#books

James S. A. Corey's The Expanse is perhaps my favorite space opera series. I don't think they quite stuck the landing, but it was hard to put down right up until the very end.

I read The Mercy of Gods, the first book in their new trilogy, when it came out in August of 2024, so when the second book, The Captive's War came out last week, I re-read that and continued on with the new one.

They're compulsively readable, and much like The Expanse, while there's a lot of plot going on, the characters are compelling. There's one death in the second book that was sad and shocking, despite the fact that they start the chapter where it happens with "The last day of so-and-so's life started with..." I spent the whole chapter knowing that it was going to happen, waiting for it to happen, and yet I was still startled when it actually happened. And they did a superlative job of setting up the reason for that death without (to me, at least) making it obvious that was what they were settng up.

I also find them interesting as books that are, at their core, really about politics---about how different people accommodate (or demand accommodation from) the world and others around them, who has patience in trying to achieve their ends versus who demands immediate change, and how you can best live in circumstances that are beyond your determination.

The capsule synopsis is: patient with terminal cancer is given an opportunity to take on a quest in the world of a fantasy series she enjoyed (but only half-remembers, because chemo brain); if she succeeds, she will be cured. Starts out treating everyone like NPCs and assuming she can fulfill the quest easily because she (sort of) knows what's going to happen, until a) she finds out that she's not the first that offer's been made to, and b) she starts skewing the plot from what she knew, removing her own advantage.

I enjoyed this just enough that I'm willing to take a chance on its sequel, which, it turns out, comes out in three weeks time. But I don't know that I'd really recommend it. There are some things about the presentation that are confusing, and there are some things about the protagonist that are very annoying. I think at this opint it's more about my need to know where the plot goes, because I really don't see how this plan is gonna land in one piece.

I fell out of the habit of reading over the last few years; chalk it up to a creeping inability to focus, what with the world being on fire and having lots of distractions that demanded less of me, but were also, in the end, less rewarding. Consequently, I started 2026 off with an intention to read more.

Still, I took something of a training wheels approach: the last book in Charles Stross' Laundry Files came out, so I started at the beginning and read them all (except for A Conventional Boy, which came out last year, and was a little bit out of main continuity, so I skipped it). I mean, this isn't even the first post I've written about reading a bunch of them, though the last was more than ten years ago. Like I said: training wheels.

I'm not inclined to go into too much detail about the experience. I will say that I think this is the first time around that the original primary character, Bob Howard really got on my nerves. In the early books, he's a bit of an asshole (which is presumably intentional: his alleged full name is "Bob Oliver Francis Howard", or "BOFH", look it up if you don't know the acronym). In the later books...he's just a bit too much of a man-child for me: too feckless to be as powerful as he is.

Conversely, I found myself feeling a lot more sympathy for Mhari Murphy, who starts out as an annoying "bad girlfriend", but ends up being very important to the back half of the series, and is imbued with a lot more substance in the process---perhaps a bit of a try-hard, but the only character with an internal monologue that seems to belong to a reasonably complete human being.

Just to be clear: I think this is all largely intentional. Stross is on record saying that Bob is an unreliable narrator, so one might assume that part of that unreliability might involve describing the actual character of someone he had a problematic relationship with. And Bob does grow over the course of the series, as you would hope for someone who starts out in their late 20s and is the high side of 40 by the story's end (assuming he's actually alive, which is something even the character is uncertain about).

I enjoyed it all, but I don't seem myself picking them back up for a good while.

I don't know what n is this year, but it's embarassingly low. I intend to do better.

Anyway, I read King Sorrow by Joe Hill. I enjoyed it---much like his father, Joe tends towards producing books that I find compulsively readable, even if both tend to do it in doorstop increments. The premise was interesting, the characters were likeable, and since he's part of the same early 70s clade as I, the feel of the time where the story starts---1989---felt familiar.

That said, I was a little surprised to see it on the lists of notable books of 2025 for both Vulture and the New York Times because so much of it felt like he was almost plagarizing himself.

The things that I noticed most were those that matched the first thing of his I read---and that I have re-read several times---Locke & Key.

At a high level, the entire plot of "young friend group becomes wrapped up in ancient evil" is the same. Gwen reads a lot like Kinsey (or maybe Vic from NOS4A2). Donna's characterization bears more than a little resemblance to Jordan Gates, especially at the end of the book. There's other stuff, but it's late and my intention isn't to be exhaustive, which would involve spoilers---just to note that it feels like familiar territory.

Familiar territory isn't intrinsically bad---I mean, I read and loved 40+ Discworld novels, and those all have that feel of being in familiar territory because it's a series---that's a feature, not a bug. And you could make an argument that a lot of these are just elements you're likely to find in stories in a particular horror-adjacent genre.

But still, Joe's only got 6 works on this scale---5 novels and Locke & Key---and the others feel more diverse in their elements. I just hope that the next one treads some new ground.

And a little more Scalzi---just a novelette this time.

What if being murdered violently delivered you back into your bed in the state you were a short time before you died?

At the very least, it opens up some interesting new career options.

It's a fun, if light, read in a world that seems like it has more depth than just a novellette would require. I wonder if this world might make another appearance?

Even after my mild disappointment with the tone of his last book, The Road to Little Dribbling: More Notes From a Small Island, which struck me as often sharp or even mean-spirited, I still have an affection for Bill Bryson. What better way to guarantee a more pleasant encounter, then to go back to the beginning (almost) to The Mother Tongue.

So I'll say at the outset that I have no idea how much of the content of this book is still considered...correct. I mean, like all of Bryson's books (that I've read, at least), it's a mostly coherent-ish narrative drawing a line through a metric ton of facts, and all I can really speak with authority about is the value of the narrative part.

And the narrative is pretty interesting---English as a language is clearly a bit of a mutt, and seems poised to go and have even more puppies with more partners in the future; there's no end in sight.

Even more interesting, I think (and something that almost certainly wasn't clear when Bryson first wrote the book in 1990), is that there's a reasonable chance that it will continue to be more or less a single language, because the Intertubes provide such unprecedented opportunity for groups with nothing in common geographically to nonetheless interact---in effect, to hold a dialog about what the language will become.

At this point my feelings about John Scalzi should be clear: when I want a book that will be smart, entertaining, absurdly readable and maybe, occasionally, a little profound, I could do a lot worse.

The Collapsing Empire is in this regard no different from any other. It's a strong start for a new series (though I do hope for another Colonial Union novel one day), and if the the characters are recognizably Scalzi-esque, they're not retreads. And one of them is hilariously profane.

The only funny thing about it is this: having read it in ebook form, I have no real sense of how long it is. When he mentioned on his blog that it was (IIRC) his second-longest book, I was pretty startled, because I think I read it in about four hours, with breaks.

Terrifyingly readable, in other words.

It was inevitable that I would read this two-part biography of Robert Heinlein.

Though my feelings about him are more complicated than when I was a teenager, to pretend that my exposure to Heinlein in those years didn't have a profound effect on me would be dishonest in the extreme.

Reading the two fairly doorstop-like volumes, it's hard not to see this as hagiography; one is left with the impression that Heinlein never seems to have done anything wrong:

Perhaps he was naive, but never foolish (as, say, when he plunged into a first marriage that seems like it must have been doomed from the start). Perhaps he was too accepting, but never unsupportive (as, say, he watched his second wife slide into alcoholism). Perhaps he was too clever for most readers, but never flat-out wrong (as with Farnham's Freehold).

Maybe this would be easier to take if the book didn't get relatively easily checked facts wrong---for instance, at one point Barry Goldwater is described as having supported the New Deal:

Certainly Goldwater's voting record helped Heinlein to support him. It showed he had his heart in the right place---he had voted for the New Deal when it counted [...]

It is to laugh.

That this is asserted in a chapter that also asserts that the Democratic Party had been infiltrated by "Leftists" (a thinly-veiled euphemism for "Communists"), which was pushing Heinlein---who had worked with Upton Sinclair's campaign for Governor of California on an almost-socialist platform some thirty years earlier(!)---toward the "center", represented by Goldwater, doesn't pass the smell test. I swear, if I never hear another old white man trotting out that "I didn't abandon the Democratic Party, the Democratic Party abandoned me," line, it will be too soon.

At least he did the smart thing and passed on Dianetics.

What it comes down to, the thing that ultimately drove me away from his work, is the lack of humility. He is quite open that his work is meant to be at didactic in fuction. OK, that's fine, but, if you're going to purport to teach, you better have the right fucking answers, and this is a guy who was wrong again and again, constantly predicting the downfall of civilization, whether to Communism, or nuclear holocaust, or simply the encroachment of other less cultures in a less Western liberal mode.

It's all a bit too much for a book with the subtitle "In Dialog with His Century", because it comes off as much more of a monologue.

That said: I would prefer a world that had a more liberal bent---government that interceded when it could be effective, and stayed the fuck out of people's business when it couldn't. I suspect he and I would have had rather different ideas about when and how it could be effective, though.

So this wasn't actually my 11th book of the year, it was the 9th. It was a nice light, airy palate cleanser that I promptly forgot; I think that's mostly the intent though. Perhaps not the entirely forgetting part, but certainly the light, airy part.

I was born in the South, and I have lived most of my life in the South, but I moved around as a kid, and lived other places besides, so I think it's fair to say that I'm not really "of the South".

I suspect one of the better arguments bolstering this assertion is that I never listened to the Allman Brothers Band until I was in college. And while they're still not a band I listen to on a daily or even weekly basis, I own their core albums, and know most of the material pretty well...even if I first knew "Whipping Post" as a Frank Zappa performance.

Anyway, I feel kind of fortunate that all the "oral histories" I've read over the years have generally been pretty good---and this is no different; it's well edited, so that there's a sense of narrative, rather than things just rambling all over the landscape, it attempts, when possible, to get all sides of the story.

I think what I take away from this on is that the band may never have really recovered from Duane's death. I mean, yes, they produced Brothers and Sisters, but against the backdrop of the rest of their career, that seems like a heart continuing to beat for a while after brain death.

Without someone to lead them who afforded everyone a chance to also be themselves, they never quite found the true vision of what they wanted again. They let themselves become distracted, and even when they brought in capable new people...it was never quite the same.

All that said, obviously I wasn't ever in a position to see them with Duane; in fact I never saw them at all. In retrospect, though, I suspect I would have enjoyed seeing one of the shows they put on this century; it seemed like---even though it apparently required throwing one of the original members out of the band---that they found their way back to some of the sympatico that marked their early work.

