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Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn

The first of five novels in Edward St. Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose series is a glimpse into the protagonist’s childhood. The entire novel takes place on or around the Melrose family estate in the South of France, on a single day when Patrick is just five years old.

Patrick is an outside observer to most of the story, which centers around the intersection of three deeply troubled couples. Each of these couples is connected to English High Society, but no one is entirely comfortable with their status in it.

Patrick’s parents, David and Eleanore Melrose, are at the top of the small societal heap of the novel. David, a failed classically trained pianist, married Eleanore solely for her money and has spent the better part of his life using his vast wealth and free time to manipulate and dominate others. He is a sociopath in every sense of the word and his emotional and physical abuse of his wife are presented in the terrifying emotional climaxes of the novel. Eleanore has been driven to hardcore alcoholism and prescription drug abuse in order to escape both the boredom of aristocratic life and the paranoia of life with David. Young Patrick’s response to his unorthodox (or super-orthodox, depending on your perspective) upbringing will presumably be covered in depth in the later novels.

The Melrose’s neighbors, Anne and Viktor, come not from the landed aristocracy but from the distant worlds of middle America and Continental academia, respectively. Viktor seeks desperately the approval of David Melrose and the high society he represents, but David takes perverse pleasure in watching Viktor flounder in his attempts at proper and posh behavior. Anne is the only character who seems to recognize the absurdity of it all, and suffers greatly over “those interminable weekends” during which Viktor drags her from famous house to famous house, society party to society party, all the time scolding her for her lack of decorum even as his benefactors mock him relentlessly for his own ignorance of mannered behavior.

Finally, David’s young protege Nicholas and his latest sexual infatuation, Bridget, round out the little group of the novel. They provide much of the comic relief in the book — a novel which is surprisingly, memorably funny even as it delves into shocking behaviors and desperate ennui. Aubyn deftly drifts between the inner lives of each character, giving rise to one of the most hilarious passages in which Bridget and Nicholas’ mismatched affections are revealed. Bridget clearly thinks she has the upper hand:

In the end she would probably marry him and she would be the fourth Lady Pratt. Then she would divorce him and get half a million pounds, or whatever, and keep Barry as her sex slave and still call herself Lady Pratt in shops. God, sometimes she was so cynical it was frightening.

Of course, Nicholas has other plans: “If he married again, he would not choose a girl like Bridget. Apart from anything else, she was completely ignorant.”

While one is tempted to read the book as a commentary on the decline of the once great British aristocracy, St. Aubyn reminds us that a tendency towards darkness and wickedness bred of boredom have been features of the powerful classes since time immemorial. A thematic element that recurs again and again is Suitonius’ The Twelve Caesars, a favorite of David Melrose. In particular, the chapters on Nero and Caligula are treated in depth, and the comparison drawn between David’s sadistic streak and the behavior of those most vile of Roman emperors.

The book concludes with the three couples sitting down to an uncomfortable dinner, in which the various philosophical themes of the novel are discussed outright by the characters. Victor notes that “Ethics is not the study of what we do…but what we ought to do,” and a considerable amount of time is then spent on the topic of how one “ought” to raise a child. David and Nicholas share the opinion that “[I]t doesn’t do the child any good to be mollycoddled…all you have to do for children is hire a reasonable nanny and put them down for Eton.” Meanwhile, Patrick listens to all this from the stop of the stairs, still wondering what he has done to so often provoke his father’s horrible wrath…and the reader wonders what Patrick will do in future volumes to recover from it.

A novel of incredible lyricism, poignant commentary, with a cast of characters who repulse and compel at once, this is the rare contemporary literary novel that grabs the reader and really throttles them. Highly recommended.

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A Clash of Kings by George RR Martin

I had originally intended to finish A Clash of Kings, the second novel in George RR Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series, by April 1st in order to be done in time for the premiere of the second season of the HBO show based on the series, Game of Thrones. Unfortunately the 1,000+ pages and a somewhat overwhelming workload put me a little behind … not that I have HBO anyway, so it doesn’t really matter when I start watching the show.

I have probably seen at least fifty people reading this book in the last month — on trains, busses, in waiting rooms, airplanes, coffee shops, diners, parks…and most of those people seem to have the book open to about page 150. This leads me to believe that many more people are starting the book than finishing it. I think perhaps the general reading population isn’t prepared for the ‘epicness’ of epic fantasy. A Clash of Kings is in the ballpark of War and Peace, Atlas Shrugged, Moby Dick,and Infinite Jest — books notorious for being given up on. And that is just one book of seven (five of which have been released so far) — the complete series is likely to run to 8,000 or more pages. That’s in the neighborhood of 1,700,000 words, longer than the King James Bible and the Qoran combined.

