A Life Spent Reading

I thought that I had read – or at least heard of – most of the classics in SF, but this one (published as a “Fantasy Masterwork”, no less) had somehow escaped my notice. And that’s too bad, because it’s a very good book. I won’t say that the writing is anything special, but much like Philip K. Dick’s stuff, the concept is so compelling that it doesn’t really matter.

The main idea is that Jeff Winston, a mediocre radio journalist whose midlife prospects aren’t all that great, has a heart attack and dies at age 43… but then wakes up back in time as his eighteen-year-old self, with all his adult memories and experiences intact. Essentially, he gets to replay his life from eighteen to 43 again… and again, and again. It’s a common what-if fantasy that all of us over the age of 30 have probably had, and author Ken Grimwood’s exploration of this idea is what gives the book its strength. It’s one that asks big questions: why are we here, what is the meaning of life, and so on. It doesn’t provide any real answers, of course, but the journey getting to those non-answers will definitely make you think.

One caveat: The younger you are, the fewer the historical/pop-culture references you’re going to get. Not really recommended for those under 30, unless you happen to have a lot of older friends.

This is the sequel to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and happily it is up to the same high standard. Stieg Larsson has crafted an unusual plot here – I can’t remember ever reading a book where the action was driven to the same degree simply by whether the various members of the supporting cast liked the protagonist or not. But Lisbeth Salander is a very polarizing character, and the device works very well.

The translation here, again by Reg Keeland, is the same odd but workmanlike admixture of British and American English that somehow fits very well in helping to convey the idea that you’re no longer in an English speaking country. I also like the fact that he doesn’t go for the usual cheap trick of throwing in simple greetings and whatnot in the local language. Nothing is worse than trying to get through a novel set in an exotic foreign locale and having to deal with guerilla assaults from italics.

This novel is the second volume of the “Millenium Trilogy”, and unfortunately ends a bit abruptly. (Much different from the first volume, in which the main plot point was solved over a hundred pages before the end of the book.) Apparently the third volume, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, is more along the lines of actually being the second half of this book. All fine and well; I have no problem waiting for the next installment to come out in another six months or so. One piece of advice for those new to the series: I would suggest reading the first volume before tackling this one. While some slightly tedious plot-summarizing occurs at the beginning of this book, you will have a much greater understanding of the various characters’ motivations, which, as mentioned above, is really key to understanding the novel.

The nice thing about reading Barry Eisler, in addition to the technical writing stuff, all of which he does pretty well, is that he actually knows what he’s talking about. You won’t find Japanese sales clerks being rude to their customers, speaking English like California surfer dudes, or otherwise behaving like Americans with unusually straight black hair. His Asian characters are Asian, his Americans American, his Europeans European. Very refreshing, considering the plethora of otherwise sensible writers who have no fucking clue.

This latest installment in the John Rain series matches the first three for quality and ties up most of the subplots that were introduced in those books. Rain also is developing as a character; there has been a gradual interweaving of humor over the last two books, and it helps to balance things out. Sure, being an professional assassin probably isn’t a barrel of laughs most of the time, but escape reading is escape reading, and breaking the tension here and there is a lot more fun than watching Rain being all angsty over the state of the world. Supporting characters Dox and Delilah both help out in this respect as well.

Bottom line: If you like a good thriller with exotic international settings, this will be right up your alley. Read the first three in the series before trying this one though; it’s fine as a standalone novel, but will give you much more satisfaction if you do.

I found a cute little novella on the internet. It’s titled A Happily Ever After of Her Own, and the first two chapters are available here: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2.

The rest are available to author Nadia Lee’s newsletter subscribers (the subscription is free). Thought some of you might want to check it out. Here’s the blurb from her website:

Melinda Lightfoot, a preschool teacher with an unusual ability to flit in and out of fairy tales, never thought she would get into trouble…

…until the Fairy Tale Police arrest her while she is in Beauty and the Beast. They offer her a deal: Find Beauty, who left the story when Melinda trespassed into it, or be charged with the ultimate crime — Fairy Tale Killer. If that’s not bad enough the Beast tags along in search of his true love, and Melinda starts falling for the fairy tale prince. She must choose between doing the right thing and having her own happily ever after.

Warning: This title contains the following: Fairy Godmother, the Wicked Witch, dysfunctional fairy tale families, ax-wielding executioners and a happily ever after (or two).

I liked this movie. Everyone seems to be wanting all the subsequent Terminator sequels to be T2 all over again, and, well, it ain’t gonna happen. But this is a good movie in its own right, and if you don’t try to compare it to an all-time classic, you’ll like it too.

