You can easily chart my
obsessions this year by the types of books I read, which tended to
reflect my desire to learn more about some subject or other. My
normal practice is to write a review shortly after reading the book
and post it online, but I was extremely busy the second half of the
year so many of the reviews I am only getting to now. Graphic novels
are indicated by *.
*Gotham by Gaslight –
Brian Augustyn / Mike Mignola
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/01/gotham-by-gaslight-tale-of-batman.html
The Eagle of the Ninth – Rosemary
Sutcliff
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-eagle-of-ninth.html
*BPRD
1947—Mike
Mignola, Joshua Dysart / Dave Stewart, Fabio Moon, Gabriel Ba
BPRD stands
for Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense and is part of the
Hellboy universe, centering on that anti-hero's youth in New Mexico
under the care of Trevor Bruttenholm. This definitely had the
Mignola motifs—Nazis, vampires, zombies—and was interesting
because of its historical setting. Good art as well.
*Scarlet
Traces – Ian
Edginton / Disraeli
An
interesting entry into Steampunk comics, but hardly mind-blowing.
Mozart – Kenneth
& Valerie McLeish
An
enjoyable young person's insight into Mozart's life, society, and
works.
Beethoven: The Man and the Artist,
Revealed In His Own Words ed.
Friedrich Kerst
The
translation, undoubtedly from 1905, was not particularly good, but
hearing Beethoven from the horse's mouth must be considered quite
valuable.
Founding Mothers: Women of America
in the Revolutionary Era –Linda
Grant DePauw
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/02/revolutionary-roundup.html
1776 –
David McCullough
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/02/revolutionary-roundup.html
The Art of Eating – M.F.K.
Fisher
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-art-of-eating.html
Spies of the American Revolution –
Howard
Brinkley
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/02/revolutionary-roundup.html
His
Excellency George Washington – Joseph
P. Ellis
The Silver Branch – Rosemary
Sutcliff
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-silver-branch.html
Ruso and the Root of All Evils –
R.S. Downie
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/ruso-and-root-of-all-evils.html
*The Ballad of Sleeping Beauty –
Hawthorne
/ Atiyeh
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-ballad-of-sleeping-beauty.html
*Glacial Period – Nicholas
de Crecy
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/glacial-period.html
*Isaac the Pirate vol. 1 –
Christophe
Blain
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/isaac-pirate-vol-1.html
Chicks Dig Comics: A Celebration
of Comic Books by the Women Who Love Them– ed.
Lynne M. Thomas and Sigrid Ellis
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/chicks-dig-comics.html
Batmanga!: The Secret History of
Batman in Japan – Chip
Kidd
An
oversized coffee table book full of the interesting and often
baffling ephemera of Batman in Japan from the 1960s onward.
*Fables: Rose Red –
Willingham/Buckingham
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/fables-rose-red.html
*Fables: Animal Farm –
Willingham/Buckingham
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/fables-animal-farm.html
Mozart's Women – Jane
Glover
Interesting
and entertaining with perhaps a little too much editorializing
comment. I got really lost in the section in which Glover described
and critiqued all of Mozart's operatical heroines and the real life
singers and friends who inspired them. I would have liked a bit more
context and less “poor” Anna Maria and “poor” Nannerl. The
book's heart was certainly in the right place and the best part were
the stunning color images of the Mozarts in the center of the book.
Medicus and the Disappearing
Dancing Girls –
R.S. Downie
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/03/medicus-and-disappearing-dancing-girls.html
An Imperial Possession: Britain in
the Roman Empire
- David Mattingly
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/04/an-imperial-possession-britain-in-roman.html
Adrian Mole: From Minor to Major
– Sue Townsend
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/04/adrian-mole-from-minor-to-major.html
*Fables: Witches – Willingham
/ Buckingham
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/04/fables-vol-14-witches.html
*DC: The New Frontier Vol. 1
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/04/dc-new-frontier-vol-1.html
The
Red Queen – Philippa
Gregory
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-red-queen.html
Best
Little Stories of the American Revolution – Kelly
& Smyer
Despite
the attractive reprinting, this book preceded most of the sources I
have already read and is therefore somewhat lugubrious in comparison;
it doesn't help that neither writer can quite get the tone right
between historical and conversational. Light was shed on a few
incidents or characters that I hadn't heard of before, but overall it
was a bit disappointing.
The
Diary of Adam and Eve – Mark
Twain
This
was very amusing and affectionate, if cynical, provocation of
Paradise
Lost, relocated
(as it were) to North America. Some of the vocabulary screams 19th
century, but the majority of the narrative is a timeless conflict of
the sexes. Satan is portrayed very differently than in Milton. Eve
is still hopelessly the portrait by a chauvinist, but she would fit
in quite well in some chick lit.
The
Saviours – Clemence
Dane
Very
interesting radio play sequence; I would love to hear it performed.
Unlikely
Friendships – Jennifer
S. Holland
An
interesting and cute if somewhat lightweight coffee table book.
*A
Treasury of Victorian Murder
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-treasury-of-victorian-murder.html
*The
New 52: Batman: Detective Comics Vol. 1 Faces of Death –
Tony S. Daniel
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-new-52-batman-detective-comics-vol.html
*Birds of Prey/End Run – Gail
Simone
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/04/birds-of-preyend-run.html
*X-Files:
Remote Control
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-x-files-remote-control.html
Treason's Harbour – Patrick
O'Brian
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/07/treasons-harbour.html
The Ancient Guide to the Modern
World – Natalie
Haynes
This
was an excellent book that was very thought-provoking (though I did
constantly find myself thinking about The
Dark Knight, as
that appears to be one of the most potent sources in my brain for
civics lessons!). The premise is to help us make sense of our
modern world by looking at the politics and civics of the ancients
(specifically the Greeks and Romans), as described by an enthusiastic
Classics scholar.
One
of Haynes' most persuasive chapters focuses on the way the Athenians
elected their politicians and public officials and contrasting that
with our current democratic system in the West. “For
all their occasional impetuousness,” she writes, “we must assume
that the Athenian people were actually far more tolerant of mistakes
than we are now. If we instituted monthly competence checks
nowadays, starting on 1 January, it's difficult to imagine most
politicians or military leaders staying in office past February”
(11). Furthermore, the stipend granted in this system made it
possible for all to be elected into office – it was an arbitrary,
egalitarian lottery. “The rest of the time that man would be of
fifty men in the prytany,
or
500 in the Boule,
or
several thousand in the Assembly” (11). Furthermore, despite a
character named Thucydides being on trial for military incompetence
in 423 BCE and in exile for 20 years, “we never read of the
slightest suggestion that men weren't prepared to put themselves
forward for this potentially risky job” (12). Haynes pushes hard
to suggest that the ancients' system has modern applicability: “But
actually, the Athenians should fill us with hope: they made a lot of
excellent decisions, and when they made bad ones, they could be men
enough enough to admit it and perform a speedy U-turn. If only our
politicians, and perhaps our media, could be so open about their
errors, then we might yet live in a more sensible world” (20).
