It’s hot, I just downloaded Lion (which is the only cool thing happening in these parts) and I’ve managed to avoid any car crashes. Unlike other folks here, since I don’t have much going on, here’s my review of Jo Walton’s Among Others.
Could do worse things than turn the AC up high and read this one.
The Tiger’s Wife is an interlocking series of fabulist tales, set in an unnamed Balkan country that is obviously Yugoslavia before and after its dissolution into ethnic political states, which unfolds the life and death of the narrator’s grandfather. It’s a meditation on grief, cultural blindness and bigotry, among other things, but overarchingly the constant effort to try to live a decent life and see the decency in others, even those who seemingly don’t possess it. Written by Téa Obreht, whom The New Yorker named one of the twenty best American fiction writers under forty and the National Book Foundation’s “5 Under 35” list, it is, as you might expect given those accolades, considered a “literary” novel. Which is perhaps why you haven’t seen much mention of it in genre circles, despite the fact that it is a fantasy. However you want to classify it, it’s good and well-deserving of the hype it’s received. One thing that struck me that I don’t think I’ve seen mentioned is the similarity between Obreht and Ray Bradbury in his prime, back in the days when Clifton Fadiman was trying to sell The Martian Chronicles to the literary mainstream.
I have to say that Obreht is the better writer, more in control of her fabricated folklore and less inclined to Bradburian whimsy, as well as much darker. Which is maybe why she is “literary.” But, just for fun, here’s a test. Which of these passages is written by Obreht, and which by Bradbury? (All winners receive absolutely nothing besides smug self-satisfaction.)
Apex Magazine is a monthly on-line publication of science fiction, fantasy and horror edited by Catherynne M. Valente.
The issue features three stories: “The Neighborly Thing to Do” by T.J. Weyler, “The Widow and the Xir” by Indrapramit Das and “The Rapid Advancement of Sorrow” by Theodora Goss. Paul Jessup’s non-fiction piece is “The Top 10 Experimental Genre Books You’ve Never Heard Of.”
You can subscribe and get 12 issues for just $19.99.
The June-July 2011 Black Static cover features a still from the film Agnosia and a crop of the artwork by Riki Rawling for V. H. Leslie’s story “Time Keeping.” Here’s the opening paragraph:
Monday, 11:29 am
Time waits for no man. But Howard wasn’t just any man and Time would wait if it had to. Howard didn’t like to keep it waiting if he could help it. In fact, the only time he had kept time waiting was June 5th 2006 and that was only for 5 minutes and 45 seconds while he, agitated and bewildered, ran through darkened streets back to his flat, then around his workshop hastily setting in motion the mechanisms to resume it once more.
Other fiction for this bimonthly dark horror magazine includes “For Their Own Ends” by Joel Lane, “Electric Dreams” by Carole Johnstone, “Hail” by Daniel Kaysen, and contest winner “The Harvesting of Jackson Cade” by Robert Davies.
You can subscribe to the print version here, or the electronic edition here; there’s also a special discounted rate for a joint subscription to both Interzone and Black Static.
The June 20th edition of John Clute’s Scores column is a case study in vocabulary intensive prose that, albeit sometimes with a little bit of work on the reader’s part, is as evocative of strange worlds as the material he is reviewing. Here’s the set up for a piece ostensibly about the Jonathan Strahan edited Engineering Infinity anthology:
A few weeks ago I left London and entered the future again. I was about to fly in an oldish plane from one old airport in England to another old airport in Norway, in order to give a talk about the world city in the twenty-first century. I felt I was as entitled to talk about the world I lived in as any of the rest of us: that larger half of the world’s sum of homo sapiens who have become treeless in this century, veldtless, farmless, parkless, legless; but who have become, necessarily, just streetwise enough to know where the nearest just-in-time cloaca disgorges pellets of the fungibles we ingest like battery hens; and who breathe the poison gas of Pax Aeronautica when we travel. So I left London on the Gatwick Express and began the process of becoming “John Clute”: which is to say becoming a readable portion of the original entity indistinguishable (to all purposes) from the barcode that tracked its transit to come. And so the “John Clute” packet arrived at Oslo Airport, and began to breathe life into itself again. I felt repurposed. It crossed my mind that transiting the aeropolis worldnet was a bit like experiencing matter transmission in SF; and I had a quick flash memory of A J Budrys’s blackly proleptic Rogue Moon (1960), a book which in retrospect seemed like a description of the way we lose ourselves in travel in 2011. I walked with my fellow recovering barcodes to luggage reclaim, where the system had jammed, leaving most of our worldly gear stuck somewhere in the bowels. There was dead silence in the vast space. Two things came to mind. One: that when a zero-redundancy just-in-time system seizes up, the part of the world machine that has been affected by the dysfunction ages instantly, like an abandoned shopping mall, or some matrix-world when the electricity is turned off. Mourning becomes entropy. Two: that the emotion felt by passenger units, when their codings have been defaced by a failure of the world-machine, is shame.
It takes a few readings to figure out exactly what the hell he’s talking about, but eventually it occurs to you that there is something genuinely profound about this. As to what he thinks about the Strahan book, well, that’s largely besides the point. And I still don’t get why missing luggage in the machine should evoke shame. Anger or frustration or resignation, I get. But shame? What am I missing here?
Congratulations to Realms of Fantasy on its 100th issue (which actually has 101 pages, but I guess the extra page is for good luck, and doesn’t make for quite the same alliterative headline), a notable accomplishment for a publication that has been brought back from the dead on several occasions. In fact, the magazine has had five publishers, with founding editor Shawna McCarthy the only person who has been there for the duration, according to the issue’s “Little Known Facts.” Fiction contributors include Leah Bobet, Josh Rountree and Samantha Henderson, Sharon Mock, Thea Hutchinson, Patrick Samphire, Euan Harvey and David D. Levine, as well as poetry by Ursula Le Guin and various art, book, gaming and movie reviews along with the regular Folkroots column by Theodora Gass. Here’s the complete Table of Contents.
