The Tombs of Atuan by Ursula K Le Guin

This sequel to A Wizard of Earthsea delivers, but in a different way than the first book. Instead of the almost non-stop action in that earlier novel, this one starts out slow with the new main character, Tenar, growing up as high priestess of the Nameless Ones, the old gods. Raised as an orphan in the desert religious complex, Le Guin creates an interesting dynamic for Tenar: she is technically the reincarnation of the prior highest priestess, but politically she is a child and the newer gods are now more popular, so her power is actually pretty limited. Navigating this intense world of interpersonal religious politics fills the early part of the book with a different tenor than A Wizard of Earthsea, as Tenar learns the limits of her power and learns her place in this society. Eventually Ged arrives, looking for the other half of a broken magical talisman, and the action begins in earnest. But that slow opening really helps build the character of Tenar firmly. She is a proud and self-questioning young woman, often alone and in the dark, who is forced to self-reliance and starts to expect no help from others. When she meets Ged, it’s at a time in her life where her own curiosity, and the situation in the temple complex, makes an act of rebellion attractive, so she doesn’t outright kill him, and that rebellion starts her on her own path towards becoming a helpful, functioning member of a society. I think Le Guin is making a preference known for the culture of Earthsea over the superstitious culture of the Karghish lands.

And yet, though the structure of the story follows Tenar’s path, the first half, the impact of the story on the larger world is down to Ged’s hero quest to find the other half of the broken ring, the second half. This disconnection led to me questioning where the story was going in moments. Unlike Le Guin's novel, The Dispossessed, where the two stories combine into one clearly and cleanly, here it seems more like the story is a bait and switch⁠—I think the story is about Tenar, but then Ged arrives and everything focuses in on him. This is nitpicking though, because when Tenar approaches another culture as curious and open as she does, of course her life will change. So, while Le Guin’s writing improves, I think her storytelling takes a step back. In all, I would recommend this book to almost anybody though, because taking a step back from the heights Le Guin has achieved is a small thing in comparison to other writers.

That nit pick aside, this is a really enjoyable read. Delving more deeply into the psychology of the coming of age tale, aspects of Tenar stay unchanging, while she also changes drastically through her childhood. This is a really well done coming of age story, and how many examples do we have of a woman’s perspective on the same? Fantasy is usually all beautiful women with no power other than sexual or evil, and heroic men who take what they will. This alternate view is beguiling and I appreciate it immensely.

The theme of the book is again empathy and accepting the wholeness of being⁠—both the light and the dark alike. But in a way, this novel is the mirror of A Wizard of Earthsea: a woman’s coming of age tale, instead of a man’s; Ged goes from the mountains to the indoors while Tenar comes from the deserted tombs to the biggest city in Earthsea; where Ged gains power, Tenar loses it, though maybe uses is a better word to choose; where Ged accepts myths, Tenar lets some myths go; and most importantly, Tenar becomes complete too, like Ged did, but in the opposite direction through accepting her lightness. Where Ged was learning to deal with his darkness, Tenar is learning to accept her light⁠—literally and figuratively, as she was mostly raised in physical darkness. Tenar and Ged somewhat mirror each other, as do their tales. That said, the theme here also embraces taboo and is the best example I can think of for a story about overcoming superstitious taboo. Religion, superstition, and personal choice over place in society also all play important roles as themes in the novel.

It’s a strong novel that I really enjoyed. I look forward to a second read in the future, knowing now what I do about the story and being able to fit the two parts of it together, I think a second read will be better than the first. I wonder whether a sentence or two at the beginning, to give away the ending, would’ve been as helpful here as it was to Ged’s novel.

To Your Scattered Bodies Go by Philip José Farmer

Scattered is probably a fair way to describe what’s happening here. Two novellas build this book. And I think that split nature is a part of the problem: because the first novella deals with nudity, surprise, human savagery, and history, some of the more interesting aspects of the world as a whole are ignored or glossed over. These may lead to future stories, I see that there is a series following this book, yet when they come up in the second novella, they feel tacked on. While fixups are not inherently bad, Farmer puts the two novellas together poorly. The seeming lack of a shared theme further damages this book as a novel.

Know a man's faith, and you knew at least half the man. Know his wife, and you knew the other half.

The biggest problem lies in Farmer’s inability to clearly communicate conclusions to his themes. He’s dealing with some interesting issues: death, love, humanity as humanity, morality, religion, political science, history—Farmer brings up a ton of themes. Too many to adequately deal with all of the ideas he brings up. Scattered. And themes that would have been important to explain plot points—wanderlust, egalitarianism, warfare—are skipped over and implied instead of explored. That said, the theme of humanity as humanity is really well done, and I wish the rest of the book lived up to it. In short, Farmer states that humanity never really changes that much. From pre-homo sapiens to 21st century people, these resurrected characters are all given a second chance, and the first night is an orgy of rape and fear and murder. Humanity’s selfishness survives a second chance, in a way that reflects humanity as it seems to be.