Excepting a few historical oddities*, the majority of fictional works of this length seem to be genre fiction. Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series dwarfs the Song of Ice and Fire, and The Dark Tower and Dune series are not far behind. And yet fans consistently clamor for more from these universes; more novels, movies, videogames, table top role playing games, graphic novel tie-ins, auxiliary materials such as maps, technical manuals, books of art inspired by the series.

Why is it that science fiction, fantasy, and horror give birth to such immense quantities of material? There are undoubtedly numerous factors at play including the narrative space required by complex world building and the nature of publishing contracts for genre writers, which often stipulate multiple books. But I think it mainly has to do with the mind of the genre fiction fan, commonly known as the “Nerd” or “Geek.”. What is the real distinction between a Nerd and, let’s say, Mike from Jersey Shore? I think it has a bit to do with feeling uncomfortable in the real world, a bit with the capacity to suspend disbelief, and a lot to do with a form of obsessiveness not known to the general population.

Maybe it all comes down to this: which is more interesting, the vast but finite world around us, or the infinite worlds of the imagination?

The crossover success of A Song of Ice and Fire and the TV series Based on it stems from a perfect balance of these elements: the settings may be fantastical, but the people and politics are familiar. The question is whether casual fantasy fans who are intrigued by the glimpses of life in Westeros on HBO can maintain their interest through pages and pages of description of castle layouts, family trees, siege tactics, courtly dress, vast feasts and assorted alchemies. There’s no doubt the books drag in places — some more of the sex so prevalent in the televised version might help — but for a certain type of obsessive imagination, like mine, those reams of rich detail don’t just set the stage, they are themselves the reward.

*Proust’s A Remembrance of Things Past is the longest ever novel although it is usually presented as seven separate volumes. Balzac referred to his enter oeuvre as one work, La comedie humane, with dozens of very loosely connected novels, plays and short stories sharing numerous characters.

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Fear Index by Robert Harris

I love a techno-thrillers and financial mysteries, so any book that straddles both sub-genres is guaranteed to push some buttons for me. This book delves into the world of hedge funds and algorithmic trading, putting a lightly science fictional spin on the mini-crash of blank blank blank, when unchecked computerized trading caused a hiccup of never before seen market volatility.

Sadly this novel barely skims the surface of what is possible given its premise, that a too smart trading algorithm called VIXAL starts directly manipulating markets and people. The eccentric AI researcher Alex Hoffman and slick salesman Hugo Quarry who build a company around VIXAL are the most fleshed out characters in the book, but neither of them traces a particularly rich character arc. VIXAL itself has the potential to be an interesting ‘character’ but there is little explanation give for its bizarre actions and only the barest hint of self awareness.

I would have liked to see a higher level of financial discourse in the novel; I feel that with high finance so much in the news today readers are pretty well versed in once esoteric topics, like algorithmic trading, and Harris would have done well to dig a little further under the surface. The financial content is mostly buzzwords (quants is one that is especially overused) and big figures meant more to astonish than inform. The one financial instrument that Harris invents, the titular Fear Index that gauges people’s level of fearfulness as a indicator of market activity, is not explained very clearly and was frankly not as interesting as real financial tools out in the wild.

I’m still waiting for the great novel of our current financial crisis. There have been a dozen solid non-fiction books about What Happened but I’m afraid Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps has been the best fictional spin on events so far (not too short change Oliver Stone, who lately has done a pretty good job of satirizing American history as its happening.)

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Solaris Rising: The New Solaris book of Science Fiction edited by Ian Whates

I am not entirely sure how one is supposed to review a short story collection. I have found that very rarely is a collection categorically ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ There’s always at least a few stinkers in any great anthology, and always at least one or two great stories in any weak anthology. This book, and the series that it belongs to, is chiefly notable for attracting a group of writers who make up the core of the post-millenial renaissance in space opera: Ken Macleod, Peter F. Hamilton, and Alastair Reynolds. There are also stories from authors who are currently “hot” such as Paul di Filippo, author of the Wind-Up Girl and Ian McDonald, whose work has been poppping up constantly in my reading lately. A few older, master storytellers step in as well, including Stephen Baxter and Mike Resnick.

