The Secret of Santa Vittoria by Robert Crichton

This book made me laugh, a lot, and often. But it also tickled my brain a lot, and it excited me. It’s a rare work to do all three—be funny, intelligent, and exciting. Some of my favorite books and authors do this regularly, and I may have found another favorite book.

As a writer, Crichton’s strength rests in:
—His ability to make the dialogue sound unique for most of the characters. It’s a rare talent and one I always look up to wherever I can find it.
—He uses dialogue to snap off these witty one-liners and then explore opposing views briefly. For instance, “there is no cure for birth.” That’s a brilliant one-liner. I love that.
—As a writer he uses language sparingly, in the sense that the word “fuck” is only used once, which gives it a certain type of power in the novel. He takes care in his use of words, playing to their strengths.
—His language is concise and roundabout. Where Asimov tries for the greatest clarity he can, Crichton plays with words more, stretches sentence forms more, and comes up with a voice that is good to read. He’s not going for direct clarity, he is going for building language in interesting ways.

Then, as a storyteller, I think his skill shows through clearly. He uses humor judiciously—it’s not all slapstick and irreverently punny. But he puts bits of wit and jokes in to lighten the mood, set the overall tone, explain and explore characters. He refrains from overburdening the novel with humor—the notable torture scene has no humor, which is a strong move as a storyteller. The humor successfully assists the novel in its overall arc.

The characters are not characters though. To me, this novel is an allegorical philosophy, all wrapped up in an adventurous comedy. Nietzsche (Von Prum) versus Sartre or Diogenes (Babbaluche) versus Machiavelli (Bombolini) versus Kant (Tufa) versus romanticism (Fabio) versus Engineering (Luigi) versus American Optimism (Roberto). These philosophical allegories play out in the day-to-day of the hillside villagers, as they approach situation after situation. The grand gesture is the rightful province of the post-modern. Organization falls to the duty-bound Kantian. Inward exploration by the Nietzschian leads to self deception. Machiavelli was right about human behavior, but a heartless bastard. Fabio is the frustrated romantic lusting after the romantic gesture. The Engineer gets things done but is only useful on such a narrow scope that he is useless for much of life, and sits drunk all day and nobody minds. And American Optimism can see outside the box easily, but doesn’t ever see the whole picture. There is no traditional winner in this novel, it's more a compare contrast allegory than one with a champion.

These types of tales tend to be organized around journeys where the philosophical protagonist visits arguments in turn on a physical journey. Small Gods, Piers Plowman, Foundation and Earth, The Pilgrim’s Progress—but Crichton keeps his focus on a single place, the small town of Santa Vittoria, instead of traveling all over. And I think this is because there is no real protagonist to the arguments, no champion of the author. Instead, this is an extended compare and contrast of various philosophies and concepts through facing situations that face the townspeople.

The central question is what is life worth. “It is better to live one day as a lion than 1000 years as a sheep,” said Mussolini. And this is the central question of the novel. What do you risk your life for? Work? Your effort to produce? Family? Country? Honor? Duty? Von Prum is willing to give up his life to do his duty. Bombolini the clown tries to commit suicide in order to atone for the wrongs of his past and because his wife has taken his purpose of selling wine from him. The mayor Bombolini risks his life for his people’s life’s work, the hiding of the wine, and most of the minor characters agree. Fabio risks his life for the grand romantic gesture—both in trying to save Bombolini and in joining the resistance. Babbaluche gives his life for the good joke, for the end of his choosing. Tufa, that damaged fascist, thinks that by avenging his honor on his cheating woman, he can atone for what he did to people in the war. If there is a conclusion, I think the conclusion has to be that no one philosophy can explain all of reality, tradition and upbringing underpin every human, and you had better examine what you're willing to risk your life for before it's too late. Is it worth it to sacrifice to live ten more hours, when those hours will be spent uselessly? Why not take pleasure in the here and now, within moderation?

The story is the same, over and over, only the facts are different and the names and the places.

I find this a thoroughly post-modern book: tropes and cliches are both comedically sent-up while simultaneously shown to still retain some power. Like Pratchett, Vonnegut, and Heller, this is a sensational tactic and book. The flipside is that the characters are sketchy, not deep, and they seem to come and go randomly. But reading this as an allegory really unlocked it for me and I love it.

