1) As Pratchett once wrote, once you're trained to see symbols, you start to see them everywhere. So it seems to be with me and my thoughts on violence. I was only looking for the Pogue Colonel's quote in Full Metal Jacket and stumbled instead on this mini-essay on Private Joker and the Jungian Duality of Man. The author's stance is that for the entirety of Full Metal Jacket, Joker is trying to use ironic detatchment to deny the duality in himself that leads to him writing Natural Born Killer on his helmet and wearing a Peace symbol on his jacket, and that the scene in which the Pogue Colonel asks him about it is just highlighting this to make sense of the choices Joker makes. A thought-provoking read.
2) More central to writing is this twitter-thread from James Mangold on how he nearly made it, then nearly didn't, then did and the lessons he learned from that. It's a simple message - concentrate on your writing and its quality, not where it's going to take you - but an important one. And probably heard from him rather than me, so click on through.
3) On the theme of twitter threads, if people are looking for some inspiration and knowledge around the wider world, here's some good ones on African architecture and the origins of Aztec god names - and yes, twitter threads might be my favourite thing I've discovered this year.
4) This one probably isn't worth a whole article by itself, but I read a post on the 'rules' of foreshadowing the other day on a forum that stated nobody remembered foreshadowing from book 1 if its not used again until book 10. I read this approximately 3 minutes after finding examples of people doing just that with The Wheel of Time. Sure, this was the hardcore geeks at play, with the other hardcore geeks going "Oh wow, I missed that", but even so, it's not often I get to see somebody's certainty about writing proven wrong so quickly. Which is a good reminder that we shouldn't be thinking about writing in terms of absolutes, and that most rules are flawed in places. In the same thread, I saw someone say their critique group told them that no foreshadowing should be used unless its resolved in the same book. I'm sure there's some wisdom to the general gist of the idea, but as an absolute rule? R+L=J is all I have to say to that.
5) One final writing article to be shared for the year - Neil Gaiman's eight tips for writing short stories. I particularly like Number 3.
Friday 27 December 2019
Wednesday 25 December 2019
The Hogfather by Sir Pterry
I doubt I'm the only nerd out there whose Christmas traditions include finding time to revisit Sir Terry Pratchett's take on the festive season, The Hogfather, aka the source of one of his greatest ever quotes:
“All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable."
REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.
"Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—"
YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.
"So we can believe the big ones?"
YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.
"They're not the same at all!"
YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.
"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—"
MY POINT EXACTLY.”
It is a brilliant quote - savagely, compassionately, thoughtfully direct on the essential nature of reality and humanity's relationship with it. Our attempts to shape and add to reality aren't that pink pill, they're just an intrinsic part of us, and the fairytales of youth are our early attempts at exercising that part of us. And I often think about The Hogfather in that light. A belief in the glory of humanity's imagination.
But this year, for whatever reason, what struck me most was all the many swipes Pratchett took at the reality many experience at Christmas. The arguments. The resentment. The smug sense of superiority from those who get more. The grim reality of what is it to be really, truly desperately poor in the bleak midwinter. In this respect, casting Death as the stand-in Hogfather is truly inspired; as a supernatural being who frequently sees us at our best, Death desperately wants to to believe the best of the winter festival. Instead he sees we're just the same as ever.
Now that reading may come partially from a year where my fellow humans have puzzled me more than just about ever, but it's there. It's right there.
One of the things I've come to appreciate more and more about Pratchett as I grow older is the way he's so careful to show that we're all following the same processes, the sinners and the saints and everyone else in between. We're all instinctively reshaping how reality should be based on our beliefs. What separates good from evil is often at root a very small thing - little differences about who matters and what matters and where we think other people stand compared to us. But it makes all the difference to where those processes end up. That was one of the many great things about Pratchett. He has as many things to say about good and evil as any fantasy author - for the most part about how people end up good or evil, and how so many think themselves good when they're not.
The standards we set for how reality should have a lot to do with that. And appropriately enough for Christmas, one of the things Pratchett takes a swing at is the idea that doing good things every once in a while makes you good. It doesn't. Doesn't make you evil either, but not good. Maybe more controversially, he also takes a swing at the idea that good acts done out of a desire for self-gratification and self-glorification aren't really good at all. That's not one my brain's up for unpicking this late on Christmas Day. But it links with Pratchett's idea that treating people as things is where evil starts. If you doing good treats that person as a thing in the quest for looking good, rather than a person, it's a dodgy path. That makes some sense to me.
Neil Gaiman wrote about Pratchett's anger. These days it shines brighter and brighter, a candle in the dark of everyone's fear. There's a seed of hope, that maybe we can find the story that changes how people see reality for the better. Maybe. But in the meantime, his books remain very good.
“All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable."
REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.
"Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—"
YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.
"So we can believe the big ones?"
YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.
"They're not the same at all!"
YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.
"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—"
MY POINT EXACTLY.”
It is a brilliant quote - savagely, compassionately, thoughtfully direct on the essential nature of reality and humanity's relationship with it. Our attempts to shape and add to reality aren't that pink pill, they're just an intrinsic part of us, and the fairytales of youth are our early attempts at exercising that part of us. And I often think about The Hogfather in that light. A belief in the glory of humanity's imagination.
But this year, for whatever reason, what struck me most was all the many swipes Pratchett took at the reality many experience at Christmas. The arguments. The resentment. The smug sense of superiority from those who get more. The grim reality of what is it to be really, truly desperately poor in the bleak midwinter. In this respect, casting Death as the stand-in Hogfather is truly inspired; as a supernatural being who frequently sees us at our best, Death desperately wants to to believe the best of the winter festival. Instead he sees we're just the same as ever.
