by Philip K. Dick. 1968. 244 p.
This novel about bounty hunter stalking fugitive androids was, as most people know, the basis for Blade Runner, one of the best science fiction movies yet made. Thus it is difficult to approach Dick's creation on its own terms, to read it without picturing the sets and actors from Ridley Scott’s film. While the book is not, perhaps, as brilliant as its more famous progeny, it is nevertheless a work of substance and can stand on its own.
After some future nuclear war, the Earth is covered in radioactive dust, a shadow of its former self. Most survivors have fled to colonies on other planets. Those who are too sick or too stubborn to leave huddle together in crumbling cities that are largely empty. The widespread extinction of natural life has produced a religion called Mercerism that focuses on empathy. Adherents are urged to own and care for an ordinary animal. Due to their rarity, however, such creatures are enormously expensive. This in turn has led to a shady market in artificial animals which convincingly simulate the real thing. What is more, the production of artificial humans, organic androids, has reached unprecedented levels of sophistication. These short-lived beings are used on the colony worlds, largely as slaves, but are forbidden on Earth. Rick Deckard ‘retires’ androids who do escape there, but the latest models are very difficult to detect. When the senior bounty hunter in his region is seriously injured, Deckard is called into action against a group of these dangerous renegades.
As is always the case in Dick’s stories, things are not what they seem. Multiple challenges to self-identity and objective reality arise. Deckard is confronted by questions about the morality of his actions and whether he himself is sane, or even human. Potentially anything in his world is fake, and just what is the difference between fake and real? For that matter what qualities define the genuine human? And what is the point of struggling on in a disintegrating world? These are all profound questions, but Dick spins them into an engaging story, albeit a disorienting one.
He also introduces us to J. R. Isidore, a rather pathetic driver (for a fake veterinarian service) whose mental faculties have deteriorated due to fallout. Isidore must go through his own spiritual crises, first in his job, then when he meets androids, and then when Mercerism is declared a fraud. While Dick stresses the fact that Wilbur Mercer is not a saviour figure, there are points of contact between Mercerism and Christianity. The description of Mercer’s cyclical martyrdom and rebirth evokes Christ’s descent into Hell and the stations of the cross.
The androids seek to destroy what they see as fraudulent human claims to empathy, claims that exclude them from being true persons. As part of this effort they try, successfully, to discredit the process by which adherents psychically identify with Mercer. While this whole plotline could easily have led into a banal lesson on inclusiveness and the evils of intolerant religion, Dick takes it in a more interesting direction. He shows that the androids really do lack empathy, and are in human terms sociopaths. He also turns the indictment of Mercerism around: it is revealed as being phony but true at the same time. Mercer continues have power, even though the compassionless androids cannot understand why. Indeed, Mercer’s ignoble, obscure origins are in fact treated as a sign of deeper authenticity, since, in Dick’s theology, genuine transcendence manifests itself among the trash and the outcasts, amidst the lowly and the weak.
In this part of the story one can perhaps hear echoes of Dick’s real-life response when a friend told him that Christ was a fraud. Dick replied that even if this was the case, it made no difference. He believed in Him anyway. This seems confused and irrational, but in this novel we might be able to glimpse what he meant. It can be seen as a statement of faith, from a highly paranoid artist, that behind all the falsehood and deception that exist in the world there is still, somewhere, a life-giving Truth worth seeking.
4 out of 5
Showing posts with label book review. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book review. Show all posts
Friday, August 31, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Book review: The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch
by Philip K. Dick. 1964. 230 p.
“I’m inclined, as you can see, to be somewhat sympathetic to the Early- and Neo-Christian point of view, such as Anne holds. It assists in explaining a great deal.” – (p. 193)
Barney Mayerson is a precog in the Pre-Fash department of Perky Pat Layouts. His job is to foresee which styles of clothing and housewares will become popular. Leo Bulero, his boss, is chairman of the company, which manufactures doll-sized goods. His wealth and power, however, are made possible by the illegal side of his operation: the production and distribution of Can-D. The drug causes users to hallucinate themselves as living in the idealized bodies and worlds represented by the dolls and dollhouses. Most of the miserable drafted colonists living on Mars use the drug habitually to escape their bleak lives. For the masses, life on over-heated, over-crowded planet Earth is not much better. Still, for the wealthy like Bulero, there are satellite playgrounds, Antarctic resorts and clinics that can artificially evolve their customers.