Master & Commander by Patrick O'Brian

I find a pattern of analysis fits this first book in the series: that of yes and no, or the supremacy of the "but". For instance, Jack’s character is inconsistent; but, that perceived inconsistency may actually be a part of his character, making him consistently inconsistent. And that pattern of analysis fits the way I think about this novel pretty well: first thinking something isn’t done well, then thinking that at least it’s used well, then coming to a paradoxical conclusion. This pattern is a bad sign. Then again, I appreciate these conflicts driving the book forward. So this pattern is both good and bad? Maybe it’s often initially off putting, then forgive-able.

The most apparent aspect of this pattern is the language. The language of the whole attempts an early nineteenth century diction. There are a couple of cringe worthy moments, but then O’Brian winks an eye and takes the reader through Mowett’s lengthy description of the rigging with obvious humor. Mowett’s description shows how O’Brian uses nautical terminology much like a science fiction author uses technobabble: he gives a detailed and esoteric description of the actions the crew does, but then summarizes the relevant result for the reader. So maybe his use of archaic language is not terrible? Or maybe I’m just used to it by the end of the book?

A counter-example would be William Shakespeare, who writes Julius Caesar using the language of his day—making the play legible to his audience to try outselling the bear-baiting pit next door—instead of using an archaic language. But Shakespeare gives flavor through the subject and scenery instead. For instance, the line, “Friends, Romans, Countrymen,” sets the scene effectively in the time period. It’s a somewhat illuminating comparison to me, but it still leaves me confused: the comparison points out simply that two authors took two different tactics to communicate the time period of their works. But is one better than the other? I tend to think it may be more a case-by-case basis, and less a hard and fast rule, but there’s obviously a balance to be struck here, depending on the work in question. In general, I like period language for the dialogue, and the author’s contemporary language for the narrative; but again, that’s not a hard and fast rule. By the end of the book, O’Brian’s work is really starting to sound good.

But at the beginning, his use of language rides a fine line between annoyance and setting the scene. For instance, the line of dialogue, “Thankee, thankee, Captain. I am far better, I am glad to say, now I am out of the clutches of that bloody-minded sawbones.” Sure, when Latin was more widely studied by children, literate people used more complex sentences and more phrases in sentences—I can buy that this premise makes some sense. But this man is drunk. Does he come off drunk? Or did the language get in the way of O’Brian communicating the nature of the character, in favor of communicating his conception of the scene in general? Is this just “talk like a pirate day”, the book? Or, on seeing a group of sailors in the first chapter: “but they all of them had long swinging pigtails”. Looks like the editor forgot to take out either “they” or “all of them”.

The most interesting part of the character arc of Jack—that transition between one of the men and one of them—is glossed over with a later comment that he was never really one of the men because he was only busted down to their level, and even then for only a few months. This missed opportunity rankles. But the counter for this would be that when he loses James Dillon, it affects him more than perhaps it would have if Jack was still a normal sailor. However, without seeing Jack more often before his command, it’s impossible for the reader to judge how much of a change is occurring. But, because there is always a but with this book, the author has to start his story somewhere, and that sense of peeking into these men’s lives in media res is well done for sure. I am left with a sense that we’re watching a snapshot of a part of the continuum of these mens’ lives.

The biggest annoyance was Stephen, who is attracted to a cruise or two for the philosophical benefits, the travel, and the naturalism. He has enough leisure time that he stares through a pipe into the sea most of the day, but is too caught up in the JA JD clustercuss to really engage in the amount of philosophical contemplation that was forecast. That said, as always with this book, there’s another way to look at it: there is quite a bit of insight into reality and people here, and I did come away contemplating the condensed nature of ship-crews, service politics, and war in general. But why is Stephen down on his luck? Because he’s hiding from his nationalistic Irish past? That makes some sense, but I’m not sure.