Now that reading may come partially from a year where my fellow humans have puzzled me more than just about ever, but it's there. It's right there.
One of the things I've come to appreciate more and more about Pratchett as I grow older is the way he's so careful to show that we're all following the same processes, the sinners and the saints and everyone else in between. We're all instinctively reshaping how reality should be based on our beliefs. What separates good from evil is often at root a very small thing - little differences about who matters and what matters and where we think other people stand compared to us. But it makes all the difference to where those processes end up. That was one of the many great things about Pratchett. He has as many things to say about good and evil as any fantasy author - for the most part about how people end up good or evil, and how so many think themselves good when they're not.
The standards we set for how reality should have a lot to do with that. And appropriately enough for Christmas, one of the things Pratchett takes a swing at is the idea that doing good things every once in a while makes you good. It doesn't. Doesn't make you evil either, but not good. Maybe more controversially, he also takes a swing at the idea that good acts done out of a desire for self-gratification and self-glorification aren't really good at all. That's not one my brain's up for unpicking this late on Christmas Day. But it links with Pratchett's idea that treating people as things is where evil starts. If you doing good treats that person as a thing in the quest for looking good, rather than a person, it's a dodgy path. That makes some sense to me.
Neil Gaiman wrote about Pratchett's anger. These days it shines brighter and brighter, a candle in the dark of everyone's fear. There's a seed of hope, that maybe we can find the story that changes how people see reality for the better. Maybe. But in the meantime, his books remain very good.
Friday 20 December 2019
Friday Five: Thoughts on Writing and Fantasy
1) I've already talked a fair bit about Anna Smith-Spark's interview with RunalongWomble and how much her response about violence resonated with me. When I shared my take on why it mattered on twitter, she tweeted another article she'd written on the subject at me and I thought this one was worth sharing too - The Big Idea. Sooner rather than later I'll get around to reading The Court of Broken Knives and seeing how the ideas live in her writing.
2) Continuing on violence, I never got round to finish my article talking about fantasy stories outside of fantasy literature inspired by the Mage: The Awakening actual play "The Soul Cage", written and run by Dave Brookshaw. It's one of the most sublime pieces of storytelling I've ever seen, made all the more impressive for the fact it was a game, decided in no small part by his players and the dice. And one of the quirks of Mage: The Awakening is that when a character commits an offence against morality, they roll the dice and see whether they've lost Wisdom. The consequences of violence are made as plain and simple as the attractions. It immediately changes the whole nature of the game.
That said - as someone who's played in and run a few such games of that nature - it doesn't automatically happen. It takes players who really buy into it. Reading Dave's players trying to make good their past flaws is arguably what makes the story, even more than the nefarious and brilliant plotting. This probably won't be the last time I talk about a story that I think has something interesting to say about violence, but it gave me a good opportunity to talk about something that had been on my mind.
3) I recently read that Thaddeus White, a fellow inmate of the good ship SFFChrons, was going to be concentrating less on his fiction so he could spend more time earning actual monies with his writing. While that's one of the best reasons for dropping the habit out there, it still made me a little sad. His Sir Edric books are good Blackadder meets D&D fun; among his more serious work, Bane of Souls remains one of the better fantasy-mysteries I've read. I doubt me telling people that will result in him suddenly getting enough sales to contract on fiction, but I figured at the least a good author deserved a shout out.
4) Wrong type of fantasy but there's something gutting about getting to the final of your fantasy football league only to have a bunch of players get injured before the final. Yes, I know nobody cares. I had to vent anyway.
5) Last and the opposite of least - another article that I enjoyed reading was Pendeja, You Ain't Steinbeck by Myriam Gurba. People often talk about cultural appropriation but its not often you see somebody painstakingly demonstrate exactly how it's happening and why it pisses them off. A lot of fantasy authors want to write worlds wider than the ones they know; a lot of them want to write worlds and stories where many people can see. None of them want to write stories that will provoke this sort of reaction; many do. Tricky isn't it? Which makes articles such as these crucial as well as interesting and enjoyable.
There's one bit in particular that I'm going to quote:
2) Continuing on violence, I never got round to finish my article talking about fantasy stories outside of fantasy literature inspired by the Mage: The Awakening actual play "The Soul Cage", written and run by Dave Brookshaw. It's one of the most sublime pieces of storytelling I've ever seen, made all the more impressive for the fact it was a game, decided in no small part by his players and the dice. And one of the quirks of Mage: The Awakening is that when a character commits an offence against morality, they roll the dice and see whether they've lost Wisdom. The consequences of violence are made as plain and simple as the attractions. It immediately changes the whole nature of the game.
That said - as someone who's played in and run a few such games of that nature - it doesn't automatically happen. It takes players who really buy into it. Reading Dave's players trying to make good their past flaws is arguably what makes the story, even more than the nefarious and brilliant plotting. This probably won't be the last time I talk about a story that I think has something interesting to say about violence, but it gave me a good opportunity to talk about something that had been on my mind.
3) I recently read that Thaddeus White, a fellow inmate of the good ship SFFChrons, was going to be concentrating less on his fiction so he could spend more time earning actual monies with his writing. While that's one of the best reasons for dropping the habit out there, it still made me a little sad. His Sir Edric books are good Blackadder meets D&D fun; among his more serious work, Bane of Souls remains one of the better fantasy-mysteries I've read. I doubt me telling people that will result in him suddenly getting enough sales to contract on fiction, but I figured at the least a good author deserved a shout out.
4) Wrong type of fantasy but there's something gutting about getting to the final of your fantasy football league only to have a bunch of players get injured before the final. Yes, I know nobody cares. I had to vent anyway.