I am well aware that there are plenty of people who think Gary Taubes is bad at what he does---that his writing is too biased (such that it displays the same failings of fitting evidence to theory that he calls out in others), or that he is out-and-out untruthful, whatever.

On the other hand, I've now read all of his books regarding diet, and I find his writing to be open and honest about the possibility that he has incomplete or incorrect information, and that his hypothesis does seem to represent far simpler and more believable explanation for---to borrow one of his book titles---"why we get fat".

In the end, the arguments against his hypotheses remind me of epicycles, the ever more elaborate explanations for observable movement of the stars and planets in a geocentric model. They had to become more and more elaborate and complex because they were working from a flawed premise that was dictated and enforced by the power structures of the day (the Catholic Church in this case), that the solar system is geocentric, not heliocentric.

When I then consider the simple observation that over the course of my lifetime---which roughly corresponds to the rise of the low-fat approach to diet---my peers and my country have become enormously fat, and that I can easily observe in my own body the effects of consuming carbohydrates and especially sugar...well, "Eppur si muove."

All of that material is in his prior books, too; what distinguishes The Case Against Sugar is that it also goes into greater detail about the actions of the sugar industry---which shared both tactics and even actors with the tobacco industry. This new material is interesting...but at this moment in history, demonstrating the malfeasance of corporations and people in their employ is shooting fish in a barrel. It's also a little dispiriting.

So if you haven't read anything of his, I would stick with Why We Get Fat, which is short and to the point---an uplifting book trying to show a path forward. This is more like horror, showing the unfortunate things taking place around us.

When I read about people whose work I admire, I am almost always reminded of the Buddhist admonishment, "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him"; which in this instance I think of as reminding us that the person is not the teaching or the product, and it lives independently of them.

To say that I admire Paul Simon is an understatement.

I've seen him perform three times: during the 1991 Born at the Right Time tour, in Birmingham, Alabama; in 2011, during the tour behind So Beautiful, So What; and then in 2014 during the On Stage Together tour with Sting. I haven't seen anyone more than that, and although there's a few other acts I've seen that many times---Concrete Blonde, King Crimson, Adrian Belew are the only ones I can think of right now---none of them hold quite the same place in my heart.

I have memories associated with his music---both as part of Simon and Garfunkle and as a solo act---that are so strong that when I listen to some tracks, it's like being transported back in time. One of the first two albums I ever owned was his Greatest Hits, etc., and I still have it, though it probably hasn't been played in 25 years. For that matter, I realized on my birthday last year marked exactly 30 since my parents had bought me Graceland.

So of course when I saw there was a biography of Paul Simon, especially one published just last year, I was going to read it; I didn't consider it terribly dangerous, given that I already knew that he was an imperfect person---the truth is, his failures as an individual are well-documented; his tempestuous relationship with Art Garfunkle, his long but ultimately broken relationship with Carrie Fisher, questions of credit with Los Lobos and others.

If you look beyond, or perhaps just around, those imperfections, his life is fascinating; being a teenager at the beginning of rock and roll, finding a temporary niche in the folk movement, which parlayed into pop stardom, which led to an unexpected prominence in world music, which led to spectacular failure on Broadway.

The number of people he has worked with---whether their partnership panned out or not---the number of people he was associated with early in their careers, the number of people he got to know, the sheer breadth of his place in music, it's all fairly breathtaking (I will note for at least one person's benefit that there is a citation for The Real Frank Zappa Book, regarding one encounter between Frank Zapp and Simon & Garfunkle).

Anyway, Carlin strikes me as even-handed: while he's unstinting in recording the places Simon seems all too willing to act without regard for his partners and collaborators---a pattern that starts at the very beginning and continues on to pretty much the present day---he leaves you wondering if the sort of drive it takes to excel in this field isn't all too likely to lead one toward this sort of behavior; not excusing it, but explaining it.

Maybe you don't actually need to kill the Buddha---maybe you just need to cross over to the other side of the road, and let him keep his distance.

If you got to #5 of this series unsure if you want to continue, I'm not going to convince you.

The vast majority of this book is a great example of the Space Opera genre in action---I literally found myself unable to put it down even though I really, really needed to get to sleep.

But it doesn't quite stick the landing, IMHO: even though the authors had carefully set up the scenario that allows our heros to triumph in the prior book, it ultimately feels a little too Deus Ex.

And even if it didn't, while many of the plot threads that came into play in the prior book get wrapped up, the ones that are left too obviously end up feeling like they're leading up to The Next Book; it looms just a little too large.

But man, until that last 30 pages or so, it's a nailbiter, and well worth your time. The question in my mind at this point is whether they can sustain the energy for #7.

Oh, and Clarissa becomes an official part of the crew!

Yeah, it's all about the characters.

Which is to say: my ambivalence about various of the viewpoint characters in the last two books made them both feel like something of a slog. On the other hand, the use of Amos, Alex and Naomi as viewpoint characters helped make this book zip by---and it's not just that I care about them, but that they are voices that I'm already accustomed to.

As for the what happens...I'm interested to see where it's going in the long haul, beyond this book and the next. It's interesting to realize that the seeds of many of the plotlines that drive this book were baked into the first couple of novels---clearly Abraham and Franck have had a larger plot planned out.

For instance, it seems clear the Martian commander who has an important, but off-camera role in this story is the same one who was involved in attempting to create the protomolecule soldiers in Caliban's War.

Similarly, the past Naomi has always hinted at comes to a head, and some interesting plot points spin out of that...but at the same time, some of it doesn't quite ring true to me. I understand the way that our old patterns resurface when we find ourselves back in those contexts, but Naomi seems weirdly naive for much of the beginning of the book, which just feels wrong since she's a badass basically every other moment.

Undoubtedly the parts of the book that I most enjoyed were Alex and Amos' elements. Alex's is fun for a lot of reasons, including the fact that it brings back Bobby Draper, and they have a bit of a caper to solve.

Amos, on the other hand, takes a surprising detour, and ends up picking up Clarissa Mao...and she becomes an incredibly interesting character, because she seems to have truly embraced being a better person, being a more aware person, and ultimately making thoughtful choices. And the authors avoid it being pure Mary Sue...by making Holden consistently and forthrightly unhappy about her presence.

Anyway, much more fun than the last couple of novels, and a good setup for the next entry.

Cibola Burn is my least favorite book in The Expanse.

I think, in the end, it comes down to the primary antagonist, Murtry---he's not just an antagonist, he's a villain; too obviously a psychopath, too mustache-twirlingly pleased with behaving in an almost inhuman manner.

Even Captain Ashford in Abaddon's Gate is clearly...well, at this moment in time, I have to say, he's Trumpian---obviously mediocre but placed in high position for reasons other than competence, and thus given to defensive, authoritarian, megalomaniacal behavior, because he mistakes being a strongman for being strong. It's ugly, but it's all too understandable. Also, he's just not in the story that much, so you don't have an opportunity to get tired of him.

Murtry, on the other hand, quickly outstays his welcome.

But his malign presence did make me start to think a bit; if you look at who the villians are---as opposed to merely antagonists---they're generally corporations and their representatives: Protogen, Mao-Kwikowski, and Royal Charter Energy. Is that simply because, in our post-2008 crash world, the amoral venality of corporations is the evil most visible to us?

And what does that say about our current President?

Anyway, while I found the first half of the book fairly interminable, it does pick up the pace somewhat in the last half. We do see the last of Miller, which is perhaps a little sad, but also, I think, a necessary precondition to moving on to stories set in a somewhat different arena.

One more to re-read and then on to new material.

So here's the thing: when you have books that, in order to really justify being re-read, are dependent on the characters being compelling enough that they will minimize visibility for the plot happening, you damn well better make each and every one of those characters awesome.

Now The Expanse has compelling characters---I could read about Holden and his crew for extended periods without any complaint. And Bobbie Draper and Chrisjen Avasarala are a similar delight to read. Clarissa Mao starts to get interesting, but mostly right at the end of the novel. Pastor Anna and Carlos Baca...just aren't.

What that means is that something like half our narration is focused on people who just don't hold your attention the same way the second time around, which means you end up staring at the plot happening, and that makes things a lot less interesting.

Sure, Bull is smart enough to understand the politics that put him where he is, and how to at least attempt to leverage whatever he can to get a good outcome, and owes Fred Johnson...but that isn't enough.

And Pastor Anna is obviously a good person, and asks us to think about WTF does the idea of meeting actual aliens would mean for humanity, and provides wonderful contrast to Amos, our endearing, light-hearted psychopath. I mean, it makes for some wonderful copy...

"Killing people won't make him feel better," Anna said, regretting the words the second they left her mouth. These people were going to be risking their lives to protect her. They didn't need her moralizing at them.

"Actually," Holden said with a half smile, "I think it might be for him, but Amos is a special case. You'd be right about most anyone else."

...

"God damn, Red," Amos said, putting his hand on hers. "You must be hell on wheels as a preacher. You're making me feel the best and worst I've felt in a while at the same time."

...

Good-hearted unrepentant killers were not something she'd had to fit into her worldview before this, and she wasn't sure how it would work. But now she'd have to try.

...but it ain't enough.

All of which feels a little bit like nit-picking, insofar as it's a still a fun read, but it just doesn't feel like it's going to hold up like the first two novels---I found myself putting it down far more than the first two books because I could too easily find something more interesting to do.

That said, plot-wise, it is a big shift for the universe of The Expanse, and opens up a whole lot of new possibilities to be explored (at least through book #9).

I've read critiques of Leviathan Awakes that felt the Noir backdrop for Miller didn't work, and that they were happy he was gone by the end of the first book.

Although I certainly found the crew of the Rocinante more fun, I still kind of liked Miller; still if we had to lose him, could we do better than gaining Chrisjen Avasarala and Bobbie Draper? Easy answer: No. Especially Avasarala:

"They're all fucking men," she said. "Excuse me?" Soren said. "The generals. They're all fucking men." "I thought Souther was the only---" "I don't mean that they all fuck men. I mean they're all men, the fuckers. ...

Whatever my feelings about the plot and in some cases character changes they made in the TV show, the only thing that really hurts is that Avasarala simply can't be so casually foul-mouthed on basic cable.

Or just some of the text that comes along with her:

She'd stopped looking tired a while ago and had moved on to whatever tired turns into when it becomes a lifestyle.

Still, Amos does ultimately win the quotability competition:

"When it comes to scrapes, I'm what you might call a talented amateur. But I've gotten a good look at that woman in and out of that fancy mechanical shell she wears. She's a pro. We're not playing the same sport."

