Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett

1. “I got rambling / I got rambling on my mind / I got rambling / I got rambling all on my mind.” So sang Robert Johnson in 1936, when he also recorded the classic, “I Believe I’ll Dust my Broom”. These two songs ran through my head the whole time I was reading this book about voodoo, witches engaging in tourism to the discworld analogy of Louisiana, and the power of stories. The whole book ruminates on stories and the power they have—certain things need to happen in this tale because they have happened in other tales, and Pratchett says so. His real thrust is this line from the book: “People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it's the other way around.” We create stories, and in so doing the stories create us. Pratchett plays this point for humor, as usual, but the point isn’t lost in the jokes. The two support each other in a way indicative of Pratchett’s brilliance.

Nanny Ogg knew how to start spelling 'banana', but didn't know how you stopped.

2. The characters are less revealing here than the theme. Pratchett doesn’t run wild or create too many new characters, rather, he lets characters we already know run the show. It could be seen as fan service, I guess, but it could also be Pratchett expanding the scope of his usual cast of characters. To me, because the novel is so smitten with the theme, it doesn’t come off like fan service.

Cats gravitate to kitchens like rocks gravitate to gravity.

3. Again, this novel follows episodic lines, but Pratchett has grown as an author. This isn’t a bad fix-up like the first two discworld novels were. The theme carries the whole with more consistency than Eric did, being so focused on one thing, rather than the three separate wishes of the boy Faust Eric. This consistent theme, and the consistent main characters, keeps the novel a novel, and means that it’s much stronger than Equal Rites. But the fact still remains that this rumination on stories is not structured as concisely as a typical novel. Variety is the spice of writing. Sometimes, when I see a novel and it’s composed of three or four different episodes, I’m wishing there was a term to put on the cover that would warn me. Here, it works, but not brilliantly. It works by contrast with other novels, as a break from the typical novel structure.

“Good and bad is tricky," she said. "I ain't too certain about where people stand. P'raps what matters is which way you face.”

4. So, it’s a novel, but just. It explores an interesting theme with wonderful humor, but plays heavy towards the humor. The characters feature more complexity than in past works, but are still familiar enough that the question of fan service is present. In all, I thought it was a fun book, a good one, even. But if you’re not into vampires or voodoo, it might not be as gripping for you.

Find the story, Granny Weatherwax always said. She believed that the world was full of story shapes. If you let them, they controlled you. But if you studied them, if you found out about them... you could use them, you could change them.

Way Station / Here Gather the Stars by Clifford D Simak

This novel holds peace up as an answer to humanity’s problems. However, Simak doesn’t go into what he means by peace. He seems to be applying four aspects of peace: as the antonym to war, as a lack of conflict with neighbors, as contentment with life and the unexpected results of choices, and/or as a connection with a higher spiritual force. The first is unexplained and told as a given—which is where this novel tries to delve into the Cold War setting. The second is detailed the most, but more in action than rumination, meaning that it could be easy to miss the point. The third occupies most of the book, as it follows the main character (Enoch Wallace) who is struggling with peace and loneliness in his own life. And the fourth is a deus ex machina, literally—there’s a machine called The Talisman that accentuates a spiritual person’s connection with the spiritual realm. I am dissatisfied at the depth Simak analyses all but the third aspect of this theme. He fails to write out a definition of peace, and for a novel where that concept is the resolution, this lack seems curious. Now, I’m happy if I have an understanding of what he means by peace from the rest of the text, but he leaves off discussing it, just on the cusp of discussing it, more times than he actually delves into the central concept. I guess what I’m trying to say is that the resolution seemed too pat, and if I had more foreshadowing and discussion of the central concept, it would’ve been less out of left field, and could have worked better. I’m disappointed simply because the book is enjoyable to read, and having that final impression show some shallowness that wasn’t present in other aspects of the book—building the main character, the complex galactic situation politically, the realistic actions that followed rationally one to the next and made sense—left me wanting the book to be a few more chapters long. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Though Simak tempered the deus ex machina with a later disappointment for Enoch in his loneliness and potential love life, it still left me dissatisfied.