But now something unexpected has happened: a ship from the Proxima system has crash-landed on Pluto. It carries the eccentrically brilliant businessman Palmer Eldritch, returned from his decade-long round trip. He brings with him an alien lichen, which he uses to start manufacturing his own drug: Chew-Z. The product’s motto? “God promises eternal life. We can deliver it.” Bulero and Mayerson must act quickly, to counter this new competition. But is Eldritch really Eldritch? Has something alien returned in his stead? Has something demonic taken possession of him? And just where does Chew-Z take its users? Bulero begins to realize that his private war is not simply about commercial rivalry. At stake is the freedom of humanity.
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch is a disorienting book, and, as is so often the case with Dick, it can be hard to tell what it all means. One senses that the author himself is unsure at times, as the characters formulate and discard explanations of events. This is partly explained by the fact that Palmer Eldritch was based on a disturbing vision Dick himself had, one he did not understand. What is clear is that the book is saturated with religious symbolism and exhibits a fascination with theological concepts (this fascination is hinted at in Dick’s earlier work and grew in later novels.) Two important themes are transubstantiation and the Fall, so we find characters using technical philosophical language contrasting ‘accidents’ with ‘essence,’ and debating original sin, along with quoting Thomas a Kempis.
Dick can be viewed as a speculative theologian, forever trying out different theories to see how they fit his experiences. (Gabriel McKee's book on Dick's religious thought, Pink Beams of Light From the God In the Gutter, is a very helpful resource to those seeking more background information.) And while he can wander off into very strange territory, in the end he usually returns to some sort of recognizably Christian theology, albeit employed in unusual ways. Despite his Gnostic leanings, Dick here also backs away from strict good-versus-evil dualism, seeking to understand how all things, even Palmer Eldritch, could spring from God, or work together for good. This compassion and speculation make Three Stigmata a highly thought-provoking read.
3.5 out of 5
“I’m inclined, as you can see, to be somewhat sympathetic to the Early- and Neo-Christian point of view, such as Anne holds. It assists in explaining a great deal.” – (p. 193)
Barney Mayerson is a precog in the Pre-Fash department of Perky Pat Layouts. His job is to foresee which styles of clothing and housewares will become popular. Leo Bulero, his boss, is chairman of the company, which manufactures doll-sized goods. His wealth and power, however, are made possible by the illegal side of his operation: the production and distribution of Can-D. The drug causes users to hallucinate themselves as living in the idealized bodies and worlds represented by the dolls and dollhouses. Most of the miserable drafted colonists living on Mars use the drug habitually to escape their bleak lives. For the masses, life on over-heated, over-crowded planet Earth is not much better. Still, for the wealthy like Bulero, there are satellite playgrounds, Antarctic resorts and clinics that can artificially evolve their customers.
But now something unexpected has happened: a ship from the Proxima system has crash-landed on Pluto. It carries the eccentrically brilliant businessman Palmer Eldritch, returned from his decade-long round trip. He brings with him an alien lichen, which he uses to start manufacturing his own drug: Chew-Z. The product’s motto? “God promises eternal life. We can deliver it.” Bulero and Mayerson must act quickly, to counter this new competition. But is Eldritch really Eldritch? Has something alien returned in his stead? Has something demonic taken possession of him? And just where does Chew-Z take its users? Bulero begins to realize that his private war is not simply about commercial rivalry. At stake is the freedom of humanity.
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch is a disorienting book, and, as is so often the case with Dick, it can be hard to tell what it all means. One senses that the author himself is unsure at times, as the characters formulate and discard explanations of events. This is partly explained by the fact that Palmer Eldritch was based on a disturbing vision Dick himself had, one he did not understand. What is clear is that the book is saturated with religious symbolism and exhibits a fascination with theological concepts (this fascination is hinted at in Dick’s earlier work and grew in later novels.) Two important themes are transubstantiation and the Fall, so we find characters using technical philosophical language contrasting ‘accidents’ with ‘essence,’ and debating original sin, along with quoting Thomas a Kempis.
