Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Books ‘n’ Authors
Errata
Well, I’ve had a lumbar puncture at the hands of a crappy ER doc and a root canal at the hands of a competent dentist, and I can confidently claim that the root canal is less painful. Though I guess the best comparison would require me to have a root canal at the hands of an incompetent dentist. But I think I’ll pass.
(Those few of you who also “friend” me at Facebook . . . yeah, so I cross-posted. I have an excuse. I just got a root canal.)
Thus far I am not impressed with Clancy’s Rainbow Six.
It’s a pre-9/11 tale of international terrorism in which the multinational “Rainbow” group, composed of cookie-cutter stamped übermenschen who can shoot the eyes out of a sewing needle at 100 yards, deal with one incident after another . . . I suppose. I’ve only made it through the first such incident, wherein Swiss police are somehow too incompetent to handle a hostage crisis at one of the banks (somehow I think not, but hey, suspension of disbelief).
Thing is, the team, based out of England, flies to Switzerland on a commercial airline. No, really. There’s a bit where one of ’em kvetches that the Swiss really need to decide soon if they want them or not, because the flight leaves in 2 minutes, and if they miss that flight they’ll need to wait another 90 minutes for the next one. Well, I guess if this NATO-sanctioned outfit actually took military aircraft to jump the Channel they would miss out on all their frequent flier miles . . .
Oh, and then there are the supervillains, who I gather are tree-huggers intent on sending the world back to the Stone Age, or some such. And one of them is a woman who doesn’t like men. Horrors.
And then there’s crap just thrown around like this BS about a characteristically German handshake, which is a sudden grab, a single shake with a warm squeeze midway through, and then a quick release. WTF? Kira, you reading this? IS there a characteristically German handshake?
I could forgive him the one-dimensional characters for whom I feel nothing if he got the other details right. I mean, I had always heard that Clancy was a details man, that the reader could count on him to get the techie stuff correct. But do I really care that he knows his armaments if he does crap like send his SuperSWAT team to Switzerland on TWA?
/vent
D.
Life after Thrones
I’ve reached the last chapter of George R. R. Martin’s fifth Game of Thrones novel, A Plethora of Puppies, and after reading, what is it? Four thousand pages of this stuff? I’m wondering what to do next. Go back to book one, keep cycling through them until Martin releases the sixth book? Because that’s the only way I’ll ever remember who everyone is. Not that I could remember who everyone is even having read each book one right after the other. I lost track of how many times I would start a chapter and say to myself, “Who the hell is this?”
Give the guy credit, he created a world and populated it with a few billion people, every ten of whom have their own unique heraldic emblems, or whatever the hell they’re called. Somehow I feel inadequate, not having my own coat of arms, though I suspect the main device would be Parents Combatant.
Anyway, what to read next? I’ve downloaded Tom Clancy’s Rainbow Six to my cell phone’s Nook app, but I’m not wedded to the idea of reading Clancy. Just thought I’d see what goes into making an author wildly successful. Suppose I could read King to that end, but I lost my taste for horror some twenty or thirty years ago.
So what are people reading?
D.
Our story thus far
Well, I finished Book Five of George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones yesterday (A Feast for Crows), and I lasted all of one day before buying Book Six, which I think is called A Gaggle of Geese A Dance With Dragons. Those of you who have read these books know that Martin’s literary sprawl knows no bounds — I mean, this guy makes Neal Stephenson look terse — and Dance With Dragons with its 1000 pages represents another leap forward in page count . . . particularly when you consider that Books Five and Six are actually one book that Martin has separated into two contemporaneous groups of multiple story lines.
Surprisingly, it all works. Most of the time. I must confess that when Martin goes on and on about what’s emblazoned on this or that House’s shields and banners, my eyes glaze over, and I skip ahead, invoking Elmore Leonard’s dictum about leaving out what other people skip (since I can’t leave it out, I skip it). And some characters are too loathsome to waste much time on. I skim Sansa’s chapters, as I do Cersei’s. Regarding Cersei, I don’t mind evil witches, but I really really mind stupid evil witches.