5) Last and the opposite of least - another article that I enjoyed reading was Pendeja, You Ain't Steinbeck by Myriam Gurba. People often talk about cultural appropriation but its not often you see somebody painstakingly demonstrate exactly how it's happening and why it pisses them off. A lot of fantasy authors want to write worlds wider than the ones they know; a lot of them want to write worlds and stories where many people can see. None of them want to write stories that will provoke this sort of reaction; many do. Tricky isn't it? Which makes articles such as these crucial as well as interesting and enjoyable.
There's one bit in particular that I'm going to quote:
'Writer Alexander Chee has said that writers interested in exploring the realities of those unlike themselves should answer three questions before proceeding. These are:
“Why do you want to write from this character’s point of view?”
“Do you read writers from this community currently?”
“Why do you want to tell this story?”'
The whole thing's worth reading. It's more than just a guide to writing better stories about other people. But if it has no other interest to others, this at least needs to be considered by all writers.
Wednesday 18 December 2019
The Bone Ships by RJ Barker
I must make a confession.
Ever since hearing of the name of Mr Barker's new Fantasy book, I couldn't think of it without seeing this in my head:
For me, this story will always be inexplicably linked with Andre Baugher's roar of pure outrage. I will always feel slightly startled and like giggling. It's almost kinda difficult to take the book seriously. But that's just me and my immaturity and love of Captain Holt. And - for reasons I shall get into - it's actually a really good title.
Really good book? When I read books these days, I am often writing reviews in my head, like a sports journo trying to have the story ready as soon as possible after the final whistle. With The Bone Ships, I ended up changing that review multiple times.
The why of that lies with the plot and for that to make sense, I must explain a few things. The Bone Ships is the story of a Hundred Islands Black Ship, made of sea dragon bones and crewed by those condemned to death. Its narrator is Joron Twiner, Deckkeeper (or First Mate), a callow and scared young man who owes his position to many things that are not his fitness for the role. The true rhythm of the story is Joron growing up and becoming fit for that role. I fully applaud that but as a consequence, The Bone Ships sometimes feels less like a novel and more like a set of connected short stories, some of which swept me along more than others. Some scenes are merely pleasant fun. Others, like Joron with the Gullaime (birdlike wind magician) or Meas' confrontation with Coughlin or the very first scene, are special. There is an overarching plot of course; a hunt for the first sea dragon to be sighted in a long, long time. But at times the sea dragon feels a long away.
What ensured I never lost interest was the prose. Barker's ability to throw his voice astounds me; every book feels slightly different. In The Bone Ships, he made the world feel wild and harsh just through Joron's voice and the crew of hard-edged pragmatists with whom he works. This is a world of constant death and strict social mores. At times the characterisation doesn't quite feel right for the tone he sets but that is such a small quibble. The tone, the style, the world it voices - it's a mortal strong current.
Speaking of characterisation, Barker set himself something of a challenge in terms of portraying a big fighting ship's crew and by and large, he succeeds. Other than Joron and 'Lucky' Meas, the shipwife/captain, none of them get much limelight but they all possess verisimilitude and charm. They all show off the wildness and size of the world too. As for Joron and Meas themselves, oddly enough I'm not a big fan of either on their own, but their dynamic together is a lot of fun. I've never really said that before, but there's the right notes of exasperation, sarcasm and respect to their relationship and they throw a light on each other's more interesting traits. However, there's one thing about their relationship where I think Barker set himself a really big challenge and doesn't necessarily succeed is that because Shipwife Meas (i.e. most powerful person around) has Joron's back 99% of the time, there's never really a sense of potential failure to Joron's actions except for when he's in battle, and he's too important to die. I'm reminded of some of Bernard Cornwell's comments about it being more fun to pit Sharpe against his own side than the French - in The Bone Ships we are denied that fun. It is the one thing that I'd wished changed about this book. And maybe its the true cause of not always being swept away by the narrative momentum.
In any case, I have tacked to and fro enough with writing this review, and should get to the point. The point is that The Bone Ships is a book with many strengths and charms. It's an interesting, lyrical mix of savage violence and heartwarming growth, of unconventional worldbuilding and Naval history, buddy comedy and thoughtful introspection. I wish the plot had been more and there were moments where I didn't feel the violence but these didn't detract from what The Bone Ships was. I mentioned earlier that it was a great name; it's great because it references one of the major cool parts of the worldbuilding, its great because it makes clear the morbidity of the setting, and its great because bones are what lies underneath. And this story, under its story of naval adventure, does a fine job of digging under people's skins. And that's what makes The Bone Ships as a whole great.
Ever since hearing of the name of Mr Barker's new Fantasy book, I couldn't think of it without seeing this in my head:
For me, this story will always be inexplicably linked with Andre Baugher's roar of pure outrage. I will always feel slightly startled and like giggling. It's almost kinda difficult to take the book seriously. But that's just me and my immaturity and love of Captain Holt. And - for reasons I shall get into - it's actually a really good title.
Really good book? When I read books these days, I am often writing reviews in my head, like a sports journo trying to have the story ready as soon as possible after the final whistle. With The Bone Ships, I ended up changing that review multiple times.
The why of that lies with the plot and for that to make sense, I must explain a few things. The Bone Ships is the story of a Hundred Islands Black Ship, made of sea dragon bones and crewed by those condemned to death. Its narrator is Joron Twiner, Deckkeeper (or First Mate), a callow and scared young man who owes his position to many things that are not his fitness for the role. The true rhythm of the story is Joron growing up and becoming fit for that role. I fully applaud that but as a consequence, The Bone Ships sometimes feels less like a novel and more like a set of connected short stories, some of which swept me along more than others. Some scenes are merely pleasant fun. Others, like Joron with the Gullaime (birdlike wind magician) or Meas' confrontation with Coughlin or the very first scene, are special. There is an overarching plot of course; a hunt for the first sea dragon to be sighted in a long, long time. But at times the sea dragon feels a long away.