Dick can be viewed as a speculative theologian, forever trying out different theories to see how they fit his experiences. (Gabriel McKee's book on Dick's religious thought, Pink Beams of Light From the God In the Gutter, is a very helpful resource to those seeking more background information.) And while he can wander off into very strange territory, in the end he usually returns to some sort of recognizably Christian theology, albeit employed in unusual ways. Despite his Gnostic leanings, Dick here also backs away from strict good-versus-evil dualism, seeking to understand how all things, even Palmer Eldritch, could spring from God, or work together for good. This compassion and speculation make Three Stigmata a highly thought-provoking read.
3.5 out of 5
Monday, July 30, 2007
Book Review - The Fate of Mice
by Susan Palwick. Tachyon Publications, 2007.
“Go out quickly into the streets and lanes of the city and bring in hither the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind.” - Luke 14:21.
Susan Palwick’s protagonists are, almost invariably, the least, the last, and the lost: abused children (Flying in Place), refugees (The Necessary Beggar), orphans, the homeless and the stigmatized (Shelter). The stories in The Fate of Mice are no exception. Here we meet the deranged, a prostitute, other marginalized women, and a few more orphans. Even the more far-fetched characters exist on the edges of society: a laboratory mouse, a werewolf kept on a leash, the reanimated dead, and a girl whose aching heart is on the outside of her body.
The stories in this collection range from those with only barely discernible speculative elements to fairy tales and science fictional fables like “Sorrel’s Heart” or “The Old World.” In the latter humanity experiences a moral revolution, with nearly everybody becoming kinder and more responsible. This eucatastrophe makes the world a much better place, but creates unexpected problems for paranoid conspiracy theorists. On the other hand, “Elephant” is something like a Margaret Atwood story with a magic realist twist. In it, a woman who’s had a miserable life literally conceives a desperate hope that things might change.
A number of the stories use fairy tale trappings to make subtle points about injustices done to women, like the devastating werewolf story “Gestella.” In “Stormdusk” a girl discovers her long-suffering mother’s arcane origins. “Ever After” (one of my favourites) both teases out the female desperation implicit in traditional fairy godmother tales and then takes that imagery to an unexpectedly chilling conclusion. Indeed, a number of the stories in The Fate of Mice are fairly dark.
But this is not to say they are without hope. One of the dangers of spending time on the margins is that you just might meet God there. While reading The Fate of Mice, I found myself reminded of this prayer from Gene Wolfe’s Book of the Long Sun: “Obscure Outsider, be not angry with us, though we have never sufficiently honoured you. All that is outcast, discarded and despised is yours.” Most of the tales in the collection have no obvious religious elements, but the final, powerful story casts a long shadow back over the rest, hinting that God might be lurking there in the gutters and back alleys. This story, “GI Jesus,” reminded me of Flannery O’Connor (that’s high praise indeed) with its down-and-out characters and its incognito secret agent, Jesus Christ.
As with any collection, some stories were more interesting than others. I didn’t particularly care for “Jo’s Hair,” though that could be chalked up to my lack of interest in Little Women. “Beautiful Stuff” had a wonderful premise, but seemed a bit rough, like it needed another revision. All in all, though, Palwick’s stories were well-told and emotionally moving. The Fate of Mice packs a powerful punch.
4 out of 5
“Go out quickly into the streets and lanes of the city and bring in hither the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind.” - Luke 14:21.
Susan Palwick’s protagonists are, almost invariably, the least, the last, and the lost: abused children (Flying in Place), refugees (The Necessary Beggar), orphans, the homeless and the stigmatized (Shelter). The stories in The Fate of Mice are no exception. Here we meet the deranged, a prostitute, other marginalized women, and a few more orphans. Even the more far-fetched characters exist on the edges of society: a laboratory mouse, a werewolf kept on a leash, the reanimated dead, and a girl whose aching heart is on the outside of her body.
The stories in this collection range from those with only barely discernible speculative elements to fairy tales and science fictional fables like “Sorrel’s Heart” or “The Old World.” In the latter humanity experiences a moral revolution, with nearly everybody becoming kinder and more responsible. This eucatastrophe makes the world a much better place, but creates unexpected problems for paranoid conspiracy theorists. On the other hand, “Elephant” is something like a Margaret Atwood story with a magic realist twist. In it, a woman who’s had a miserable life literally conceives a desperate hope that things might change.
A number of the stories use fairy tale trappings to make subtle points about injustices done to women, like the devastating werewolf story “Gestella.” In “Stormdusk” a girl discovers her long-suffering mother’s arcane origins. “Ever After” (one of my favourites) both teases out the female desperation implicit in traditional fairy godmother tales and then takes that imagery to an unexpectedly chilling conclusion. Indeed, a number of the stories in The Fate of Mice are fairly dark.