Novels are stories that touch on so many aspects of the human experience, so choosing where to focus and where to expand is an important part of the writing process. And this book expands and focuses in appropriate ways, except that last bit. Simak brushes against peace, spirituality, galactic cofraternity, the Cold War, the CIA, illegal family businesses, communication, heuristics, loneliness, and the list goes on. I don’t expect any author to explore every little facet of every theme they bring up, but I do expect the central one to be more explored than others, than peace was here. As an aside, the Talisman itself is foreshadowed enough that it doesn’t strike me as a horrible deus ex machina; I wish peace had the same treatment.

He stood quietly in the dark and silence, and the voice of a century of living seemed to speak to him in a silent language. All things are hard, it said. There is nothing easy.

But the plot and story are strong and carried me through the novel. Simak writes best when he is explaining actions. Scenes like the virtual reality gun range speed up and get the blood pumping, while discussions about loneliness slow down as the emotion takes over Enoch’s mind. There is not a pre-arranged pattern of plot pacing, but a plot that speeds and slows as the story dictates. Simak masters pacing through paying attention to the story and what he’s already said in it. However, the book does seem like it’s split in two—there seems to be a first and second half to this novel: the build-up and the crisis respectively. This split nature may be a result of its original publishing as a serial story in a magazine. (I noticed the split while reading, then checked later and saw that it was serially published originally.)

Tonight, he thought, he probably should tell Ulysses about the watch that had been put upon the station. Perhaps he should have told him earlier, but he had been reluctant to admit that the human race might prove to be a problem to the galactic installation.

Simak develops Enoch as a loner, so his actions and interior monologue inform the reader most; but Simak doesn’t let the few moments of dialogue go ignored either—they are dense with revealing moments about Enoch’s character and priorities. Some of the dialogue surprises because it reveals such a different side of him. Outside of the spoken word, the way he reacts and prioritizes inform who he is throughout, and it’s a strong tactic that left me understanding Enoch.

It was a hopeless thing, he thought, this obsession of his to present the people of the Earth as good and reasonable. For in many ways they were neither good nor reasonable; perhaps because they had not as yet entirely grown up. They were smart and quick and at times compassionate and even understanding, but they failed lamentably in many other ways.

The opening is strong. Simak starts with the CIA crew discussing the strange case of Enoch Wallace, giving the reader an intro to the novel that doesn’t rely on an intro-info dump, but does connect the reader with the intrigue of the novel right away. By the end of that opening, I am as full of questions about Enoch as the CIA is. Then Enoch comes on-scene and takes over the novel, but the CIA people keep popping up in interesting ways, meaning that the opening is not forgotten. It’s a sensational tactic and one that draws me in instantly.

A man could be as self-effacing as he well could manage and still he could not hide. Soon or late the world would catch up with him and would come crowding around his door, agog to know why he might be hiding.

So, in closing, Simak creates a unique situation with a strong opening, tries to use the situation to its strengths, populates it with a well-built character, and lets the story dictate the pacing. These aspects are done very well. However, the story ignores the implications of every idea it brings up, the end was capped off by a deus ex machina that solved almost every problem in the book too perfectly, and who in the world thinks its a good idea to have a last page reveal of what the whole book was about? That's worse than an intro-info-dump. That said, the strength of the action and plot means that I will definitely be looking for more Simak to read.

Second 50 Novels

In the last fifty-eight posts, I have posted notes on fifty novels here, three of which I had read before. I want to use a brief post to place these forty-seven new ones in categories for myself, and write what I most remember about them now:

Great Books by date published:
Matter, 2008: Three pairs of main characters discuss and exercise power and slowly come together for a climactic end-scene battle. The focused discussion allows a depth of discernment that staggers me. The varied writing and ensemble structure match the tale perfectly. Read it already.
Finity’s End, 1997: This novel perfects Cherryh’s writing and storytelling skills, a tour de force. Couching a normal, emotionally dramatic tale in a setting of science fiction allows the two to play off each other in illuminating ways.
Guards! Guards!, 1989: Confident satirizing, self-assured writing, breadth of humor, depth of characters, and drive of the story. This may be the best Discworld novel, and one of the best novels I’ve read.
Cyteen, 1988: Spectacular psychological thriller. Cherryh writes like no other author with her tight, third person, focused voice that almost disposes setting description to zoom in on the characters and story.
Downbelow Station, 1981: Military space opera done perfectly while focusing on both the psychology of the characters and adventures they go through. The writing shows varied voices for the character groups, and the novel works in surprising, inspiring ways.