The story takes place after Judgment Day but before the events of the first Terminator movie. As such, we get to see a young Kyle Reese and an older John Conner. I thought Christian Bale did an okay job with the Connor role (a little too much pathos for my reading of the character), but Anton Yelchin was superb as Reese. I also liked Sam Worthington in his role as the prototype for the T-800 series terminators. (As I was watching the movie I kept thinking that they’d picked someone who, at times and from certain angles, reminded me a heck of a lot of Arnold…)

There are lots of homages to the original two movies, so the cognoscenti will be happy. The geek-tech factor is also satisfyingly high. Recommended for anyone who likes the series and wants to see how it will fare without Arnold Himself.

As you can see, the cover is emo teen girl stuck in barren, spooky forest, and that would work pretty well as a one-line summary of the plot itself. But as one might suspect from the title, the level of writing is a cut above average, and that saves this book.

Mary lives in a post-apocalyptic world, a member of a village in the middle of a forest cut off from the rest of humanity – if the rest of humanity still even exists – by the presence of hordes of zombies. The village is run by a matriarchal sisterhood who cling to their secrets and time-worn methods of keeping everyone safe from said zombies. Naturally, this means sticking mainly to the village. But there’s a problem: Mary wants to see the ocean.

There isn’t really much plot here, just a girl turning into a woman and desiring more from her life than to be stuck in a zombie-surrounded village, married off to an eligible boy who she doesn’t really want. When the village is finally overrun one day, she gets her chance. She and a small group of friends survive and escape into the forest, and the second half of the book is about their attempts to stay alive.

There are plenty of chances for an unskilled writer to founder, but Ryan pulls this rather lackluster concept off quite well… remarkably well, in fact, for a first-timer. There isn’t a lot of horror, despite the concept, and there isn’t any sex, and the whole thing could easily have been a YA version of The Handmaid’s Tale gone very very wrong. But I found the book enjoyable, and will read the sequel when it comes out this March.

Dane Kennedy’s quick-sketch biography of Richard Burton takes an unusual, but ultimately very fruitful, approach. Instead of concentrating like so many of Burton’s biographers on the man and his many accomplishments, Kennedy locates Burton firmly within the Victorian world, using Burton’s multi-faceted life to illustrate and probe into that world. While Kennedy is first and foremost an academic, the book is highly readable, and in fact makes many of the more conventional Burton biographies (Edward Rice’s, for example) seem dry by comparison.

Even someone who is reasonably familiar with Burton’s life should find quite a bit that is new here. Certainly, the most familiar parts – the search for the source of the White Nile, the disguised entry into Mecca, the Arabian Nights translation – when held up against the backdrop of Victorian England and the British Empire, acquire new life and serve to stimulate thought beyond simple awe at the man himself. Kennedy also does a good job of showing Burton’s weak points (his unsuitability for politics, etc.), presenting a more balanced picture of the man than some of the more hagiographic efforts.

All in all, this is an excellent book. It is a fairly quick read, but nonetheless well researched and copiously end-noted, with enough in the notes to satisfy anyone who wishes to delve further into any of the many, many fascinating topics that are broached. I recommend it to anyone with an interest in Burton, history, the British Empire or Victorian England.

This is the first Scandinavian novel I’ve read since Smila’s Sense of Snow (which was superb) a decade or two back, and I have to say that I should probably read more. Stieg Larsson has concocted a slow-starting but ultimately very satisfying novel.

There are some oddities here for a reader who has been raised on get-to-it-do-it-and-tie-it-up American offerings. For one thing, it takes a hundred pages or so to set everything up. For another, the main mystery is resolved a good 150 pages before the end of the book…and yet the plot has enough threads and steam left in it to carry you the rest of the way without any problem at all. Stylistically there isn’t really anything to say one way or another – Larsson (in translation, at least) tells his story with a minimum of theatrics, but there is enough detail provided to keep things engaging.

One particular aspect stood out: I very much liked the way that Salander was more than able to physically hold her own against the men in the book. Too often writers try to make their female characters tough and it just seems implausible, if not downright silly. But Salander’s scrapes against men (and there are a few; the original Swedish title was Men Who Hate Women) come across as very believable. I can think of several movie directors who could learn something here.

As with any book that was written in a language other than English, the quality of translation is a question. In this case, Reg Keeland has done a good job, although there are some interesting (well, if you’re into linguistics) usages here and there. The English is really neither British nor American, but a sort of far-north amalgam that had me smiling at times. But the meaning is always clear and the peculiarities never really get in the way; rather they lend a little bit of extra exoticness to the book, and I count them as a plus.

Summary: Not for the GiveItToMeNow crowd, but for anyone else The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is definitely recommended. I’ll be reading the sequels.