Based on the Solaris imprint, I was definitely expecting a heavy space-opera emphasis, but there was really only one story that fit soundly in that sub-genre, “For the Ages” by Alastair Reynolds. Not surprisingly, it was my favorite of the collection, dealing as it did with such highly Reynoldsian themes as deep-time and genuine speculation on how interstellar travel would have to operate. The basic premise is that humans realize the dark energy fueled expansion of the universe will, several tens of billions of years hence, will eventually push all galaxies outside of the local group completely out of sight over the universal horizon, forever hiding evidence of the Big Bang from our light cone. Seeking to enlighten whatever future alien races may occupy the Local Group, we embark on a mission to record a complete account of astrophysics on the diamond surface of a planet orbiting a super-stable pulsar. The only problem with creating an account of all knowledge meant to last forever? It always requires a few revisions before it’s even done.

Other stories in the collection mostly take place on earth, and many take place either in the present or the recent past, highlighting a definite trend in sci-fi away from futuristic speculation and towards re-examining the fantastical scientific advances all around us. Kind of a sci-fi equivalent of Magical Realism, I suppose. Some of the stories I really loved in the book were “The Lives and Deaths of Che Guevara,” by Lavie Tidhar, postulating a world in which the 20th century was shaped more than anything by numerous secret clones of the engimatic socialist revolutionary; “Yestermorrow” by Richard Salter, in which a slip in space time causes all people to experience their lives out of order — and a whole new bureaucratic apparatus arises to make sure things still happen in the right order; and “How We Came Back from Mars,” in which some stranded astronauts learn that sometimes even the most out-there conspiracy theory is less strange than the truth.

Last month I went to San Francisco for the Fancy Foods Show.  One of the highlights of my trip was my visit to legendary Isotope Comics in the Hayes Valley neighborhood.  With a little help from the incredible staff, I grabbed an armful of comics that I didn’t think I’d see back in Chicago.  Here’s what I nabbed.