But this is not to say they are without hope. One of the dangers of spending time on the margins is that you just might meet God there. While reading The Fate of Mice, I found myself reminded of this prayer from Gene Wolfe’s Book of the Long Sun: “Obscure Outsider, be not angry with us, though we have never sufficiently honoured you. All that is outcast, discarded and despised is yours.” Most of the tales in the collection have no obvious religious elements, but the final, powerful story casts a long shadow back over the rest, hinting that God might be lurking there in the gutters and back alleys. This story, “GI Jesus,” reminded me of Flannery O’Connor (that’s high praise indeed) with its down-and-out characters and its incognito secret agent, Jesus Christ.
As with any collection, some stories were more interesting than others. I didn’t particularly care for “Jo’s Hair,” though that could be chalked up to my lack of interest in Little Women. “Beautiful Stuff” had a wonderful premise, but seemed a bit rough, like it needed another revision. All in all, though, Palwick’s stories were well-told and emotionally moving. The Fate of Mice packs a powerful punch.
4 out of 5
Monday, July 23, 2007
Book Review: The Stoneholding
by Mark James. Stoneharp Press, 2004. 322 p.
The honest, doughty highlanders of Lammermorn have long defied Gawmage, the usurper who sits on the throne of Arvon. Surrounded by mountains, they have stayed true to the old ways, represented by aged Wilum, the Hordanu (High Bard) of all Arvon. But the Great Harmony which sustains the forces of order and good has been breaking down for a long time, and there seems to be no way to restore it. Now Ferabek, the evil overlord who pulls Gawmage’s strings, has taken a personal interest in the clanholding of Lammermorn. The Sacred Fire tended by the Hordanu has been quenched, and troops are massing to annihilate those living in the valley. Can Wilum and his young assistants Kal and Galli survive long enough to rekindle the Fire, find the lost heir to the throne, and restore the Harmony?
The Stoneholding (the first book of The Talamadh) draws on Celtic mythology and a vaguely Scottish setting. The authors (Mark James is a pen name for Mark Sebanc and James G. Anderson) are clearly and unashamedly indebted to Tolkien, as most epic fantasies are. Kal and Galli are somewhat like Frodo and Sam, though not excessively so. The Celtic religion is infused with a subtle Christian sensibility, also in the tradition of Tolkien. I thought I saw a few nods to other fantasists, such as Robert Jordan.
Those who crave epic struggles between good and evil, featuring lost royalty, reluctant homespun heroes, and desperate measures, will find much to their liking in The Stoneholding. The genre is a well-worn one, but Sebanc and Anderson manage to inject unique elements thanks to the Celtic influence. The theme of a divine harmony which sustains the cosmos is particularly satisfying. Figures such as Wuldor, Ardiel, and Hedric are handled in an appropriately mythic style: the latter two appear in a striking transfiguration sequence near the end of the book.
I felt that the dialogue was at times stilted, though my imagining the characters as having Scottish accents did make it seem more plausible. The descriptive writing was more skillful, especially in regards the natural environs of the Lammermorn. The hints and prophecies are sometimes a little too broad, but on the other hand a number of important developments caught me by surprise. Best of all, I found myself caring more and more about the main characters as the book progressed: they’re likable in a down-to-earth kind of way, particularly old Master Wilum.
3 out of 5
The honest, doughty highlanders of Lammermorn have long defied Gawmage, the usurper who sits on the throne of Arvon. Surrounded by mountains, they have stayed true to the old ways, represented by aged Wilum, the Hordanu (High Bard) of all Arvon. But the Great Harmony which sustains the forces of order and good has been breaking down for a long time, and there seems to be no way to restore it. Now Ferabek, the evil overlord who pulls Gawmage’s strings, has taken a personal interest in the clanholding of Lammermorn. The Sacred Fire tended by the Hordanu has been quenched, and troops are massing to annihilate those living in the valley. Can Wilum and his young assistants Kal and Galli survive long enough to rekindle the Fire, find the lost heir to the throne, and restore the Harmony?
