Weasel Words
A Book Log
February
28,
2002
In my recent purge, one of the books that I had intended to get rid of was
Fair Peril by Nancy Springer. I had no idea what it was,
and the front cover quote was by Marion Zimmer Bradley, which made me a
bit nervous. I was persuaded to keep it when I was told that it was
light, humorous fantasy; and, looking for light, humorous fantasy recently
(this is a pretty noticeable pattern in my reading, isn't it?), I decided
to pick it up and read it.
I should have gotten rid of it.
The one thing that irritates me more than just about anything else is an
unearned belief in one's own moral superiority. This bugs me in Connie
Willis books (where the protagonist is always portrayed as being smarter,
wittier, deeper, and just plain better than the lumpenproles around her);
it bugs me in Greg Egan books (where the protagonists are more rational,
intelligent, and sensible than the superstitious idiots around them); and
it bugs me here.
Our main character is an overweight, poor, middle-aged hippy woman who
works as a "storyteller" (which has a lot to do with the poverty). And
she's divorced, a fact which pops up prominently in the very beginning.
This divorce is the first example of the kind of lazy moral smugness that
the rest of the book delivers. Her ex-husband, see, is a rich and
successful man running for prominent political office; and he divorced
her.
Now, the thought of anyone living in the real world is: Well, no kidding.
These are two people who, if they ever had anything in common (and the
book never attempts to show that they did), no longer do; their lives have
diverged greatly, and they're simply not right for each other. Of course
they divorced.
The book, however, would have it instead that his divorce was a morally
reprehensible act, that he "dumped" her cruelly. And the reader is
obviously supposed to go along with this "you go, girlfriend!"
cheerleading against her ex, even though to an objective eye, it hardly
appears as if he's done anything wrong. Just to make sure that the reader
doesn't get confused, the book employs all the lazy moral shorthand in its
disposal to make the guy look bad: he's rich (gasp!), successful
(horrors!), a politican (good lord!), and I think also a lawyer (why, I
never!). Just in case that didn't get the job done, he's also now
shacking up with a blonde bimbo trophy wife.
This isn't a character; it's a punching bag.
Now, this is all just background (though important background, with plot
and thematic elements that run through the book), but it's a good example
of the moral laziness and unearned smugness that run through the book.
What's worse is that the book is one of those modern fairy tale things
that wants to be all deep about the Nature of Story, and prattle on about
how dark and psychosexual fairy tales really are, and blah blah, etc.,
etc.
There's nothing wrong with those themes (other than that perhaps I've read
a few too many books using them), but they need to be handled by a writer
who can write with an eye for truth and authentic morality -- like Terry
Pratchett, in his Discworld books; Gaiman in Stardust; Goldman in
The Princess Bride; or even many of the writers in those Yolen and
Datlow anthologies. Springer obviously thinks she's got that eye, and
that her story is a piercing and honest look, but she doesn't and it's
not.
This is a book designed to appeal to the preconceptions and stereotypes of
a certain subset of reader (mainly middle-aged Wicca-type women). It may
please them, but even if it does, it is still lazy, dishonest, and morally
bankrupt.
Oh, and it's not funny at all.
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February
20,
2002
After trashing the first two Harry Potter books here and elsewhere, I'm a
little abashed by my reaction to J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the
Prisoner of Azkaban
, the third book in the series. Because, the
thing is, I kind of liked it.
I didn't start out liking it. I started out inwardly fuming about a
tabula rasa beginning that all but threw out the events of the previous
book to stick Harry back at the Dursleys again for no good reason; I
rolled my eyes at lame retcons whose purpose was seemingly to enable a
plot that didn't involve Voldemort; I was irritated again by plot devices
which rely on characters stupidly ignoring major clues, or dismissing
rational courses of action with flimsy excuses.
But, somewhat despite myself, I was largely won over by the end. The
plotting was interesting and unpredictable enough that there was actual
suspense in the book; the writing (as in the previous books) continues to
be breezy and well-paced; and there are small hints that perhaps the
characters might eventually become more than the two-dimensional cardboard
figures they are now. This is still not a great series, but with this
third book, it's at least turned into a decent one.
I don't feel ashamed about having read this book. This doesn't constitute
high praise, but it's a sign of improvement, at any rate. My secret hope
is that with the fourth book, Rowling will actually have matured into a
writer worthy of, if not her superstar popularity (very, very few writers
could possibly be worthy of that), at least some unqualified praise.
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February
14,
2002
After I finished The Mouse That Roared, I decided that I'd tackle
something a little longer and more difficult, so I picked up my copy of
Bertrand Russell's A History of Western Philosophy
. I'd
started reading it many months ago, gotten through the section on ancient
philosophy, and then stopped reading in the medieval philosophy section.
It's an excellent book, phenomenally erudite and knowledgeable, but lucid
and very well-written; it presents and critiques philosophers' thoughts
respectfully but unflinchingly, puts them in historical context (with
enough straight narrative history to make sense of that context), and
deftly narrates the evolution, progression, and inter-relation of
European thought. A general reader looking for an accessible wide-angle
intellectual history of Europe could do a lot worse than this book, and
I'm not sure they could do any better.