What ensured I never lost interest was the prose. Barker's ability to throw his voice astounds me; every book feels slightly different. In The Bone Ships, he made the world feel wild and harsh just through Joron's voice and the crew of hard-edged pragmatists with whom he works. This is a world of constant death and strict social mores. At times the characterisation doesn't quite feel right for the tone he sets but that is such a small quibble. The tone, the style, the world it voices - it's a mortal strong current.
Speaking of characterisation, Barker set himself something of a challenge in terms of portraying a big fighting ship's crew and by and large, he succeeds. Other than Joron and 'Lucky' Meas, the shipwife/captain, none of them get much limelight but they all possess verisimilitude and charm. They all show off the wildness and size of the world too. As for Joron and Meas themselves, oddly enough I'm not a big fan of either on their own, but their dynamic together is a lot of fun. I've never really said that before, but there's the right notes of exasperation, sarcasm and respect to their relationship and they throw a light on each other's more interesting traits. However, there's one thing about their relationship where I think Barker set himself a really big challenge and doesn't necessarily succeed is that because Shipwife Meas (i.e. most powerful person around) has Joron's back 99% of the time, there's never really a sense of potential failure to Joron's actions except for when he's in battle, and he's too important to die. I'm reminded of some of Bernard Cornwell's comments about it being more fun to pit Sharpe against his own side than the French - in The Bone Ships we are denied that fun. It is the one thing that I'd wished changed about this book. And maybe its the true cause of not always being swept away by the narrative momentum.
In any case, I have tacked to and fro enough with writing this review, and should get to the point. The point is that The Bone Ships is a book with many strengths and charms. It's an interesting, lyrical mix of savage violence and heartwarming growth, of unconventional worldbuilding and Naval history, buddy comedy and thoughtful introspection. I wish the plot had been more and there were moments where I didn't feel the violence but these didn't detract from what The Bone Ships was. I mentioned earlier that it was a great name; it's great because it references one of the major cool parts of the worldbuilding, its great because it makes clear the morbidity of the setting, and its great because bones are what lies underneath. And this story, under its story of naval adventure, does a fine job of digging under people's skins. And that's what makes The Bone Ships as a whole great.
Saturday 14 December 2019
The Book of Skulls by Robert Silverberg
What. A. Name.
Yes. It's comfortably the most metal book name I've picked up in some time. That's why I picked it up out of the work book pile.
You liar, you'll pick up pretty much any book put in front of you.
True. Plus Silverberg has one hell of a rep. But it was mainly the name. You just know if you picked up an album called that, it was be compelling, uncomfortable and full of meditations about death. Particularly with a cover like that! And that is exactly what the blurb promised and that's why, after a quick look at the prose, I took it back to my desk.
Okay. I'll allow it. Blurb/premise, hit me.
Four American college kids set off to the Arizona desert in search of a cult that promises immortality to any group of four that joins them - providing two of them die first.
How is this not a metal concept album?
I don't know. I'm tempted to find my copy of guitar pro and get to work rectifying that.
How about you get to work doing this review?
Chill snarky inner voice. The Book of Skulls is told with all four of the boys getting their own first person chapters and the way Silverberg captures their voices and experiences is the key to this book. Dislike them, find them boring, and you might as well put the book down. Be fascinated with them and you'll be fascinated with this book. Plot wise its a little thin and reliant on tiny subtleties for its increasing sense of tension - this is very much character driven. It's all about how Eli, Timothy, Oliver and Ned react to the creeping realisation of what they are seeking entails and that yes, it is real after all.
They're a very All-American cast (its set shortly after 'Nam). Eli, the discoverer of the eponymous manuscript detailing the cult, is a nice Jewish boy from New York, intellectually precocious and socially backwards. Timothy's a preppy athlete from a New England family with lots of money and heritage, convinced the whole thing's a fake but happy to have an adventure with his friends. Oliver dragged himself up from his poor roots in rural Kansas through relentless hard work and brilliance; a real Abe Lincoln. He desperately wants to beat death. And Ned's an openly gay poet from Irish Catholic Boston, full of mockery at the world - in it for the romance of it. They are stereotypes, but stereotypes with depth and awareness and a few deadly blind spots. Silverberg's ability to throw his voice as all four of them, and to create nuanced social dynamics between them, is masterly.
It's a short book, and the amount of time spent on the road trip itself might throw some people. It's filled with teenage interests, which is to say lots of sex and casual disdain. Other than that and what I've said, I can't think of any reason somebody would particularly dislike this. Its fascinating, it's well written, its creepy - its a masterpiece.
And since I've covered everything a review should - this book is simple in concept - I will now witter on about some of my thoughts about how it plays out. What follows is less spoilers and more me telling you how it ends. Uber-spoilers maybe? Don't read if you don't want to know.
The exact nature of the two must die is that one must commit suicide and the other must be murdered by the other two. And from pretty early on, they start talking about how that will go down, and they all see a likely pattern. Ned's talked about killing himself; he's the most likely suicide, and he even names his price for doing so in his thoughts. And that leaves two strapping great athletes and poor helpless Eli, so that's the end of him. They talk about it so much it becomes natural to suspect it won't turn out that way due to simple laws of drama and sure enough, Eli and Ned are the survivors.
And the why of that, and the wondering about the small little signs on the way, has stuck with me in a big way.