The Stoneholding (the first book of The Talamadh) draws on Celtic mythology and a vaguely Scottish setting. The authors (Mark James is a pen name for Mark Sebanc and James G. Anderson) are clearly and unashamedly indebted to Tolkien, as most epic fantasies are. Kal and Galli are somewhat like Frodo and Sam, though not excessively so. The Celtic religion is infused with a subtle Christian sensibility, also in the tradition of Tolkien. I thought I saw a few nods to other fantasists, such as Robert Jordan.
Those who crave epic struggles between good and evil, featuring lost royalty, reluctant homespun heroes, and desperate measures, will find much to their liking in The Stoneholding. The genre is a well-worn one, but Sebanc and Anderson manage to inject unique elements thanks to the Celtic influence. The theme of a divine harmony which sustains the cosmos is particularly satisfying. Figures such as Wuldor, Ardiel, and Hedric are handled in an appropriately mythic style: the latter two appear in a striking transfiguration sequence near the end of the book.
I felt that the dialogue was at times stilted, though my imagining the characters as having Scottish accents did make it seem more plausible. The descriptive writing was more skillful, especially in regards the natural environs of the Lammermorn. The hints and prophecies are sometimes a little too broad, but on the other hand a number of important developments caught me by surprise. Best of all, I found myself caring more and more about the main characters as the book progressed: they’re likable in a down-to-earth kind of way, particularly old Master Wilum.
3 out of 5
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Book review: The Child Goddess
by Louise Marley. Ace Books, 2004. 324 p.
Jesus saith unto her, “Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?”
(John 20:15)
Mother Isabel Burke is a Magdalene Enquirer, several centuries hence. Just as their patron saint sought after the risen Christ, the Order of Mary Magdalene is dedicated to seeking out hidden truths and shedding light in dark places. While the Vatican has permitted the ordination of female priests, many Catholics are unhappy with the idea, and so the fledgling order is eager to prove its worth.
Isabel is called upon to use her training as an anthropologist to solve a mystery on the planet of Virimund. The ExtraSolar Corporation, attempting to exploit the supposedly uninhabited planet’s resources, has stumbled upon a small group of children. A brief and violent encounter has left several people dead. In the aftermath of the clash, ESC employees have brought back a native, a little girl named Oa.
Isabel struggles through a tangle of predatory corporate and scientific interests so that she can protect and honour the girl as a human being made in the image of God. (Some of these issues will look familiar to students of the history of missions and colonialism.) At the same time, she begins to realize that there is something very unusual about Oa. To complicate matters further, Isabel must work with Simon Edwards, a medical scientist with whom she has a complex personal history.
The main appeal of The Child Goddess does not lay in its scientific ideas. Marley gives hints that allow the astute reader to unravel most of Virimund’s mystery long before Isabel and Simon. The book’s chief strength is its characters: a desperate executive, a fame-hungry scientist, a quiet longshoreman, a girl burdened with secret shame. I felt the tension and anguish between Isabel, Simon, and Simon’s wife, Anna, was conveyed especially well.
The religious elements are powerful but subtle. Isabel strives to seek, to understand while also valuing and protecting, to be a Christian humanist in a world that belittles the value of both religion and humanity. She also strives to remain faithful to her vow of celibacy, to devote herself to God. In Isabel’s time, the Church has accepted as authentic the ancient Gospel of Mary, and Marley hints at other shifts within Christianity. But Isabel is no Gnostic; in all essentials she is an orthodox Christian, devoted to Christ and to her church. Mary of Magdala is important to her, not because she represents the divine feminine, but because Mary was the first to see and proclaim the risen Christ, His first apostle.
The story also explores Oa’s spiritual life. Her spirituality centres on Raimu-ke, an enigmatic ancestor goddess. Through this and other elements of the story, Marley develops interesting insights into the nature of religious devotion, shame, self-sacrifice, exclusion, and martyrdom.
3.5 out of 5
Jesus saith unto her, “Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?”
(John 20:15)
Mother Isabel Burke is a Magdalene Enquirer, several centuries hence. Just as their patron saint sought after the risen Christ, the Order of Mary Magdalene is dedicated to seeking out hidden truths and shedding light in dark places. While the Vatican has permitted the ordination of female priests, many Catholics are unhappy with the idea, and so the fledgling order is eager to prove its worth.
Isabel is called upon to use her training as an anthropologist to solve a mystery on the planet of Virimund. The ExtraSolar Corporation, attempting to exploit the supposedly uninhabited planet’s resources, has stumbled upon a small group of children. A brief and violent encounter has left several people dead. In the aftermath of the clash, ESC employees have brought back a native, a little girl named Oa.