Or:

He turned toward the galley, but the conversation wasn't finished. "If I had. If I had done those things, that would have been okay with you?" "Oh, fuck no. I'd have broken your neck and thrown you out the airlock," Amos said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ah," Prax said, a gentle relief loosening in his chest. "Thank you." "Anytime."

At least as far as my enjoyment goes, it's important that these two compelling characters get added for this second book, because on re-reading, it feels like the gears of the plot are clanking just a little bit in the background---I feel like there's some manufactured conflict that doesn't play out as smoothly as it should have.

Still nothing more than typical sophomore slump, and not anything like, say, the second book in Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey & Maturin series, where things totally go off the rails before he figures out how to manage the whole notion of a sequel.

I also book-ended this with the short story The Butcher of Anderson Station, which gives some background on Fred Johnson and how he got his sobriquet, as well as the novella Gods of Risk, which is what Bobbie Draper does on her summer vacation. I think the interstitial story strategy is a pretty brilliant one---it lets the author address things that add some richness to the main line of stories without having to have an awkward flashback or play stop-the-world for an awkward infodump.

By any measure, I was late to the party with The Expanse. I hadn't heard of the author (either pseudonymously or individually), the books, or the SyFy Channel adaption until it was well underway---and I assumed, since SyFy hadn't done anything of interest to me since before they changed their name, that it was probably going to be crap.

Still, I saw a review at Tor.com that was quite complimentary, so I set the TiVo to pick up everything and waited for the earlier episodes to come back around, and then started watching.

Something like four episodes in, I bought all (at that time) five books, and devoured them all in short order. But I had utterly lapsed in tracking my reading by that point, so I never mentioned them here.

With the knowledge that the second season of the TV program is coming up, and the advent of a sixth novel being published last December---and knowing cramming down five novels in a couple of weeks doesn't necessarily lead to the greatest retention of the material, so I didn't want to start it and be confused---I decided to re-read them. And just for good measure, I decided to re-watch the first season of the show.

Whew, that's a lot of preface.

I think the most interesting thing for me is really the contrast between my experience of this, and Last Year.

This is so unambiguously what I was thinking of when I talked about a plot-driven book.

Don't get me wrong, there are some extremely likable characters, of whose interactions I am delighted to partake, whether it's Miller in all his dourness, or Holden in his occasionally moronic idealism, or Amos in his...Amos-ness.

But in the end, the focus is ultimately on "what happens"---you can see the strings pulling the characters along. It's not even enough that they simple witness the action, they have to play their part and read their lines so that Stuff Can Go Down. When the book ends, it's hard to imagine these characters continuing narrative.

All of which sounds terribly pejorative, which isn't really my intent---I'm not here to run these books down at all: I really enjoyed them the first time around, and I think I enjoyed them even more this time. But it's a very different experience.

And the text is done with plenty of skill and attention. It is far more quotable than Last Year. To pick out a few things that I highlighted during this read:

The circle of life on Ceres was so small you could see the curve.

All the energy he'd put into holding things together---Ceres, his marriage, his career, himself---was coming free.

He changed to a competition show with incomprehensible rules and psychotically giddy contestants.

The second most interesting thing for me is the difference between the book at the TV show.

I hadn't quite paid enough attention to the finer details of things the first time around, I guess, or maybe it was just lack of familiarity such that I didn't notice it, but the way things play out in the book at the TV show are very different.

Some of it, I'm sure, was to keep production costs down---the escape from Eros, for instance, has a lot less going on in the TV show, and some of it is probably about things that would be a lot harder to present without requiring more telling and less showing---I'm thinking of the mechanism that brings Miller and the crew of the Rocinante to meet for the first time.

There were a number of things that were setup for events that happen in later books (I'm thinking of Naomi and Fred's interactions here), and introducing Chrisjen Avasarala earlier was something of a no-brainer given how great she is in the books, and how important she becomes.

But the way they present Amos, or even, to a lesser extent, Chrisjen, ends up being less nuanced, and even hints and distorting the characters in a way that starts to remind me of what Peter Jackson did to Faramir the The Lord of the Rings---and that is the single thing about those movies that still sticks in my craw nearly a decade and a half later.

What I would really love to see, I think, would be an analysis by Todd Alcott, (or someone like him) who was both very familiar with the source material, and with what things work and don't work in the visual medium, to perhaps try and understand why some of the changes were made.

I didn't expect to make a first post in this series this quickly---but I started this book around 6pm yesterday, and ended up finishing just after 11pm. A little late for me, but I wasn't inclined to stop.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised---I've found most of Robert Charles Wilson's books compulsively readable, and one of their virtues is that they don't carry a lot of fat; although reading ebooks can obscure relative length, he simply doesn't do doorstops.

It's one of the several ways they're not your average Science-Fiction novels.

If you read the synopses you could be forgiven for thinking they were plot-driven; certainly they all start with some relatively high-concept plot: Spin - the Earth has been enclosed in a bubble that retards time. The Chronoliths - mysterious monuments start appearing from the future. The Affinities - humans can be classified into 22 distinct groups.

But they're not plot-driven, or at least they bury the mechanics of their plot deep within the organic choices of their characters. Specific individuals, who get caught up in events; often through relationships, sometimes because small actions of theirs pull them in, or perhaps because their action is an unintended precipitating incident.

In the case of Last Year, Jessie Cullum is in the right place at the right time---twice in fact---and his life is upended. Again.

Another distinctive feature of his stories is that their ends are...hard to describe. It's tempting to call them messy or ambgiuous, but that isn't quite right---it brings to mind authors who can't stick the landing, where the book ends because they just ran out of stuff, or got tired of typing.

It's a little more like they're open-ended, except that's not really it either---although Spin did end up with a sequel (though it was more a book in the same universe), that's the exception rather than the rule.

I guess the best way to describe it is that the characters rarely feel like they quit existing the moment you turn the last page---that they have more life ahead of them, and more stuff is going to happen to them; it may be epic or mundane, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that while this particular story may be done, while this particular segment of their life may be finished, it's neither an end nor a setup for more.

I'm a little bit behind. OK, a lot---I read this back at the end of September.

Anyway.

I don't actually remember when I first read A Fire Upon the Deep; probably 20 years ago or so. I've read it three or four times since---maybe more---but it's been a while since the last time.

It's a better than average adventure story. It features a lot more alien aliens than most similar material, it doesn't hinge on anyone being particularly stupid, and while there is, arguably, a deus ex machina, it's virtually laid out as such on the first page, so I'm not sure it counts.

Still, I find its nominal prequel, A Deepness in the Sky to be superior.

These days, though, it mostly makes me remember Usenet, because the idea that any sort of interstellar network would end up looking like Usenet makes a lot of sense---bandwidth would be expensive and relatively scarce (not unlike the state of networking when Usenet was started), so messages aren't going to be holograms and audio, but some sort of text-analogue.

As an aside, I had long forgotten that Usenet originally developed just up the road(s) as a way to link UNC Chapel Hill and Duke...until last year when I had the unexpected opportunity to meet Steve Bellovin at a conference my wife was attending in Berkeley, and his mention of his connection to UNC reminded me.

Anyway, I remember first reading Usenet using a spectacularly bad newsreader on an IBM mainframe in 1990 or so. It was an amazing revelation, really: while the web was non-existent, and the Internet was, generally, far far smaller then than it is now, Usenet was already sprawling. There were topics for everything. I suspect I hung out mostly in groups that were concerned with the Atari ST I had at the time, though I know at some point I downloaded the source to the last version of Conroy's microEmacs, because I hacked on it some while I was still in school.

It was, in fact, around this point I stopped doing so much with Borland products---and gradually the Emacs keystrokes supplanted their WordStar equivalents in my muscle memory. These days, I have absolutely no memory of what they were.

I was on Usenet fairly often for about the next ten years; even after the Atari ST died and bought my first IBM PC, I was still quite involved---first in the ReXX and OS/2 communities, and then, before long, in the Perl and Linux communities.

I remember seeing dozens of copies of the "Green Card" spam, which is generally considered to be the first commercial spam, in 1994.

And then in 1999, I moved, got DSL, and no longer had easy access to any sort of Usenet server---I had been using the one provided by my dial-up ISP in Miami, but Verizon had no such setup. Sure, there were public NNTP servers of certain limited sorts, but the fact was it was becoming a less and less interesting place to be. So I stopped.

I'm sad to say that I think Usenet dying was always in the cards---I don't see how it couldn't have succumbed to the tragedy of the commons. There's simply too many people for whom the value of the community cannot---especially when they're not part of it---outweigh some potential personal benefit.

The problem, though, is that the alternative seems to be the commercial walled-garden model, so that the owner can fund policing it, and I don't find that compelling---because to get any penetration, the service has to be "free", but as they say, if you're not paying for the product, you are the product.

While there have been several attempts to create federated systems that allow for personal, decentralized discussions and the like, none have really succeeded. And that's sad. There is so much amazing stuff in the world, but it can be surprisingly hard to find.

I have a hard time articulating my reaction to this novel.

Something about this book evoked the late-90's "Otherland" series by Tad Williams for me---I'm not entirely sure why, insofar as the narrative trope of having events in some virtual world paralleling and ramifying out into the outside world verges on hard to avoid these days, and that's about all the connection I can make between them.

On the one hand, I found myself drawn in by the plot and intrigued by the way society seemed to influence characters' outlooks and behavior in ways that felt very different from the norms to which I am accustomed. Interested enough that I intend to read the second book in the trilogy soon.

On the other hand, there is a particular quality to some of the characters---their desire to be subjugated, their almost nihilistic conviction that anything must be better than the slice of mankind they are familiar with---that fills me with this almost surreal revulsion.

I guess it's a testament to the delivery in the text, but something about the behavior of some of the characters simply set me so on edge that I felt as if I were to ever actually meet one of these people, I would be driven to physically assault them---to somehow try to beat humanity back into them.

It was weird and disturbing, and I still don't know where it came from. Even just thinking back on it is hard to process---I don't remember ever having such a visceral reaction to a book.

For about the last year, I've been trying to understand why I have taken the time to read all 20 books in the Jack Reacher series.

They're competently plotted. The execution is fine. The characters---even the title character---aren't usually all that deep, but Jack Reacher does have an interest in the trivial that appeals to me: it's present in the first book, where he gets off a bus because he dimly remembers that the town it's stopping in is where Blind Blake died, and it's present here, where he gets off the train because he wonders about the origin of the name of the town in which it's stopping.