Close on their heels are Good Books by date published:
Lincoln in the Bardo, 2017: A book that impressed me immensely, but will probably be relegated to the “Literary Nerds Only” pile. As confusing as Ulysses? No. Also destined to be a cult classic? Probably.
The Fifth Season, 2015: The word choices and redundant sex scenes keep this book from being great, but it was strong enough that buying the next book in the series was a no-brainer. And the third too.
Surface Detail, 2010: A solid book. I know this book doesn’t belong one category up, but I can’t tell you why. I wrote a bunch of notes trying to figure out why, and I still haven’t.
The Chronoliths, 2001: The violence is tempered by using it to explore deeper themes. Though the writing is a touch bland, the book is engrossing.
Look to Windward, 2000: Though the resolution of the central theme of death is a little unsatisfying, the novel is wonderfully written and the characters are particularly engaging. This also comes off as a rumination on international politics.
Pyramids, 1989: Pratchett takes swings at the nature of belief, reality, and perception. The results leave me laughing and thinking simultaneously, and if that’s not Pratchett, I don’t know what is.
Rimrunners, 1989: This book used sexual and physical violence to build a main character that was sympathetic to read. Cherryh doesn’t use the situations sensationally, but everything has meaning, as usual for Cherryh. Engaging throughout.
Wyrd Sisters, 1988: Almost perfect Shakespearean satire. The balance between humor, characters, ideas, and plot poises the novel for greatness.
Mort, 1987: The first time Pratchett put the novel in the driver’s seat instead of the jokes, and it works. It talks about employment, but in a typically satirising and humorous way that is more black humor than gag humor.
Merchanter’s Luck, 1982: This is a great adventure tale. Cherryh’s tightly focused voice fits this tale perfectly. It’s a bit more in depth than pulp fiction with psychological and political rumination.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 1968: Yeah, the androids are allegorical. It might be too focused on the theme, and cavalier with some of the characters, but it filled my brain full, and that’s a positive.

Interesting Flawed Books, also known as Enjoyable Books, by date published:
Death’s End, 2010, (2016 Trans.): Inconsistent pacing and excessive scientific exposition of fictional phenomena kept the wonderful depth of the main character from entrancing me more.
Obelisk Gate, 2016: While Jemisin got better as a writer in her word choices and sentence structures, she regressed as a story-teller, writing a novel that doesn’t have legs of its own (sorry, Alabaster), and falls into an unfortunate sequel trap.
The Cinder Spires: The Aeronaut’s Windlass, 2015: Everything works out too perfectly all the time, and the book could’ve used an editor. But I enjoyed it. Just not enough to continue reading the series.
All the Light We Cannot See, 2014: Some over-the-top, redundant, character "development" pairs with a nagging lack of challenge to the reader, and lets this book’s structure, writing, and story down.
Hydrogen Sonata, 2012: Great dialogue and an unusual plot structure for a Culture novel do not overshadow the two dimensional protagonists and lazy use of violence to drive the plot.
A Visit from the Goon Squad, 2010: An above average ensemble book of interconnected short stories, potentially pretentious, but too clearly exhibits the typical downfalls of the type—quality control, depth of characters, and pacing.
Regenesis, 2009: Taking up right where Cyteen left off, this book doesn’t stand on its own. It needs the reader to have read Cyteen. But it’s a fun read and a great read.
Thief of Time, 2001: Scattershot satire that should have focused in on a few less themes. Seems more like an overview of Pratchett ideas than an aimed critique. But the humor-idea balance is perfect.
Tripoint, 1994: Good book, but doesn’t stand on its own. Cherryh needed to do a lot more heavy lifting about context in order to get this novel to stand on its own.
Hellburner, 1992: A sequel that reads like a sequel. It’s a great sequel, but even the author admits you need to read the first book in the series to get this one.
Reaper Man, 1991: Again, Pratchett bites off more than he can chew. Hugely enjoyable book while simultaneously moderately frustrating to comprehension.
Heavy Time, 1991: As Cherryh tries to find the appropriate level of detail for her tightly focused voice, she went a little too tight here. Not enough is on-page to keep me invested throughout.
Moving Pictures, 1990: Pratchett is focused here, but has an awkward time integrating his focus on satirizing Hollywood into his Discworld. The story gets away from him a bit, and it might require a cinema nerd to really love this book. Thankfully, I am a cinema nerd.
Faust Eric, 1990: Four interconnected short stories, like the first two Discworld novels, but much better than those due to the superb humor about metaphysical and historical Earth things. But they're loosely connected still.
Sourcery, 1988: Characters lack depth. Themes and plots jump around so much that it comes off like a D&D campaign. But so much of fantasy is written like that, and this example stands out for good quality.
Equal Rites, 1986: Two stories that share a theme are crushed together. The problem is that each has their own arc, and the two arcs do not align very easily. Enjoyable for sure.
Forty Thousand in Gehenna, 1983: More of a study in a situation than a novel. As such, the characters are mostly viewpoints instead of characters, the writing delves into scientific reporting and memos instead of storytelling. But I enjoyed it way more than this description makes it sound.
Serpent’s Reach, 1980: Where the world-building is impressive in the way it integrates every little comment and aside into meaning later, the world built is pretty boilerplate.
Fires of Azeroth, 1979: She balances the darkness that is overbearing in the other books of this series, with some periods of calm and peace that make the book much more readable.
Well of Shiuan, 1978: Not bad, but also not good. It’s fine pulp fiction, but as a fan of her later work, I’m left anticipating her later strengths and clinging to what hints of them I find here.
A Time of Changes, 1971: Though the ideas and characters are well done, the structure and writing left me wanting.
Greylorn, 1959: Slavish story considerations kept this from sticking, but if you’re looking for simple pulp fiction, you can do worse. You can do a lot worse.