Though
Haynes spends a lot of time explaining that we can't expect the
Romans to have the same morals as we do today--“Ability is
relative: it's about what you achieve with what is available to you.
And ethics are relative, too: expecting the Romans to shudder at
the same things that revolt us is a waste of time and thought”
(42)--she also draws parallels between our modern democratic
relationship with the law and that of the Romans. What specifically
made me think of The
Dark Knight was
what Haynes calls our schizophrenic attitude toward the law: we make
cynical jokes about it, but we believe in it fervently and expect it
to protect us, the little guy.
Her
discussion of morals and civics also made me think of The
Dark Knight, especially
in this quote: “We don't need to worry about what happens in one
ticking bomb scenario, because bomb scenarios rarely happen just
once. We need to worry about what happens in five or ten ticking
bomb scenarios” (44). She then goes on to look at the way
different philosophers approached morality in the ancient world.
Among them Socrates with his paradox that infuriated people to the
point they had him arrested: No one is wise, because none of us know
anything. But Socrates knows that he doesn't know a thing, which
makes him wiser than the rest of us. “Complete self-sufficiency is
a refusal to participate in the greater social model, and when the
world around you seems chaotic, and you don't know who will invade
your city next, that's quite a tempting idea” (84). She links
religion and morality with the introduction of Christianity in the
ancient world; “We want things both ways: we demand free will, and
the belief that our actions shape our lives. But plenty of us
believe simultaneously that Taureans are obstinate because,
apparently, bulls are too” (117).
Her
chapter on women is one of the best parts of the book. Pericles'
ideal of a homebound, silent, obedient wife, was proven to be an
ideal, not reality: he divorced his first, Athenian wife, then dated
Aspasia, the most notorious woman in 5th
c. BCE. I was most surprised to learn the origin of that most famous
question from Juvenal: quis
custodiet et ipsos custodes? Haynes
clearly has a lot of affection for Juvenal, given that he ranted
against everything he hated, which is a very long list. Among the
things he hated was unfaithful women. Therefore, he questioned the
practice of setting up guards to make sure that your women don't
sleep around. If you do that, who will watch the guards to make sure
they don't sleep with the women? “Girls were very often considered
literally worthless. And before we pat ourselves smugly on the back
at how very far we've come, this is still true in many parts of the
world today” (135). Clearly the ancient attitudes toward women
were fraught and inconsistent.
Her
final chapter tries to make the broad strokes connections between our
modern society and the ancients'. She compares The
Wire to
a Greek tragedy and suggests that the way we loathe and praise
celebrities for certain behaviors is something we learned from the
ancients as well.
*Hellboy: The Storm and the Fury –
Mignola
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/07/hellboy-storm-and-fury.html
*Superman:
True Brit – Kim
Johnson, John Cleese
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/07/superman-true-brit.html
*Haunted
Knight – Loeb
/ Sale
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/07/haunted-knight.html
Mutants:
On the Form, Varieties, and Errors of the Human Body –
Armand Marie Leroi
http://motlo.blogspot.com/2013/08/mutants-on-form-varieties-and-errors-of.html
Shooting Leave: Spying Out Central
Asia in the Great Game - John
Ure
Though I’ve read a few
books on the Crimean War,
the fact is that I’m woefully uneducated about this part of the
world in both historical record and in contemporary geography.
Arrested though I was by the colorful cover (it often does
make a
difference, I’m afraid), what really drew me in was the desire to
learn more for writing purposes, as a long-projected project takes
place in this very area and smack-dab in the middle of the long
nineteenth-century as contemplated here. The book was, however, not
quite what was I was expecting, though I should have understood as
much when I read Ure’s preface:
Inevitably, my selection
of candidates has been somewhat arbitrary. There are no common
denominators—in terms of nationality, profession, age, or even
shooting enthusiasm—that apply to all of them. The criteria for
selection have been their dash and daring, their desire to mix sport
and duty, their operation as individuals rather than as part of
organized military units or diplomatic missions and their patriotic
commitment to the cause in hand (xv).
The young British
officers with whom this book is concerned have often only had walk-on
roles in other memorable books about the Great Game; they will be
centre-stage in this one (xxiv).
So while the book was
enjoyable, I found myself slightly frustrated with a lack of context
(intervening events like the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny
excepted). Fortunately, Ure’s bibliography is very helpful. He
has whetted your appetite and sent you forth to make your own
discoveries, should you wish, about the men in the book.
As Ure has already made
clear, the men introduced in the book had many different strategies,
as well as beliefs and agendas, that guided them on their
(more-or-less) shooting leave. Some of them infiltrated remote areas
by use of disguise, pretending to be something far less interesting
than European officers. Henry Pottinger in the second decade of the
nineteenth century disguised himself as a Muslim, and his knowledge
of his target culture, along with nerve and quick wits as well as the
humility to do things more stereotypically imperialist characters in
the book would scoff at, saved his life many times. For example,
carelessly he and his compatriot Christie were caught speaking
something other than Hindustani. Bluffing their way out of
confessing it was English they had been speaking, Pottinger said it
was Telinga (a southern Indian language). “His enquirer came back
with a fakir who allegedly spoke Telinga and wanted to practise it.
Pottinger bombarded him with a barrage of English and, when the fakir
was obviously baffled by this, declared that clearly the fakir could
not speak Telinga after all—which happily turned out to be the
case” (9). (Pottinger and Christie were so embedded by the end of
their journey that they failed to recognize each other after a long
separation.) Pottinger also got through worshipping in a mosque by
copying what all the Muslims around him were doing. Being
exasperated by an officious Syynd, who asked Pottinger where the
Almighty was, Pottinger retorted, “where the Almighty was not
present,” which shut him up. Pottinger’s vision of the Persians
of Kerman and their cruel punishments would not be out of place in
Leroux’s and Kay’s accounts of the Shah-in-Shah and “the little
sultana.”