Ultimately I suspect it's my need to have words on a screen to read like a shark needs water to swim through, combined with a certain appreciation for the "Jack blows into town, stumbles on bad stuff, justice is done" plotting. I continue to enjoy superhero comics, after all.

But at the same time, as I alluded to in my review of The Deep in February, I find this genre to be a disturbing reflection of our society.

Probably the scene in The Wire where Bunk and Omar agree that "A man got to have a code" is the best known instance of that idea---it's certainly the one that seemed to get referenced most when Sandor Clegane said the same thing in Game of Thrones---but one of John Wayne's characters said roughly the same thing. It's not a new thought.

What it is, though, is a reflection of a notion on masculinity---because you'll notice that everyone who says it is inevitably male---that asserts a right to act in ways that are explicitly, egregiously, counter to any sense of respect for the law.

Sure, in most of the fictional instances, there's always that sense put forth that the law is insufficient, or it is corrupt, or incompetent: that they only way to find true justice is through this extra-legal "code".

But that's a fucking frictionless slope.

Are we really going to pretend that these stories don't help convince people that they only way they'll get "justice" is to take it into their own hands? What if their idea of "justice" involves punishing people for rejecting them? Or simply punishing the world for their own sense of failure? Or seeking confrontation over some besmirching of their honor?

I've been in the back seat of a car when a friend of mine---incidentally, built a lot like Jack Reacher is described in the books (which is the very amusing opposite of Tom Cruise in the movie)---decided that someone in another car had been disrespectful to him, executed a quick turn and then floored it to catch up to him and...what?

I'm going to guess that involved the gun---that is still the only firearm I have ever held in my hands---that he had stashed under his front seat. Or perhaps it was just going to be a round of at least intimidation, or maybe actual force, to garner an apology.

Either way, redress for the imagined slight on his honor was something that his code demanded, and if there hadn't been three of us to talk him down from his rage-high, who knows what might have happened.

It is certainly true, guns don't kill people, people kill people---but we have created a society that tells itself stories constantly about how your only option is to fend for yourself, to take matters into your own hands, to "do what needs to be done"---and then we make it easy for things to go wrong by making guns easy to get.

• The Wee Free Men

• A Hat Full of Sky

• Wintersmith

• I Shall Wear Midnight

• The Shepherd's Crown

I'm writing this on a laptop named 'aching'. The routers in my house are 'weatherwax' and 'vetinari'. My local server is 'carrot', and my prior laptop was 'ogg'.

I have named cloud servers I manage after guitarists I admire, but my home machines are all Terry Pratchett characters.

I haven't written any "book reports" in two months because the prospect of writing this one was too depressing---until reading his last book, I could always pretend that Terry Pratchett wasn't gone, that the world wasn't a poorer place for his absence.

...

Some time mid-to-late 1990, I did something rare and amazing: I stopped by a professor's office. I don't actually remember what the precipitating event was---I'm not even 100% sure what the class was, but odds are very good that it was Shakespeare---but as I was sitting there, my professor, Matthew Winston, pulled a copy of Sandman #19---"A Midsummer Night's Dream"---from between some other books on his office's capacious shelves, I assume in order to illustrate a point about Shakespeare's continuing influence.

I picked up "A Season of Mists" #0 the next time I was in my local comic shop, and worked my way back a couple of issues---including "A Midsummer Night's Dream"---but this was a series that was just beginning a run of dominance in the form, and older issues were starting to be priced beyond what I could justify at the time.

And then, one day that fall, I saw Neil Gaiman's name on a book in the Waldenbooks in the mall---the best outlet for books we had in that impoverished time and place. That book was Good Omens.

From there I started picking up Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels---first, Mort, I think, then perhaps Wyrd Sisters. Pyramids was in there somewhere, Reaper Man, definitely Moving Pictures. Basically anything I could get my hands on...which, it's funny to realize, wasn't all that much---for the first ten years or more, Terry Pratchett had a US publishing deal that, for whatever reason, meant that the Discworld novels didn't make it to the US for up to a year after their initial publication in the UK.

Understand: Terry Pratchett was the UK's best-selling author of the 1990s. He was only unseated by someone you probably heard of: J.K. Rowling. But for half of that decade, you had to work surprisingly hard to buy his books here in the US.

I cannot understate my glee when, upon moving to Massachusetts in the late fall of 1992, I discovered that there was a most amazing bookstore near Harvard Square, Wordsworth (sadly long closed), that actually imported the UK editions. They were right there on the shelf.

Even more importantly, this seemed to coincide with Terry really figuring out his own voice; if you go back and read the earlier books, they're not without some commentary on the real world, but they still read as mostly light-hearted---the characters a little lacking in bite, the scenarios a little light on consequence. Wyrd Sisters and Guards! Guards! start to hint at something more, but they never quite fulfill their promise.

And then there's Witches Abroad and Small Gods.

The best way I can characterize the difference between them and the books that come before is that Terry Pratchett no longer worries about letting you see his anger. Moreso in Small Gods---a book that seethes---but Witches Abroad has some of it, certainly more than I remember in anything that preceeds it.

It's an anger at all the ways that we, as humans, choose to do the wrong thing, for the wrong reasons---or even the right reasons. Or the ways in which we are simply thoughtless toward one another. The ways in which we sell one another and ourselves short. The ways in which we fail, and then fail all the harder by not trying.

From there, well, it's not that there are no missteps---honestly, Rincewind was never my favorite character, so Interesting Times and The Last Continent aren't my favorites---but I find the characters become more compelling. The best of them are fueled by the flaws in themselves of which they are all too aware. All of them acknowledge the relentless hamster-wheel that is rising above your basest desires---just how easy it would be to quit caring about others, about yourself, about anything.

And then, 12 years ago, he introduced Tiffany Aching.

I didn't initially pick up the Tiffany Aching books, because they were characterized as Young Adult, and when the first one came out, well, no one knew how little time Terry had left. When the stream of books---which had often been two a year when I first started reading them, but had at least been a consistent one a year---suddenly dried up after Snuff in 2011, I decided to get my fix wherever I could.

I have to assume, at some level, that he felt there was nowhere futher to go with The Lancre Witches themselves---he hadn't written anything with them since 1998---and so they become a backdrop for his new character. And to say I was inordinately pleased that Granny Weatherwax was present is an understatement. But that would have just been fan-service, if it weren't for the fact that these books also presented something new: a portrait of a young girl learning---and as often as not, teaching herself---how to become a good, responsible, compassionate person.

They say that girls develop faster than boys---well, this is the ultimately more sophisticated sibling of Harry Potter. There is less adventure, there are few confrontations and even fewer battles. The focus in not on what happens, but why and how it reflects and ramifies out into character. In this respect, they remind me of Patrick O'Brian's Master & Commander series, which will regularly spend pages and pages (let me be clear: delightful pages) on minute observations of life on extended sea voyages, and then a couple of pages on a major naval battle---the action is there just to make sure the characters don't get bored.

And then Prospero drowns his books.

In the end, the only way to truly allow Tiffany Aching to stand as her own person was to allow her to succeed Granny Weatherwax, and the only way that could happen is if Granny Weatherwax is no longer there.

As a result, the first fifth? quarter? of The Shepherd's Crown is an extended goodbye. Knowing, as we do, that this was his last book---and his editor includes a note in which he is quite clear that Terry wrote it entirely himself, but didn't have as much time to refine and rewrite as he generally would have, which suggests that ultimately, he knew it was his last book---this is a punch in the gut.

But, ultimately, I would have expected nothing less. To live a life worth living will ultimately involve loss.

I will always be grateful for Jo Walton, because it was her reread for tor.com of Patrick O'Brien's "Master & Commander" series that finally got me to read them, and I enjoyed them immensely.

I read her Hugo-winning novel Among Others when it came out, and while I enjoyed many parts of it---it is, after all, a love letter to the genre of SF---it didn't quite hit for me.

So I'm uncertain why I picked up her earlier novel Farthing, but I did, and I'm glad.

Imagine if Gosford Park (I was of course tempted to use Mr. Fellowes' more recent and better-known work as a referent, but Gosford Park fits better) was set in an England that had successfully negotated peace with Nazi Germany. The murder is political, rather than personal, and British politics have become corrosively anti-Semitic and anti-Communist, while keeping the same streak of homophobia that led to Alan Turing's demise, and the class system remains ever the same.

The whodunit is really secondary---the interesting bits are the characters, and the way they co-opt or chafe against the milieu in which they are force to exist. Against my expectation, it worked quite well.

Two books in one year with "of Speculation" in the title. Weird.

Remember what I said about not quite buying the fated aspects of Rose Red and Snow White's relationship when talking about Fables? I have the same sort of reaction to this novel.

The prose is lovely, the atmosphere is interestingly off-kilter, the central narrative conceit---a narrative of the lives of two late 18th century carnival performers and their early 21st century descendent---is interestingly done...and yet the central action seems set up to make a lie of the title; there's no speculation here. It's ultimately all about fate, and even the defeat of the heavy hand of fate ultimately leaves me cold.

I wanted to like this much more than I actually did.

A consistent---and in most cases spot-on---criticism of comic books is that Nothing Ever Really Changes. Characters of any significance have too much economic value to risk alienating their audience by having them change signifcantly. More ambitious authors may make some changes, but when they move on, the narrative always seems to muddle its way back to the status quo.

Thus Wolverine, having "died" near the end of 2015 will almost certainly be back, no matter Joe Quesada's assertions of "Dead is Dead"; in fact, by any strict interpretation he's already back, insofar as there's a...nah, I don't want to get into that.

In many ways, this is the same for Lee Childs' "Jack Reacher" novels; they jump forward and back in relationship to one another, and his circumstances may be different in some ways, but by the end of the novel, he's generally back to the same situation he started in. He certainly hasn't changed or grown as a character---still an amoral, violent, near super-human instrument of retribution.

One day before long I will re-read Patrick O'Brien's "Master & Commander" series, and I wonder if I will find that they break out of this pattern of long-running series', or not.

Aud Torvingen, on the other hand, changes.

In fact, the two sequels to The Blue Place show a character who is broken and isolated and decides to heal and engage. Not always well---sometimes with an excruciating level of obliviousness---but motivated.

As whatever-sort-of-novels-these-are, they seem to work well enough: character is injected into extraordinary events in others lives, takes action, occasionally fucks up, eventually resolves problems. The difference is that you can see how the events act on the character, not just the other way around.

It's an interesting strategy.