And Bad Books I wish I hadn't read, by date published, with quotes from my notes:
Seveneves, 2015: “First things first: after six hundred pages this book begins its last chapter with the phrase “5000 years later”, and that last chapter is three hundred pages long. Is it the world’s longest epilogue, or are the prior six hundred pages the preface to end all prefaces? Every character is now dead, even the earth and our solar system are changed beyond recognition. This works out exactly as well as you think. If I hadn’t been reading this book for a friend, I would’ve quit. After finishing the book, I’m sad I didn’t quit—it wasn't worth it to continue.”
Uprooted, 2015: “In all, I feel like I missed something here. It’s a well-told story in all its parts, but it feels like it wanders overall. It’s got an engaging main character but I’m typically annoyed at her reactions—also at the reactions of the other characters. It’s got no theme really, but the myths are still interesting. It builds an engaging world, but then tells a typical fantasy messianic tale. It tries to encourage working together, then spends hundreds of pages showing how people can’t work together. It goes one layer deeper into the myth, uncovering possible causes for some of the fairy tale tropes, but doesn't really coalesce into a consistent vision of the world or myths.”
The Sharing Knife: Beguilement and Legacy, 2006 & 2007: “The way the opening was written, I didn’t expect the romance and wasn’t looking for it. Therefore, it felt like a short story—a really good short story ending after the malice kill—that she then decided to tack a novel onto. It felt disjointed: after the malice kill, she has to reintroduce the reader to the second part, which takes up the rest of these two books, which deals with the romance and the families of the two paramours. I don’t find this restart to be smoothly accomplished: she paid so much attention to world building in the first part, that the second part switches tracks too awkwardly.”
Gate of Ivrel, 1976: “The beginning of this novel is difficult to get through: so self-indulgent in that density of unknown names in the intro info dump—fifteen or sixteen made-up fantasy names in a page and a half. Your reader has not been given the chance to know or care yet! This is the worst intro info dump I’ve read.”
The Wanderer, 1964: “The opening chapters left me wondering when he would leave off the fractured narrative jumping between the character groups, and dig into the ideas he left floating off, making them interesting. He didn’t. He just kept jumping around and missing opportunity after opportunity. [Yet awkwardly including sex with a space-cat.]”
They’d Rather be Right / The Forever Machine, 1955: “And that’s the problem with this story. Some interesting ideas are brought up, but they are dropped. The story shows promise, but progresses in fits and false starts so when the end finally comes, it is a relief. [...] It comes off like wish fulfillment of broadcasting telepathy for personal uses—which is problematic in all sorts of ways that are not even glanced at.”
Farmer in the Sky, 1950: “It didn’t have a plot so much as episodes, it didn’t have characters because it examined colonization from one sixteen year old boy's point of view instead, and it didn’t have much relatable to a reader who isn’t colonizing Ganymede.”