The tertiary annoyance for me is that the story wanders: it sort of episodes its way to a sort of conclusion that clearly billboards a series to come. Balls still in the air at the end include:

• Jack’s relations with the Hartes,
• the Navy’s official response to the successful actions of Jack,
• the hints of threatening peace, (Spoiler Alert, it happened in 1802 and lasted about half a second) which I find interesting as Jack has been at sea since 12, and in that mindset since 9, making him a younger Achilles, who was at war from 15-25;
• the backstory of Jack’s role in the Battle of the Nile,
• Jack as a shipless captain,
• Jack overcoming the death of Dillon,
• Jack recognizing the uselessness of Dillon’s replacement and dealing with that situation,
• Jack’s secret, buxom source of Spanish shipping details,
• et cetera.

Though that list is just for Jack. The other characters all have their own lists, and the novel has its own as well.In other words, there are many characters, and none are resolved by the story of this book. INSERT BILLBOARD FOR SEQUEL HERE. However, again, that life-as-a-continuum feeling the book embraces is spectacular. This annoyance is the flipside of that authorial choice.

If the book was better, I wouldn’t be quibbling quite as much, but it’s not the best book I’ve read, so these quibbles are stuck in my mind as possible reasons for why I wasn’t infatuated with this work. However, I’m intrigued enough to read another book in this series, though this one wasn’t great.

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

I came into this book knowing only that it was about WWII, and written by Tony Doerr. He used to visit my English department when I was in college at the University of Idaho. I liked The Shell Collector collection of short stories, so I was looking forward to my first novel of his.

He didn’t disappoint, but he also didn’t hit a home run. His writing is strong, evocative if not iconoclastic. Interesting if not engrossing. Easy, but sometimes beautiful too. I read part of it, and audiobooked part of it, and I think I preferred listening to it—a clear indicator for my personal metric that the book lacks a flair for description and dialogue, but doesn’t disappoint at the same time. This seems contradictory, I know. But the book is obviously edited well, as far as the words on the page go, but maybe a little too well. Not everybody can have a writing calling card that sets them apart from the rest, but not everybody needs one. I will not be trying to write like Doerr, but I didn’t feel like the book was a slog to read.

The novel jumps back and forth in time in interesting ways, but I do not plan to emulate his tactic. This narrative time traveling leaves cliff hangers all over the place, allowing the whole to feel much more pulpy than I anticipated. And that’s maybe a good way to put this: it’s a book aimed squarely at a broad base of the reading public. Some others of Doerr’s tactics help drive this point home for me, but the cliffhanger endings, quick chapters, and jumping back and forth point to a desire for readability that might not be my personal favorite cup of tea.

The novel tells the story of a couple of children during WWII, and the adults around them. One is a Nazi soldier, another a blind French girl. The characters engage the reader through their hopes and dreams and experiences, more than their dialogue or personality. They’re tour guides for the personality-filled characters around them. And that’s not a negative, but it’s also not a positive. The problem comes in with the Nazi boy. In an effort to make him sympathetic, he is drowned in tragic and iconoclastic situations: coal mining orphan, smaller than the other boys, picked on because he's almost albino, younger than the other boys, more sensitive than the other boys, a scientific genius, a natural leader of the other orphan children, never kills anybody, steps on a landmine at the end, and on, and on, and on. It’s heavy handed and the single place this book really annoyed. Instead of digging into the character, Doerr just piles more traits on. Instead of going in depth, he paints with a broader and broader brush. Instead of premising his book with, “Germans were people too in WWII,” Doerr trips over himself trying to allow this book to be widely palatable.

The theme revolves around dreams and reality. Both of the main characters are driven by their dreams, but reality keeps getting in the way through tragic means. This distinction never resolves into a clear statement, but the plot implies that reality wins, but dreams have value also. This is a popular sentiment that the book builds well.

So, a short set of notes for a book that lots of people will enjoy. When I finished it, I thought, “What beat this for the Pulitzer that year?” I looked it up: this did win the Pulitzer in 2015. And I think it’s a perfect fit for that prize: it’s tragic and heartwarming, widely readable, and doesn’t challenge too much. I’m happy I read it and have recommended it to friends.

Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders

For Zac.