Timothy's the murder victim. He tries to leave and because that results in the cult killing three of the others, Eli murders him. It's not that surprising as from the beginning, he's insistent that it's all a load of crap and he's only along as it'll be a fun thing to do with his friends. Oliver's the suicide, as his suppressed homosexuality catches up with him and he decides he can't live like that. The hints about that are harder to catch, but we do know he's considered suicide because of his perfectionism and constant exposure to death, and there's a certain mechanical approach to his dealings with women. At first it looks like that's because of how obsessed he is with finding immortality, but it spills out by the end. And - I somehow forgot about this until writing the review - Ned's price for suicide includes sex with Oliver, and he seems pretty sure he'd go along with it. For immortality, right? But as Ned says later - he thought Oliver was a classic closet case.
But the exact chain of events leading us there? It starts with the monks in the cult ordering the four to share their darkest secrets; one to another, only one at a time, never reciprocal - never to be shared. Ned starts and admits to Timothy that he manipulated a gay couple into falling in love with him, so hard that they both threatened to commit suicide if he didn't stay with them. Ned called their bluff, they killed themselves, and Ned was left feeling guilty because of just how much of a rush he got from it. Timothy confesses to Oliver than in a drunken rage at being turned down by other women, he raped his own sister. Oliver confesses of his gay experience to Eli, who in turn tells that to Ned - hoping that breaching a trust will be his own worse secret. But when Ned rejects that, he eventually admits his real worse secret - that his scholastic reputation is built on plagiarism.
Or is that not the real reason Eli told Ned? Did he do so knowing, consciously or subconsciously, that Ned will then try it on with Oliver and that might do bad things to Oliver's psyche, removing one obstacle on the way to his own immortality? Did Ned go for Oliver out of lust, or out of manipulative instinct? Eli isn't exactly comforting when Timothy starts to question why he's there either - disdain for Timothy being unable to cope with things he can't fully understand, or a desire for eternal life?
The idea that we're not really sure what we are underneath - what the skull is under the skin - is a big part of this book. The prospect of looming immortality and death forces all four to face themselves in the mirror. Timothy, filled with guilt over his crime and a certain amount of disgust at the meaningless patrician lifestyle he'll lead, doesn't want to live forever. Never thought it was real and when faced with it, he doesn't want it. An eternity of being Timothy isn't worth the candle. Oliver thinks he desperately wants it; after all, a lifetime of watching people die in smalltown Kansas is what led him to become a pre-med student. He wants to fight the Reaper. But he more desperately wants to not be gay. The vehemence of this confuses me a little, even allowing for unstated midwestern conservative values, as it doesn't come through in Oliver for me. He seems very unfussed about life. But maybe that was part of his denial.
Ned's the easy one to figure out. He's the one who knows himself best and has the least shame in being so. He can believe both sides of a contradiction with no fuss. Maybe he came onto Oliver because he's a manipulative little so and so, maybe because he'd had the hots for him for ever. Maybe both. Both would fit; there's a destructive side to his lust, and both fit well enough that I don't mind the lack of certainty. Eli? Eli is the mystery to me. Eli is, from the beginning, someone who keeps wanting to change the rules when it suits him and full of rationalisation over it. But he is also the most socially gauche, the one with the least insight into what makes people tick. But then he was the most desperate for immortality - and it is sad that we hear his plan for immortality in full, but realise he will remain part of the cult for as long as his life does actually last and will never fulfil it. All that death for nothing. Maybe that's the point of the book.
In any case, I will be thinking about the point of The Book of Skulls for a long time. And that's the point of any book.
Yes. It's comfortably the most metal book name I've picked up in some time. That's why I picked it up out of the work book pile.
You liar, you'll pick up pretty much any book put in front of you.
True. Plus Silverberg has one hell of a rep. But it was mainly the name. You just know if you picked up an album called that, it was be compelling, uncomfortable and full of meditations about death. Particularly with a cover like that! And that is exactly what the blurb promised and that's why, after a quick look at the prose, I took it back to my desk.
Okay. I'll allow it. Blurb/premise, hit me.
Four American college kids set off to the Arizona desert in search of a cult that promises immortality to any group of four that joins them - providing two of them die first.
How is this not a metal concept album?
I don't know. I'm tempted to find my copy of guitar pro and get to work rectifying that.
How about you get to work doing this review?
Chill snarky inner voice. The Book of Skulls is told with all four of the boys getting their own first person chapters and the way Silverberg captures their voices and experiences is the key to this book. Dislike them, find them boring, and you might as well put the book down. Be fascinated with them and you'll be fascinated with this book. Plot wise its a little thin and reliant on tiny subtleties for its increasing sense of tension - this is very much character driven. It's all about how Eli, Timothy, Oliver and Ned react to the creeping realisation of what they are seeking entails and that yes, it is real after all.
They're a very All-American cast (its set shortly after 'Nam). Eli, the discoverer of the eponymous manuscript detailing the cult, is a nice Jewish boy from New York, intellectually precocious and socially backwards. Timothy's a preppy athlete from a New England family with lots of money and heritage, convinced the whole thing's a fake but happy to have an adventure with his friends. Oliver dragged himself up from his poor roots in rural Kansas through relentless hard work and brilliance; a real Abe Lincoln. He desperately wants to beat death. And Ned's an openly gay poet from Irish Catholic Boston, full of mockery at the world - in it for the romance of it. They are stereotypes, but stereotypes with depth and awareness and a few deadly blind spots. Silverberg's ability to throw his voice as all four of them, and to create nuanced social dynamics between them, is masterly.