The rather famous
Alexander “Bokhara” Burnes was a keen sportsman, but also a good
linguist, a collector of ancient coins, with geo-historical and
industry interests. He also had a streak of diplomacy that some of
his contemporaries lacked; refused entry into the fort at Attock, he
and his men slept in a dilapidated mosque nearby, persuading the
inhabitants that “there was nothing improper in a couple of
infidels seeking such shelter” (25). In the Peshawar, his
diplomacy extended to enduring local Afghans dropping into his
quarters at all times of day or night just to visit. On the long
rides through the Black Pass, he spent his time learning formal
Islamic address, a proficiency which later, unsurprisingly, saved his
life. When going before the hostile, anti-European Murad Beg, Burnes
had to get some boots to “hide my provokingly white ankles” (35).
In Bokhara, his success enabled him to mix in cosmopolitan crowds of
Persians, Turkomans, Tartars, Cossacks, Chinese, Russians, Afghans,
Armenians, and Bokharan Jews while hiding his gaze when the Emir’s
harem passed on horseback.
Somewhat later, in the
1870s, Valentine Baker was a shooting companion of the Prince of
Wales (later Edward VII) and a rakish commander of the 10th
Hussars. A really passionate shooter, he took two compatriots (and a
lot of ammo) via Vienna and Constantinople to Trebizond on the
eastern edge of Turkey. Baker’s Persian support staff were greatly
impressed in the Elburz when he and his friend stopped a party of
robbers by charging at them on horseback, then wrestling them to the
ground and tying them up with handkerchiefs. In Mazenderan, a tense
situation narrowly missed ending in bloodshed; Baker was ‘most
anxious the English name should not be associated with violence and
bloodshed’” (122). You have to admire Baker’s drive to force
his way from the Persian coast of the Caspian while still recovering
from illness in snowy terrain (during eight days he ate nothing but “
‘figs, biscuits, and some Crimean wine . . . upon which diet we got
on famously’” (129)).
Not all the men fit the
sporting type; John Wood was a hydrographer and surveyor with an
interest in shooting but far less of a political agenda than many of
the other men. In ascending at Kila, he found out that the wolves of
the region would take down a horse and rider by throwing up snow with
their hind feet, frightening the horse and surprising the rider. At
Christmas, Wood missed his native Scotland. One of the more unusual
characters was Charles Masson aka James Lewis, who had deserted the
East India Company in 1827, taken on the identity of an American, and
became so proficient that the British government were able to take
him back in rather exceptional circumstances. “His advice was
usually well-informed and intelligent, but frequently ignored”
(93). Like Burnes, he was interested in antiques. He fell out
almost immediately with the British representative at Kalat,
Lieutenant Loveday. Later, Masson escaped with his life but Loveday
did not.
Most of the British men
were devout Christians. In 1880, Charles Stewart, veteran of the
Indian Mutiny, took a similar route to Baker’s, packing with him
his trusty Bible; “one of his hosts in Persia [remarked]: ‘You
English are extraordinary, you always carry a Bible in your pocket’”
(208). He threw his pith helmet down a well when he changed into the
dress of an Armenian trader, though he later regretted not having
something to shield him from the sun. In Mohammabad, he made a
convincing enough traveller that Edmund O’Donovan, a correspondent
for the Daily
News, believed
he was a Calcutta Armenian.
It took
the tall and powerfully-built Fred Burnaby sixty hours of rail travel
across Russia to reach Kuybyshev in 1875. He managed to free
himself, his horses, and his driver during a blizzard. Falling
asleep in the sleigh with his bare hands tucked into his sleeves, a
band of Cossacks saved his hands from frostbite by rubbing naphtha
and ice on them, a kindness he never forgot. At a Russian fort, he
was shocked his hostess’ lighting up a cigarette and smoking it in
front of him.
James Abbott, an explorer
from the 1830s, was ambitious and arrogant. He constantly changed on
his journeys between native dress and his splendid East India Company
uniform, especially when he wanted to impress someone. In the Oxus
Valley, though short of cash, he refused his servants’ offer to
chip in with their savings to finance the trip, either through
principles or pride. In Russian territory, he was put out when
referred to by his first names and patronymic, James Henry
Alexiowitz. He was also typically racist, remarking in Khiva that
“the women showed their faces boldly but that their ‘countenances
were too round or square for beauty . . . and their eyes ill-opened’”
(55). To avoid being caught writing (for writing was seen as
evidence of spying), he made strategic notes into verse and committed
them to memory.
Abbott is nothing,
however, to Nikolai Przhevalsky, an aggressive bully who, you may
have guessed, discovered the Przewalski Horse but only wanted to
shoot it (he was obsessed with shooting and hunting).
Furthermore, he was not only (probably) homosexual, some have even
suggested he was Stalin’s real father! When in doubt, Przhevalsky
shot and beat up people. He never bothered to learn languages or
observe local customs.
Certainly what Ure has
done here is instil within us a real sense of adventure and
lawlessness, the depths to which bad diplomacy and bad luck could
sometimes take you, and the amazing exhilaration captured in one of
my favourite books, Patrick O’Brian’s The
Road to Samarcand.
I am definitely going to try to read some of the primary sources,
dated though they are.
Fortunately, the maps of
the region—missing from Treason’s
Harbour by
some ludicrous oversight—are present, as are Toby Ward’s
illustrations, which unfortunately do nothing for me.
Torchwood: Skypoint
– Phil Ford
This
is the first Torchwood
novel I’ve
read, and I have to confess I haven’t thought seriously about the
show in a long time. Miracle
Day had
its moments, but mostly it was a befuddling disappointment. This
book brought me right back into series 2, which made for a very
enjoyable, undemanding read. Toshiko is on the cover, but I would
say this is a true ensemble piece. Owen certainly shoulders much of
the narrative, and Gwen, Jack, and Rhys get some stand-out moments.
Even Ianto has a few solo scenes (being stuck in a lift with gay
couple in Cardiff Bay raised a smile).
I’ve
admired everything in the Doctor
Who universe
that Phil Ford has ever done. So I was very surprised that the first
few pages of this book were creaky and cringe-inducing, spoonfeeding
backstory and employing lurid adjectives that made my joints seize
up. Upon reflection, I think perhaps this opening was tacked on by
an editor, in order to initiate the uninitiated into Torchwood.
Fortunately,
whatever seizure that paralyzed the book was gone before we got to
indulge, with Gwen and Rhys, in some house-hunting.
I
think that Phil Ford’s strengths as a writer are his sensitivity
with rendering character (something Torchwood
badly
needed) and his command of humor (“Something Borrowed” was
hilarious). He is also good with the mundane. I get a real sense of
the characters of Gwen and Rhys as they explore Skypoint, Cardiff
Bay’s luxury apartment with a sinister secret:
‘It’s
like a statement, isn’t it? Moving on. We’re going forward.’