1. I think the structure of the novel stands out the most to me, so I’ll deal with that first. The structure of the narrative works for me, but it's also clear this it will be the biggest complaint people have, the reason some people will not read this novel. The structure ends up being fairly simple, but unexplained. As an unusual structure, not explaining it will alienate readers. That's not to say Saunders should or should not have explained it, just that he limits his potential audience. That’s again not a bad thing—every technique a storyteller uses limits potential audience, even writing it in English. I'm more interested in solidifying a statement about new tactics and structures in general, though I will begin by discussing his specific tactic here.
—I haven't read a book structured like this before. It took me a while to wrap my head around. I remember, around about page fifty, noticing a quote from a book about the period of Lincoln's presidency that I know about. That confirmed what I already thought about the structure. Namely, there are two types of chapters here:
⭘ Some chapters follow the characters Saunders creates or borrows from history. Saunders has them telling the reader what happens in their bardo, this purgatory-esque afterlife before reincarnation or judgment. This invented portion of fantasy literature bases itself upon the historical other chapters.
⭘ The other chapters show what are mostly found text quotes about this period of Lincoln's presidency, the American Civil War, and the death of Willie Lincoln. They are snipped from history books, newspapers, and letters. I say “mostly found text” because I read online that some of the quotes are Saunders’ inventions. They come off like newspaper clippings, constituting their own chapters, which intersperse with the characters’ chapters. It shows the great amount of research done by Saunders, and adds to the context and story.
—Both types of chapters here are very short: a couple of pages at most. And they’re written in short sections, usually a paragraph or two. It looks like a play on the page.
—This structure makes sense. Weird, but simple. However, I was confused for 50-90 pages before it really clicked. Because of the spacing that makes the page look like a play’s script, that's probably more like 20-50 pages of a normal novel. But I believe it will turn some people off. It requires the reader trust the author and keep reading—though all novels do to some extent. This required trust is mitigated by that brilliant opening, which drew me in like crazy. In the beginning, Saunders lets the characters introduce themselves by introducing themselves to Willie, and this as a character-building technique is cliche for a reason—when it works, like it does here, the reader can’t put the book down because there are already so many balls in the air right off the bat. I read this book in a little over twenty-four hours. The contradictions and conflicts are apparent at the start, and Saunders lays out that there are multiple narrators, and all are partially unreliable. The found text chapters are usually a nice rest from the craziness of the characters, pauses in the insanity of the fantasy plot, an anchor for the reader to touch that helps drive the plot and introduce new acts into the characters’ story; while the character chapters get crazier and crazier until a war in the afterlife essentially gets going.
—So, the question is, does this structure read like new for the sake of new? I ended up liking the novel a lot. But in order to recommend it to friends, I almost feel like it has to be paired with a warning about the structure. While somebody like me may be into experimental writing in general, and respond to this book positively, if it doesn't work for more people than just Literature Nerds, does it really work? The first to do something isn't always the genius, but the first to do something well is the person the world remembers. Or is a new idea inherently good, even if the execution doesn't quite work out? Is there a difference in the answer to this question between Literature Nerds and people who casually read things that sometimes include literary fiction?
—I think the answer lies in the specifics of the book: yes, it works; and because it works so well, I can't say it's new for the sake of new. Saunders pulls it off. He may be the first to do this, and his both feet in the deep end approach to this structure will alienate readers. But that's fine. It means that for some people, like my spouse, they will not even attempt to read this book. And it seems clear from the response that this novel will be in the jurisdiction of Literature Nerds. But that's no different than Naguib Mahfouz, no different than Dante today, no different than Denis Johnson. And that's some good company to be in, by my book.

Only then (nearly out the door, so to speak) did I realize how unspeakably beautiful all of this was, how precisely engineered for our pleasure, and saw that I was on the brink of squandering a wondrous gift, the gift of being allowed, every day, to wander this vast sensual paradise, this grand marketplace lovingly stocked with every sublime thing.

2. And those characters are superb. They're humans as they really are, without masks. Which is slightly odd, coming from an author I already like who typically does such a great job showing how peoples’ masks interact in oddly funny ways. But here, he uses their own words to damn them. They are solely built through telling; and in telling us things, Saunders lets them talk. Rather than staying focused and moving along, the novel is full of eddies in the narrative current, backtracking up tributaries, and switching back and forth between the characters’ stream and the stream of the historical notes. It feels like an Erroll Morris interview, where the interviewed gets nervous at the silence and then just keeps talking.