Isabel struggles through a tangle of predatory corporate and scientific interests so that she can protect and honour the girl as a human being made in the image of God. (Some of these issues will look familiar to students of the history of missions and colonialism.) At the same time, she begins to realize that there is something very unusual about Oa. To complicate matters further, Isabel must work with Simon Edwards, a medical scientist with whom she has a complex personal history.
The main appeal of The Child Goddess does not lay in its scientific ideas. Marley gives hints that allow the astute reader to unravel most of Virimund’s mystery long before Isabel and Simon. The book’s chief strength is its characters: a desperate executive, a fame-hungry scientist, a quiet longshoreman, a girl burdened with secret shame. I felt the tension and anguish between Isabel, Simon, and Simon’s wife, Anna, was conveyed especially well.
The religious elements are powerful but subtle. Isabel strives to seek, to understand while also valuing and protecting, to be a Christian humanist in a world that belittles the value of both religion and humanity. She also strives to remain faithful to her vow of celibacy, to devote herself to God. In Isabel’s time, the Church has accepted as authentic the ancient Gospel of Mary, and Marley hints at other shifts within Christianity. But Isabel is no Gnostic; in all essentials she is an orthodox Christian, devoted to Christ and to her church. Mary of Magdala is important to her, not because she represents the divine feminine, but because Mary was the first to see and proclaim the risen Christ, His first apostle.
The story also explores Oa’s spiritual life. Her spirituality centres on Raimu-ke, an enigmatic ancestor goddess. Through this and other elements of the story, Marley develops interesting insights into the nature of religious devotion, shame, self-sacrifice, exclusion, and martyrdom.
3.5 out of 5
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Book review - Eifelheim
by Michael Flynn. Tor, 2006. 320 p.
What if the first contact between humanity and an intelligent alien species occurred in the Year of Our Lord 1348?
Some sf authors would have taken this concept and written a cautionary tale in which benighted priests declare the aliens to be demons and whip mobs of superstitious peasants into a killing frenzy. After all, was that not the Age of Faith, an era of theocracy, ignorance, and fear?
What Flynn has done instead is marvelously refreshing. Eifelheim is a carefully researched depiction of Rhineland in the 14th century, showing both the bright and dark aspects of medieval civilization and the small renaissance that was underway before the Black Plague. He illuminates some of the roots of the Scientific Revolution among natural philosophers like William of Ockham, Jean Buridan, and Nicholas Oresme.
Thus when grasshopper-like aliens, the Krenken, crash near the small Black Forest village of Oberhochwald, it is in fact their good fortune to encounter the local priest. Father Dietrich is a thoughtful and discerning man, who studied under Buridan at the University of Paris, and is adept at inquiring into the natural causes of things. His somewhat cool rationality is combined with deep Christian faith, which motivates him to display charity and hospitality to the stranded travelers.
Flynn does a wonderful job of depicting people who live in an Aristotelian universe attempting to communicate with beings that possess a post-Einsteinian science. The Krenken, in turn, are baffled but fascinated by human imagination and Christian ethical concepts. The complex religious, social and political arrangements of the era are brought to vivid life, such as the conflicts between the Great Houses, or between the radical “Spiritual Franciscans” and their enemies. But this is not simply a novel of ideas: the characterization is finely done, and one comes to sympathize deeply with the people of Oberhochwald, and even some of the Krenken. These are complex people with both virtues and foibles, and Flynn neatly sidesteps the stereotypes you might expect. Father Dietrich can seem almost too good to be true at times, but readers also come to know his faults and past sins.
While most of the novel is set in the 14th century, there is an interesting parallel tale about two scientists in the 21st century who stumble across the mystery of Oberhochwald. The town later became known as Eifelheim and was abandoned by human beings. Some interesting (but highly speculative) science is tossed around, while the social and emotional worlds of post-modern academics are portrayed with a certain amount of humour.
Stories involving the Black Plague rarely end happily, though there are more survivors in Eifelheim than there are in Connie Willis’ Doomsday Book. Still, as in Willis’ novel, what matters most is not death itself, but how that death is met. Dietrich and others display faith, hope and love in the face of a great tragedy.
Well-written and insightful, Eifelheim is one of the most sympathetic fictional depictions of medieval Christianity I have had the pleasure to read, approaching A Canticle for Leibowitz in its sophistication. This novel is a must for Christian fans of sf and anyone interested in the medieval era.