Wuvable Oaf #1 and #2 by Ed Luce

The owner of Isotope, James, described this to me as “the queer Scott Pilgrim,” and that’s pretty damn spot on.
List of T-Shirts worn by Oaf and other characters in these 2 issues:
  • Wipers
  • The Knife
  • The Jesus and Mary Chain
  • Morissey’s Bitch
  • Limozeen
  • Sleez
  • Ejaculoid
  • Power Bottom
  • Pee Cock Saloon
  • Assignment: Catwalk
Anyway, this is one of the funniest comics I’ve read in awhile.  It’s a peek into a slightly left of normal world of custom dolls, queer noise bands, wiccans, and aggro-masseurs, but like the aforementioned Scott Pilgrim, all the counterculture in jokes and sly sexual innuendo are just backdrop for a straight up adorable love story.  Highly recommended, especially if you heart bears.
Also, if you live in the Bay Area, creator Ed Luce actually teaches a series of comics-making classes at Isotope!  San Francisco, you bitch, I am so jealous right now.
The Martian Confederacy Volume 1 by Jason McNamara and Paige Braddock
“Is this going to be some long winded speech about the welfare of future generations?  I don’t know those people.”
Welcome to Mars, circa 3535.  The planet is in the grip of the Phonet corporation, who have a monopoly on oxygen and will stop at nothing to prevent scientists from bringing breathable atmosphere to Mars.  Transgenic animals are everywhere, and the local currency is the Shatner, flying cars are de rigeur, and  Planet of the Apes is thought to be accurate historical record.
This is total gonzo sci fi noir and the word rollicking definitely comes to mind.  It reminds me a bit of Philip K Dick and a bit of Douglas Adams, surely two of the greats, but it falls a little short for me.  I tend not to like sci fi that plays fast and loose with scientific concepts, or avoids scientific explanation of phenomena all together.  I also think that in comics, science fiction is best served by taut linework; my favorite sci fi artists like Moebius, James Stokoe, and Urasawa all pack their panels with crisp lines and loads of detail.  The art is this book is definitely expressive, but its also extremely flowy — the loose brush work just doesn’t say “far future” to me.
All that aside, it’s always refreshing to see some outsider genre art, and I applaud anyone self publishing niche-within-a-niche comics.  I would definitely read volume 2, if I ever come across it.
Kate or Die 3: Tokyo Drift by Kate (I mean, I’m guessing)
Kate is a comics fan who loves cats, has trouble finding jeans that fit her, and suffers from both terminal cuteness and occassional depression and anxiety.  In short, she’s exactly like me.  A + infinity.
Bachelor Girl Issue 2 by Amy Martin
“you have to find the person who is you SOULMATE and complements you in all you do.  The person who is your intellectual equal, perfect sexual match and best flippin’ friend!!! The person you fuck in the shower and grocery shop with on Sundays.  Your port in the storm! Your Rock!!  Your Family! Your financial advisor!  Your slut bunny!! Your ladder-holder for when you are painting the ceiling!  You can only get married when you find this one perfect person fall deeply in love, and agree to spend the rest of your goddamn lives adoring each other even if they get paralyzed in an an accident and you have to feed them mush and empty the bedpans until one or both of you DIES!!!!!!!”
“That Does seem like an awful lot of trouble to go to for kitchen wares.  Maybe…I guess….I am just one of those people who’s not meant to have an oyster baller.”
The central story in this issue revolves around Bachelor Girl wishing she had a full set of single use kitchen instruments…banana thongs, cream pounders, salad squeezers.  She had such things once…too bad they belonged to a twat of a 200 lb boyfriend.  When the kitchen wares salesman tells Bachelor Girl that only married people can have Blueberry Extracters, she decideds to get married.   What follows is a lengthy debate about who should get married and why.  And the end, true to her name, Bachelor Girl doesn’t find it worth the trouble.
I am definitely not the intended audience for this comic.  Not that I’m not girl-positive, but I definitely found that reading this was like being the only guy at a French Toast and Mimosas Baby Shower Brunch.  Sooo kawaii.  Also, the art is technically accomplished and Ms. Martin definitely has her style down, but…I hated it.  Remember what I said about flowiness in my review of the Martian Confederacy. Yeah, flowy x one million.
Definitely a fun and funny book, if you’re a self assured single lady, or just a touch more in touch with your feminine side than I am, this is a sweet little read.
Diburros Sketchbook 2011 by Marcelo Braga
So the new Ba & Moon was Rafael Grampa, and the new Rafael Grampa is this guy, Marcelo Braga.  A partial catalog of things drawn in this sketchbook:
  • Gun-toting, hoody wearing monsters from under the bed.
  • A panoply of Brazilian hipsters
  • A beatiful woman wearing nothing but a scarf
  • Shane MacGowan
  • Chilean carabineros
  • Beer guzzling angels
  • Wolverine
  • Superman with what has to be a shit eating grin
  • Cowboys vs. aliens
  • Ghostbusters
  • Slutty demons
It’s all goofy stuff, like the wild shit your friend was always drawing in a spiral notebook in the back row of civics class.  It’s also incredibly stylish, emotive, and technically impressive.  I have no idea if Braga has done any actual comics that are available in the States, but I’ll be checking out his site every day just to see his latest sketches.

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The Dervish House by Ian McDonald

Perfect information is a rumour; perfect rumour is information.

Two books into McDonad’s cycle of near future global SF, I remain astonished at the breadth of the author’s interests and the seriousness of his multidisciplinary themes. The Dervish House combines cutting edge areas of academic research — experimental behavioral economics, nanotechnology, information theory, the sociology of terror and abstract financial instruments — and uses them to extrapolate a very near future that is both totally recognizable and deeply frightening. Like River of Gods, the Dervish House is an ensemble book, but here it is handled even more adeptly. While in many such books one waits for to see how crazily divergent plotlines will somehow cross, 30 pages from the end, McDonald has his core cast circling each other from page one. You get the impression that just as one character enters a room, another has left; that Adnan Serioglu and Georgios Fentinou have been sitting back to back sipping tea at the cayshane all this time. The resolutions, when they do come, are all the more satisfying when they do come.

While this book takes place in our future, it and its characters are obsessed with the past. Much of this has to do with the choice of setting — Istanbul, the Queen of Cities, has stood for thousands of years, been the seat of many empires, and developed quite a collection of relics in all the time. One such relic, the search for which forms the thematic heart of the book, is the Mellified Man, an ancient Ottoman who had himself preserved in honey, making him the rarest and most perfectly preserved and valuable mummy in the middle east. The search for the Mellified Man leads one character, Ayse, on a journey through Istanbul’s secret architecture, its bazaars full of tourist trinkets and rare heirlooms, into the worlds of Sufi mysticism, Sephardic writing, micrography, and the secret names of God. This search is deftly linked, by MdDonald, tot eh rapid rise of nanotechnology, technology that can read and write on our DNA — and change our universe in powerful, godlike ways.