He came out of nothingness, took form, was loved, was always bound to return to nothingness. Only I did not think it would be so soon. Or that he would precede us. Two passing temporarinesses developed feelings for one another. Two puffs of smoke became mutually fond. I mistook him for a solidity, and now must pay. I am not stable and Mary not stable and the very buildings and monuments here not stable and the greater city not stable and the wide world not stable. All alter, are altering, in every instant. (Are you comforted?) No.

3. The world building is both told and shown. Both types of chapters contribute to the fantasy world that Saunders has built. And considering his chapters are split between showing and telling, the world is built with both, unlike the characters.

Strange, isn't it? To have dedicated one's life to a certain venture, neglecting other aspects of one's life, only to have that venture, in the end, amount to nothing at all, the products of one's labors ultimately forgotten?

4. The writing is something to praise, through and through. The found text never feels forced, or over-long—he clips the best bits out and presents them concisely, but with enough variety that they never grow overly repetitive. At the same time, the characters are a bunch of unique people who are well flushed out. Their dialogue is wonderful. It’s legible, but still retains enough idiosyncrasies that they are distinguishable from the words on the page. His word choices sometimes sing, but Saunders never forces poetry on a character’s voice, rather letting their speech patterns dictate his writing. That's a technique that I appreciate.

When a child is lost there is no end to the self-torment a parent may inflict. When we love, and the object of our love is small, weak, and vulnerable, and has looked to us and us alone for protection; and when such protection, for whatever reason, has failed, what consolation (what justification, what defense) may there possibly be?

5. In all, a spectacular book that may be relegated to the Literary Nerds Only pile. Though the characters and writing and structure all harmonize brilliantly, not much plot happens and it’s a weird structure and it looks like a play on the page. I was asked, "What is that you are reading?" instead of "What book are you reading?" And I think these three traits may mean the book does not see as many readers as it should. I love it, and I hope many, many people read it and share my love, but it may become a cult classic like Lolita before it, or The Circus of Dr. Lao. Great novels, but some explanation might help a potential reader get into them. This is a serious reader’s book, not a casual reader’s book. At the end of the day, the books that are both popular and respected by academics are the ones that will be remembered. I don't think that this book, this meditation on death, will be popular enough, though I think it will be respected enough.

First 50 Novels

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

Great Books by date published:
Ancillary Mercy, 2015: Leckie perfected her pacing, voice, characters, and plotting—while the addition of the Translator provided much-appreciated comedic breathing spaces.
The Goblin Emperor, 2014: If you need violence and sex for excitement in a novel, this isn't for you. If you appreciate deep, applicable character study, this is your book. Before this, it had been at least a decade since I read a book so strong that not only did I put the author's other works on my to-buy list, but also other important and influential works within the sub-genre.
Lord of Light, 1967: Poetry and plot melded perfectly together. I could read this prose for days and days. This is writing!
The Player of Games, 1988: The pacing and applicability of the plot are astounding in their perfection. It's exciting but also deeply meditative in a way that informs the reader about themselves.
The Stars My Destination, 1956: Retelling The Count of Monte Cristo allowed Bester to get experimental with his writing, and that resulted in my favorite Bester novel yet. He deserves all the accolades he gets for his ability to combine exciting adventure and important insights.

