt that positively screams for a sequel, though as of June 2010 none has been forthcoming.

In short, "Succession" is hugely fun when it acts its age, a bit of a bore when it puts on grown-up airs.

More Fiction, Less History Please

TITLE: Conspirata
AUTHOR: Robert Harris
PUBLISHER: Simon and Schuster

RATING
5/5 "Plot to kill Hitler"; 4/5 "Gunpowder plot"; 3/5 "Garden plot"; 2/5 "Plot device"; 1/5 "Excel scatter plot"
SCORE: 3/5

Halfway through "Conspirata", I had one of those terrible epiphanies, the sort that usually only strike middle-aged men in dead-end jobs just before they either leap out the window or take up organic farming. And the epiphany was this: There really is no point to this.

"Conspirata" is the second in a series of novels by British author and former political correspondent Robert Harris, based on the life of famous Roman statesman and orator, Marcus Cicero. The first book, "Imperium", charted his rise from ambitious lawyer to his election as consul, the highest political office in Rome. The narrator in both books is Tiro, a slave owned by Cicero and something of a historical figure himself, thanks to his purported invention of a system of shorthand (though Mr Harris erroneously also attributes the invention of the ampersand, "&" to him).

Readers drawn by the martial-looking eagle on the cover, or who assume any Roman epic is going to involve gladiators, orgies and crucifixions will be cruelly disappointed. "West Wing" fans will be pleased, though. This is a political drama, proudly all talk and no action, where the climactic scenes take place on the rostra, not the colliseum. The single, solitary episode of toga-lifting naughtiness, a tryst between Tiro and a slave of another household, takes place firmly off-camera.

Instead, Mr Harris throws us headlong into the political arena, when Cicero uncovers evidence of a plot against both himself and the City of Rome. The plotters are never much of a mystery, and the focus is instead on how to outmaneuver them. Once they are defeated, the focus in the second half of the novel shifts to Cicero's diminished status once his term of office ends, and on the rise of a fellow named Julius Ceasar in the ensuing vacuum.

Mr Harris displays a casual knowledge of the inner workings of Roman government, but despite the notes provided at the end of the book it can sometimes be a headache to keep your praetors separated from your tribunes, your augurs from your pontifex, your Metelli from your Claudians. Indeed, there is precious little description of anything outside of Senate speeches and private intrigues. The storytelling is competent but uninspiring. Certainly, no Cicero.

I say the novel is "based on" the life of Cicero, but this is doing Mr Harris a disservice. Hell, this is the life of Cicero. "Conspirata" is first-rate history, which sadly sometimes makes it second-rate entertainment. Ostensibly a novel, the story line hews so closely to historical fact that five minutes on Wikipedia ruined the entire plot for me. For a work of historical fiction, this is too much history, too little fiction. Mr Harris neither alters nor adds to the facts, never suggests an alternative interpretation, never illustrates some unrecorded adventure. The whole thing soon becomes a bit like being cornered at a party by a dreadfully earnest history professor.

This flaw is exacerbated by Mr Harris's choice of Tiro as narrator and Cicero as subject. Particularly during the second half of the book, once Cicero's term as consul is over, he is reduced to mere bystander in greater events. That makes our man Tiro peripheral to the periphery, a third-hand news source doubly removed from all the action. Here you have Julius Ceasar, Rome's most ambitious and ruthless man, Pompey, her greatest general, and Crassus, her richest man, seizing control of the republic, but we see none of it.

It was then that the epiphany hit me. Why bother reading "Conspirata", when a history book would achieve much the same end?

The limited insights Mr Harris offers us are that Cicero was patriotic, Ceasar unscrupulous, Pompey vain and Crassus dim. What is the point of historical fiction, if not to make suggestions, interpretations or changes, to fill in the missing pages or otherwise doodle in the margins of history's textbooks? Why write a novel if not to present us with a work of fiction? This is not a bad book; the plot plows along straightforwardly, characterization is consistent if a little thin. Mr Harris just doesn't seem to have anyting particularly interesting to say about any of it.

Now if you will excuse me, I have some organic vegetables to tend to.