It's a short book, and the amount of time spent on the road trip itself might throw some people. It's filled with teenage interests, which is to say lots of sex and casual disdain. Other than that and what I've said, I can't think of any reason somebody would particularly dislike this. Its fascinating, it's well written, its creepy - its a masterpiece.
And since I've covered everything a review should - this book is simple in concept - I will now witter on about some of my thoughts about how it plays out. What follows is less spoilers and more me telling you how it ends. Uber-spoilers maybe? Don't read if you don't want to know.
The exact nature of the two must die is that one must commit suicide and the other must be murdered by the other two. And from pretty early on, they start talking about how that will go down, and they all see a likely pattern. Ned's talked about killing himself; he's the most likely suicide, and he even names his price for doing so in his thoughts. And that leaves two strapping great athletes and poor helpless Eli, so that's the end of him. They talk about it so much it becomes natural to suspect it won't turn out that way due to simple laws of drama and sure enough, Eli and Ned are the survivors.
And the why of that, and the wondering about the small little signs on the way, has stuck with me in a big way.
Timothy's the murder victim. He tries to leave and because that results in the cult killing three of the others, Eli murders him. It's not that surprising as from the beginning, he's insistent that it's all a load of crap and he's only along as it'll be a fun thing to do with his friends. Oliver's the suicide, as his suppressed homosexuality catches up with him and he decides he can't live like that. The hints about that are harder to catch, but we do know he's considered suicide because of his perfectionism and constant exposure to death, and there's a certain mechanical approach to his dealings with women. At first it looks like that's because of how obsessed he is with finding immortality, but it spills out by the end. And - I somehow forgot about this until writing the review - Ned's price for suicide includes sex with Oliver, and he seems pretty sure he'd go along with it. For immortality, right? But as Ned says later - he thought Oliver was a classic closet case.
But the exact chain of events leading us there? It starts with the monks in the cult ordering the four to share their darkest secrets; one to another, only one at a time, never reciprocal - never to be shared. Ned starts and admits to Timothy that he manipulated a gay couple into falling in love with him, so hard that they both threatened to commit suicide if he didn't stay with them. Ned called their bluff, they killed themselves, and Ned was left feeling guilty because of just how much of a rush he got from it. Timothy confesses to Oliver than in a drunken rage at being turned down by other women, he raped his own sister. Oliver confesses of his gay experience to Eli, who in turn tells that to Ned - hoping that breaching a trust will be his own worse secret. But when Ned rejects that, he eventually admits his real worse secret - that his scholastic reputation is built on plagiarism.
Or is that not the real reason Eli told Ned? Did he do so knowing, consciously or subconsciously, that Ned will then try it on with Oliver and that might do bad things to Oliver's psyche, removing one obstacle on the way to his own immortality? Did Ned go for Oliver out of lust, or out of manipulative instinct? Eli isn't exactly comforting when Timothy starts to question why he's there either - disdain for Timothy being unable to cope with things he can't fully understand, or a desire for eternal life?
The idea that we're not really sure what we are underneath - what the skull is under the skin - is a big part of this book. The prospect of looming immortality and death forces all four to face themselves in the mirror. Timothy, filled with guilt over his crime and a certain amount of disgust at the meaningless patrician lifestyle he'll lead, doesn't want to live forever. Never thought it was real and when faced with it, he doesn't want it. An eternity of being Timothy isn't worth the candle. Oliver thinks he desperately wants it; after all, a lifetime of watching people die in smalltown Kansas is what led him to become a pre-med student. He wants to fight the Reaper. But he more desperately wants to not be gay. The vehemence of this confuses me a little, even allowing for unstated midwestern conservative values, as it doesn't come through in Oliver for me. He seems very unfussed about life. But maybe that was part of his denial.
Ned's the easy one to figure out. He's the one who knows himself best and has the least shame in being so. He can believe both sides of a contradiction with no fuss. Maybe he came onto Oliver because he's a manipulative little so and so, maybe because he'd had the hots for him for ever. Maybe both. Both would fit; there's a destructive side to his lust, and both fit well enough that I don't mind the lack of certainty. Eli? Eli is the mystery to me. Eli is, from the beginning, someone who keeps wanting to change the rules when it suits him and full of rationalisation over it. But he is also the most socially gauche, the one with the least insight into what makes people tick. But then he was the most desperate for immortality - and it is sad that we hear his plan for immortality in full, but realise he will remain part of the cult for as long as his life does actually last and will never fulfil it. All that death for nothing. Maybe that's the point of the book.
In any case, I will be thinking about the point of The Book of Skulls for a long time. And that's the point of any book.
Monday 9 December 2019
On Violence and Fig Leaves
T'other night, while half-asleep and looking to pass time while I waited for my wife to fall so soundly asleep that my snoring wouldn't get me punched, I clicked on an interview of Anna Smith Spark by Womble with the result that I woke up again. The reason for this was mostly this question and answer:
"Your series has both shown the huge attraction of violence and its horrific repercussions? What fascinates you about this in your work and do authors need to be responsible and show the uglier side of battle including the victims of it?
Again, I think the stories I grew up hearing and reading had a huge influence on me – Greek and Norse mythology, for example, both have a very complex attitude to war, neither are remotely simply ‘anti-war’, but, as the products of a society immersed in violence, both are very aware of the personal consequences of war. Think of that great, terrible scene in the Iliad when Hector says goodbye to his wife and baby son for the last time – it’s impossible to read that scene without being aware of the horror and pity of war (and remember listeners would have been very aware what will happen to all the characters, Hector’s death isn’t a shock plot twist but a fundamental part of the shared experience of listening to the story), yet Hector’s speech is all about how he wants his own son to grow up to be a great warrior. War isn’t seen as good or bad, but as some terrible inevitable thing, like being ‘pro or anti’ famine or pestilence or flood. It happens, it’s terrible for those who suffer in it, it’s glorious for those who triumph.