Close on their heels are Good Books by date published:
The Dark Forest, 2015: Guided by its engaging eponymous central theme, this is so much better than The Three-Body Problem it's not even close.
Ancillary Justice, 2013: What a debut novel! Solid world building, writing, and pacing. She melds the writing and plot and characters so that everything supports everything else.
The Name of the Wind/The Wise Man's Fear, 2007/2011: This is how you tell a story! I'm not even sure where the story is going, or whether Rothfuss knows, but I don't care because I am so into it when I'm reading it.
Inversions, 1998: Perfects the split-narrative that didn't quite work in Use of Weapons. Would be one category up if it had a more interesting or applicable theme.
Excession, 1996: Great space opera. It's fun to watch everything unravel like this. The plot reminds me of the Doomtree line, "Okay. Plan B: just panic."
Startide Rising/Uplift War, 1983/1987: Character development and strong plot pacing in spades.
The Lathe of Heaven, 1971: This is a great philosophical debate between two interesting characters.
The Left Hand of Darkness, 1969: That back and forth between Ai and Estraven is not quite friendly, not quite antagonistic, not quite anything but a fascinating study of the alien-ness of any other and ourselves. But it's the mix of mysticism, science, and adventure that drew me in. This is so close to being a Great Book.
2001: A Space Odyssey, 1968: As it's own book, 2001 is a great read. It also wholly replaced Childhood's End as the much better book covering almost all of the same ground.
Damnation Alley, 1967: Zelazny can write pulp fiction with some beautifully tight prose, evoking Raymond Chandler and Alfred Bester.
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, 1966: Completely characteristic of Heinlein letting his characters run away with his novel.
The Day of the Triffids, 1951: That sardonic, conversational tone that Wyndham hits so well is such a joy to read.

Interesting Flawed Books, also known as Enjoyable Books, by date published:
Ancillary Sword, 2014: That slow start is brutal to get through, but the book shapes up wonderfully by the end.
A Song of Ice and Fire series, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2005, 2011: Fascinating structure and complexity, but to me it broke my suspension of disbelief by having too many resurrections and implied murders turn out to be not-murders. I keep thinking this series should be one category up because he does so much so well. The concluding two works could solidify the whole series here, or bump it up a tier permanently.
Use of Weapons, 1990: Interesting idea poorly executed because he held everything too close to his chest for too long.
Creatures of Light and Darkness, 1969: An interesting journey that I was bemused by at the end.
This Immortal (aka ...And Call Me Conrad), 1965: Somewhere between the confusing pace and shifting focus of Creatures and the straight adventure plot of Damnation Alley. It pulls off neither, but is an interesting first novel.
A Canticle for Leibowitz, 1960: Funny and fascinating, but ultimately too brutal to the pacing and the Catholic Monks to really be endearing.
Childhood's End, 1953: Interesting, but completely blown out of the water by 2001.
The Count of Monte Cristo, 1844, 1845: Fascinating and a wonderful plot. But overlong by far.
Northanger Abbey, 1817: A hilarious and wonderfully written satirical novel that fails because people don't understand what she's satirizing.