Then he looked at her, held her hands. ‘Two bedrooms.’
Gwen
raised an eyebrow and kinked one corner of her mouth. ‘You’re
not talking about when you snore and I kick you out of bed, are you?’
Rhys
said nothing, just raised his eyebrows a fraction and returned her
smile.
They
were talking in eyebrow semaphore, and they’d only tied the knot
two weeks ago.
(By
the way, it’s instructive to remember that they
were Mr
and Mrs Williams before Rory and Amy.) I also almost can believe in
an amoral Latvian crime mogul who has made Cardiff his home and who
listens to Wagner. As Torchwood villains go, Besnik Lucca is both
flamboyant and as human as they come—greatly refreshing, actually.
Lucca
owns Skypoint, you see, a fact Rhys and Gwen are not aware of while
browsing, and which leads Jack and Toshiko to investigate after Gwen
and Rhys’ estate agent disappears into thin air. Jack, roguish as
ever, gives the following alibi when discovered by Lucca’s
security.
‘Thing
is,’ Jack was telling the concierge, ‘my girlfriend and me, we
have this thing. About doing it in show homes. You get me?’
Jack
may feature less prominently in this book than some of other
characters, but he definitely leaves his mark—particularly when he
has to convince Gwen he’s not a Weevil and shouldn’t be shot on
sight.
Toshiko
was always my favorite Torchwood
character
(despite Ianto’s acerbic wit—‘But estate agents don’t just
vanish into thin air,’ Ianto observed. ‘We’re just not that
lucky’). I could identify with her slightly more than I could the
others, and I rather felt for her, what with her impossible (and
inadvisable) crush on Owen. On the other hand, I always disliked
Owen and felt he vastly improved after death. Things changed
slightly, as I began to enjoy some of Burn Gorman’s other work.
And Phil Ford’s writing here helps: he gives Owen a recognizable
human personality (even though he’s dead). He is still the same
Owen—a subplot involves his clandestine nocturnal sightseeing with
twin homicidal aliens—but he’s allowed to quote Eric Idle and
feel awkward around children (clearly not nurturing natural father
material!). He also exhibits feelings like guilt, jealousy, and
embarrassment, which I never really found the TV Owen capable of.
It’s
all come from that heady plot device—one of my favorites—the sham
marriage. Owen and Toshiko have a short-lived undercover op as Mr
and Mrs Harper at Skypoint. It’s not fluffy, nor does it end in a
sweep of romantic passion—this is Torchwood
and he’s
dead, remember?—but it makes for conflicted emotions and
uncomfortable acknowledgements from both of them.
Owen
felt something stir inside. He knew instantly that it was nothing
biological, unless jealousy was a chemical reaction.
Hey,
how was that for a headline? Dead
Man Gets Jealous!
He
even gets a rather Phantom-y moment:
Jealous
Dead Man Breaks Glass and Doesn’t Notice!
The
incidental characters are all good in this, and, like Torchwood
at its
best, it does have some interesting meditations on death and
religion. Jack gets to compare himself to Batman, which of course
pleases me, and there are no easy answers, even for those who have
easy quips. Yes, all in all, a very enjoyable read—dreadful
opening aside.
*Batgirl The New 52: Volume 1:
The Darkest Reflection
Can it be a coincidence
that the first mainstream superhero comic that I can remember which
does not include an exploitative centrefold of a female character was
written (if not drawn by) a woman? I doubt it, and as with the first
(Wonder
Woman)
title I read by Gail Simone, her name on the spine was a big draw in
the first place. (Though I had rather a mixed reaction to Birds
of Prey: End Run.)
To be fair, The
Cat and the Bat was
an arguably exploitative male-oriented version of Batgirl and I
really liked it (though at the time I read it, I argued that at least
it employed equal opportunity-nudity). Nevertheless, I quite enjoyed
The Darkest
Reflection and
its interior monologue from Barbara Gordon, albeit a re-set button
Barbara Gordon who has regained the use of her legs after some years
spent in a wheelchair. If Simone is against comics portrayals of
women as “venal, selfish, boy-crazy, overly emotional, and not
particularly bright,” as she describes in Chicks
Dig Comics, then
she has done good work to reverse that portrayal in The
Darkest Reflection.
This Babs is young and
occasionally overconfident, self-deprecating, and looks a bit like
Amy Pond! The villain-du-jour knows how to press all her buttons,
though Batgirl’s guilt and Barbara’s attempts to move into a
shared apartment with a roommate give The
Darkest Reflection a
bit of twenty-first century oomph. Barbara isn’t unemotional, but
neither is she weak, and she is certainly the opposite of “not
particularly bright.” She is not boy-crazy, merely somewhat
romantically confused (and with crushes on all the wrong people!).
Adam Hughes’ covers are
fantastic, and Adrian Syaf/Vicente Cifuentes’ art is brisk,
colorful, and makes a big splash from page to page. That said, I’m
not too thrilled with the way Bruce Wayne is drawn, but it’s more
than made up for with the Nightwing.
Like one of the unsettled
writers in Chicks
Dig Comics, I
agree that
it does
feel a bit weird and revisionist to blow out of the water all the
work Barbara Gordon did as Oracle in order to give her a new,
perfectly functioning body in order to physically fight crime once
more. This collection addresses that somewhat, though I doubt anyone
could give it quite the right spin unless they, themselves, had been
in a wheelchair (which the Chicks
Dig Comics writer
had).
I
had been a little iffy about the whole New 52 thing, but I’m
willing to keep reading if there’s more like this.
Doctor Who: The Way Through the
Woods–
Una McCormack
I wrote a
review for this, but I can't find the notebook it's in at the moment.
Once I do, I will post it retrospectively. In the meantime, I will
say it's an Eleven/Rory/Amy novel, and quite enjoyable, I felt.
The Resurrectionist – James
Bradley
I felt
anxiously unsatisfied after reading this novel; it was well-written,
and its poetic, vignette-like style reminded me of Naturalism to an
extent. However, the “twist” was not well-handled and should
have been structurally more integrated. An interesting read, but not
a great book.
Twitter Who Vol 1: The First
Doctor –
Hannah J. Rothman
A
very enjoyable read and suitable for a Whovian in any stage of
fan-savviness. Critics might be wondering what the purpose of a book
composed almost entirely of “live-Tweeting” of Classic Doctor
Who
stories
in chronological story order actually is and what it might offer to
the average reader. The answer is that Rothman's Tweet-prose is
incredibly funny and often winningly insightful, striking just the
right balance between the Internet-generated lingo of the Noughties
(“Steven Taylor. In ur cavez, nabbin ur gunz”) and the timeless
language of sincere Who
fans
(“ 'DOC . . . TOR . . . WHO . . . IS . . . RE . . . QUIRED . . .'