We still today hugely fetishize military prowess and violence as something to aspire to, just adding in a woolly-minded coda about ‘but only if it’s to uphold good’. The current cultural obsession with superheroes depresses me, frightens me. Someone makes a quick speech about how violence is a last resort in the face of evil, not something to be celebrated … then immediately trashes half a city in a massive consequence-free CGI explosion. If I watch one more sub-Tolkien ‘no one wants to live in these times …’ speech immediately followed by an uncritically black and white smash the baddy fight scene, I’ll commit violence myself. I think we absolutely need to show deeper consequences, look at what violence ‘for the greater good’ actually means.
And think also very deeply and critically about the way we other the proponents of violence, refuse to concede that these evil inhuman beings are … just trying to look out for each other, following orders, wanting to get on in life, frightened, hopeful, just like us. In the Iliad, it’s important to remember, the Trojans are the ‘enemy’ – but also the human side of the story, the ones who are shown in a domestic context, wanting peace. Achilles is the great central hero in the classical sense of the term, but it’s impossible to see him as morally ‘a hero’. Since the Middles Ages, the hero of the Iliad has always been Hector, the leader of the ‘enemy’, the one who loses and dies. That nuance is totally lost in many modern stories that are so uncritically Manichean. Life generally isn’t Manichean. We need to always question our beliefs, ask why we’re doing something and what it might mean for others. It may be that an act of violence is morally good and necessary, no question. But we still need to recognise that even morally justified violence has consequences for everyone involved. If I kill someone who is in the act of committing mass-murder, that has to be justified, it can’t not be justified. I am a ‘hero’, yes. But that person I’ve killed …. someone loved them, they looked at the world once and something in it made them happy, and I’ve killed them.
The great danger in sff is that we can present the enemy as literally inhuman, and that basic reality is erased. Orcs, robots, zombies … it’s terrifyingly easy to make the enemy in sff so inhuman that killing them becomes a consequence-free game.
So, yes, we all have a huge moral duty to try to make people think more deeply about the world. Absolutely, yes."
Now, there's a ton of things that made me go "Yes!" (in the silence of my own head) there, not least the thinking about the old stories. But the thing that really got me was that second paragraph, with its anger at the woolly-minded codas - because it's an anger I too have been feeling more and more without being able to put my finger on it until now. Superhero movies are among the worst offenders but there are plenty of fantasy novels that seem to feel the need to jam a "but this is all horrible remember" speech in the space between fight scenes.
I'm sure this is mostly done with the best intentions and that some of the books I'm thinking about might strike others as having done differently. I know how hard it is to balance story elements and how we all have our own slightly different views on the world. If I ever make it, I expect I'd get criticised on such lines, as my ability to understand things greatly exceeds my ability to communicate. So I don't want to be all "Be better! Why aren't you better!". But I do want to put what Anna Smith-Spark said out there in more places for more people to see, and I do want to point out three of the biggest drawbacks of this sort of woolly-minded thinking.
1) Inadequate attempts to show the cost of violence often end up not just failing to show the cost, but accidentally diminishing it and increasing the appeal of violence.
To expand on this, I think of these sorts of speeches as being like fig leafs; just there to make the whole thing seem a bit more socially acceptable. And the problem is that fig leafs frequently call more attention to what's underneath than actual nudity would. The same is true of violence. It draws our attention to it, underlines its importance as the climax.
What's more, it makes it somewhat taboo. "You wouldn't actually want to do this, it's hard and morally wrong except in this case where it's morally awesome". And breaking taboos is attractive. Obviously, we want violence to have a taboo attached, but the taboo needs to be enforced if we mention it, or elsewise we get the attraction without the caution. Only a little appealing fig leaf.
Of course, violence in the cause of good is widely considered admirable. Its hard We all know that, even if we don't agree with it ourselves. We all seen it shown in many books and movies. Something that's admirable *and* taboo? That's a rare and heady combination. Think back to when you were at school, doing something your mates loved but you knew the teachers would hate to think just how great it is. And that's just what the woollier "Woe is us" speeches do. They make violence a teenage prank. Nothing encourages less thought than that.
2) Framing violence in these terms all the time obscures the truth that not everyone thinks about violence in the same terms.
Go back to what Smith-Spark said about the way mythology saw war; the way they saw it as just another natural disaster. It's just one of many, many ways we know those who came before us saw war and warriors differently. Read Georges Dumezil's The Destiny of the Warrior for one scholarly account of how they viewed warriors in myth, or John Keegan's The Face of War for how soldiers viewed war at different points in history. Uniformly happy campers about it they weren't, but that sort of woolly codas? Often times in fantasy, they feel like modern attitudes in medieval clothes. And yes, fantasy is often like that and that's not wrong, but sometimes it jars.
And even if we are talking about fantasy that's modern attitudes in medieval clothes, its not like there aren't modern people who are just straight up happy when they discover they get to live those times. There's plenty of career soldiers who find they love the taste of war and when the war's done, they're looking for another one. You've got to suspect - like Alan Moore and plenty of others - that most superheroes are of a similar ilk. When they protest "Why does it have to be like this?" it often feels like a lie. And lies weaken the arguments they're used to make, resulting in them being less persuasive. Talking about the huge attraction of violence is often needed to make arguments about the horrific repercussions real - particularly in stories that are, well, based on the huge attraction.
3) Honesty about all aspects of violence make for better stories
Don't get me wrong, you can tell a perfectly enjoyable story about violence while only concentrating on certain elements. I have watched Commando more times than I can conveniently count. It mightn't be the most morally thoughtful entertainment in the world but dear gods it is fun.
