Destination: Void

Although we have a limited setting and a small cast of characters, this isn’t to be mistaken for a diorama. Our characters aren’t very fleshed out, and we never really get inside their heads – this is a screen on which to project artificial intelligence. To borrow a metaphor from the book, this is tossing ink on a spider’s web.

From a hard science fiction point of view, the plot here is a little silly – a project based on the Moon is sending out ships full of clones that will be destroyed if they get too close to unleashing something terrible upon humanity? That’s either a colossal waste of resources, or, if the resources are as cheap as the book seems to imply, a colossal waste of time, since if the resources are practically infinite, why bother? One could argue that the development of AI is so important that the researchers involved are willing to throw these resources at it even though they themselves, nor anyone on Earth, will ever benefit, but even that generous reading strains credulity, given what we see in the prologue.

What Herbert does best (as he does in Dune) is the contrast between internal and external dialogue – unfortunately, even with the deception and lies of omission there, there really isn’t a large amount of tension (and that’s with one of the crew being a potential traitor). Secondly, the problems the makeshift crew have with piloting and navigating the ship never seem to rise to the level of critical – Herbert attempts to convey the stress caused by sitting at the bridge, and how some problems simply can’t be diagnosed with the equipment they have on hand, but it never seems quite right, and while the stakes are represented as high, the behavior is not.

The behavior of the crew isn’t necessarily what would be expected, either, given the circumstances. The action begins in media res, with three of the six original crew members dead. They choose to wake only one replacement from the hibernation tanks, in a decision that isn’t really too deeply touched on. There’s also a weird thread of sexual undertone running through the novel, which almost makes it seem as though Herbert cut a more fully formed romantic subplot when he updated the novel (for developments in the field of psychiatry, but what author can’t be tempted to edit what didn’t work?)

I probably would recommend this – even with the problems above, and an ending that feels tacked on (like Dune), this is a fun ride. Is it perfect? No. It works better as an adventure story than a parable or a warning, and after Dune, I don't feel compelled to seek out the sequels.

Dilvish, the Damned/The Changing Land

Dilvish the Damned was not written as a novel; it’s a collection of linked stories featuring the same protagonist. The framing device reads as episodic, as we skip what would be major plot points in another novel. 

Each “chapter” of Dilvish, the Damned begins in media res – since these are all linked short stories, we get a “novel” with the device of significant events being elided. One story will be looking towards overcoming a particular obstacle – and then the story afterwards will be set after the obstacle has been overcome. It’s less a novel than a linked series of vignettes. It works, but it’s not quite a unique enough device to not make me wish that the story was more conventionally told.

The Changing Land is set as a sequel to Dilvish, the Damned, and is written as a novel, so it’s a little less frustrating to follow. It’s essentially a dungeon crawl, which is both kind of cool and, given Zelazny’s inclusion on the recommend reading list to the initial Dungeons & Dragons, unsurprising.

Dilvish is your typical Zelazny protagonist – hypercompetent, wisecracking, notorious. If the first novel hadn’t grown out of short stories, I’d question whether he really needs two novels devoted to his arc. Not that the novels aren’t fun – they certainly are, even if they’re markedly different in tone and pacing.

The ending of each book is a little disappointing, and almost makes me wish that Dilvish hadn’t gotten a resolution, and that Zelazny had continued to flesh out the world.

2016 Reads that I did not write up

Roger Zelazny - Dilvish, the Damned, and The Changing Land
Frank Herbert - Destination: Void
Matt Ruff - The Mirage
Rebecca Skloot - The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
Chinua Achebe - Things Fall Apart


 I'll try to get to all of these in the upcoming weeks.

A Little Lumpen Novelita

For a novel that begins with ". . .not long ago I led a life of crime.", this is banal. Of course, that's what Bolaño traffics in.

The treatment of sex in A Little Lumpen Novelita is a sharp contrast between how it's treated in Jim Harrison's The Big Seven. Our narrator here treats sex almost as something that just happens, even if she initiates it. It's not an all consuming drive, or a constant thought. If there are details, they're clinical, as opposed to gratuitous.

Bolaño's work is both realistic and dreamlike for me because there isn't necessarily a clean break or a turning point -- things just kind of peter out. The randomness gives the work a verisimilitude that more classically delineated novels lack.

That said, there's just not a lot here. Maybe that's something I should have expected, given the title. Not that it's bad by any means -- it just feels a little misshapen and abrupt.

The Big Seven

The Big Seven is a little ridiculous. Maybe more than a little ridiculous. Harrison pitched it as a "faux mystery" because the mystery isn't necessarily the point, and I can buy that. Unfortunately, the point appears to be to wander through the head of a sex-obsessed retired cop.

The Big Seven is a meditation on the twilight of one's life, on sex, on violence, and man's inability to change. There isn't exactly depth here -- the man whose psyche we spend the novel rattling around in isn't a deep or a profound thinker, even if he is very well read. I assume there's more than a little of Harrison in that.

I don't know how representative this is of Harrison's work in general -- I'll have to give him another chance, because this didn't totally grab me.

Inverted World

Christopher Priest's Inverted World is one of the few works of hard science fiction that I would consider recommending to those who are not avid readers of the genre, because I feel it works for several reasons, and the science fiction-related payoff isn't the main one.

There are several inversions here. The first, and most obvious one, is that our narrator lives in a city called "Earth" that moves on rails through the landscape of the unnamed planet the novel is set on.

The second, and more subtle one, is how this could be, in the hands of another author, a bildungsroman. It isn't. Our narrator doesn't change and grow, despite the fantastic experiences he has. In a different novel, he's the one delivering the stirring and revelatory speech towards the end. In this, he isn't.

One of the unusual devices in Inverted World is that the point of view shifts several times, from first to third person, and back again. While several points later in the novel wouldn't work if Priest had stuck with first, it feels a little ungainly.

There were times that I wished this wasn't a hard science fiction novel, but the entire thrust of the story doesn't necessarily work without the reveal on what's happening, how, and why. I just wish there was a better way to deliver it other than an exposition dump.

Inverted World definitely works well, but I can't help but feel that there's an even better novel in here that another author (or Priest, at another point in his career) could have gotten out. Still, would recommend.

The Glory of Their Times

This was a pleasure to read. This is essentially transcriptions of conversations with old ballplayers, written as if the old ballplayer is just spinning a yarn. As such, it's a very easy, and yes, enjoyable read.

Several things struck me: first, that most of the players interviewed were willing to give credit to the "modern" players (this book was compiled in the 60s) as being as good or better than their contemporaries. Secondly, how most of these players came very close to a lifetime working in the same trades as their fathers had, as farmers, miners, or tradesmen. (Although a few dropped out of college)

Most of these players are not household names -- the biggest is probably Paul Waner, but there are stories in this book about Cobb, Ruth, Walter Johnson, and the other greats of the era from their contemporaries. Since I am a bit of a baseball fan, I was familiar with most of the players who get a chapter here, but as numbers on baseball reference, not as people, so it was really interesting to get some insight into the men they were, and how the game was both so prevalent (every little town had a team, and that's where all of these guys seemingly got their start) and so small-time (ballplayers weren't paid well, and were seen as working class drunks and layabouts).

Would recommend.