Most pleasant surprise among the various story arcs: that Martin was able to rehabilitate Jaime’s character. I didn’t think it would be possible.
Most annoying aspect of having to wait maybe another six years for book seven: Martin left Arya in some bad straits at the end of Book Five, and it irritates the piss out of me that I’m going to have to wait forever to find out what happens to her. I mean, book six is 1000+ pages, and I am going to have to wait nearly until the end to find out what has become of her. I dreamed about this story arc, I was so irked.
Best thing about having Book Six in hand (on cell phone, to be exact): I can finally catch up with Tyrion’s story line. Us little guys need to stick together.
D.
Am enjoying . . .
John Dies at the End by Cracked writer David Wong. This is one of those novels that surprises me over and over again. The sort you don’t want to spoil for people (but I can at least tell you that it’s funny enough that I wish I had written it, and it’s scary too, and it’s FRESH). It’s also the sort of book that makes you say, DAMN this would make a great movie, and guess what — they are indeed making it into a movie (according to a sub-page on the link above). Paul Giamatti is the biggest name in the cast, and Don Coscarelli (Bubba Ho-Tep) is directing.
I’m not sure you should watch the video on the John Dies at the End website. I have a bad feeling that I just got a walloping dose of spoilers. Funny video but, jeez, part of the joy of this book is the seemingly endless series of surprises.
So what are you reading?
D.
Breaking news
I broke my new smart phone last week — dropped it about 18 inches, and it struck the ground on one of its corners, shattering the face plate, which only remained in one piece thanks to the plastic protective layer over the glass. Not relishing the innovation of Smart Phone As Stained Glass Window, I went through the rather painful process of starting an insurance claim. They were good to their word, I’ll give them that: I faxed them the necessary forms on Monday, and we got the new phone today. Now I have to figure out how to get all my info ported over to the “new” phone.
The newest app: SELF DESTRUCT!
I broke the Nook, too, shortly after acquiring it. Seems like there’s a part of me* that takes the phrase “breaking in period” too seriously. The damage to the Nook was not too severe — a small fracture through the case near one of the navigation buttons, such that it occasionally does not work (but usually does).
Most devastating of all, I broke my glasses two days ago. Went to clean the lenses with my tee shirt, as usual, and the damn thing broke in two, right at the nasal thingie. I can’t get in to the optometrist for another week and I am damned lucky to have gotten that appointment. Meanwhile, I’m using an old pair that are fine for distance, but close work such as reading is way off limits. Particularly frustrating was my attempts last night to read my Nook while working out on the elliptical trainer. No go, no way. And I’m getting a headache simply typing this post, my eyes are crossing, waaaah.
Am reading the second book in George R. R. Martin’s Fire and Ice series. I have mixed feelings about it. I know I am reading a soap opera and I know the author likely has no idea where he is going. (I know this because Karen, who has less patients than me for 3500+ word-and-still-not-done-yet series, has read the Wikipedia precis on the books, and she says so.) In truth I lost interest once Martin killed off my favorite character. But I still like the dwarf and I still like Arya, the younger daughter, who reminds me a bit of one of my own characters. Since the chapters are conveniently titled by the POV character, I suppose I could skim my way through, reading only the bits I’m interested in. I wonder if I would miss much?
But I should probably move on to something different. It appalls me that I’ve read over 800 pages and I’m not even 1/4 of the way done with this beast.
D.
*My hands, that is.
A tale of two &s
While on vacation, I finished Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, and made a serious dent in Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. Both novels were bestsellers in their time, both have won awards (S&N won the Hugo, the World Fantasy Award, and others; K&C won a Pulitzer), both were big “airplane novels” — books I saw folks read on the plane, along with Stephen King and Michael Connelly and a host of others. But there the resemblance ends.