“You wonder how far down in can go, writing within writing within writing within writing,” Akgün says. “Nanography, perhaps? Do you think it could be like nanotechnology, the smaller it gets, the more powerful it becomes? Are there levels so fine we can’t read them but which have the most profound subliminal influences.?

I don’t do justice to the thematic harmonies here, but rest assured they are powerful enough to give any reader pause. A book that forces you to put it down and take a moment to reflect is always going to be high on my recommendations list.

52books: River of Gods

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River of Gods by Ian McDonald

The best of several good books I’ve read already this year, River of Gods has reignited my passion for sci if and reminded me that the genre can be tackle serious themes, evoke powerful emotions and show off fabulous writing as well as so-called “literary” fiction.

I picked up this read after hearing McDonald discuss the book on the Geeks Guide to the Galaxy podcast. He described the project as belonging to the legacy of the Indian social novel: a vast tableau incorporating characters from many backgrounds, religions and castes. The principal characters include a Muslim senior political advisor; a “Krishna Cop” whose job is to hunt down rogue AIs; a Pakistani journalist trying to jump from the gossip circuit to serious news (who finds the subjects to be hopelessly intertwined ); a street ‘raja,’ hustler, pimp and pusherman in debt up to his neck; a ‘nute,’ an individual who has had yts reproductive organs and hormonal circuitry reached with custom tech; and a pair of Western resarch scientists whose work at the frontier of AI has led them to the Indian state of Bharat, one of the last places on earth where advanced computational brains are still quasi-legal. The back up cast, including such wonders as a Jawharl the Jain, proprietor of a rescue for abandoned cyberpets, and blank blank blank, a counter generated actor convinced he is the real deal, may be even more colorful and entertaining.

Of course it is not surprising that all of these characters eventually cross paths, but the slow burn of McDonald’s plotting, and the careful way in which the elements of the 5 or 6 major plot threads build upon each other, is incredibly satisfying. Even more impressive is the way in which McDonald takes his time grappling with Big Problems both moral and scientific. In many ways, this is a roman a clef about Artificial Intelligence and the long novel examines the subject from every angle, delving deep into technology, Emergence Theory, the Singularity (or lack thereof), the nature of machine consciousness, and the moral responsibility humanity has for its technological creations (and vice versa). Unlike some God in the Machine cheerleaders like Charles Stross and Ray Kurzweil*, McDonald looks closely at both the promise and the limitations of machine intelligence, rightly pointing out that aeias may be both millions of times more intelligent than baseline humanity and surprisingly clueless, idiot savants to the nth power. About one such aeai, an emergent property of the financial markets, a character notes:

Its understanding of the human world is partial. In the financial markets that are its ecological niche, Brahma as far exceeds human intellect as we do snakes but if you were to speak with it directly, it would seem to you naive, neurotic; even a little autistic.

Though less crucial to the story, other subjects on the technological horizon receive equally interesting treatment; McDonald seems to have an especial concern for gengineering, as evidenced by the horror that is the Brahmin Babies, genetically perfect children who physically age at half the normal rate, giving rise to an awkward phase in which the children have the bodies of 9 year olds and the sexual appetites of someone in their late teens. “What worries me,” says one character, the unlikeable but practical Krishna Cop Mr. Nandha, “is that we have reached a stage where wealth can change human evolution…parents have always wanted to give their children advantages, now they can hand it down through all future generations.”

I have read one other book by McDonald, the psychedelic Martian odyssey of Desolation Road. I enjoyed that book but felt it tried to hard to be grandiose, obscure, to achieve some dream of “literariness.”. A big part of that was its language, long rambly sentences full of nonsense words and allusions, Pound or Joyce gone to Mars (if only). River of Gods doesn’t shy away from streams of consciousness or a vocabulary heavily informed by as yet uninvented Hindu tech slang, but McDonald has wisely toned it down a bit, reeled it in and allowed his florid language to flow naturally amidst the pillars of solidly constructed plot and characters.

Expect to see reviews of Cyberabad Days, the Dervish House, and Brasyl, McDonalds other recent works of near future speculative fiction set in the Globsl South, in this space over the next few weeks. And yes, I know I’m a week behind pace on my 52 books goal already, but never fear! I have a few quick reads in my sights to make it easy to catch up.

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