My first actual memory of Bill Willingham dates back his work with TSR---1982 or so for me, I think; Wikipedia has the evidence, as usual. I liked his style, and his signature was distinctive enough that I kept noticing it in the intervening time.

I remember reading at some point the Green Lantern Corps story he did with Alan Moore; perhaps in 1987 when it first came out.

And then as far as I was concerned, he disappeared. It doesn't hurt that for the period between 1996, when Sandman ended, and 2003, when The Sandman: Endless Nights was published, I didn't set foot in a comic shop.

But when I did, Willingham had just recently started Fables, and it was recommended to me, along with Brian K. Vaughan's Y: The Last Man. Y finished up long ago, and BKV drifted away from comics for a while, before coming back strong with Saga, which is definitely superior fare.

Fables, though, finished up last month, with a thoroughly deluxe-sized issue #150. Being who I am, I started from the beginning, and read it through in its entirety, along with the various additional books associated with the main series, the Cinderella minis, and Fairest. I did not re-read Jack of Fables because it annoyed the piss out of me the first time around.

I think it's only because my first issue was Fables: The Last Castle that I kept with it. If I had been there at the very beginning; well, let's just say that the first trade's worth of issues are not as strong as you might like, or even as you might remember them. It's definitely a rocky start.

Animal Farm is much stronger, in part because of the arrival of Mark Buckingham. Intending no slight to Lan Medina who was there at the start, or the other artists who drew this universe at various points, I think Buckingham's slightly more cartoon-y take on things work better than artists who play it straighter.

It can be easy to forget how for the first few years, Fables moved fast. Boy Blue starts his journey to the homelands at the 3 year mark. The war with The Adversary starts 3 years after that...and then things start to stumble, in my view.

Oh, how "The Great Fables Crossover" destroyed the momentum of Fables with a mediocre story in the service of the infinitely inferior Jack of Fables. Re-reading it all in one gulp, I was amazed at the magnitude of what a misstep it was.

Once it's over, things do eventually get back on track, but it's never quite the same. The momentum seems to have dissippated, and storylines seem more apt to spin their wheels. Not in a huge way, but there's a few arcs that seem like they could have been cut a little bit shorter (Witches, Rose Red, Super Team) to keep things moving. I mean, the book takes two and a half years, all told, to deal with Mr. Dark and the resolution there ends up feeling awfully Deus Ex Machina.

As soon as Mr. Dark is disposed of, the Cubs' storylines---while bleak in many ways--are nonetheless compelling, and Bufkin and Lily as the backup story helps balance out the gloom of the main story; sweet without being saccharine.

And then...I dunno. It still feels like the last three years wandered pretty far afield. I remember reading it as it came out in single issues, and feeling like I didn't understand where it was going. In hindsight, you can see how a lot of it was setup leading to the end, but as the production schedule seemed to get more erratic, it got harder to hold the thread. Perhaps in a couple of years I'll re-read it all and it will seem to hold together better.

Which brings us to the end.

Actually, it brings us to the penultimate issue---whose content I flat-out didn't remember because of the enormous gap between it and the last issue, and the aforementioned wandering quality to what came before---which ended up feeling gut-wrenching: the sudden deaths of Ozma and Beast startled me in a way they hadn't the first time around.

Did the end succeed, though? Mostly.

I agree that the resolution to the Snow White & Rose Red situation "worked" within the framework that had been set for it---but it's predicated on you buying Rose Red's storyline leading up to the conflict, and I didn't, entirely. Perhaps in time, and with re-reading, I'll be able to perceive the build-up better, and it'll seem more natural. But as I finished the book, I wasn't fully invested in the end.

I did love some of the "Last story of X" vignettes. Prince Charming, Beauty and her daughter, the Cubs.

I was disappointed with the revelation of the Fables to the Mundy. There's just no way you can spin that outcome that I am likely to enjoy. Oh, well.

Anyway, it took a while, and I am not entirely without complaint, but Fables was worthy of my time, from beginning to end. Perhaps it will be worthy of yours as well.

I am given to understand that this is a big book; I don't actually know, because it's the same size as all my other books, because I have more or less given up on reading things printed on paper.

It certainly didn't feel like a big book, because I zipped through it in, I think, three days---it was more or less impossible to put down.

Its compelling nature is surpassed only by its depressing nature, because this book is bleak as fuck. While not quite an "everybody dies" narrative, it comes pretty damned close (though I'm willing to guess that you'd be surprised by some of the handful of characters who make it out the other side, you will be saddened by many of the ones that don't).

I think it cements my feeling that David Simon has it correct: if you really want to know what started our society on this careening path of horribleness that we seem to be Hell-bent on pursuing to its end---where incidences of police killing civilians (particularly those of color) occur with distressing frequency, where even the rights and freedoms of even the upper (largely white) classes are abridged as a matter of course by programs of surveillance and law-enforcement overreach, where you have to take off your shoes to fly on an airplane---it's hard to argue against the War On Drugs as being a significant factor.

I mean, we have a natural experiment at our fingertips: simply consider, today, how many people enrich themselves through the illegal sale of alcohol?

Virtually none, and although the jokes about the questionable behavior of large corporations that are heavy-hitters in that arena write themselves, I don't think it's inaccurate to say that no one's doing so in any big, organized way.

When alcohol was forbidden during Prohibition, though, that drove up incidents of domestic terrorism, fostered a culture of pervasive official corruption both politicians and police, inured people to the idea of criminality by making illegal what had long been perfectly acceptable behavior, and generally fucked things up until we came to our senses.

And now we've got the War on Drugs---recapitulating all these issues, without even having gone through the process of ratification; simply declared because...well, it's an interesting question. Presumably nothing so silly as Nixon being pissed off at the Hippies, but you never know.

Anyway, read this novel---so much of which is rooted in and resembles actual events in Mexico---and you have to wonder if there's any possible way that it could be worth it.

So, the latest of the Laundry Files novels.

The Annihilation Score is certainly of a piece with the others, though it does distinguish itself by having a different narrator--- which is, as you could probably infer from my comments regarding the prior books of the series, a fine change in my view.

I think Stross' recent observation on his blog of the need to move beyond the starting templates he worked with for the first few books---Linux, bureacracy and otherworldly horror---is well taken, and I'm interested to see where things go, but I do not feel immediate warmth toward this installment.

Whether its intended (and it might be, as it is certainly an aspect of its super-hero source material) or not, the narrative's pace feels...weird. Although we're told otherwise, it feels like it takes place in its entirety in maybe a week---big things seem built up and then torn down at absurdly superhuman speed. I mean, it's good to have a narrative that moves, but the pace here is so fast that everything felt somehow...inconsequential.

In terms of the overall narrative arc, some things change, and they're not insignificant, but it doesn't feel like it advances that much. Which may be perfectly OK---we are given to understand that CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN is truly starting to ramp up, and it feels like things are going to keep getting stranger before they start getting outright bad. Again, perhaps this is intended to reflect the source material, where you can have a character exist for 50 years without those years ever catching up to them.

I also wonder, given his well-documented problem with tapping into the zeitgeist so thoroughly that others pull the same idea out of the air while he's in the middle of a book, I do wonder whether he already planned to reference The King in Yellow, or his only-barely oblique reference to True Detective is meant to indicate that that's why he made the choice.

I dunno; in the end, I would probably put this relatively low on my list for this series. I wonder though whether it'll stay there---I suspect it will depend somewhat on what happens next; I like many thing about the book, but it is clearly a transitional book, arguably following another transitional book (The Rhesus Chart does some big things to the status quo); if they're resolved next go 'round, perhaps this book will rise in my estimation.

• The Atrocity Archive

• The Jennifer Morgue

• The Fuller Memorandum

• The Apocolypse Codex

• The Rhesus Chart

• Short Stories/Novellas: Down on the Farm, Overtime, Equoid

I think it had been pointed out to me before, but for the first time I seemed to notice for myself---while being utterly unsurprised---that, in a series of books that mix Technical Neepery--specifically of the Linux variety---Bureaucracy, Lovecraft and Espionage, the initials of the main character's Nom de Sysadmin are BOFH.

Anyway, this re-reading was all lead in to the new release, The Annihilation Score.

Having not previously read all of these books in quick succession like this, I must say, I was ecstatic to have new narrator for the latest installment, because, taken in a big gulp, one becomes painfully aware of all the verbal tics of the narrator that make annoyingly consistent appearances in the prior installments.

I realize that at least some of it---the endless callbacks to the nature of pure mathematics relationship to magic, the origin of the Laundry, etc.---is intended to let people start in the middle of the series without being totally lost, but I'm not convinced that that is necessary or beneficial to restate so many things almost verbatim---I'll point to Steven Brust's Taltos novels as an example that does not display this behavior---or at least not quite so baldly.

I still enjoy them, but I will have to remember to pace myself should I ever undertake a front-to-back re-read again.

Anyway, I would say that the low point for me is definitely The Jennifer Morgue; the Bond referentiality just doesn't quite work for me. The Fuller Memorandum and The Apocalypse Codex are probably the best of the list, with everything else occupying a still-enjoyable middle ground.

I guess this falls in the same basic genre as Lee Child's "Jack Reacher" novels, though I'm not 100% certain what that genre is: Crime Fiction? Thriller? Vigilantism?

Regardless, having plowed through Child's oeuvre last year---and it being the only real example of the genre I've read---I cannot help but make comparisons between Aud Torvingen and Jack Reacher.

Both have that air of almost-super-human competence coupled with extraordinary physical conditioning and a capacity to absorb punishment. Both have a companionable attitude toward violence. Both are situated so that there are few long-lasting consequences to their actions; Reacher by being rootless and drifting, Torvingen by being independently wealthy.

The difference, I would say, is that as would seem to befit a male character in this category, Reacher is effectively amoral. He is less a character than a force of nature. He does what he does, with little consideration for other human beings, positive or negative---if he aids someone it is because it pleases him, not because of any particular notion of right or wrong.

Torvingen, on the other hand, gets involved. Things become personal. Is it a cliche that a woman would become attached? Perhaps---I guess it will depend on how it ramifies out through the two following novels whether it ends up seeming necessary.

The prose is generally well done, but it is a first-person narrative, and there are very few authors who can pull off such a thing without annoying me at some point or other---and Griffith isn't one of those, at least not in this book. If absolutely nothing else the sex in the novel---whether necessary or not---reads just as eye-rollingly overdone as any Reacher novel: it is, almost by definition, somewhere the narrator inevitably ends up telling rather than showing. I don't know what's going on in your head when you're having sex, but I hope for your sake it's not narrative.