Life of Pi is not your usual book. Most of the story takes place in a lifeboat, and the main characters are a boy and a Bengal tiger (trapped together in the boat). It’s an inventive story, with heavy philosophical overtones that I will leave to other readers. (For those interested, a starting point might be the name of the ship that sinks, Tsimtsum.) It also won the Man Booker Prize.

Pi is the nickname of Piscine Patel, polytheist and son of an Indian zookeeper. Although author Yann Martel isn’t Indian, he has done an inordinate amount of traveling and is able to write from an Indian perspective that seems convincing, at least to an outlander. He also knows an impressive amount about animals, which was one of the more delightful aspects of the novel. I recommend it to anyone who likes animals, or a novel to dig into and uncover multiple layers of meaning, or just wants something different.

Heart of Gold, by Sharon Shinn, failed to hold my interest. The cover looked good, the blurbs suggested an interesting story, but when I actually cracked open the book it just kind of…died. There was too much in the way of obvious gender-reversal, and I just wasn’t hooked by the blue/gold class struggle motif. The author’s style didn’t really hold my interest either; one too many clichés and too much in the way of telling rather than showing. She could learn a few lessons from Iain Banks about how to immerse a reader in an alien culture right off the bat. Even the murder that takes place a few dozen pages in is told in an excruciatingly roundabout method.

This isn’t a terrible book; it’s competently written and readers with different tastes might like it. But I put it down after about 50 pages.

This is one of the later installments of Lawrence Block’s long-running Matthew Scudder series. Block has several series, and unlike many writers never seems to fall into the traps that such series usually have. But then, Block is a consummate professional and writes with a rare command of his craft. If you pick up some of the older editions of his books, you might see a blurb that says something to the effect of: “Of all the writers who could replace the irreplaceable John D. MacDonald, Lawrence Block comes the closest.”

It’s high praise, and well-deserved in my opinion. True, Scudder doesn’t have the same larger-than-life qualities of Travis McGee – in fact, nothing about Scudder is larger than life – but he is very often truer to life. And if you read the first few pages you will somehow find yourself inexorably drawn into the narrative in the same sorcerous way that MacDonald used to have. Block comes in totally under your radar, and if you’re like me you find yourself wondering just how he achieves his effects.

I haven’t read all of the Scudder novels, but I’ve read enough to appreciate the continuity that exists in the series. Old names pop up with comforting regularity, and in this particular book an old killer is recycled, to chilling effect.

Scudder isn’t as cool and collected a protagonist as some of Block’s other creations — Keller, for example — but if Keller is a kamikaze shot, Scudder is a glass of good wine. You can take your time with it and enjoy the subtleties. Younger readers may not find the pace of the story to their liking, but if you’re over the age of forty, like well-crafted mysteries, and haven’t tried this series, you’re missing out.

If the title doesn’t get you, the book itself probably will. Elle Newmark has concocted a pleasant tale of late 15th century Venice, centered on a chef, his apprentice, his kitchen, and a secret, centuries-long movement to collect and preserve knowledge. Along the way she gets to poke some gentle fun, most of it aimed at the Christian faith. (“If [Jesus] knew he could [resurrect himself], what value would his death have?” Yes, indeed.) Catholics uncomfortable with difficult questions need not bother with this book.

But the main story is that of the apprentice, who starts as a homeless beggar on the streets of Venice and eventually finds himself, and manhood, among the pots and pans of the Doge’s kitchen. It’s an unlikely scenario, but in Newmark’s hands works smoothly enough. This isn’t a book that is likely to stay with you for years and years (albeit some of the dishes discussed seem good enough that you can smell them on the page), but the storytelling is good and will hold you.

The other thing really worth mentioning is the superlative job that Simon and Schuster did with the book itself. The dust cover is textured, and feels like you’re holding the skin of an orange. The endpapers are sumptuous, lush images that are works of art unto themselves… the best I can recall seeing for at least three decades. Everything, right down to the serif font, has been calculated to enhance the experience of reading, and if you are considering buying the book, I would recommend getting it in hardback simply for the pleasure of holding it in your hands. It is also flawlessly edited. Someone took a lot of time and care with this one, and madre mia does it show.

Every American citizen, as well as anyone who is financially invested in America, should read this book.

I think that people generally know that America’s time at the top is coming to an end, the usual cheerleading notwithstanding. The collapse of the housing bubble is just the latest manifestation of America’s mania for spending more than it earns, and the country has been doing that for a couple of decades now. The question isn’t if, but when the American lifestyle will undergo a severe readjustment – downward. And the answer is: soon.