The second biggest problem I see is that Farmer keeps talking in asides. Eventually plot points are dropped—Farmer spends pages dealing with the tension between Alice and Burton, but then they get together seemingly randomly, and the whole sub-plot is dropped from then on. The discussions of the characters create info-dumps, and their continuations are scattered throughout the novel. For instance, a 20th century Jew from America confronts Burton about a book he wrote that seems anti-semitic. They agree to discuss this later, but it’s a long time later when they finally do. And the weak payoff satisfies the buildup not at all. In short, the book rambles and trips over itself in the way the plot is paced and dialogue functions. Scattered.

The fortune of the man who sits also sits.

Farmer creates a couple of interesting characters, drawing heavily from historical figures. It’s uncomfortable, reading fictional representations of historical figures, as the archetype writes itself, and I’ve no idea how honest Farmer is being with these historical figures. I don’t need historical accuracy, but who is the intended audience? If it’s other Burton fanboys, then what does this book offer that I am missing, as a non-Burton fanboy? If it’s people who have never studied Burton, then a niggling question arises of who the historical figure was and how he is related to this fictional portrayal. There is an opportunity here, I think, but I’m not sure if Farmer’s method is the best or not. It works, because I don’t know Burton from Adam, but it’s a dangerous tactic.

The writing is pretty plain, but I want to lay the blame for that on the situation within the book. Namely, millions of people suddenly arise from the dead on a world constructed to observe their society and lives. Their newfound immortality and cosmopolitan situation—in both place and time—means that they have to teach each other to communicate, to get along. So, perhaps a plain language helps communicate this back-to-basics premise of the novel. Yet it doesn’t come off as strong wordplay.

Purgatory is hell with hope.

What can I take away from this novel, as a writer. First, the importance of some focus, some obstruction to the creative process, seems necessary to writing a better book than this. The scattered themes, conversations, and plots leave me unattached and largely uncaring. Second, the writing of plain language may be important to the premise, but the lack of beauty in the writing irks me. I wish Farmer had written better, while still retaining a plain diction—he pushed too far to one side in writing, and his writing ends up boring. Third, unnatural dialogue bores. These characters give five paragraph speeches like five paragraph college papers. No thanks—info-dumping substitutes for dialogue poorly. Fourth, the use of historical characters contains potential, but executing it requires great care. The redemption arc of Herman Goring plays as an aside to the main story, whatever that main story might be—and I’m not sure trying to redeem Herman Goring in the afterlife is the best move for any author. I will not be looking for other Riverworld books to read.

A Time of Changes by Robert Silverberg

1. Another pseudo-memoir in the science fiction field. I think science fiction authors like the pseudo-memoir because they can say things and discuss things with plausible deniability: it’s only the characters that are discussing these out there ideas, not the author, don’t be mad at the author. [4/14/16: But speculative fiction as a genre accomplishes this remove already, so it's not quite necessary for just this remove.] It also allows them a path to follow and fits a linear narrative form: The Chronoliths and The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, to name two others here on this blog. Though some attempt a non-linear narrative: Starship Troopers is one of the more famous examples. The memoir tactic involves the narrator breaking the fourth wall and setting down their memories of what happened for posterity—in speculative fiction, usually a fictional posterity. For instance, Mannie tells the true story of the moon rebellion, its war for independence. Scott tells the story of The Chronoliths in an attempt to explain the final Wyoming chronolith, but explains portions through interludes of backstory. Both Mannie and Scott talk to the reader consistently and explain themselves in order to force some nebulous fictional reader to understand their actions and points of view; and Kinnall Darival does the same here. Kinnall’s story involves subverting the basic tenants of the society that he is a part of, so he continually seeks to explain his actions to other members of the society, his hoped for readers. This takes place in a linear fashion with only three or four parts told from the “now” perspective of Kinnall exiled in the desert, alone and hunted while feverishly writing his memoir. So he doesn’t add anything to the tactic, but that’s fine because he pulls off the tactic well—not spectacularly, but not poorly.

2. The theme here is interesting, and well wrinkled by Silverberg. Silverberg’s ultimate point seems to be that only in understanding others can we understand ourselves. But he shows an even-handed amount of negative and positive effects of baring one’s soul to others: Kinnall is hunted and exiled for it, he loses his faith and closest friends, but he also gains a perspective that he values in feeling kinship with all humanity and wishing that they were less unnecessarily self-repressed. The society is one of self-separation—talking frankly is discouraged and obscene—but Kinnall discovers that the repression of self in this way is not placing self on a pedestal, rather subsuming it beneath the society. Instead, he proselytizes a bonding of people with others in order to truly understand self and the relationship it has with the surrounding society. He does this through a magic drug, but I think it’s an interesting discussion none the less. His musings on sociability and friendliness are fascinating and applicable.