I don't even need to comment on that. I'm sure we're all thinking
the same thing”). Rothman is a warm, forgiving, deeply invested
fan with a keen sense of the absurd, which she brings to each story,
from the humor of “The Romans” to the pathos of Hartnell's
regeneration. In addition, Rothman brings a needed feminist angle to
the proceedings without the stereotyped “fangirl” reaction which
many (probably unfairly) rail against. In summary, Rothman has
created in her Tweets an identifiable voice we would gladly follow
across the galaxy. I can't wait to read the next volume.
Torchwood: Trace Memory – David
Llewellyn
Another
book for which I'm sure I wrote a review but I cannot at the moment
find it. I found this quite an enjoyable Torchwood
novel,
especially the sections with Jack in the Swinging Sixties hiding out
in London, and the sections of Ianto riding the Docklands Light
Railway to work at Torchwood in Canary Wharf before the events of
Torchwood series
1.
The Ipcress File – Len
Deighton
I
suppose this was an unusual choice for me, but given I remembered it
from the Dominic Sandbrook history of the 1960s and because it was a
prominent Michael Caine vehicle,
I thought I would give it a chance. I was pleasantly surprised. I
am not really a fan of the spy genre, but I did find this an
intriguing, thought-provoking and interesting read. Not having lived
through the Cold War (well, the last six years of it doesn't really
count), I can't say whether its ambitious plot was any more
fantastical than some of the early '60s Fleming titles. However,
Deighton's unnamed hero and Bond could hardly be more different;
their only similarities are their unswerving sense of duty to Queen
and Country and their habit of describing clothing! (That said,
whereas Fleming narrates with sensuality, Deighton is often clinical
and perfunctory about objects or even emotions.)
I
really rate Deighton's unnamed narrator (whom the films have dubbed
Harry Palmer). His utter laconic composure at all situations in the
book—and believe me, many are sensational and/or horrific--builds
him up as a character of offhanded courage, despite all other
indications to the contrary. He has an enormous classist chip on his
shoulder which in some ways proves his undoing.
Ross
and I had come to an arrangement of some years' standing—we had
decided to hate each other. Being English, this vitriolic
relationship manifested itself in oriental politeness.
He
is surprisingly insubordinate, even to those he professes to like or
at least respect. Is it insecurity, an act, or instinctive
recognition of his own worth?
Dalby
said, 'Surprise me, do it without complaint or sarcasm.'
'It
wouldn't be the same,' I said.
Despite
the narrator's obvious skills—he constantly narrates, with his
unimpressed aplomb, Spy Things that I, being a complete moron, would
never in a million years think to do—a lot of his survival depends
on luck. And his rather shockingly consistent mistakes are manifold.
A rather humorous incident on a plane to Beirut—we've all had the
jolly, naïve seatmate-from-hell—turns out to be a near-miss of
fatal proportions.
Although
the narrator spends most of his time in crummy offices, seedy clubs,
banal sandwich shops, and the like, all in the kind of sooty, foggy,
yellow London T.S. Eliot wrote about, he does have his glam
moments—his stint in Beirut, for example, reminded me a lot of the
opening to Skyfall,
and
he spends a good part of the book in an American atoll. What is
lacking, then, are the gadgets, the girls, the gambling, the bling,
and the mad, cackling cliched villains (though some of the villains
here could be said to be mad, they don't cackle). When the
bombshells drop, they are stupendous (both literally and
metaphorically). It's a tightly woven web of very sound plotting,
and Deighton has taken pains that his highly intelligent narrator is
just as surprised as you. A lot of people die, but it is impressive
the length and detail to which the narrator tries, at the end, to
make amends. It has the element of a happy ending you might find in
the first two Harry
Potter books.
It's
impossible for me to tell whether it comes courtesy of the narrator
or the author, but I really enjoy the voice in this novel. It is so
distinctive as to be almost outrageous and sits in complete
opposition to the laconic observations.
Ross
was a regular officer; that is to say he didn't drink gin after 7.30
pm or hit ladies without first removing his hat. He had a long thin
nose, a moustache like flock wallpaper, sparse, carefully combed
hair, and the complexion of a Hovis loaf.
One
might be tempted to call it wit.
Dalby
was having a little genteel fun with me. 'But I am sure you will be
able to overcome your disadvantages.'
'Why
think so? You never overcame your advantages.'
His
face screwed into a smile like an old gardening glove.
The
narrator has had, at first glance, a rather troubled relationship
with women and perhaps typifies the Englishman of the early 1960s (I
hardly think Bond does, do you?). A random woman in a coffee shop
'hated me because I was trying to pick her up, or not trying perhaps,
but anyway, she had her reasons.' If the narrator is
chauvinist—which he no doubt is: after ascertaining that his new
assistant Jean can speak eight languages, he says,
'It
doesn't say whether you can sew,' I said.
'No,'
she said.
'Can
you?' I said.
'Yes,'
she said.
'Trousers?'
I said.
'Yes,'
she said.
'You're
in.'
--he
is a different kind of chauvinist than is Bond. The narrator's one
recorded dalliance is so brief, if you are not reading carefully,
you'll miss it. Is that out of respect? Circumspection? British
reserve? Lack of interest in the woman? Because it doesn't add
anything to his narrative? If it was Fleming, of course, the diehard
sensualist, we would know a good deal more than that they slept
together.
But
if the narrator doesn't sexually objectify, might he be guilty of
treating women like machines, to be utilized for work purposes and
ignored as fellow human beings? Perhaps so, in the case of Alice,
who effectively runs his department, is some unspecified number of
years older than Jean, and who is, I think, the secret hero of the
whole piece.
She
paused a moment, then raised an eyebrow. She had her tight-fitting
tweed two-piece on today, and her hair had been slightly intimidated
in a high-class coiffure joint.
'Your
seams are crooked.'
If
I thought I'd make her angry or happy I couldn't have been more
wrong. She nodded her head deferentially like a Chinese mandarin and
went on her way.
Jean
is a trained agent and treated like an assistant, though the way she
and the narrator interact is more akin to mid-season Key to Time
Fourth Doctor and Romana than it is Third Doctor and Jo Grant. I
also have a feeling that in addition to being genuinely fond of the
narrator, Jean is the more circumspect agent. Just as, despite
appearances, I think Alice is an extremely capable character who
needs her own trilogy.
