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Pandemonium: Smoke (Review) PDF Print E-mail
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Sunday, 20 May 2012 07:22

I'll remind you that while I was in London a few months ago, we visited the Tate Modern with its display of John Martin Paintings. I also picked up a hard back from the gift shop, Pandemonium, a series of short stories based on the paintings reviewed. I loved the paintings and really loved the book (limited edition - I snagged number 7 out of 100). I reviewed it HERE.

With great expectations, I ordered Pandemonium: Stories of the Smoke, a book purportedly focused on London, mostly Dickens' London, but London all the same. Got it and read it in about three days.

The prognosis?

Meh. (and I hate to say it)

See, I love the idea of a publishing house pulling in all sorts of talent for a high-grade publication of interesting, out-there story-telling. In these days of Nook and Kindle, having a limited edition hardback is something I can savor, the primary reason that books will always be books, and Ireaders will always be the end-of-the-fucking-literary-world-as-we-know-it toys.

But the stories didn't quite live up to the first edition.

It started, not on a bang, but a nuclear explosion. "Inspector Bucket Investigates" really hit me between the eyes. Disney has built a replica of Dickens' London, one staffed with clones of the characters (based on DNA extracted from the graves of those Dickens based his characters on). It was nasty, slimy, disturbing, and great.

And there were still stories in the vein I enjoy. "Aye, there's the rub" had a great premises and a fantastic twist. "City of the Absent" was a moody Dickens' piece, a study of churchyard and city nooks observed on quiet Sundays - this is about as close to time travel as we shall ever get (Mason Trellis aside). But most of the stories failed to make the hit of the original Pandemonium premise, that of humanity facing the finite, of end of self and world, of the chilling look at what-is-to-come. No, this was more mainstream - one or two of the stories were so predictably come-uppance tales, I was surprised to not see them on Spielberg's old Amazing Stories

Review aside, what you might not understand, Dear Reader, is the horrible chance I run at posting this. See, the Pandemonium folks are coming up with a new anthology, one set in the American West. To that, I have submitted. As to the wisdom of giving a tepid review to the same folks you are hoping for inclusion, well, I was never the smartest sibling in our family.

Actually, I'm the writer. How stupid is that?

Anyway, the series held me because I have an interest in such things, but let's home the next set will be darker, edgier, and far more concentrated.


Last Updated on Sunday, 20 May 2012 08:06
Quicksilver (Review) PDF Print E-mail
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Sunday, 13 May 2012 14:58

Quicksilver - what can I possibly say about this thing?

Well, it's massive (916 pages). And it's historical (spanning various settings between 1655 to 1689). And it's confusing. Reading this book was like a car chase through history, with Neal Stephenson leading us through dark historic alleys, down temporal streets the wrong way, back-tracking, and often stopping to discharge characters and pick up a few more. In the end, I'm confused, exhausted, and frustrated.

Yeah, it was that good!

The thing is, even though I didn't catch everything the book had to offer, even though I didn't understand several of the plots (I did like his trick of having something strange happen, and a chapter or two later, suddenly the reason became clear), I enjoyed it. I didn't get a lot of it. But what I did was magnificent.

There are several storylines that weave and twist in that Stephenson way (as he did before, in that old favorite of mine, Snow Crash (reviewed HERE)). There is Daniel Waterhouse, a ineffectual member of the Royal Society (with two storylines, the primary in his life growing up and surviving in his random, rudderless way, and the latter, of escaping from a pirate attack off the coast of the Colonies (after meeting a young Ben Franklin, hinted at). And after we finally get settled with this Once and Future plot, then we drastically switch to mudflat boys in East London, who graduate from stealing cargos off vessels in The Pool to running an enterprise of accepting money (in advance) to yank smartly on the legs of those just-hung, to speed them on their way. And then we're with a soldier fighting some theatrical play-siege under a mad ruler in Central Europe, but wait, its one of the mudflat boys, all grown up, and suddenly Stephenson's taillights have whipped around another corner and we're fishtailing after him, trying to keep up.

Like Snow Crash, there are cute moments where modern language is inserted, or even modern concepts, as referred in this letter from a character in Venice...

As I write these words I am seated near a window that looks out over a canal, and two gondoliers who nearly collided a minute ago, are screaming murderous threats at each other. This sort of thing happens all the time here. The Venetians have even given it a name: "Canal Rage". Some say that it is a new phenomenon - they insist that gondoliers never used to scream at each other in this way. To them it is a symptom of the excessively rapid pace of change in the modern world, and they make an analogy to poisoning by quicksilver, which has turned so many alchemists into shaky, irritable lunatics.

If anything would make me an irritable lunatic, it is the fact that after suffering through confusion in reading this, I discovered 50 pages from the end that there is a full character list in the back. Just great. I could have used it some 700 pages earlier, when new names were hitting me like raindrops.

It isn't a book for anyone - this is a reader's book. And a great book. I really enjoyed it. And after a little break though some other covers, I'll pick up in the second book of the Baroque Cycle.

2000 pages to go...


Last Updated on Sunday, 13 May 2012 15:29
The Wrecker (Review) PDF Print E-mail
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Sunday, 06 May 2012 08:33

Cussler is a lot like Pizza - very tasty, very fun, very casual, but not much in the way of substance.

Now that I've gotten my high-brow snarkiness out of the way, lets get down to brass tacks - The Wrecker is a thriller set in 1907 or so by a writer from Cussler's stable, an effort to export the high-level, fast-paced political-action thriller back into a world we think of as kinder and gentler (don't be fooled - a decade later, men hung up on barbed wire would be machined-gunned). Interestingly, many of the causal reviewers were impressed with the historical accuracy of the novel. This is where it fell flat for me.