So you don't have to go through a process of elimination, I had already read:
The Light Fantastic, 1986: The continuation of The Colour of Magic added a central plot to the short stories being loosely strung together, and it’s better for it. Better, not great.
The Colour of Magic, 1983: Sloppily shoves four stories together that share little. Too focused on the jokes and fantasy tropes. But hilarious and endearing for all its awkwardness.
Last and First Men, 1930: Though the reread helped me appreciate the book more as a cultural artifact, it didn’t induce me to go and read Star Maker yet. It’s not a novel so much as a collection of straw men for Stapledon’s personal philosophy to win over.

They'd Rather Be Right / The Forever Machine by Mark Clifton & Frank Riley

This novel feels like a big plan aborted. The authors set up a bunch of themes: redemption, humane-ness, reason and prejudice, the nature of change and time, American social classes, and more. And then this book drops all of them as it abruptly ends on the eve of the universal release of Bossy, the transcendent AI. The last third speeds up, but not in a “we want to accelerate the action to ramp up the tension” way, but rather in a “we’re both bored now” way. It speeds up and decreases tension. The main character takes long walks to explicate the novel, then rushes back to a situation already in development, based upon what he was just thinking. It’s a rough book that starts with promise.

He seemed determined to demonstrate the old truism again: that the only enemy man has is man. The universe does not care whether man unlocks its secrets or leaves them closed. Water does not care whether man bathes in it or drowns in it, whether it waters his fields or washes them away. If man masters its laws and utilizes his knowledge, water becomes a force in his favor. But, enemy or servant, water does not care. Of all the forces, only man seems determined that man shall not master the universe.

The main theme sees the heroes throwing aside their preconceptions and prejudices, embracing scientific facts and reason, with the hope of attaining corporeal immortality and transcendent telepathy, all through physiologically invasive psychology. While reading, this sounds a bit like some of the basic tenets of Scientology, and I discovered after the fact that some attributed this Hugo win to the popularity of that religion at the time the book released. But just taking the book as a book, it’s bad.

A human being is seldom bothered with insufficient data; often the less he has, the more willing he is to give a firm opinion, and man prefers some answer, even a wrong one, to the requirement that he dig deeper and find out the facts.

The characters are shells of ideas, and not complicated by anything. They would be fine as short story characters, and a couple even undergo major changes; but any conflicts are aborted through good telepathic vibes, and the changes are more to reveal the reality the novel sets up, and not to develop the character. What I mean is that it would be difficult to write a detailed analysis of any of the characters because they all act like secondary characters.

He had understood abstractly why it was they so often substituted measurement for meaning.

What they are trying to be secondary to are the ideas, which fall flat. The authors don’t spend enough time exploring the ideas, and the what exploration exists lacks depth that would interest a reader. The introduction of these ideas sets the novel up as a wonderful exploration, but the analysis within, and the resolution at the end, lacks staying power because the first is shallow, and the latter is short-circuited. The authors appear to have bored.

As he continued with the reassembly, Hoskins grew deeply troubled. At times he felt as if he were on the verge of some vast concept not quite grasped; as if he caught hazy glimpses of an outline of a totally unknown continent where, always before, all science had assumed there were only empty seas. He cursed the sterility, the rote memorization which passed for learning. He bitterly accused his own mind of being like a wasted muscle, long unused, now incapable of a task which should be accomplished with ease.

And that’s the problem with this story. Some interesting ideas are brought up, but they are dropped. The story shows promise, but progresses in fits and false starts so when the end finally comes, it is a relief. The idea that body and mind affect each other isn’t new, the take on that idea that the book comes to is certainly old; but instead of doing something with an old idea, the book isn’t written well enough to support any concise synthesis or fascinating exploration of it. It comes off like wish fulfillment of broadcasting telepathy for personal uses—which is problematic in all sorts of ways that are not even glanced at.

The human race was like a universe of material bodies, each with its own eccentric orbit, blindly crashing into one another, caroming off, senselessly changing direction as a consequence of random contact. The miracle was that even rudiments of order, on a few occasions of history, had somehow been achieved.