I guess, in the end, it was good enough that I'll stick around for the next two, to see where it goes, but if I were a less compulsive reader, I might just say this was enough.

So, John Scalzi and Tor decided to once again serialize his latest Old Man's War novel---as they did for The Human Division a couple of years ago---though into rather fewer installments this time; 4 versus 13. So I really started four weeks ago, and just finished this past Tuesday.

As you might expect given that I re-read the entire series in the run-up to the release of this new book, I find them enjoyable.

They're light, but not necessarily fluffy: some of the questions the narrative asks are not easy questions, and some of the answers that some of the characters give may take a form that surprises you, even if the general thrust of those answers is entirely expected

Some minor characters take some unexpected turns...and there's one moment that just didn't work for me. At all. Not because it was beyond the realm of possibility, or out of character, but because it seems to me to require blinders on a lot of characters to succeed. My suspension of disbelief goes far, but not that far.

Still, all's well that ends well, and I think this dials back the conflict that has been central to the last four books in the series, such that the next book---for one has been promised---can focus on other things. It will be welcome.

I've started another novel, but now I'm wondering if I need to re-read The Laundry Files series in anticipation of the release of The Annihilation Score next Tuesday...

The truth is, I didn't know a damned thing about Hawaii's history other than the fact that it was "discovered" by Captain Cook, and it was made a state in the same year my wife was born.

I was, in some ways, happier not knowing anything more than that---since to know more than that is to have to once again face the realization that the United States of America is not Reagan's "shining city on a hill", so much as (pardon the mixing of metaphors) a fucking lighthouse warning people away from the headlands of that famous road to Hell. You know, the one paved in good intentions?

80 years, roughly---that's how long it took for Protestant missionaries and their avaricious children to steal a country away from its people, all the while telling everyone that they were doing it for their own good.

And make no mistake: it was stolen. At the time of the first Treaty of Annexation, the majority of citizens were documented as rejecting it. God love 'em, the Democrats at the time defeated it...though only because they were bigots worried about the possibility of enfranchising inferior races. Sometimes if feels like we are conceptually incapable of doing the right thing for the right reasons.

So it became a territory under the table, in a joint resolution that should never have been binding---Hell, I'm almost surprised the Republican party didn't take up the cause of reversing Hawaii's statehood as illegal and a grave injustice done to a soveriegn people, as a real way to claim President Obama wasn't a citizen.

Of course, that was only the final act in a multi-decade con in which supposedly God-fearing New Englanders systematically manipulated the rulers of a relatively isolated and unworldly kingdom for their own venal ends; although from this modern perspective---and, admittedly, with the aid of someone building a narrative on it---you can see them telegraph every move, I have to imagine that it unfolded in real time much more bewilderingly for the ruling family.

I thought the reward for a good life for Christians was supposed to be the Kingdom of Heaven, not the Kingdom of Hawaii. Feh.

There is plenty of interesting information and history here, but in the end I didn't quite find it compelling---hence (as I alluded to in the last entry) taking five days to read five other books in the middle.

I think part of it is that there is some definite fat that could have been removed---there's a few anecdotes repeated almost verbatim, and there's a lot of repeated verbiage that could easily have been cut.

But I've ready plenty of books that could have been tightened up without it feeling like quite such a slog.

I think a lot of it is a combination the verging-on-hagiographic tone, where everyone involved clearly and undeniably thinks that Orson is a stone-cold genius who is doing things that have never been conceived of, much less executed, in cinema before. And the constant observations about how his abilities are so incredibly advanced, no one else can see where he's going with some technique until he gets there and suddenly it is revealed as cimenatic genius that will change the face of cinema once others see it.

Maybe he is---I am not really a cinephile, I don't have much of an opinion one way or another.

What I can tell you is that he seems like a self-sabotaging fuckup---Someone who doesn't have the discipline to create the structure he needs in order to do what they want to do; based on some of the things in the book, it sounds like Citizen Kane only got made because of Welles' partnership with John Houseman, which he then promptly burned to the ground.

And I've got little interest in reading about fuckups, brilliant or not.

I was travelling last week (to Berkeley then Sonoma, and yes it was very nice except my first ever time in Oakland saw the rental car's passenger window get smashed while the car was parked in broad daylight on a major thoroughfare in front of the coffee shop in which Anne and I were having coffee) and I was a little bored with the book I had started---which I have subsequently finished and will be #28---and the first of four new novellas in the "Old Man's War" series was to be released on what was then the next---but is now this past Tuesday---so I decided to indulge in a little lightning re-read to prepare myself.

My relationship with the military is not entirely usual, in that I never served, but for as long as I can remember, my father was in the USAF, so I had a lot of contact with it growing up.

Even while knowing it wasn't for me---I am probably not meant for an organization where shouting at your superiors might get you thrown in jail or shot---I have a lot of respect for it as a calling, and I am as clear as I think a lifelong civilian could be about the sacrifices that it involves...which is, I think, a large part of why I look with utter, complete disdain for people who gin up talk about military solutions to world problems (e.g. Republicans).

At the same time, I could also write a long apologia for Starship Troopers, which I don't actually regard as a particularly militaristic novel---I think it's far more interesting in its views on the necessity of participation in a civil society. But as much as anything, I suspect that viewpoint is grounded in my exposure in my youth to the actual military.

Which obviously brings us to Old Man's War and its follow-ons.

Scalzi is a contemporary, and I think that's a large part of why his writing feels very natural to me---we speak in a similar vocabulary of layers of irony and snark over often heartfelt convictions. If it's easy to read, it's also fairly economical---unlike, say, Neal Stephenson, I can blow through a whole novel in a few hours, no problem.

I will say that on this time through, I did notice more places than I remembered where certain phrases clanged---not that they were wrong per se, just that they felt awkward, or that there might have been a better word.

Regardless, all five novels are entertaining, and if there's occasionally a certain breeziness to them, well, I'm not going to complain---I expect Scalzi to deliver something that has an entertaining diversity characters and a good story; if I want something heavier, I know where to look.

The first two thirds of this book---the near-future bits---feel incredibly fast-paced, which always feels surprising in Stephenson's novels since, as one reviewer put it, he does seem in love with describing things.

The book that that first two thirds reminded me of was Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle's Lucifer's Hammer, which is perhaps not entirely surprising---it's a late 70's disaster novel involving a comet that hits the Earth and the scrambling of various people to survive and even rebuild society. Seveneves is that writ somewhat larger, since it takes the human population and reduces it to a couple of thousand, and it's from nearly forty years later on, which means it actually gives a lot of women actual agency, even as it recognizes that they need to make lots of babies to restart the human race.

Also (SPOILERS!) they both have cannibals.

The last third does drag a bit; the story is interesting enough---it had some distinct surprises for me at least, though it doesn't hold a candle to the first two thirds---but yeah, I started to glaze over at the pages and pages of description. It is the "John Galt's Speech" of descriptions of orbital habitats and the like: even the first time you read it, you only skim it.

Whether you will enjoy this will probably come down to whether you like any of Neal Stephenson's books at all: if you do, you should certainly enjoy the first two thirds. If, on the other hand, you actually enjoyed Anathem, you might well enjoy the last third as well. Otherwise consider simply stopping when you get to the "Five Thousand Years Later" bit and reading a synopsis elsewhere.

This was actually been book #20. Or maybe book #19. I let myself get behind on writing these entries, and thus they have ended up out of order.

I remember reading, several years ago, the New Yorker article on Geriatric Medicine that serves as the basis for an early chapter in this book. I remember it in part because it started to transform my yoga practice.

I have now spent many years learning to do ridiculous circus tricks---and don't get me wrong, I still adore them; when I had hernia surgery a couple of years ago, and a bunch of them were no longer accessible, I started marking time until the day that I was able to do them again. It took a couple of years, but I'm once again able to do all the same silly stuff as before.

After reading that article, though---and while still working on my stunt yoga---I started thinking more about how I could use the practice to help me cultivate strength, mobility and balance thirty years from now. I'm a lot more aware of when I'm starting to push beyond where my body is realistically capable of going---it's not to say that I stop, but that I try to approach such things more slowly, because even at this point in my life, injuries will take longer to heal, and chronic conditions can start to take hold more easily.

Because what that article convinced me of, and this book reinforced, is that a large part of my quality of life later in life is going to be grounded in my physical capacity; the longer I can be independent and mobile, the longer I feel like I'm able to actually participate in my life, the happier I will be.

So take the time to keep yourself healthy. Work on your posture and your physical mobility. Start creating habits now, because it's only going to get harder.

The other thing that he emphasizes is cultivating a awareness of what things make life worth living for you.

Certainly nothing is perfectly predictable, but odds are that at some point, you will face a choice: do something that may extend your life for some period of time---maybe months or even years---but that will turn your life upside down: it may severely curtail your ability to do certain things, or it may demand certain up-front sacrifices or what have you.

If you're lucky, whatever you're being asked to sacrifice won't be terribly important to you, and you can easily choose. But more likely, your choice will be harder, and you will have to weigh your options carefully. And the medical professionals you'll be working with are as human as anyone: they don't want to tell you bad news. They suck just as badly at taking a hard look at the numbers and saying that, really, your chances are crap.

Your only truly useful guide is what matters to you. If your idea of a good day is to sit in the sun in the window and while away the time reading books and listening to music, then maybe a procedure that radically curtails your mobility is a reasonable thing (as long as you have a place to live that will actually support you in doing these things).

If, on the other hand, you're a supremely active person, and you're faced with a treatment that might eke out six more months of life, at the cost of spending that time sick to the point of immobility, maybe you should skip it. Do what you makes you feel whole and damned if you might not actually live longer, too.

Hell, you could do worse whether you're facing down old age or illness or you're young and healthy.

Anyway, I can't recommend this book enough. Mortality is an uncomfortable subject for most of us, but it's one we're gonna have to face sooner or later. Start preparing in little ways now, and it can all be easier later.

The Wordy Shipmates was a book I enjoyed immensely, as was Assassination Vacation. The piece that Sarah Vowell did on This American Life regarding the "victory lap" Lafayette's did of the US 50 years after the revolution---that is presumably the basis for her new book coming out in October---moved me to tears. She's always a fun guest on The Daily Show.

Radio On was a bit of a slog, though not without points of interest.

I think it's because so much of it just sounded...irritable. Annoyed. Even when the annoyance is understandable, it doesn't necessarily make for fun reading---and I don't really care enough about radio to necessarily even find her annoyance understandable, so at times it just grates.

Still, this book is an interesting time capsule for a number of reasons.