Rick of Conscience

TITLE: Day of Battle: The War in Sicily and Italy, 1943-1944
AUTHOR: Rick Atkinson
PUBLISHER: Simon & Schuster

RATING
5/5 "Battle of Hoth"; 4/5 "Battle of Wits"; 3/5 "Battle of the Sexes"; 2/5 "Battle of the Bands"; 1/5 "Battle for Terra"
SCORE: 4/5

World War 2 is our low-fat war. One we can indulge in as much as we want, secure in the knowledge that the glorious fallen do not remain to lard our consciences, but rather have been transported to light, airy heaven. With other wars, we may have to rationalize, but there's little doubt that fighting the Nazis was the Right thing to do.

When you get to the question of when and where we fought them, though, things get a little stickier. Not every battle or campaign is so easy to justify, and as Rick Atkinson shows in "Day of Battle", the Allied invasion of Sicily and Italy is the ten-pound ball of deep-fried butter ruining our no-guilt diet. The campaign left 100,000 soldiers dead, perhaps four times that many wounded, without striking any decisive blow against the Germans or sufficiently distracting them from other theaters. Was it worth it?

Mr Atkinson equivocates on the question, but he does so beautifully. "Day of Battle" forms the second of Mr Atkinson's planned "Liberation" trilogy following the history of US armies in the major European campaigns of World War 2. The series began with 2002's Pulitzer Prize-winning "An Army at Dawn", an engaging, in-depth history chronicling the US landings in North Africa. "Day of Battle" maintains this high standard of writing, even if it lacks the former book's driving narrative.

Mr Atkinson brings a humanist touch and eye for detail to the little-studied invasion of Italy. His book combines memoirs, first-hand as well as official accounts, and stacks of letters to from soldiers to those waiting at home. This intimate look at the war, combined with a heavy dose of poetic license, makes this a surprisingly readable book despite its 600-page-plus length. The only fault in the style is the aforementioned poetic license, which crops up in Mr Atkinson's tendency to embellish his descriptions. "The dappled sea stretched to the shore in patches of turquoise and indigo," he says, which is nice to read but hardly good history.

The supporting maps are likewise something of a mixed bunch. While clean and informative for the most part, in the paperback edition I read a number of printing errors had left some names with missing letters, so that "Monte Lungo" is rendered "Lun o" and Major-General Hawkesworth "Awke w r".

The level of detail of Mr Atkinson's account is, however, amazing, covering the US involvement in the campaign from the Anglo-American conference in May 1943 where it was conceived, to its climax in the fall of Rome in June 1944. Altghough the descriptions of acutal battle are sometimes a little vague, "thrusts met stout resistance", "a flanking attack ... unhinged the German line", Mr Atkinson's coverage of the leading personalities, from US commanders George Patton and Mark Clark, to divisional commanders like Lucian Truscott and even more junior officers, is much stronger. Mr Atkinson projects genuine respect and admiration for these men, though you feel he might be too easy on them sometimes. Mr Atkinson lists their ailments and worries sympathetically, but I can't stomach commanders sleeping in sprawling Italian villas and complaining about stress or tiredness, when a dozen kilometers away their men are getting dismembered by the truckload. Clark in particular gets off lightly, despite coming across as slighly insubordinate and egocentric.

Rather, Mr Atkinson saves his venom for the real enemy: the British. "Day of Battle" is a fine account of the campaign, provided you are utterly uninterested in the involvement of the British, Canadians, Polish, New Zealanders, Indians and other nationalities who made up the Allied force. Whenever the "cousins" do pop up, they soon disappear under a barrage of criticism for poor leadership, lack of offensive spirit, and failure to support or appreciate their American allies enough.

The most troubling part of the book, however, is Mr Atkinson's attempt to justify the campaign as a whole. In "An Army at Dawn", he convincingly argued that the African campaign helped steel US forces for the war in Europe. The argument doesn't work as well here, especially as he himself notes that soldiers not killed or wounded tended to become psychiatric casualties after 200-240 days; men can only be tempered so far before they break. Instead, Mr Atkinson falls back on the stale comfort that, in the words of war correspondent George Biddle, certain qualities "give war its justification, meaning, romance and beauty. The qualities of valor, sacrifice, discipline, a sense of duty". This flies in the face of the evidence Mr Atkinson presents in the previous 600 pages, that the war was horrible, meaningless, savage and hellish.

Far better is another quote by Biddle, "I wish the people at home, instead of thinking of their boys in terms of football stars, would think of them in terms of miners trapped underground or suffocating to death in a tenth-story fire." Sometimes, I think, it's only right that our consciences should be troubled.