I’m guessing that Realms of Fantasy has never before been mentioned in the same breath as The Paris Review, so we here at Black Gate
Tastemaker Central take particular pleasure in noting that the latter literary bastion has much of interest to the same people who read the bastion of fantasy genre tales (and perhaps vice versa?). The Summer 2011 features “Art of Fiction” interviews with Samuel R. Delany and William Gibson, as well as a story by Jonathan Lethem, “The Empty Room,” that’s available online.
I’m beginning to wonder when Interzone will be retitled Jason Sanford’s Interzone; the guy seems to snag the magazine’s featured author slot more times than most. Case in point is the May/June issue in which Sanford’s “Her Scientification, Far Future, Medieval Fantasy” gets top billing, “plus other new stories” by Suzanne Palmer, Lavie Tidhar, Will McIntosh and Jon Ingold. I normally find Sanford intriguing, but this is one of those “I’m in an artificial reality, and I find out that I’m not as real (or more than real) as I thought” stories that is okay but doesn’t add much to the trope that hasn’t already been done before. The first paragraph is a real hoot, though, which I felt the rest of the story didn’t really hold up to:
Princess Krisja Jerome stood before her tower’s lone window, listening to the sounds of battle in the courtyard below. Metal clashed on ceramic. rifle shots zinged off the castle’s stone abutments. Lasers buzzed the moat to steam. From Krisja’s viewpoint, it looked like her father’s knights fought valiantly against the invaders from, well, from somewhere outside the kingdom. Where exactly, Kris couldn’t say. But then so few invaders announced their origins. It simply killed the romance, claiming to be a Sir Lancelot hero when you really hailed from a Scranton or Sheboygan nowhere.
The River of Shadows (Book III of the Chathrand Voyage Series)
Robert V.S. Redick
Del Ray (592 pages,$16.00, April 2011)
Reviewed by David Soyka
My purpose here is simply a warning. If you are part of that infinitesimally small [and ever smaller] band of dissidents with the wealth, time and inclination to set your hands on the printed word, I suggest you consider the arguments against the current volume. To wit: the tale is morbid, the persons depicted are clumsy when they are not evil, the world is inconvenient to visit and quite changed from what is here described, the plot at this early juncture is already complex beyond all reason, the moral cannot be stated, and the editor is intrusive. The story most obviously imperils the young.
p. 107-108
There are various reasons for such “editorial” intrusions into a narrative rolling along quite nicely seemingly without need for meta-fictional comment. One is in fact to be meta-fictional, to purposely draw attention to the illusion of storytelling. But, another, opposite tact, is to give the text the illusion of legitimacy, that what we’re reading, however improbable, is an actual historical document. The latter is the approach of the modern über-fantasy, Lord of the Rings, in which the tale is presented as an ancient manuscript edited for a contemporary audience by a medieval scholar.
Given that this was J.R.R. Tolkien’s day-job, this might have been intended as a kind of inside joke, albeit from a guy who wasn’t particularly jokey. In the case of Robert V.S. Redick, whose The River of Shadows, the penultimate volume in the Chathrand Voyage Series, is a sort of Tolkien at sea, he pointedly wants us to be in on the joke.
There are a lot of “paint by the numbers” Tolkien clones for the simple reason that there is a market for people who want more of the same. They’ll probably enjoy this series. But while Redick may be guilty of a little too slavish attention to both fantasy cliché and Perils of Pauline dilemmas resolved by convenient magical cavalry to the rescue, it’s all in good fun. Not the sort of fun that’s saying, “Ew, how stupid all this heroic questing stuff is.” Rather, it’s the sort of fun that’s saying, well, isn’t this all great fun?
Which, it is.
The Wall Street Journal weighs in on the ascendance of genre fiction over literary fiction. Of course, this being The Wall Street Journal, the answer seems to be that the growing popularity of genre in mainstream markets is because it sells.
Something strange is happening to mainstream fiction. This summer, novels featuring robots, witches, zombies, werewolves and ghosts are blurring the lines between literary fiction and genres like science fiction and fantasy, overturning long-held assumptions in the literary world about what constitutes high and low art.
Leave it to a mainstream publication to finally catch on to something that has been happening for, oh, a few decades now, as a “summer phenomenon.”
To be fair, the author does note that such a distinction between the use of the fantastical in so-called high and low art is a modern (20th century) sensibility. Whether Lev Grossman, author of The Magicians and its (surprise, surprise) forthcoming sequel, is right that genre fiction is becoming mainstream is perhaps less a concern than whether mainstream success is ruining it for those of us who value genre precisely because it is not mainstream. Though that may be a reverse snobbery more pretentious than the editor quoted about the forthcoming, and expected blockbuster, The Last Werewolf :
“We’re Knopf, we don’t do those kinds of books,” says editor Marty Asher. “I got completely sucked in despite my better judgment.”
No doubt somewhere someone is writing a vampire series based on Hamlet (there is, alas, a Romeo and Juliet and Vampires novel) but, for now, they are separate categories for two of my reviews posted on the current (mid-May) SF Site.
The first is Orson Scott Card’s retelling of Hamlet, which pretty much follows the play’s plot, but with a twist at the end I suspect the original author no more would have thought of than, well, making Hamlet a vampire.
The second is Cherie Priest’s kickoff of an “urban fantasy” (a term which I take to mean “vampires who live and suck blood in cities”) called Bloodshot, featuring Raylene Pendle (aka Cheshire Red), and thief for hire who also happens to be a slightly neurotic vampire.
It’s not Shakespeare, but it is fun.