It has been less than a week and I’ve already forgotten the ending of Strange & Norrell. Mind you, I always forget the endings, but I think this has been record time. I remember bits of it, I suppose, but the bits I remember won’t last long. I can tell — they’re simply not that memorable. The most remarkable thing about Strange & Norrell is that I spent over 900 pages with a small handful of characters and I feel as though I barely know any of them. That, I would say, takes an odd sort of talent.
In contrast, I’m halfway through Kavalier & Clay, and already I care about the principles and their families so much that I’m reluctant to read further, because Chabon’s foreshadowing makes me fear the worst for them.
I think I understand the difference between the two novels, the failure of one and the success of the other, but I can’t prove my hypothesis. I suspect the difference lies not in the technical abilities of the two authors (though Chabon can write circles around Clarke) but in their own conceptions of their characters. Strange, Norrell, their wives and friends were, I suspect, two-, perhaps three-dimensional in Clarke’s mind, while Chabon’s characters must have lived and breathed inside him during the writing of Kavalier & Clay. Entities with souls. To get a little goofy about it: Clarke created characters while Chabon became a biographer.
I’m also reading George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones, the first book (all 3500 pages have been downloaded to my Nook). The TV series (presently airing) follows the book slavishly, but I’m enjoying it nonetheless.
D.
Someone tell me if I should give this book another 800 pages of my life
Am reading:
I'm still waiting for the bird.
Susanna Clarke is certainly a competent author, which is probably why I’ve made it through the first 100 pages. But really, I’m having trouble coming up with reasons to keep reading, chief among the few being “It’s taking up space on my Nook so I had better read it, hadn’t I?” Which goes to show how intolerant I am of books that lack narrative drive.
There are a few basic tricks of novel-writing which allow the author to hook the reader at chapter’s-end, compelling him to read on. Susanna Clark carefully avoids doing anything of the kind. Often the only indication I have that I’ve arrived at the end of the chapter is the sudden appearance of micro-font footnotes, most of which do nothing more than remind me how much I miss the hilarious footnotes of Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy. And how much I miss Bartimaeus in general. One of the reviews of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell made reference to the Harry Potter series; as much as I despise Rowling’s lack of technique, I miss her bitchiness and her slavish loyalty to fan service. She gives us some magic, is what I’m saying. Hundred pages into JS & MN (or at least it feels like I’m 100 pages into it) and all I’ve got are some talking bits of plaster and a forgetfulness spell. Talk about keeping your powder dry.
I do realize that Clarke is weaving a comedy of manners, as do I realize that comedies of manners are meant to stimulate the “Oh ho ho, isn’t she the clever one” smirks rather than the snort-your-coffee laughs that some of my other favorite authors manage as a matter or routine. And I’m fine with that. I knew what I was getting myself into. I simply wasn’t counting on so little happening.
So tell me, ye who have read this book: does it get better? Life is only so long, after all, and 800 pages (at the rate I read) is not an insignificant chunk.
D.
Hallucinogenic, even for me
I’ve been re-reading Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and enjoying it a good deal more on the second read. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because I read it soon after publication (2001), which was before I tried to reinvent myself as a writer. Ten years later, I’m sure I have a better appreciation for craftsmanship. Guess I’m saying I have greater respect for Gaiman nowadays.
One possible metric for a book is the degree to which it permeates my thoughts, waking and sleeping. Last night I wandered from one wild scene into another in a world bereft even of dream logic. It’s a characteristic of mad speech that the sane listener can’t remember or reproduce more than a fragment of the monologue; in a similar manner, my dreaming self had a devilish time remembering things from one vision to the next.
But I remember a statue of a mermaid, human from the waist down, fish from the waist up. Devotees suckled her genitalia and were rewarded with gushes of salt water. Yes, I probably watch too much internet porn.
At the western limit of a carnival are cabins, shuttered windows glowing under a starred sky. It’s the red light district. I knock on a door and am swept in by a small, dark woman, one of dozens of small, dark women, who together greet me as if I were Norm from Cheers. I’ve come home it seems, and I fall, really fall into the arms of the woman who opened the door for me. The night’s cold leaves me. She asks if I’ve brought ice cream and when I say no, but I can run out and get some, she says that’s all right, you just stay right here, baby; and I fall asleep in her arms.
