Category Archives: Reviews

Hope Mirrlees’s Lud-in-the-Mist

I see why many laud Hope Mirrlees’s fantasy novel Lud-in-the-Mist. The prose is as delicious as fairy fruit, the sentences in the style of Virginia Woolf—intricate, laden with clauses like grapes on the vine, and as heady as wine, full in the mouth and producing a ringing in the ears that lingers long after you’ve closed the book.

The ambition is likewise admirable: philosophically meaningful commentary on the human condition, the importance of art in mundane life, the equally delusional nature of law and fantasy, and so much more, climaxing in clever tail-swallowing exhortation to beware the lying written word.

Yes, it’s the kind of book that one can write a dissertation on, find levels of meaning and message in, revisit and dissect and be enriched by. But it’s not one I can love, not one I can feel in my bones, not one I can don like a skin and walk the world in.

The book views art and sensitivity to art as a melancholic, vexed, even hexed, exchange that leaves one longing through a sleepless night, flinching at a harmless word, haunting a graveyard in nameless dread and envious of the impervious dead as one anticipates—oh! how sensitively!—loss of the present’s joys. If one suppresses one’s sensitivity, the agony intensifies, and one suffers—oh! how one suffers!—by turns achingly nostalgic for the prosaic present and drawn inexorably toward the tantalizing, fatal lands of Fairy. Feverish. Fearful.

But mine is a lumpen soul. These melancholic, elevated sensitivities do not speak to me. And thus, although the characters are fulsomely drawn, I don’t feel their plight: instead, I stand outside and observe them in their drawing rooms or kitchens or huddled in their beds, and I watch as the author shines her light on this foible, on that longing, on a curious admixture of base and noble, or ordinary and extraordinary, or philosophical and practical—and I think, yes, intellectually, I recognize these attitudes, these attributes, the arms and legs and flashing teeth of characterization. But I don’t feel them.

Geoff Ryman interview

Geoff Ryman is a Canadian writer whose novels and short stories have won several awards. He writes science fiction and fantasy as well as more straightforward literary work–and sometimes he gets downright experiemental, as he did when he wrote 253, one of the earliest online hypertext novels. He has taught many writing courses, including a workshop at Clarion, four workshops at Clarion West, a week’s writing course with Colin Greenland for the Arvon Foundation at Lumb Bank, and three writers’ workshops in Cambodia. And yet I am astounded (and somewhat ashamed) to say that I’d never heard of him until early this year, when I read his beautiful novel Was.

Was is a gorgeous, intricate, moving work that combines several narrative threads into one unified, powerful hole. The central “what if” postulated in the novel, which ties together the various threads, is that the Wizard of Oz is based on the real, entirely mundane life of a young, abused girl in 1870’s Kansas. Ryman interweaves the tale of that girl, who is slowly driven insane and ends up in a mental asylum, with three other narratives: one, about the making of the movie in the 1930s and Judy Garland’s life both before and after the movie; two, about a former horror star who is dying of AIDS in 1989 and is obsessed with Judy Garland and the search for the historical Dorothy; and three, about a psychologist who cares for the institutionalized Dorothy before she dies.

As you might expect from such a work, there are layers within layers. Overriding them all is the theme of the destruction of childhood—the childhood of individuals, and the childhood of a nation. But the novel doesn’t lack hope; it offers moments of grace and redemption. In an intriguing afterward to Was, Ryman discusses how U.S. fantasies and U.S. history collide, corrupt, and can serve as antidotes to one another.

I recently had the opportunity to interview Geoff Ryman for the Chronicles Network. If you’d like, you can read the interview online by using the link embedded in this sentence. Then, if Ryman’s thoughts about writing, teaching, and reading grab you, pick up a copy of Was. I dare you not to weep, as I did, all through the final eighteen pages of that novel—for what might have been, and for what was.

Joss Whedon and comics

I’m an enormous fan of all things Whedon—Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly and Serenity, of course, but also any other tossed-off bit of creative genius Joss Whedon cares to grace the universe with. And many years ago, I used to work in a comic store, spending much of my salary every week on comics that I would read and then seal lovingly in plastic bags. So you will understand my delight when I discovered that Joss also writes comics.

Recently, I gobbled up the comic prequel to the movie Serenity, then sank my teeth into Joss’s Astonishing X-Men. Way back when, I wasn’t a devoted X-Men fan; I appreciated them, but never got manic. (My mania was for the Avengers, their close mutant kin less beloved by most comics geeks.) But Joss’s version of the X-Men left me salivating for more.

In that messily drooling state, I trolled the web for tasty Joss crunchies and found a hilarious interview. If you’re a Joss Whedon fan, or you like to see comic and fantasy fans dressed up in costumes, you might get a kick out of the Geek Week video podcast called “Geek Week at Wizard World 2006.”

The podcasters had planned to film a joke about wanting to interview Joss Whedon but failing to find him. But Joss really showed up, pretended to be a fan dressed up as himself, and answered the interviewer’s questions. Much recursive nuttiness ensued. The rest of episode is chuckle-worthy, too: a guy dressed up as Wolverine is a hoot, and I laughed out loud as I watched a fan dressed as Mighty Thor carry a cafeteria tray and get ready to sit down to lunch while the theme music from the old Thor TV show blasts on the soundtrack. (No, I wasn’t laughing at the fan. How could I? I once attended a con dressed as Wanda the Witch: imagine my fat thighs in tights! Or better yet, don’t imagine.)