But ultimately most stories work based on honest observation of the world we live in. The more honest and observant the author is, the better the story. Bowdlerised versions of violence and simple good vs evil have their place but they rarely live as long in the imagination as stories that have more to them.
Why did Lord of the Rings become the standard bearer of fantasy instead of any of the other early works? There's many reasons, and I suspect the strong notion of good vs evil was one of them, but I'd like to believe the empathy and focus shown to Gollum is part of it as well as the way Frodo suffers through violence rather than winning because of it. Why is Wheel of Time now the most highly thought of from that wave of 80s/90s fantasy? Again, many reasons, but I believe the depiction of ordinary Darkfriends as still being humans worthy of empathy and the way Rand cracks under trauma is a big part. And part of why grimdark took off it provided more honesty about violence - both in terms of appeal and consequences - than 80s/90s Epic.
I would like to believe most people would engage with the ethics of violence when writing stories about it simply because that's the right thing to do. But if anyone needs a little extra encouragement, its probably the right thing for your story as well. It doesn't have to be graphic, or loud, or take over your story. It just needs to be more than a woolly minded coda. It needs to be honest.
And honesty means not putting a fig leaf on the attractions and consequences of violence.
I'm sure this is mostly done with the best intentions and that some of the books I'm thinking about might strike others as having done differently. I know how hard it is to balance story elements and how we all have our own slightly different views on the world. If I ever make it, I expect I'd get criticised on such lines, as my ability to understand things greatly exceeds my ability to communicate. So I don't want to be all "Be better! Why aren't you better!". But I do want to put what Anna Smith-Spark said out there in more places for more people to see, and I do want to point out three of the biggest drawbacks of this sort of woolly-minded thinking.
1) Inadequate attempts to show the cost of violence often end up not just failing to show the cost, but accidentally diminishing it and increasing the appeal of violence.
To expand on this, I think of these sorts of speeches as being like fig leafs; just there to make the whole thing seem a bit more socially acceptable. And the problem is that fig leafs frequently call more attention to what's underneath than actual nudity would. The same is true of violence. It draws our attention to it, underlines its importance as the climax.
What's more, it makes it somewhat taboo. "You wouldn't actually want to do this, it's hard and morally wrong except in this case where it's morally awesome". And breaking taboos is attractive. Obviously, we want violence to have a taboo attached, but the taboo needs to be enforced if we mention it, or elsewise we get the attraction without the caution. Only a little appealing fig leaf.
Of course, violence in the cause of good is widely considered admirable. Its hard We all know that, even if we don't agree with it ourselves. We all seen it shown in many books and movies. Something that's admirable *and* taboo? That's a rare and heady combination. Think back to when you were at school, doing something your mates loved but you knew the teachers would hate to think just how great it is. And that's just what the woollier "Woe is us" speeches do. They make violence a teenage prank. Nothing encourages less thought than that.
2) Framing violence in these terms all the time obscures the truth that not everyone thinks about violence in the same terms.
Go back to what Smith-Spark said about the way mythology saw war; the way they saw it as just another natural disaster. It's just one of many, many ways we know those who came before us saw war and warriors differently. Read Georges Dumezil's The Destiny of the Warrior for one scholarly account of how they viewed warriors in myth, or John Keegan's The Face of War for how soldiers viewed war at different points in history. Uniformly happy campers about it they weren't, but that sort of woolly codas? Often times in fantasy, they feel like modern attitudes in medieval clothes. And yes, fantasy is often like that and that's not wrong, but sometimes it jars.
And even if we are talking about fantasy that's modern attitudes in medieval clothes, its not like there aren't modern people who are just straight up happy when they discover they get to live those times. There's plenty of career soldiers who find they love the taste of war and when the war's done, they're looking for another one. You've got to suspect - like Alan Moore and plenty of others - that most superheroes are of a similar ilk. When they protest "Why does it have to be like this?" it often feels like a lie. And lies weaken the arguments they're used to make, resulting in them being less persuasive. Talking about the huge attraction of violence is often needed to make arguments about the horrific repercussions real - particularly in stories that are, well, based on the huge attraction.
3) Honesty about all aspects of violence make for better stories
Don't get me wrong, you can tell a perfectly enjoyable story about violence while only concentrating on certain elements. I have watched Commando more times than I can conveniently count. It mightn't be the most morally thoughtful entertainment in the world but dear gods it is fun.
But ultimately most stories work based on honest observation of the world we live in. The more honest and observant the author is, the better the story. Bowdlerised versions of violence and simple good vs evil have their place but they rarely live as long in the imagination as stories that have more to them.
Why did Lord of the Rings become the standard bearer of fantasy instead of any of the other early works? There's many reasons, and I suspect the strong notion of good vs evil was one of them, but I'd like to believe the empathy and focus shown to Gollum is part of it as well as the way Frodo suffers through violence rather than winning because of it. Why is Wheel of Time now the most highly thought of from that wave of 80s/90s fantasy? Again, many reasons, but I believe the depiction of ordinary Darkfriends as still being humans worthy of empathy and the way Rand cracks under trauma is a big part. And part of why grimdark took off it provided more honesty about violence - both in terms of appeal and consequences - than 80s/90s Epic.
I would like to believe most people would engage with the ethics of violence when writing stories about it simply because that's the right thing to do. But if anyone needs a little extra encouragement, its probably the right thing for your story as well. It doesn't have to be graphic, or loud, or take over your story. It just needs to be more than a woolly minded coda. It needs to be honest.
And honesty means not putting a fig leaf on the attractions and consequences of violence.
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