(Eifelheim is an extended version of Flynn’s 1986 novella of the same title, which was nominated for a Hugo Award.)
4.5 out of 5
What if the first contact between humanity and an intelligent alien species occurred in the Year of Our Lord 1348?
Some sf authors would have taken this concept and written a cautionary tale in which benighted priests declare the aliens to be demons and whip mobs of superstitious peasants into a killing frenzy. After all, was that not the Age of Faith, an era of theocracy, ignorance, and fear?
What Flynn has done instead is marvelously refreshing. Eifelheim is a carefully researched depiction of Rhineland in the 14th century, showing both the bright and dark aspects of medieval civilization and the small renaissance that was underway before the Black Plague. He illuminates some of the roots of the Scientific Revolution among natural philosophers like William of Ockham, Jean Buridan, and Nicholas Oresme.
Thus when grasshopper-like aliens, the Krenken, crash near the small Black Forest village of Oberhochwald, it is in fact their good fortune to encounter the local priest. Father Dietrich is a thoughtful and discerning man, who studied under Buridan at the University of Paris, and is adept at inquiring into the natural causes of things. His somewhat cool rationality is combined with deep Christian faith, which motivates him to display charity and hospitality to the stranded travelers.
Flynn does a wonderful job of depicting people who live in an Aristotelian universe attempting to communicate with beings that possess a post-Einsteinian science. The Krenken, in turn, are baffled but fascinated by human imagination and Christian ethical concepts. The complex religious, social and political arrangements of the era are brought to vivid life, such as the conflicts between the Great Houses, or between the radical “Spiritual Franciscans” and their enemies. But this is not simply a novel of ideas: the characterization is finely done, and one comes to sympathize deeply with the people of Oberhochwald, and even some of the Krenken. These are complex people with both virtues and foibles, and Flynn neatly sidesteps the stereotypes you might expect. Father Dietrich can seem almost too good to be true at times, but readers also come to know his faults and past sins.
While most of the novel is set in the 14th century, there is an interesting parallel tale about two scientists in the 21st century who stumble across the mystery of Oberhochwald. The town later became known as Eifelheim and was abandoned by human beings. Some interesting (but highly speculative) science is tossed around, while the social and emotional worlds of post-modern academics are portrayed with a certain amount of humour.
Stories involving the Black Plague rarely end happily, though there are more survivors in Eifelheim than there are in Connie Willis’ Doomsday Book. Still, as in Willis’ novel, what matters most is not death itself, but how that death is met. Dietrich and others display faith, hope and love in the face of a great tragedy.
Well-written and insightful, Eifelheim is one of the most sympathetic fictional depictions of medieval Christianity I have had the pleasure to read, approaching A Canticle for Leibowitz in its sophistication. This novel is a must for Christian fans of sf and anyone interested in the medieval era.
(Eifelheim is an extended version of Flynn’s 1986 novella of the same title, which was nominated for a Hugo Award.)
4.5 out of 5
Monday, December 18, 2006
Book Review - Infinite Space, Infinite God
edited by Karina and Robert Fabian. Twilight Times Books, 2006. 230 p.
The Roman Catholic Church enjoys a unique and paradoxical place in science fiction. For most early writers, the march of Science and Progress meant that religion would have little place in the future, and the least likely organization to survive would be the Roman Church. Was it not hidebound, superstitious, repressive? Modern rationalists inherited Protestant polemics and reserved special wrath for Catholicism as the implacable enemy of science, reason and freedom.
And yet... the Roman Church's great age and size, its vivid colour, its certainty, made it hard to ignore. If you had to include religion in your story, would you rather have a Congregationalist minister wearing a suit and tie, or a robed pontiff, enthroned in glory? What about all that stained glass and candles, incense and beads and statuary? A time-honoured code of sin and virtue, salvation and damnation? All this means that Catholicism has been more likely to turn up in science fiction than any other Christian denomination, even if only in a bit part, or as the detestable villain of the piece. Even the angriest of Catholicism's opponents viewed it as they would a car wreck - horrible, but strangely hard to look away from.