Peter Schiff has done the best job I’ve seen in laying out the causes and effects of the coming crisis. (I say “coming”, but really we’re already into the leading edge.) In plain, non-technical language, Schiff lays out the primary movers in the housing crisis, why inflation is much worse than the government would have you believe, and the reasons that America is in for an extended period of adjustment, after which we may or may not emerge whole. Certainly, even in the best scenario, Americans are in for a decade or so of relative austerity, and given America’s dislike of inconvenience, it’s not going to be a pleasant ten years.

The primary lesson is: get your money out of the US dollar, which is already starting to be massively devalued. In the age of the Internet there are plenty of ways for people to move their money into other currencies and so on, even for those who are not experienced investors. My own personal recommendation for those who may not know what to do (aside from: Read this book!) would be to open a bank account with Everbank (www.everbank.com) and put some money into one of their foreign-denominated CDs. Alternatively, you can get an account with an online trading service like Ameritrade and put your money into a foreign index fund. Schiff has some good recommendations for choosing one, as well as a quick discussion about which options are best for your level of tolerance.

Most Americans are financially illiterate; this book will go a long way to help you out if you’re sitting there watching your nest-egg “appreciate” and can’t understand why you’re continually losing ground. Highly recommended.

I really hate it when a publisher fudges on the credentials of a writer, and I also hate it when people who don’t know the first thing about Japan try to set a novel there. Unfortunately, The 47th Samurai suffers from both of these problems.

First, the copy along the top of the book reads, “Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Point of Impact and Hot Springs STEPHEN HUNTER”. I think that it’s fair to assume that a potential customer looking at the cover could be forgiven for thinking that perhaps Mr. Hunter won his Pulitzer for writing, if not one of the two novels listed, at least some novel. But no. He won it for his work as a newspaper film critic – laudable, to be sure, but if I wanted an expert on movies I’d go visit Roger Ebert’s website.

As for the Japan stuff, Mr. Hunter has certainly done his homework on swords and samurai movies (of course). He throws so many Japanese sword parts into the text that it could actually serve as a sort of katana primer course. Unfortunately, he also throws in pretty much every silly stereotype that exists about Japan. We get the salaryman reading horrific porn comics on the train, people crossing streets to avoid having to walk directly past the gaijin, yada yada. It wasn’t fresh (or particularly true) when Michael Crichton wrote Rising Sun back in 1992, and it’s certainly not fresh now. Is it too much to ask that successful novelists, who presumably have the money to spend on research, actually try going to Japan and seeing if there are actually pervs reading bondage comics on the public transportation system, women who will cross the street to avoid them and so on? Apparently it is.

And what about the level of English that’s spoken by virtually (it seems) everyone in Japan? Okay, fine, you need to have at least one Japanese character speak good English in order to explain difficult points, but come on. A guy serving coffee throws out slang that sounds like he’s lived in the States for decades: “I can fire it up in the microwave if you like”. Or this bit from a different character:

Nakago is the rusted steel tang under the hilt. Even it is full of tantalizing communications from the past… It was as if the desecrator was paying homage to his superior… The cutting-edge side is at an acute angle to the bottom end of the shinogi line…

Even native speakers don’t talk like that, and I can tell you that after more than a decade and a half of dealing with Japanese learners of English at all levels, I’ve never met one who would use the word “desecrator” in a spoken sentence, much less that plus “tantalizing” plus “acute” all in the same paragraph. But stuff like this runs throughout.

And that’s too bad, because Mr. Hunter has an engaging style and can plot a book pretty well. Sure, there’s a little too much in the way of Hemingway envy (check out the photo on the back cover), and he doesn’t do the whole honor thing as well as Robert Crais or John D. MacDonald, but still, it’s certainly a readable book – at least those aspects that don’t relate directly to Japan. I might well pick up another of his books next time, one that’s set in the USA. As for this one, if you don’t know anything about Japan and don’t mind being served up a bunch of stale central-casting leftovers, have at it. You’ll probably enjoy yourself.

A. S. Byatt is a writer and poet who was educated at Oxford, Cambridge and Bryn Mawr, and the depth of her learning and love of language show in every paragraph of this superbly written novel. It is a dual story, first about two modern academics and second about two fictitious Victorian poets. Told in a tripartite structure that is almost equally straight prose, poetry and epistolary back-and-forth, the book spans about a century and a half of English literary history.

Be forewarned: Possession is not an easy read. But oh, the language! If you appreciate unusual metaphor, elegant dialog and believe that words like “aliment” and “odylic” should be brought out from English’s basement and dusted off, you will savor this exquisitely crafted work. If, on the other hand, your idea of a romance novel is taken from Harlequin, you might want to have a dictionary handy…or better yet skip this one altogether.

I will say this: the ending to this verbally and thematically complex novel is possibly the most satisfying I have ever read. If you’re up for a challenge, Possession is most definitely worth your while. It is a book to return to again and again.

This one gets the rarely-given five stars.