I guess the most significant is that towards the end, Sarah is there around the creation of This American Life.

But long before that---happening before the start of the book, and hovering over it like, well, a ghost---is the suicide of Kurt Cobain the year before; an event that I also felt pretty acutely. I can remember quite clearly staying up all night watching MTV for news about it. It was, coincidentally, the first time I saw the video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer, because MTV would even only show the blurred-out version late, late at night.

The other thread of events that run through the whole book that I remember clearly is the fallout from the midterm elections in 1994---Newt Gingrich and the "Contract for America", and the government shutdown, etc. It was annoying to see the same sort of crap play out last year.

Plenty of other people and things pop up that I wouldn't have known then that I know now. David Sedaris is mentioned. The Internet, or at least the World Wide Web, is a very new thing, and there's a couple of passages that effectively presage blogging, which is incredibly amusing in hindsight.

I dunno if I can really recommend it. It's not bad, but it's also not a strong narrative; it's a diary, and it shows.

I think you have to be a very particular kind of person to think reading something that's fundamentally intended as a reference book can be edifying.

I picked this up on a lark---I have, in the past, read and even enjoyed reference works on other sprawling fictonal worlds (I'm thinking Middle Earth and the universe of Dune here), why not this one?

It took me a couple of sprints---both associated with trips that involved medium-ish flights and occasional bits of downtime to fill---but I finished it. That doesn't really say much, though: I can still count the number of books that (as an adult) I've started but not finished without taking my shoes off.

I guess what it comes down to is that while I am still that person---after all, I am not accosting you with all of the damned technical books and papers I read (often repeatedly) at a rate of roughly 1:1 (or maybe a little higher) with mainstream fiction and non-fiction---I don't care enough about this world to enjoy wading through a book like this.

It's not that it's bad---and many of the pictures are very pretty indeed---it's just that I was bored out of my skull.

And yet I finished it anyway. What does that say about me?

First, a side note: I am always a little bit surprised at the consistency of Robert Charles Wilson's authorial voice.

Most authors find consistent voices at the cost of being idiosyncratic, or put more kindly, "instantly recognizable".

On the other hand, Robert Charles Wilson voice is so neutral it disappears...and yet, of his novels that I've read, I couldn't tell you with certainty which were written in the first person and which were written in the third---in memory they feel far more similar than they could ever be different.

I suppose much of it comes from the fact that his narratives are generally about witnesses---whether a first-person recollection (as The Affinities is), or third-person centered around a main character or characters who are involved but not prime movers in great events (as in Burning Paradise), they are more about how the characters are changed by the world and less about how they change the world.

And yet, their actions have consequences.

I read a review of The Affinities just before it came out that left me with lowered expectations; and yet, it was wrong. Although I understand that the book probably isn't for everyone, I find it an interesting meditation on what it means to belong to a group, and what it means to identify completely with such a group, and what it means to a society when people no longer identify as part of the larger polity.

I suspect that some will find the subject uninteresting, but I believe the question of our investment in the greater society in which we exist is an important one. It's not too much to say that the U.S. has come to its current political impasse precisely because people no longer think of themselves as part of anything other than the tribe they happen to have chosen.

Not that this is a "message" story---really it's just a story of families, and what you do when your family rejects you, or you reject it---but if science fiction is defined by using the idea of something that isn't in order to sharpen and refine our view of what is, I think this novel has to be called SF even when there's nothing very outre happening.

If you want to know how much the internet has changed things, simply consider that until last week---when I looked this novel up on Wikipedia, while re-reading it for the first time in two decades---I had no idea that Claudia was in part inspired by Rice's own daughter, Michele, who died of leukemia at age 6.

There were certainly avenues through which that information was available, but they were fewer and much more dispersed. It was an interesting moment of contrast.

As for the book....

The text is a little more florid than I remember, but not so much that I got annoyed at a textual level---there were passages that I certainly skimmed through, but there's no John Galt radio addresses or anything. Being a first-person narrative, there is a certain tell-don't-show quality that can get tiresome, but I also don't know how else it could have been written---it is ultimately a monologue of someone's experience.

When I last read it, I was in my early 20s. At the time, I remember it mostly as scene setting for the much more dynamic books that followed it. This time...Louis is certainly more interesting. The question of our place in the universe is that consumes him resonates more for me. His initial desire to use his immortality to try and be a more perfect mortal---the way he is entranced with the natural world around him---is, in a way, more surprising, because now I feel I can understand it better.

So I probably found it of more value than the last time I read it, but ultimately, it's kind of unsatisfying. It's not that it lacks substance or potential, but it's like a fine steak awash in too much of some sort of hideous cream sauce that succeeds in hiding, rather than enhancing, its flavor. It has a wonky sense of time's passage, and while its relative floridity didn't clang and annoy, it does mean that probably 10% of the words in the book could be left out while simultaneously enhancing the quality of the text.

I guess in the end, the single most damning statement I can probably make is that despite my slightly OCD tendencies when it comes to book series---if I start at one end, I generally find myself making it to the other---I don't have any intention to pick up The Vampire Lestat or anything else for that matter. I don't feel any excitement, just a sense that it would eventually turn into a slog.

Of course, now I have to figure out WTF to read...

This was a Daily Show pickup. Totalitarian regimes have always fascinated me---too much reading about the Russian Revolution while acquiring my Political Science degree, I guess.

The setup is simple: Korean-American woman talks her way into the faculty of a college set up and run in North Korea by an Evangelical church in order to (covertly) observe and report. After roughly 9 months---a summer term and a fall term---she can't take it any more.

I have observed that many people I know who lived through abusive childhoods have a sometimes slippery relationship with truth. Not so much about objective facts---though sometimes that's an issue---but more about their relationship with the world and how they feel. I assume it's a habit deeply ingrained, from a time when they needed to present a certain impression even as their lives were full of abuse.

Imagine a whole country that is driven relentlessly to that sort of behavior---that is so xenophobic and isolated that it can almost, but not quite, be made to work; so the mask slips only occasionally.

The book is well written, and absolutely bleak as fuck. There is not a smidgen of suggestion that things are going to get better any time soon. I appreciate the honesty and forthrightness that represents, but it doesn't make for happy reading.

I would be just as happy if you didn't go searching for some of my earliest public emails. I know they're out there, and while I'm sure many of them are fine, I also have clear, visceral memories of being embroiled in any number of flame wars. I'm not even going to try to suggest that I didn't know better at the time---I did, and I'm not proud of my behavior, and I try to do better today. And still sometimes I fail.

Ultimately, though, those were arguments on technical mailing lists, with at least a genesis in technical questions: whatever I dished out, I got right back, and it was all, ultimately, retail abuse.

What Jon Ronson chronicles in his book---the fascination with destroying people that social media platorms seem to be enabling, with the spectacular lack of empathy that demonstrated by those involved, and the enormous destructive potential it presents---is strictly wholesale.

As others have said---and I can't find a specific source on Google---we should not be defined by the worst thing we ever did. Especially if the worst thing we ever did was to, say, make a joke (crude, dumb, perhaps insensitive, but not aimed at anyone) to a friend. But there are people whose lives the denizens of social media have chosen to destroy who are guilty of nothing more than that.

Is this really the civilization we're creating?

In April, 2012, Ian Thorson died near the site of an ongoing three year Buddhist retreat in Arizona. His wife, until recently the leader of the retreat, watched as he became more and more ill, waiting until too late to call for help.

I caught part of an interview with the author on NPR a week ago, and i had to pick up this book, because...well, I wanted to find out if the author had an explanation for how people who belong to organizations like the one Ian Thorson belonged to, end up giving up their autonomy so completely as to die for their belief.

I should probably back up.

For most of a decade, I studied extensively in a school of yoga called Anusara. I took thousands of hours of classes, went to weekend workshops and weeklong trainings around the country---I had an extensive network of people I was acquainted with as a consequence, all across the US and even in Europe and Asia.

Anusara Yoga was founded by John Friendin 1997, and became well known in the overall yoga community, though, I should say, not always entirely positively---there are rivalries even in the yoga community, and Anusara was making a big name for itself, and some thought it was doing so by inappropriate means. Regardless, Anusara teachers were responsible for things like some of the large yoga in Central Park events, and were early players in the Wanderlust festivals and the like. John Friend was featured in the Planet Yoga feature in Vanity Fair in 2007, profiled in other venues, and so forth.

I never spent a huge amount of time with John---unlike my teachers, who had been there when Anusara was small enough that everyone knew him fairly well---though I did study with him for a couple of hundred hours over several years, and when he did an event in our area in 2009, we had him---and all the other Certified Teachers who were attending---over for dinner at our house.

Just a year later, cracks started to show in the Anusara community; some senior teachers had some hard discussions with John about how he was conducting his personal life at the annual Certified Teachers retreat (which was also held in our area), and though it was tense, it seemed to go well.

And then midway through 2011, the exodus began---a trickle of senior teachers started to distance themselves from Anusara and John. There was some scuttlebutt of inappropriate disciplinary action being taken against some of them. Rumors started to circulate. And then, in February 2012, allegations of personal and business impropriety started to surface, and all hell broke loose.

Ultimately, none of it really surprised me. Although I had maintained an affiliation with Anusara for several years, I'd never pursued a more formal relationship with much fervor---although there were many things I loved about the school, and I dearly loved the community that it represented...well, John Friend had eaten at my table, and I was not terribly impressed. And when the truth started to come out, I quietly resigned my affiliation and kept teaching just as I had been, and kept attending classes with my teachers, and kept up with the people I knew from the community, etc.

What startled me were the number of teachers---some of whom had been teaching longer than John Friend---who, upon dissolving their relationship with Anusara, found themselves admitting that they had long disagreed with one or another part of the Anusara system, but had never wanted to voice their disagreement. I was not a senior teacher by any measure---at that point I'd been teaching for 5 years, and some of these people had been teaching for 20 or more---but I never felt willing to give my free will and my good sense over to someone else's keeping. I think that was, at an unconscious level, part of why I never went for teacher certification; I was never going to set aside my own sense of what was right to satisfy someone else's notion of what I should be doing.

Which brings us back to Ian Thorson, and, in some ways more interesting, and more important, to the story, Michael Roach.

Because while Ian Thorson is the one who died, it was Michael Roach and his ex- (and Thorson's then-) wife Christine McNally who set the stage for his death. With their brand of rah-rah Buddhism---that, I have to say, displays a lot of the same tropes as John Friend's rah-rah Yoga---they created an environment that encouraged the credulous, the lost, the seeking to give themselves over to whatever they were told to believe. The improprieties and irregularities were all there for those that chose to see...but so many choose not to.