At this point, you may be wondering why I let this book sit on my shelf so
long before picking it up again, and the answer is simply: I rarely find
myself with the time and ambition to pick up thick, complex books. You'll
notice that the last two books I've read were both slight, short
fantasies; that's pretty typical for me these days. And, in fact, that
same pattern held true here -- I only read another 60 pages of Russell
before wishing I had something simpler to chew on.
Fortunately, I did, in the guise of Dave Duncan's
Silvercloak
. This is the third book of the King's Daggers
trilogy, which was conceived as a Young Adult companion to his King's
Blades series, but ended up getting published as a mainstream title. Such
are the vagaries of publishing houses, one supposes.
I've never much cared for children's books, or YA titles, and the
reason for my dislike was on display in the first two Dagger books.
The books are set in the same world as the Blades books, and feature
many of the same characters (though, in standard YA fashion, the
actual protagonists of these books are youngsters who appear only
glancingly in the Blades books), but are much less significant.
Whereas the Blades books feature legendary and world-changing events,
the Daggers books don't -- all three of them take place in the interim
between the first and second Blades books, so they need to fit into
continuity there. We already know what the world looks like when they
end, so they can't change anything; it's a variant of the problem that
usually makes prequels uninteresting.
Worse than that, though, is that the first two books didn't even have any
significant changes to the characters. Sir Stalwart (the protagonist of
all three volumes, and the title of the first) is involved in a deep
undercover operation, so despite his successes, he never gets any public
recognition or development, but remains stuck in that role. Frankly, it's
frustrating for the reader to read a book where, at the end, nearly
everything remains the same. It's like reading a Star Trek novel.
Which isn't to say that the books are bad; they're not. I haven't read a
truly bad Duncan book yet. They're still breezily written and paced, and
the plots are still convoluted enough to be interesting (though much less
so than in his adult books). And, what's more, the third book turns out
to be, by a fair margin, the best of the lot. Freed by the completion of
the trilogy, Duncan actually allows things to change somewhat in this
book; there are still no world-changing events to speak of, but at least
there's some deserved change in the protagonists' status.
This isn't an excellent book or an excellent series -- the King's Daggers
trilogy will go down on Duncan's sizable corpus as a decidedly minor work
-- but it's still enjoyable enough to be worth reading, and it's a fine
diversion of a few hours. I'm glad that Duncan's done with these and back
to writing straight adult fiction, though.
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February
7,
2002
Anne recommended to me a book called
The Mouse That Roared
by Leonard Wibberley. It's an older book, and appears to be somewhat
obscure -- it was published in the 1950s, and the edition I have is a
reprint from 1979 from a small-press that says it's limited to 100
copies, so it can't be a huge seller.
The book centers around a small European nation, the Duchy of Grand
Fenwick, which has maintained its 14th-century standard of living into
modern times, but finds itself running short on resources. After some
discussion, they decide to declare war on the United States so that,
when they lose, they might benefit from some Marshall Plan-style
largesse. Only, things don't quite go according to plan, and the war
is rather more successful than anyone expected.
It's an odd book, veering between farcical humor and earnest
political philosophy (particularly regarding the role that small
nations play in world affairs, and the dangers of the "Q-bomb", a
weapon far more powerful than a mere atomic bomb); it's a bit hard to
tell what to make of it, actually. I'm not certain if it's a polemic
dressed up in humorous guise, or a humorous novel with a more serious
point. In either event, those two elements of the book aren't
especially well-integrated.
Still, though, it's a good book. It's enjoyable to read, there are
a few genuine laugh-out-loud moments, and the plot breezes along. I'd
probably stop short of saying that it's a great book, but if you
happen to stumble on it, it's worth a read.
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February
6,
2002
(This is a repost from Usenet, but I need to start out with
something, eh?)
When I read the first Harry Potter book and reported my general
reaction of "enh", I was told that no, no, that didn't count because I
had seen the movie already, so I needed to read the second book
to appreciate the things. Well, I just finished reading
Harry
Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
, and I have to say that it's
very compellingly readable -- I wasn't able to put the thing down, and
had to plow right through it. Very nice sense of pace Rowling has.
The thing is: Piers Anthony has that, too. And reading this book
felt a lot like reading a Piers Anthony book. The plot only gets to
go along because everyone in the damn book is a moron, with Harry once
again passing up numerous perfectly good chances to explain to the
omnicompetent Dumbledore exactly what's going on; and then, in the
coup de grace, a major plot point rests on a fucking anagram
every bit as stupid and contrived as the "Natasha"/"Ah, Satan" idiocy
from one of those lame-ass Piers Anthony books. Good God, that was
terrible.
I feel dirty and used, having read this; but I also feel newly
confident in saying that Harry Potter is unabashed trash, and while it
may be useful in luring kids into reading (hey, lots of kids read
Xanth, too), any adult who likes these books should openly admit that
they're slumming, rather than trying to pretend that the books are
actually good.
The worst part is, I'll probably end up reading the next two,
because I'm capable of enjoying trashy pulp if it's breezy enough.
But at least now I'll be going into them with no lingering illusions
that they harbor anything resembling good writing.
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