'Look,
Alice, surely with your vast knowledge of the screened personnel
available to us you must be able to locate a sexy little dark number
to do those things of everyday for me. Unless you're getting a crush
on me. Alice, is that it?'
She
gave me the 'turn-to-stone' look.
I
am very much looking forward to watching the film and reading the
other books in the series.
The Biba Experience – Alwyn
Turner
Enjoyable
and readable history of a very interesting and unique style
experiment.
Crisis? What Crisis?: Britain in
the 1970s – Alwyn
Turner
A
very brisk and engaging summary of the decade, very much on the pulse
of the politics but dipping further into popular culture (Coronation
Street, for
example) than Sandbrook's books.
Zero – Brian
McCabe
Rather
pedestrian and so accessible as to border on the banal.
Doctor Who: Night of the Humans –
David
Llewellyn
An
Eleven/Amy novel set in the far future with lots of elements in
common with “The Face of Evil,” “Full Circle,” and possibly
other stories in which future generations come to misrepresent and
misremember the past and ancestry, with often disastrous results.
'We
have always
been
here,' he snarled, baring his yellow, misshapen teeth. 'There is no
shipwreck.'
The Doctor was gazing up
now, at the broken hull of the GOBO ship.
'Er
. . . Excuse me?' he said. 'But . . . Where exactly do you think you
are?'
'This,'
said Tuco, grinning ominously, 'is Earth. And you, stranger, are a
heretic.'
There
are aliens, Westerns, a too-droll mercenary named Slipstream, and
innumerable complications in a swamp I found difficult to visualize.
Black Moon – Matthew
Sweeney
Very
cynical, enigmatic, distant, sometimes incomprehensible poems.
Crossing the Snowline - Pauline
Stainer
In
concentrated form, her poems were a bit much, too much similar
subject matter, exploration of colors. Singularly, her poems are
tightly crafted and just what I look for in a poem.
Human Chain – Seamus
Heaney
Excellent
collection, but elegiac.
Everything is Sinister –
David Llewellyn
This isn't
quite what I was expecting. The satire on modern consumer-driven,
celebrity-adoring life was incisive and depressing, and then the
apocalyptic conspiracy/blog plot sidled out of nowhere. Thee are
plenty of novels where the protagonist bewails the banality of
modernist life, life but none quite like this one. A lot more
profound than I expected, though not for the faint of heart—or the
homophobic!
The Trials of Radclyffe Hall –
Diane
Souhami
This
was a totally addictive biography that I couldn't believe was true.
When hearing of The
Well of Loneliness, which
I've never read, I thought it was an impressive achievement for gay
rights. The story behind the woman who wrote it is histrionic,
dramatic, and painfully human. It's difficult to know how Radclyffe
Hall (born Marguerite) would have turned out if she had been raised
by her kind maternal grandmother. She had extremely irresponsible,
selfish parents who completely twisted her into an insecure,
controlling, self-absorbed woman; you sympathize with everyone in
this story, but Marguerite only up to a point as you see the
destruction she wreaks in her wake, resembling unconsciously the
consequences of her parents' disastrous union. However, if you
believe solely in genetics, then Marguerite was doomed when she was
born, no matter how much support she might have received from a more
balanced family.
The
mother she had, Mary Jane Hall, ‘late Sager formerly Diehl,’ was
attracted and attractive to rakish men and had startling mood swings.
She gave birth on 12 August 1880 to a daughter she had tried to
abort, whom she never liked and to whom the acutest insult she could
fling was, ‘You are like your father.’ Not an ounce of the
child’s blood, she said, came from her. The girl was Radclyffe
through and through. Her hands, nose, temper and perversity were the
curse of the father, the devil incarnate (4).
In
1879, her father, informally known as Rat (?!), inherited a fortune
of £90,000. Marguerite's mother was granted judicial separation,
custody of the child and a substantial maintenance. She was unhappy,
however. Grandmother Diehl saved her soul. She called her “sugar
plum” and “Tuggie.” She took her to matinees, read Dickens
aloud, took her shopping, did not scold and was not unkind. She
nurtured Marguerite’s writing talent. Marguerite could memorize
stories, poems, and songs, but she was dyslexic.
Marguerite
recoiled, so her mother wept the more and said that even her own
daughter did not love her. Then abruptly she would go and tell Mrs
Diehl to get ready to go to the theatre. ‘Why Mary Jane,’ Mrs
Diehl would say, ‘you’re up and down like a thermometer.’ And
Marguerite, alone in her room, learned to hate her (9).
No
one seemed to care much what Marguerite did during her days. “Mary
Jane denigrated her husband and all his relatives and denied her
daughter contact with any of them” (9). Mary Jane eventually had a
third disastrous marriage to her music teacher, Alberto Visetti, who
seemed to have sexually abused Marguerite. Marguerite, confused as
ever, began having crushes on Visetti's pupils. (Then the whole
thing starts to resemble a Sarah Waters novel.)
When
Rat died, all the family money went to Marguerite upon her majority.
In 1898, this was a small fortune: £100,000. Marguerite left her
mother’s house as soon as she had financial independence. Her
mother called her “vile, filthy, corrupt, depraved, against nature
and against God and hit Grandmother Diehl when she intervened”
(27). “Using her father’s fortune, which her mother coveted but
was denied, Marguerite controlled her lovers and punished her mother
with the money at her command” (29). Thus followed a period where
Marguerite's main occupation was living well with her kept (female)
lovers, who were often widows and often related to her mother
(cousins, usually). She spent a period in the US with one such
lover.
Then
she met Mabel Batten. Mabel, known to Marguerite as Ladye, was a
quirky memsahib, having married in India in the 1870s and by the time
Marguerite met her, a still beautiful although mature woman
accustomed to taking lovers. Mabel called her John—“By
reconstruction she was not the same gender. She was an English
squire from a time-honored family, with horses, lands, and a wife.
For Mabel too it defined the partnership in society's terms. It was
John who opened the doors, carried the bags, hired the servants and
of course paid the bills” (42). Mabel brought many things into
John's life, including Catholicism, which, interestingly, the two
found did not impinge on their unusual lifestyle. “They were
royalists, patriots, Conservatives, Christians, with allegiance to
country, God, and class” (48). John's money solved most problems.