When I wake up, I’m in a hotel room, and in the mirror I see that the women have painted my lips, rouged my cheeks, and waxed my hair (yeah, I have hair in this dream) into a pompadour. They’ve had their way with me in the sense of dressing me up like a Ken doll and chortling all night long over the results. And I can’t wait to get back for more.
D.
Beware novels which announce, “A Novel.”
Today, I finished The Shadow Year: A Novel by Jeffrey Ford. I wanted to read a good fantasy, so I checked out the World Fantasy Awards site. Noting that their 2010 award-winner was China Mieville’s The City & The City, which I liked a great deal, I decided I would trust them for another fantasy. Hence The Shadow Year: A Novel, which won their 2009 best novel award.
Setting: a small town in Long Island, late 1960s. Well, I thought, this should be fun, since I was the protag’s age at that time, too. And yet the moments of resonance were rare: a reference to Bazooka bubble gum (which did indeed cost a penny), occasional mentions of commercials which were on TV at the time. Despite Ford’s efforts to create a rich setting, with regard both to the town and the time, it all felt flat to me.
Plot: the unnamed protag is the middle child of a dad who works three jobs and a manic depressive mom who drinks herself to sleep every night. His younger sister is disturbed (and psychic!) and his older brother is cool, brave, and generic. There’s also a generic bully and a generic mean teacher and a host of generic loonies. Conflict arises first in the guise of a mysterious window peeper, then in the form of disappearances, murders, and a sinister man in a big white car. The brothers set out to unravel the town’s mystery and inexplicably never tell their father, who seems a reasonable sort, nor their grandparents, who are also cool and brave and nearly generic (they and the drunk mom were the only ones in the novel who came alive for me).
Gimmick: the older brother has built a simulacrum of the neighborhood on a model train platform erected in their basement. Movements of their neighbors, the peeper, and the sinister man in his big white car are eerily reflected by changes in the positions of their counterparts in the miniature town.
THEME! THEME! THEME! Why, loss of innocence, of course, which is telegraphed with a bullhorn at the end of the novel’s first paragraph:
. . . . Taking a cast-off leaf into each hand, I made double fists. When I opened my fingers, brown crumbs fell and scattered on the road at my feet. Had I been waiting for the arrival of that strange changeling year, I might have understood the sifting debris to be symbolic of the end of something.
Really, how big a dumb ass am I? I read that paragraph before I ever bought the book, and yet I still bought it. Jeez.
What’s wrong with it: oh, imagine any Twilight Zone episode written by Rod Serling. Got it yet? Smarmy. Rife with predictable ironies. Ultimately moralistic — and two-dimensional.
I’m thinking of reading Jeff Vandermeer’s Ambergris novels. Has anyone here read him? Or do you have any other fantasy recommendations to make?
D.
Just finished, just started
Just finished Terry Pratchett’s The Fifth Elephant, which was a real treat. Sam Vimes is my favorite Pratchett character, so it was delightful finding a Vimes novel I hadn’t read yet (although The Night Watch may still be my fave Diskworld novel). Pratchett, like Christopher Moore, is so very very good when he’s on his game. Which he is, most of the time. Both authors have an uncanny knack for balancing humor, suspense, and poignancy. I admire these guys far more than I do any of the “serious” authors I read.
Just started Michael Chabon’s Gentlemen of the Road, his nod to the swords and swashbuckling stories of Michael Moorcock. Only since this is Chabon, his rogues are both Jewish and they dream of Khazar, “the fabled kingdom of wild red-haired Jews on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, the Jewish yurts and pinnacles of Khazaria.” This is my second Chabon novel (The Yiddish Policeman’s Union was my first), so from my N of 2, I would have to declare that what Chabon really is, is not a “serious author,” heaven forbid, but a Jewish fantasist. Think of Borges writing novels. About Jews. There you go, that’s Chabon for you.
D.