I've mentioned HERE my experiences with the La Mesa club, running trains under a control system used across a hundred years of railroad operations, 'Time Table & Train Order'. I know how railroads worked and how trains were moved. This simple fact killed the book for me - it was clear the author didn't know anything about this (at one point, desperados try to sabotage the railroad by interfering with the telegraph, which is stated as used for moving trains from town to town - wrong, wrong, wrong). This might seem like a minor fact, but I would expect a more modern novel (say, involving submarines) to have a basic understanding of submarine operating principles and not figure that the captain just aimed for the channel mouth when leaving port.

There was also the transposing of our modern attitude of meetings and conferences in this far-away time. There was no net-meetings, no conference calls, no flying over for three days to discuss things and then redeye home. Offices and businesses back then had more independence. Yet in the book, every time the heroes needed to get together to plot strategies, they had to commission private trains to whisk them (and airline speeds) across the country for their meetings. Again, I know how trains ran, and elevating a single train over all others in the time-tabled pecking order would cause time- and cash-intensive disruptions. This whole idea that such an effort was routine in any way broke the novel for me.

Think I'm off-base here? In Captains Courageous, the railroad-owning father, upon finding out that his son is back from the dead and in an eastern fishing port, calls all his railroad rivals to put aside their economic wars and give him such a privilege. In this, his journey is an epic with the trains of hostile railroads standing on every siding as his white-flagged extra screams eastward. In this, it is an amazing race of a desperate father willing to grant his rivals power over him, just for a few hours of critical time. The same point was made in the old flick Danger Flag, where the entire railroad is put on the siding so that one man can be raced to a top-flight brain surgeon.

What I'm saying is that critical things like special trains are rare and amazing, not just some sort of steam-powered Leer jet, permitting a man to put his ass in a seat on the other side of the country.

There were other things - I remember feeling annoyed that the villain, when thwarted once, had an extensive and expensive backup plan in place, one that he could whip out at a critical moment. I remember thinking, "Oh, come on!" when suddenly it is revealed that, per chance, the blackguard had other men, other plans, a web of evil yadda yad. Sure, sure.

I suppose the writer was hampered in that, unlike today's stories, dynamite fuses don't have a digital count-down for added suspense.

No, I'm sorry, but this book didn't cut it for me. As a historic writer, I understand that we must guess at history, filling in the gaps with the caulk of conjecture. Further, we must make a leap between our concepts and beliefs of 2012 into earlier, distant, and often alien cultures. In my view, The Wreckers did neither of these. They should have just made it anther Dirk Pitt novel and left it at that.


Last Updated on Sunday, 06 May 2012 09:15
Bartleby, The Scrivener (Review) PDF Print E-mail
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Sunday, 29 April 2012 15:25

You'll remember my love [sic] of Herman Melville HERE, how I couldn't get his stuff down, not with a spoon-full of sugar, not at the point of a gun. I've read long windy lofty books, Atlas Shrugged, Anna Karinina, and currently, Quicksilver. I've liked them all to various degrees. But Melville, "He tasks me; he heaps me".

In other words, I could never get in tune with him. Even Billy Budd mauled me.

But my crazy sometime's daughter / sometimes groupie Denise mentioned this book years back with the old "You haven't read 'Bartleby, The Scrivener'? Oh, you gotta read it!!!'

Yeah, okay. Every reader's heard that one before.

But I happened to think of her the other day and looked online and there was Bartleby, The Scrivener listed in Project Gutenberg (old books online). I've read from their site before (Captains Courageous) so I looked both ways, made sure everyone was out at lunch, and burned 34 pages off on the work printer.

Then, walking back to the desk, I started reading it.

Found myself sneaking another glance. A further glance. Between two meetings, I bolted down a page or two.

Green Eggs and Ham Moment - I'm reading (and ENJOYING) Melville!

So the story is about a small clerking office, a shut-in, constricting, enclosed sort of employment enjoyed by people out of Dickens novels. Here, it's manually copying legal documents, page by page, line by line, word by word. And then the team sits (perhaps in pairs, perhaps collectively) and reads over the copies, word by word.

It makes me want to hug my HP Deskjet, I'll tell you.

Anyway, the office is described in its close, cubic glory. And then the three clerks are described (also in close, cubic glory). Some laughs there. And then a new man is hired, Bartleby, a quiet, slinking man. In today's media, he'd be your ax murderer or hotel keeper, the guy with no past and little presence. But no, no splatterfest here, just a guy who does what he's told, copies what's put before him, nose to the grindstone.

Until, one day, he won't.

"I would prefer not to."

Flummoxed, his employer (the narrator) tries to reason with him, to get him to do work. First, he won't read back. Then, he won't copy. He won't nip down to the post office. It's like he's shutting down. He prefers not to.

And it comes to light that he's living in the office, sleeping at his desk, never leaving.

So this is not Ahab and the Whale, crashing in backdrops of brine and spray. This is one little office worker who shuts down, and his employer who is too passive to move him. It is a battle of ineffectiveness, of minute forces slowly pushing. And as one reads, one gets the impression that the employer, in his own way, is just as ineffective as his lights-going-out employee.

But it was interesting, and haunting, and sad and expansive (in that way literature is). So skip the whales and virtuous sailor boys, have a look at Bartleby. Its good.

You can get a free copy HERE.


Last Updated on Sunday, 29 April 2012 15:57

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