Until,
however, John began her affair with Una Troubridge. This put Mabel
in an awkward position, for John was nothing if not a master of
denial. “It was not a situation she [Mabel] could resolve. She
had nowhere to turn, no wish to live alone. She was not used to
being marginalized. She had always 'accepted homage as a matter of
course.' No homage was on offer now and her flirtatious days were
done. There was a symmetry in the way she had treated George [her
deceased husband]. She had let him know that though she would not
leave him he was too old for her, nor sexy and often dull. She had
farmed him out to family friends, left him in the care of the maid
while she was having fun” (58). Her final years were not happy
ones. If there are victims in the story of Radclyffe Hall, at least
as written by Souhami, they are Una's daughter Andrea, born in 1910,
and Evgenia Souline (we'll get to her later). If there is a villain,
it's probably the deeply flawed Una, a Catholic whose unfortunate
contraction of syphilis from her respectable Naval husband made her a
lifelong hypochondriac and caused her to blame everyone else for her
own problems. But could she ever play the long game. In the first
decade of the 20th
century, she faithfully followed John's ludicrous attempts to reach
Ladye's ghost through a series of disreputable mediums connected to
Sir Oliver Lodge (yes, one of the fathers of radio). They found
that their spiritualism in no way impacted on their observance of
Catholicism.
“
Una
knew the strength that lay in seeming weak, the power her
acquiescence held” (94). In 1919, Una and Troubridge separated,
and Una and John became the leads in what could easily become a
musical farce about two lesbians living the respectable life and
haranguing the local Catholic priest. John “was a homophobic's
nightmare: dykish, rich, unyielding, outspoken, successful with
women and caring not at all for the small vanities of men” (107).
Thus began her first significant entanglement with litigation,
concerning the spiritualists and smearing of her good character,
which set the stage for her later legal wranglings with The
Well of Loneliness. “This
one ought to have proved historic. It might have been about
consensual sex between women and with what moral tenets this should
comply. Radclyffe Hall had a litigious mind. She claimed the high
moral ground. She wished to defend her right to love Mabel Batten
and Una Troubridge. But both her lovers had husbands. And she had
loved them both at the same time” (108).
Both
Mabel and Una had encouraged Radclyffe Hall's writing, an occupation
she then took up with gusto. Souhami, however, does not have a high
opinion of Hall's novels. When The
Forge was
published in 1924, John and Una spent the day driving in their Buick
to London bookshops to check it was stocked. “Given that these were
years of literary innovation it was surprising that publishers liked
it [Adam's
Breed, her
next novel]”
(143). “Socially she was a society lesbian for whom these were
party days” (130). Then came The
Well of Loneliness, which
was to make Radclyffe Hall infamous, part “pathological case study,
religious parable, propaganda tract and Mills & Boone romance”
(160). This part of the book was the most riveting, as Souhami did a
good job communicating the gravity of the situation with the
lightweight quality of the actual novel at the heart of the storm.
“It is doubtful whether Radclyffe Hall and Una, Natalie Barney,
Romaine Brooks, Winnaretta Singer, Toupie Lowther, Colette, Evelyn
Irons, Gabrielle Enthoven, Teddie Gerrard, Tallulah Bankhead and the
rest, with their fine houses, stylish lovers, inherited incomes,
sparkling careers and villas in the sun, were among the most
persecuted and misunderstood people in the world” (167).
For
all the respectable moral detractors, Hall had her defenders, many of
them believing that in terms of human rights, the story deserved to
be heard; the majority, however, were more interested in defending
free speech. Virginia Woolf called The
Well of Loneliness “a
meritorious dull book” and that Hall “screamed like a herring
gull, mad with egotism and vanity” when EM Forster questioned its
literary worth (186). By 1931 the furore was over, the book was
banned, and Una and John moved to Rye to continue their lives as
respectable, religious, conservative lesbians.
In
the early 1930s, the balance of power shifted again when Hall met
Evgenia Souline, a refugee from Russia who was living in Paris. The
much older Hall became obsessed with the young nurse. “Love was to
do with money, sex, and coercion . . . Long years with Una had not
led to subtleties of expression” (267). “ 'If you're anyone's
slave, you're going to be mine,'” Hall told Evgenia (268). Evgenia
felt beaten down by Hall's persistence and found it difficult to
refuse the financial security that her would-be lover offered her.
At the same time, she felt a bit weirded out by the homosexual
quality of her liaison, and furthermore, “could not bear being a
kept woman, an appendage to her and Una. She wanted to take a degree
at the Sorbonne, do a secretarial job, start a chicken farm. She
said John wanted a meek little subordinate to hang on her every word
and 'lie down like a tart whenever she wanted her physically'”
(290). The imbalance in Hall's mind was evident in her desire that
she make a “baby Chink” with the Russo-Asian Evgenia (despite the
physical impossibility—it might have worked out in our day and age,
but I would hope in our day and age Evgenia would have called out a
restraining order).
The
Second World War intervened, and Una's long game came to the fore.
She and Evgenia had tolerated each other, but with Hall's eventual
physical decline and Evgenia's difficulties in getting a British
visa, Una came to control everyone—unto and after death. The
result was that “It was a heinous act. Worse than the cosigning of
The
Well of Loneliness to
the king's furnace by Joynson-Hicks and his friends. They only
delayed publication for twenty-one years. Una prevented [Evgenia's
diary] for all time” (354). Perhaps Radclyffe Hall's influence on
Una only made her a worse person than she would have been otherwise?
“Fusion through love and sex might have eluded Una but she would
achieve it through death” (359). Evgenia died painfully and
without the money Radclyffe Hall had wanted to give her, a thoroughly
dispiriting story of a young life full of potential ruined by spite.
The
story of Radclyffe Hall as told by Souhami is dramatic in the
extreme, but thoroughly well-researched and very evenly-handled.
The Man in the Picture: A Ghost
Story –
Susan Hill
Disappointingly
derivative after The
Woman in Black, though
an interesting idea.
The Sword and the Scimitar –
Ernle
Bradford
A superb
summary of the events of the First through the Sixth Crusades, but
more importantly an excellent grasp of the attitudes that led to the
tragedies—and occasionally the triumphs—of human nature on all
sides of this bizarre and mostly unwarranted conflict.
vN – Madeline
Ashby
This
science fiction novel, published by Angry Robot, was a new take on
the moral dilemmas posed by synthetic life-forms. As such, it was
much better than I had expected, with strong female characters, a
sophisticated and somewhat unusual grasp of the moral and
philosophical problems with these particular kind of robots, and it
never went where I thought it would go. I could see this easily
being made into a film, but I'm sure its essence would be diluted
because the core issues of the story are very dark.
The Three Richards – Nigel
Saul
A very good
premise for a book—Richard I, Richard II, and Richard III—but
executed only adequately. (Or maybe I'm just annoyed that he
continued the “Richard III killed his nephews” shtick.)
Certainly his knowledge of Richard II seemed the most extensive and
indeed taught me a lot I didn't know.