Here’s the link to the video podcast of the Joss Whedon portion of the episode. (If the URL changes, just go to search in “Geek Week Joss Whedon video.”)

If you’re a science fiction fan but haven’t yet watched Firefly, grab a copy on DVD and see what I’m raving about.

Pat Murphy’s Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell

I like to assign science fiction in my introductory college composition classes. The main reason is that I enjoy reading it myself and I’ve learned that students do, too. But I’ve got other, more pedagogical reasons. One is that science fiction empowers students who aren’t strong writers or readers but have strong skills in the sciences: the science majors can explain the science to the humanities students, and the humanities students can reciprocate by explaining the literature. Another more lofty reason is that science is important in today’s society, and I’d like all the students—even the science-averse—to see that there’s an accessible way to think about science without mastering equations.

Over the years, I’ve assigned a number of science fiction novels, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, Dennis Danvers’s The Watch, Mary Doria Russell’s The Sparrow, and M.T. Anderson’s Feed. But perhaps my favorite SF text to use in introductory composition classrooms is Pat Murphy’s Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell.

There are two things that make this novel so effective in the classroom. First, the students enjoy puzzling out the who-dunnit mystery at the heart of the plot, so they are quickly drawn into the novel and the reading experience without needing me to prompt them. Second, one of the main characters, Max Merriwell, is a writer who gives writing workshops aboard the ocean-going cruise ship on which all the characters are sailing.

In his workshops, Max ruminates on the nature of writing and the function of writing techniques, and he assigns writing exercises to his fellow passengers. His workshops not only offer clues to the mystery, but also function as explicit commentary on the writing techniques that Pat Murphy herself is using in the novel.

I bet you can tell where this is going . . .

Yep, I have my students perform the same writing exercises that Max asks his fellow passengers to perform. In doing these exercises, the wall between readers and characters collapses in interesting ways. The exercises give students another means to enter into the novel and to draw the novel out into their own lives. In doing the exercises, students discover ideas and techniques they can use in narrative or personal essays. And they gain insights into literary techniques, insights that they can use in literary analysis papers.

Another thing that absolutely tickles me about the collapsing of the walls is that the novel itself is about collapsing walls—walls between fact and fiction, between literary genres (the book reads like a cross between a mystery novel and science fiction), between hard physics and Eastern philosophy, between authorial and scientific creation, and more. If the book has a flaw, it is the ending, which some students find abrupt. But even that ending becomes a virtue, because it prompts a critical evaluation that reflects the students’ engagement and investment in the text.

I can’t tell you as much as I would like about how well this text works in the composition classroom, because I’d reveal too much about the mystery at the novel’s heart. Suffice it to say that, the more you unpack the text, the more pedagogically useful purposes you discover. (To tantalize you further with the possibilities of unpacking, I’ll just mention that Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell is the third novel in a nonconsecutive trilogy by Pat Murphy: the first novel was supposedly written by Max using a female pseudonym; the second was supposedly written by Max under his own name; and the third is written about Max—and his pseudonyms—by Pat Murphy.)

If you’re searching for an engaging, thought-provoking, wall-collapsing novel to read either for your own enjoyment or to assign in a composition classroom, check it out!

John Scalzi and John Steakley

I just finished reading John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War, a nominee for the 2006 Hugo award, and found myself comparing it to John Steakley’s Armor, published in 1984, which I read a few months ago.

Scalzi’s work is an entertaining read very much in the Heinlein tradition, as noted in the cover blurb by Publisher’s Weekly. The novel’s view of combat is rather blithe; despite relentless battles against aliens on all fronts, an apparently unwinnable war that will span generations, the beheading and maiming and death of various comrades, and the considerable physical damage done to the first-person narrator-soldier, that soldier, Perry, remains psychologically healthy. (The closest he comes to a crisis is feeling like an “inhumane monster” for a few pages, but that feeling is dispensed with easily.) Though he has the option of easier assignments, he asks to return to combat, which he acknowledges himself to be “strangely good” at (311). He is honored for his exploits, and the book ends with the promise of love and a good life tending fields of grain after his eventual retirement.

In contrast, Steakley’s work is far more unsettling. Like Old Man’s War, Armor features endless battles against deadly aliens, and the warrior Felix is likewise strangely good at combat, but Steakley depicts the psychological consequences of war far less blithely, showing how Felix becomes “The Engine” in order to survive. Felix fears, he expects to die, he weeps, he hates, as over and over again he is thrust back into combat by a glitch in the system—and he faces it, encased in a black suit of battle armor. Comrades die, friends die; in battle, he fights on, and after the battle, he reacts. And at the end of the book, well, I can’t spoil the ending, but I’ll take a quote from the final page: “There is no protection from what you want” (426).

I am not a habitual reader of military science fiction, and I’ve never fought in a war, but Felix reminds me of the one Vietnam War veteran I knew well, and Armor affects me more deeply and seems more layered than Old Man’s War.