3. The writing is not something spectacular or groundbreaking, but it doesn’t induce cringing too often. His sentence structures are not as varied as I prefer, but it’s also not so simplistic that it’s annoying. His word choices are sometimes awkward, but not too often. It’s fine writing.

4. There is a lot of sex, but I think it’s less sensationalism and more a desire to compare and contrast sex with the self-baring that Kinnall engages in. Even sex can be a thing one does mentally alone, despite the presence of a partner. And though both share in the experience, one or both can be objectified and not understood. The connection may not be a serious one and hence, Kinnall’s self-baring is more effective. This keeps the sex from being a sensational inclusion into the novel.

5. The characters are well-developed. Halum is innocent to a fault. Noim is suspicious to a fault. Kinnall, despite the punny name, is neither, but he has his own faults. He’s a well-developed character who, having found a true release, can’t help but share it with others. In this way he’s a convert to a new religion, away from the one of his youth, and wracked by existential guilt and self-questioning to try and come to terms with his new state of being. But he's also that over-enthusiastic new-convert who wont shut up about it. He’s understandable and engaging as a character, and I think that’s a strength of Silverberg’s writing.

6. One thing Silverberg did really well is skip unimportant portions. There is a section of the book where the short chapters grow even shorter—a single paragraph long each—to catalogue the various converts Kinnall initiates into his drug-cult. Rather than dwelling on each and creating a story for each, Silverberg shows hints of the others and gives the reader a sense of the spreading influence of Kinnall’s spirituality. This is about the only experimental writing in here, but it works well to keep the story moving and not bog it down in descriptions of similar situations occurring over and over again.

7. In all, I am not too impressed with this book. It is an enjoyable read and it engages applicable, interesting ideas in a good way. Kinnall is well rounded. But I’m not terribly enthused about the writing or the structure.

The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K Le Guin

For Lu.

1. The length of this constitutes a novella, to me. It’s about 175 pages long, my copy, so it might be a short novel. And as a novella, it covers a lot of ground. There is one jump to buy at the beginning—George Orr’s dreams change reality in the present, and retroactively. From there, all else follows. This is something Pixar does really well, except in Up. What makes their movies so good is also what makes this book good: one logic leap set forth at the beginning, and if you can buy that, the novella unfolds entirely from that leap. This is a pretty common speculative fiction tactic, but Le Guin perfectly accomplishes it here. Once that one disbelief is suspended, it all makes so much sense.

2. In terms of the world-building, there is an awful lot going on. Because each of George’s dreams change reality, the world is constantly being built and rebuilt. Usually this troubles me, as a reader, and is an excuse for a deus ex machina ending, but because of that first logical leap, that prime suspension of disbelief, this change is signposted well and is easy to handle.

3. But the plot is not the point—it's really just some excitement as window dressing to the theme. The point is this battle between the American dream, tied up with objectivism and ego, and the Taoist contentment, linked to balance and acceptance of reality. This theme carries the novel and allows Le Guin’s wonderful cultural criticism to take center stage. To give an example:

That Haber could have thus got out of communication with himself was rather hard for Orr to conceive; his own mind was so resistant to such divisions that he was slow to recognize them in others. But he had learned that they existed. He had grown up in a country run by politicians who sent the pilots to man the bombers to kill the babies to make the world safe for children to grow up in.

This is the sort of political, social, and cultural criticism the novel allows for. But it’s all rooted in the contrast and philosophical battle between the two main characters: Orr and Huber.

4. She builds Orr and Huber as characters so well. She builds them through George’s interior monologue and Huber’s exterior ones. She builds them through allowing other characters’ viewpoints to help explain aspects of the characters. She builds them through the way they both dream. She builds them through their actions, inactions, and dialogue as well. But the way she builds them distinctly influences the novel. I understand George as an introvert and huber as an extrovert, and everything they do confirms this. I understand George as balanced and Huber as a shell, and she tells me this as well as shows it. I understand George as content and Huber as ambitious, and every piece of the novel confirms this—even George’s action at the end, the one action of his life. It’s not that George is against confrontation, it’s that he only accepts it as necessary when he sees no other option, when all of his other options have been taken away from him. At the same time, he’s not perfect—his brain takes shortcuts. Each dream brings positives and negatives. And through these negatives Le Guin further examines what makes humans human.

5. The writing is deft and well done. Sure, there are some word choices I would change, but for the most part the writing is enjoyable. It gets out of the way most of the time, but comes to the fore in short, quotable sections that profoundly explain or define the concepts Le Guin sets against each other in this novella:

The end justifies the means. But what if there never is an end? All we have is means.

Sure, it could be viewed as trite, but I think this sense of the Tao that Le Guin advocates for here is an interesting and understandable one, and that’s important to me, as a reader.

6. In all, I loved this novella. I’ve now read two books by Le Guin and can’t wait to find more of her work to read and enjoy. I’m wondering if all of her stuff discusses such important things as this and The Left Hand of Darkness do. It does date itself a little by presuming an un-erupted Mt St Helens, but that's to be expected.