Wilderness – Lance
Weller
This
debut novel was set in three time periods: 1965, following the life
of elderly blind woman, Jane Dao-Ming; 1899 on the West Coast of the
US, following the hardscrabble life of Glenn and Ellen Makers, aided
by Oyster Tom, Silas, Edward, and Charley, and antagonized by Willis
and the Haida; 1864 at the Battle of Wilderness, where Hypatia,
Sherman Grant, Virgil, Ned, and David Abernathy meet the main
character, Abel Truman, who binds all the threads of this book
together. This was an affecting book, full of pain and cruelty. The
characters were all struggling to survive, whether they were freed
slaves looking for a new life, Civil War soldiers demobbing, or new
settlers moving West. The history was gritty and fecund, and for me
it was an excellent tutorial in how to include the American landscape
in a post-Western. I was definitely welling up on the last few
pages.
“The Rebs are on the other side and we can all hear them plain as
day. I think they are all fine Fellows and am not ashamed to say so.
Many others think as I do and do not hate the Rebs but rather hate
the War because it is a Bad and Hateful thing.” Also,
it is clearly a novel written by a man who loves dogs.
The Best of the Best: 20 Years of
the Year's Best Science Fiction ed.
Gardner Duzois
Contrary
to popular belief, I haven't read a lot of science fiction (or
fantasy for that matter). Therefore, it was highly enjoyable and
quite a wake-up call to read this collection of the crème
de la crème,
published in 2003, and over 700 pages in length. What perhaps
surprised me the most is that much of it was not what I had hitherto
considered science fiction: I would have classified it within the
banner heading of “speculative fiction,” much of it being
alternate history and a surprisingly small chunk being space opera or
even hard science fiction, both of which I have experienced in a very
limited way (usually through TV or film). Once I got over that
surprise, I find myself gravitating toward many of the alternative
history stories, which is hardly unexpected.
My
favorite story was “The Undiscovered” by William Sanders, which
postulates that William Shakespeare left England by mistake in the
1590s and lived out his life with an Eastern Native American tribe
who appreciated his dramatic works in a way he probably didn't
expect. This was a wonderfully told and delightful story, extremely
funny and clear in its affection for Shakespeare (“He Who Shakes
Spear”) as well as being written from an authentic native voice.
My second favorite story was quite different; it was “Lambing
Season” by Molly Glass from 2002, which combines within it the
hardscrabble prairie life known to us from E. Annie Proulx with
compassion, love of all things canine, and a touch of the Christmas
spirit, even if that was unintentional. This was a haunting story
about a solitary (but not lonely) woman shepherd who makes a unique
bond with an alien.
Of
the stories I
would
personally classify as science fiction, Ursula K. LeGuin's 1995 story
“Coming of Age in Karhide . . .” and Tony Daniel's 1996 “A Dry,
Quiet War” stood out. The former dealt with gender and sexuality
in a suitably alien fashion, as did “Breathmoss” by Ian R.
MacLeod and the comic “Roadside Rescue” by Pat Cadigan (1985).
“Guest of Honor” by Robert Reed from 1993 was the first story in
the collection as arranged which actually took us into space—a sad
but interesting story. Greg Egan's “Wang's Carpets” from 1995
further postulated long-distance, long-term space travel but also
looked at the consequences of cloning. Quite a few stories dealt
with memory and virtual reality, among them “Recording Angel” by
Ian McDonald (1996), “Second Skin” by Paul J. McAuley (1997), the
very relevant “The Wedding Album” by David Marusek (1999), and
the unbearably sad “Daddy's World” by Walter Jon Williams (1999).
There
were many stories in the alternate history sub-genre, such as “Tales
from the Venia Woods,” by Robert Silverberg from his “Roma”
series in which the Roman Empire never ended; “The Lincoln Train”
by Maureen F. McHugh which looks at a slightly different American
Civil War; “Dinner in Audoghast” by Bruce Sterling; and “Have
Not Have” by Geoff Ryman, a very ambitious tale of a Chinese
seamstress. There were also quite a few stories that I was surprised
were catalogued as science fiction, though I would be hard-pressed to
know what to call them, other than speculative fiction, such as the
truly haunting “Bears Discover Fire” by Terry Bisson (1990). “A
Cabin on the Coast” by Gene Wolfe (1981), “Flying Saucer Rock and
Roll” by Howard Waldrop (1984) (though this was quite hilarious),
“None So Blind” by Joe Haldeman (1994) also qualified.
Needless
to say, I didn't like everything I read. “The Winter Market” by
William Gibson, “Mortimer Gray's History
of Death”
by Brian Stableford, “Salvador” by Lucius Sheperd, and “Lobsters”
by Charles Stross were fairly incomprehensible to me, though I
suspect that is a taste thing as all are in a similar vein. Some of
the more humorous stories felt a little slight, though
entertaining—“Stable Strategies for Middle Management” by
Eileen Gunn and “Even the Queen” by Connie Willis. “Trinity”
by Nancy Kress (1984) and “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang
(1998) were among the most ambitious stories, the latter reminding me
(in a good way) of The
Sparrow by
Mary Doria Russell.
Doctor Who: The Happiness Patrol – Graeme
Curry
Disappointing.
One or two insights that went beyond the broadcast version, but
overall too interested in the one-liner to make good prose.
*Gotham City Sirens: Volume 3:
Strange Fruits – Andres
Guinaldo
As usual,
it would have been better to have started at the beginning.
Nevertheless, I liked where this was going, with Poison Ivy, Harley
Quinn, and Catwoman all sharing a house (with guest appearances from
Talia al-Ghul and Zatanna).
*Star Trek the Next Generation: The
Gorn Crisis - Kevin
J. Anderson, Rebecca Moesta and Igor Kordey
Reissued and stunningly beautiful.
Riker is proving his toughness making repairs on a Klingon citadel
while Picard and Data are negotiating with rogue Gorn (best known
from the Kirk episode).
Crusades—Terry
Jones and Alan Ereira
With
a more potent authorial voice than the previous books on the Crusades
that I had been reading, I learned a great deal from its direct and
interesting style.
Get Carter – Ted
Lewis
A very
entertaining book but very sexist and violent. Not a single
(morally) good or likeable character. Nonetheless, I've no doubt it
gives me an authentic picture of life amongst a certain group of
people at a certain era. Despite its easiness to read, I doubt it
would have reached classic status without the film. It's
somewhat a shame to have ended out the year on such a bleak note.
Nevertheless, here are the stats this year:
35% nonfiction, 31% fiction, 29%
graphic novels, 0.06% poetry