And Bad Books I wish I hadn't read, by date published, with quotes from my reviews:
The Three-Body Problem, 2014: "He starts with the beautiful telling-phrase, 'She spoke like a telegraph—'. This confirms what I already knew with a novel phrase—a great tactic. However, he goes on: 'and gave him the impression that she was always extremely cold.' Okay, now that's just redundant. But he doesn’t end there: he keeps hammering the point home through four more long sentences that feel like he’s belaboring the point unnecessarily because he doesn’t believe the reader understands yet. [...] I am still slightly bemused [about plot and pacing]. And I'm not sure it's in the good way."
Consider Phlebas, 1987: "The pacing in the story is inconsistent to me. There are portions that seem to drag, portions that seem to speed by, and a few portions that feel just right for the amount of action, ideas, and characterization involved. Specifically, he drew out the build-up to the ending too far. I understand drawing that buildup out somewhat helped him increase tension, but he drew it out too much: at the start, I was wondering where he was going because he started so far back; and by the end I grew a bit bored and had to reread a couple of paragraphs here and there because my mind started wandering."
Ubik, 1969: "I think at some level, these existential-questioning-of-reality novels are all interesting, but none really stand out too far from the rest for me. Some of Dostoevsky’s works are notable, for sure. [...] I think whichever of these novels a reader first reads that clicks with them will probably be their favorite."
The Caves of Steel, 1954: "Partly that failure is the fault of the implausibility of the investigation—basic police questions are ignored until the end, three days into the investigation. The detective does not even view the site of the crime until then. But mostly it is the main character not being well written or interesting. He comes off like a caricature of a detective, while continually assuring himself that his partner is the character, not him. He is a puppet and Asimov jerks the strings this way and that in a logical pattern, but not a human one—Elijah's never quite believable."
Foundation, 1942, 1943, 1944, 1951: "What a slow and uninteresting opening! This is exactly what I try to avoid in my writing—these couple of tedious chapters of pure world building. The intro info dump is awkward and slow and if I wasn't listening to it, I probably would've stopped reading it, I was that bored. The details of the world building are not even that different or interesting enough to allow this."
The Plague, 1947: "This is a failure. It failed to hold my attention, my interest, or my empathy. It is a convoluted mess, and it leaves me to think that Camus can't be bothered to tell a story, write a sentence, or communicate an idea. At the least he cannot here. His characters are flat and uninteresting and they all speak in the same voice - they are mostly indistinguishable throughout the novel. Even if the character similarities are intentional for some obscure point about "mankind", this is just bad writing. A lot of the pages seem like filler - like they do not illuminate characters, situations, the plot, or the underlying ideas. It also seems like a shallow description of a plague ravaged town that carries little weight or believability. Camus is forever telling his readers that he will explain something later, which I think is a bad writing tactic. But by the time I got to the end of the book, I wished he would've explained some of the book itself."
Brave New World, 1932: "The release of tension, John throwing soma out the window, is a bit of a letdown. I understand that some act is necessary to collide the controller and John, and that the controller would try and cut off any of this type of behavior before it got out of hand, but even with all the punching, it seems a little unlike John. I think he would understand the physical differences between classes and try and change some betas or Alpha minuses. His attempts to change some deltas seems stupid and hopeless. None of the rest of the novel communicated John as stupid to me."
Last and First Men, 1930: "This pacing struck me two ways: either Stapledon is not being as fair and evenhanded with his philosophical opponents in the second half as he was in the first, or he ran out of steam as a writer. Like when you try and fit a word onto a note card and you kinda run out of room so you mash all the letters together there at the edge and it's pretty obvious that you ran out of room. That's almost what this "acceleration of tempo" feels like. This disproportion between how much time is spent on the first men, and how much time is spent on the tenth through seventeenth men was a little frustrating as a reader. It felt like a little more planning or editing could have helped."

So you don't have to go through a process of elimination, I had already read:
Baudolino, 2000, 2002: Read at own risk, not for those who need a reliable narrator. Or author.
The Dune series, 1965, 1969, 1976, 1981, 1984, 1985: 1 & 4 were great, 3 & 5 were good, 2 & 6 were bad.
Starship Troopers, 1959: Every time I read it I'm sucked in again. But I never come out the other side liking it more or less. It's a neutral novel to my tastes.
Lord Jim, 1900: One of the best I've ever read.
The Time Machine, 1895: I re-read this every few years because I like it that much.

Now onto some more novels.

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas & Auguste Maquet

For Garrett

1. This novel is a rollicking good adventure. Something is always happening—every chapter has its point. Even when a scene comes as a surprise with no forewarning—like the first Cavalcanti scene—it only takes a couple of pages to get underway. In this, at this, to this I marvel. But how did he do this? I think it was mainly through two tactics: the first is the incessant action that remains central to every chapter, driving the plot forward; and the second is long breaks for back story or separate stories within the overarching story. These lengthy back stories allow the actions to breathe and the readers to catch their breath. The plot is so relentlessly driving that these breaks from the action are necessary. Haydée's three chapter long story is the most glaring example of this, and what a story! I was all attention. And when her story was over, the book returned to the driving necessities of Edmund's revenge and I felt refreshed and ready to continue.

2. Descriptions are splendid here. Instead of full on blazon, we get "lovely", for example, which allows the imagination of the reader to run with it, imagining their own version of "lovely" and placing that in the novel. This, like never showing the monster in a horror film, is much more effective than blazon could have been. But, he still gives enough specifics to get the ball rolling: a long neck, thin lips, delicate hands, et cetera. Usually he gives one or two of these, and that works. These descriptors come off as hints, tantalizing glimpses that get the mind running. This praise of descriptors applies equally to people and places. It's imagination sparking to think of that lovely garden beside the telegraph tower—a place full of hinting lines that the reader has to fill in with details from their own experience.