I just don't understand, and the author doesn't have any answers, either. But I'm ultimately not surprised---these sorts of behaviors on the part of humans have always been among our most baffling ones.

Anyway, the book presents a lot of interesting background on Buddhism, specifically the Tibetan kind, its long and strange relationship with the West, the odd and often sad ways that spiritual leaders play out their stories, and the tragic and ultimately unnecessary death of Ian Thorson. It's an worthwhile read; not exactly uplifting, but if you're anything like me, the myriad of ways that humans approach the question of whether there's anything other than what we can see and taste an touch, is endlessly interesting.

I originally read this not too long after it first came out in paperback---so probably a decade ago.

In anticipation of SNL's 40th Anniversary, the authors added a not insubstantial amount of additional material representing the ten years since its initial publication.

I think it should be obvious that an oral history like this can't really be expected to present some sort of objective truth---at the very least, some of the recollections contradict one another, so someone has to be wrong. Whether they're wrong because it was a long time ago, or they were over-indulging in recreational drugs or they're recounting events whose narrative they've gradually re-shaped to make themselves look better, it's impossible to know.

It is interesting to see the different ways that people, whether cast members, hosts or network executives, interact with, and, ultimately, relate to, Lorne Michaels. For obvious reasons, he's the thread of continuity that ties together the whole narrative and I think it's fair to say that no two people have the same take on him. Some regard him as some sort of taste-maker for comedy, while others think he's a fraud. Some see him as independent, some see him as a tool of the power structure. Some see him as daring, others see him as fundamentally conservative.

One suspects that the truth is somewhere in the whirling, uncertain middle.

Anyway, it's a fun read if you care about the subject matter at all. The new material is hardly earth-shattering, but there was some fun stuff that I hadn't realized or remembered, like the fact that Bill Hader's character Stefon originally appeared (and went nowhere) in a sketch, before becoming a hilarious staple of Weekend Update.

The narrative style is interesting-ish.

The narrative...I have problems with.

I think the question upon which my level of dislike hinges is, "Am I supposed to think that the narrator is suffering a period (perhaps years long) of some sort of mental illness?"

The narration moving from a fairly conventional first person, to a profoundly dissocciative third-person---wherein the narrator, who I think is intended to be the same person throughout, begins to refer to herself as "the wife"---and then, in the last few pages, back to first person, coupled with repeated references to medication, would seem to imply both the period of illness and recovery.

If that's the intention...I dunno, it makes for a weak narrative. That is not to discount the plight of people who suffer from such things, but this fictional narrative of it fades into the deep background compared to, say, Brain on Fire, which was pretty damned compelling.

Maybe the intention is to equate being in a dysfunctional relationship is like being mentally ill? Sure, I suppose---if you consider the loss of a sense of agency (and perhaps even actual agency), I can see the parallels---but then the end where everything magically gets better falls flat.

Or could it be new motherhood that makes her crazy, and her husband's philandering is all imagination?

Finally, even if I set aside my issues with the presentation of the narrative arc---and, I should mention, the relative flatness of the characters that seems a direct consequence of that choice---I question the need for another book about someone helpless in a bad relationship.

Bleh. Ima go read some technical books now.

A few years ago, for my birthday, some friends of mine got me a t-shirt that bears the inscription, "The book was better," because I'm that kinda guy.

I would, in many cases---perhaps most---rather read Roger Ebert writing about movies than see the actual movies. Sadly that option is now only historical.

The only Bond novel I ever read was For Special Services by John Gardner when I was, I dunno, 13 or 14. I remember, 5 or 7 years later, being surprised that this same guy wrote Grendel.

(Hint: It's not. These things were less easy to find out before Wikipedia.)

Anyway, I figured that the Bond books would be a fun little stroll to pad my books/week numbers (finally up to 1:1 and gaining)...and by the end found myself thinking, "The movie was better."

It's funny because I have found myself at odds with some of Chet's reviews because I feel they fundamentally misunderstand the books in question, generally as a result of the intervening decades---I'm thinking specifically here of The Forever War and A Fire Upon The Deep, about both of which I feel he was terribly wrong.

And yet, here I am, saying that 60 years later, this Bond doesn't hold up.

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes."

I mean, the story does well enough that the basic structure served to create a film that truly revitalized a moribund property. But even with the crutch of first-person narration, intentionally blunt instrument or not, Fleming cannot possibly make me believe in this character.

It's not even the sexism-verging-on-mysoginy; in fact, quite the opposite---it's the mooning teenager, "Oh, I'll ask her to marry me," that's necessary to set up the ending that left me speechless with its ineptitude.

I figured there would be antiquated stuff, and I was actually prepared to scoff more at the different economics of the time, and the Cold War mentality---I went in thinking I knew how much the Bond mythology is more a product of the movies than the books.

I was wrong.

Even in college---as I was using fiction and poetry writing classes to maintain the possibility of graduating---I think I knew I wasn't going to be a professional writer. It was a few years out of college that I realized I wasn't even going to be an part-time writer: I can crank out a hell of an email, perhaps even a worthwhile blog post now and again, but my expectations of being paid to put words in a row are, at this point, zero.

It's still fun to read about it, and think about it, though, and I was looking for something non-fiction to read, so I picked up On Writing.

As a guide to writing...ehh. Much of the advice it provides are things that you can find elsewhere as well. Interesting to read again all these years later, but hardly revelatory.

And a lot of it is only indirectly about writing, and mostly about Stephen King. Which I am sure disappoints some of its prospective readership, but I found perfectly engaging.

What I did find intriguing, though, find his discussion of story vs. plot to be interesting. I would (over-)simplify it to say that he argues that story unfolds, while plot must be driven. Or perhaps that story arises out of consequences of an event, and thus should flow naturally, while plot attempts to force events to occur. He talks about his process often beginning with a simple statement of a situation, like "The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."

I found this resonated with Neil Gaiman's comments about where some of the ideas that made their way into Sandman came from, perhaps the most ironic being at a comic convention and idly wondering, "I wonder if serial killers have conventions?"

Anyway, if you go into reading this with eyes open, it can be a fun read, and sometimes what it really takes to get you to do something is to hear someone say something you already know in a different way. Nothing in it is profound, but sometimes that's what you need.

Two of my primary sources for books to read turn out to be my friend Chet, and NPR.

Last Monday, I think, while driving in to work, I heard part of an interview with Mary Pilon regarding her book, which concerns itself with laying out the rather byzantine origins of the game Monopoly---and since I could just about visualize the text from the pamphlet included with the game that described how Charles Darrow single-handedly created it...I was hooked.

The tracing of its history is kind of fascinating: although there was a commercially produced version of its ancestor, The Landlord's Game, the game of Monopoly as we know it today was treated more like samizdat, passed from person to person over a period of years, accumulating little modifications or errors in the process, before being passed to Charles Darrow who---with no money, and a permanently disabled child to try and care for in the depths of the Great Depressions---sold it to Parker Brothers.

I wonder if the fact that it was not really his to sell bothered him---I could imagine that perhaps initially he didn't think it would become such an ubiquitous thing, and thus the scope of his crime would remain small; a few hundred dollars to help sustain his family. Or perhaps he felt that others lack of interest in making money off it left him open to do so.

What I find telling is the utterly amoral behavior that Parker Brothers displays. They had evidence that the game existed before Charles Darrow, including early competitors who told them how it came to them, and yet they were perfectly happy to direct the weight of their legal team against them to stifle competition.

In fact, the whole story is bracketed by the experience of one game creator in the early '70s that they tried to strong-arm---although the details are, in fact, a little different from the earlier incidents---and who decided to fight back. He won, but the legal fight took 10 years, and cost him just about everything.

Ultimately, it leads me back to my firm belief that corporations are a stratagem for people to disclaim responsibility for their actions and should be strictly limited in their scope and power, because it is very hard to trust people when they do not have to suffer consequences for their actions.

I've been amused by Phil Foglio's work for more than thirty years---back to the strip "What's New with Phil and Dixie" that appeared in the back pages of Dragon magazine in its heyday of the early '80s.

I've known about Girl Genius for several years at this point; I think I ran across it while looking for a way to acquire the remainder of the Buck Godot: Zap Gun for Hire series from the early '90s, because I never got to find out what happened to [[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Winslow][The Winslow].

("Hi!")

I read the first several pages, but, honestly, the idea of plowing through hundreds of pages of webcomic was too much---and the story felt a little involved to be able to just pick up in the middle...and at the time, I don't think they had a bookmark capability.

A couple of years ago I noticed that there were actual print editions, so I would acquire them now and again, but never really got around to reading them; the truth is, at this point, I don't read a whole lot of stuff that's actually printed on paper.

Cut to the wrong end of my snow-filled February. I had finished off Trigger Warning and read the entirety of The Martian in between bouts of snow shovelling, but now my tablet was in dire need of recharging---and although I do actually keep a travel battery around, it was going to take some time. I didn't want to commit to anything too serious, so I started on my stack of Girl Genius collections.

Having subjected you to all that preface, my actual review is, "It's fun."

I find it hard to describe it any other way. A perhaps inadequate analogy might be the Thin Man movies---yeah, there's some plot in there, but most of it's either improbable as hell, or unrepentantly ridiculous, but it absolutely doesn't matter because you get to watch William Powell and Myrna Loy engage in amusing banter.

Seriously, if you haven't watched them, you should---there is something about the sound in movies of that era that I find very grating and uncomfortable to listen to, such that I just don't watch many of them, but I will happily sit through anything with the two of them.

I mean, I could talk about Agatha Heterodyne, the titular Girl Genius, and the love triangle she finds herself embroiled in, as well as her improbable heritage, her claim to power, her period of posession by her mother, so on and so forth, but really the only thing of consequence I want to point out is the hilarity of creating a whole class of characters who are collectively referred to as Jaegermonsters and speak with cliche'd Eastern Europeaen accents.

Go to http://girlgeniusonline.com/, read a few pages. It starts out a little slow, but picks up speed pretty quickly. If anything about it appeals, continue. Or, if you enjoy it enough, and have a tablet that's a good size for reading such things, you can pick up the (DRM-free!) PDF editions. Or get the print versions at Amazon.

I guess it's worth mentioning...at the same time Phil was producing the aforementioned Buck Godot, he was also writing XXXenophile, which I suspect is the only ever sex-positive trans-species erotic comic. Girl Genius is not that, but there's probably some stuff you'd have to explain to kids. Fair warning.