3. My biggest complaint is a lack of personality in many characters. This doesn't matter in Shakespeare's plays because they are so short. But here, because this book is so long, the lack of personality in the characters is glaring. At its base this is the side effect of his focus on actions. Like Marshawn Lynch, he is all about that action, and his characters seem to be as well because that's the only way we know many of them. The many characters end up being indistinguishable in a novel so packed full of actions. Though the Count, Albert, and Abbet Faria are distinguishable and their actions support their characterization, they are distinguished by more than just their actions. Their conversations, their thoughts, their interactions with other characters all define these three actual characters better than the indistinguishable rest of the characters in the book.

4. My 2nd biggest complaint is that the novel skips the character changing time in Edmund Dantès' life. We see, in his dungeon, the beginning of the change and the reasons for it. But we miss the 10 years where the change actually occurs. This is probably to increase the mystery of his return. But I think the hints to these 10 years are not quite enough for me as a reader. He had the treasure, then he had a hundred million. He is a new person, but we do not see the character arc. The book is focused, like the plot, on the revenge. It ignores the large bit of time where Edmund Dantès betters himself and prepares for his campaign. As somebody who often prefers character development to plot, I do think this is a weakness in the novel. Though we can speculate—especially with the hints provided—this novel leaves me wanting to know more about that period in Dantès' life than the basic: 1. Steal treasure. 2. ??? 3. Profit!

5. We're left with the puzzle of Edmund Dantès at the end: namely does the reader believe that he is God's agent or not? The ending leaves us with this moral ambiguity. This is the central problem of the book, and it's not answered at the end despite hints seeming to point in both directions. I enjoyed this mystery. I feel like when the book first came out and everybody in the world had read it, you could define something about people by whether they thought Edmund was God's divine wrathful angel, or whether he was a petty slighted lover selfishly pursuing his own vengeance.

Baudolino by Umberto Eco

For Garrett

1. Chapter Structure: without some cheap cliffhanger endings, he keeps it moving well and quickly. How? Each chapter is a sort of short story, and something interesting happens in each. But I don't think the titles can be undersold: they're slightly spoiler-ish, slightly funny, and all while beautifully satirizing Biblical interstitial titles, which are dumb. Because of the narrator himself, some chapters fly by while others more slowly examine something perplexing.

2. Honesty: Baudolino doesn't understand the meaning of his life story and neither does Eco. Until Baudolino understands at the end, the book lets in little light. It's confusing when Budolino is confused and clear when he has clarity. This is fun! But it turns off most of my friends to this novel.

3. At its base, this book is a combination of a medieval travelogue and dialogue. This is intriguing and well realized. It's a nontraditional dialogue, sure, but it works. Neko (Pictured Above) with his wealth, his power, and Baudolino with his love, his power. Neko with seeing the forest, Baudolino with examining every tree. I don't think it lacks movement at any point.

4. Foreshadowing: Eco is a master of this here. From slipping in his father's death at the start, to every chapter's title, to little mentions and hints of the journey Budolino takes, the foreshadowing helps make this book run. It keeps the reader excited for what's coming next.

5. Characterization: Frederick is wrathful and loving both, but the rest, well, they're not explicitly described at almost any point. I'm thinking mainly of Neko and Baudolino. We slowly understand that Baudolino is childish, trusting, and sort of going through the motions of life. Not listless, per say, but perhaps not as addicted to long-term goals and dreams as others. Even his project of discerning his story is forgotten by him for 40 plus years after he tries just ten pages. His big character arc is really tied up with this, so by the end he has goals and follows them. Neko on the other hand, is a wealthy, powerful member of court, and values the finer things of life. He's addicted to his culture. Through and through he finds meaning in keeping things as they are. Today he would be really into sustainability. By the end, neither of their reactions are surprising because Eco does a great job of defining them by showing rather than telling. The secondary characters are more told, but this works for them because they are not central to the novel.

6. The End: Baudolino glimpses meaning to his life—his service to those around him—then goes off to pursue that, first as a stylite outsider dispensing wisdom and sense, then as a father trying to find his daughter again. He also wants his story told as a sort of text to learn from; in other words, he wants to serve the world through their memory of him as well. He is horrified by learning that he drowned his father, and wants to continue helping people—it becomes his obsession. Though it really was all along, he finally realizes it.