Of course, there's another side to the story. A careful examination of history shows the Roman Church frequently promoting the growth of science, as well as occasionally coming into conflict (or at least tension) with it. It's possible to find Catholics conducting Inquisitions but also Catholics opposing them, Catholics conquering native peoples and Catholics defending them, Catholics oppressing and Catholics liberating, all acting (at least in their own minds) as faithful servants of God.
In the field of science fiction, there have been faithful Catholics who knew these facts and who worked to build bridges between tradition and modernity, science and religion. For example, Anthony Boucher (aka Anthony Parker White) was an early, influential science fiction editor who loved the genre and his Church, and whose classic short story "The Quest for Saint Aquin" brilliantly reflects those two commitments.
Infinite Space, Infinite God, a new anthology, follows in Boucher's footsteps. Edited and compiled by Catholic science fiction fans, the stories in this collection all imagine the future role of the Roman Church. Not all of the writers involved are Catholics, but their tales are respectful and envision a Church against which the gates of Hell have not prevailed.
As is the case with any anthology, the quality of the writing varies from story to story. Some of the writers are veterans, while others are still honing their skills. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the majority of these offerings, and was more than once borne away by a concept that at first glance seemed unpromising.
Among my favorites was Colleen Drippe’s “Brother John.” John Melchior is a thug-turned-monk, who along with his order tries to bring the Gospel to a lost space colony. One hears echoes of the early Jesuits in his struggles with the authorities, the natives, and himself.
Another memorable tale was “Stabat Mater,” by Rose Dimond. I always find stories about unconventional Popes interesting, whether it’s the African Pope from Russell’s Children of God, or the improverished Pope in Wolfe’s “How the Whip Came Back.” Dimond’s Pope has “one foot and four toes in the grave” but is striving to end a war and ensure the survival of the Church on other planets. The main character, Theresa, has a special task entrusted her by the Virgin Mary, and tries to carry it out in the face of destruction and despair.
Other stories will stay with me, like Tim Myers' “Brother Jubal in the Womb of Silence,” which is about a hermit practicing contemplation on the Moon. “Hopkin’s Well” by Adrienne Ray, channels R.A. Lafferty’s sardonic wit and sense of the absurd in a tale of church-state tension on Mars. “Our Daily Bread,” by the editors, Robert and Karina Fabian, relates the story of a hard-working Catholic deacon on an asteroid mining operation.
The Fabians’ introduction and prefaces provide interesting information, though I would suggest reading the section prefaces after you read the related fiction, so as to approach the stories on their own terms.
All in all, Infinite Space, Infinite God is an interesting addition to the field that will appeal to most fans of Christian-themed science fiction.
3.5 out of 5
(ISIG is currently available as an e-book, and will be released in print as of August 2007. Here's my interview with the editors.)
The Roman Catholic Church enjoys a unique and paradoxical place in science fiction. For most early writers, the march of Science and Progress meant that religion would have little place in the future, and the least likely organization to survive would be the Roman Church. Was it not hidebound, superstitious, repressive? Modern rationalists inherited Protestant polemics and reserved special wrath for Catholicism as the implacable enemy of science, reason and freedom.
And yet... the Roman Church's great age and size, its vivid colour, its certainty, made it hard to ignore. If you had to include religion in your story, would you rather have a Congregationalist minister wearing a suit and tie, or a robed pontiff, enthroned in glory? What about all that stained glass and candles, incense and beads and statuary? A time-honoured code of sin and virtue, salvation and damnation? All this means that Catholicism has been more likely to turn up in science fiction than any other Christian denomination, even if only in a bit part, or as the detestable villain of the piece. Even the angriest of Catholicism's opponents viewed it as they would a car wreck - horrible, but strangely hard to look away from.
Of course, there's another side to the story. A careful examination of history shows the Roman Church frequently promoting the growth of science, as well as occasionally coming into conflict (or at least tension) with it. It's possible to find Catholics conducting Inquisitions but also Catholics opposing them, Catholics conquering native peoples and Catholics defending them, Catholics oppressing and Catholics liberating, all acting (at least in their own minds) as faithful servants of God.
In the field of science fiction, there have been faithful Catholics who knew these facts and who worked to build bridges between tradition and modernity, science and religion. For example, Anthony Boucher (aka Anthony Parker White) was an early, influential science fiction editor who loved the genre and his Church, and whose classic short story "The Quest for Saint Aquin" brilliantly reflects those two commitments.
Infinite Space, Infinite God, a new anthology, follows in Boucher's footsteps. Edited and compiled by Catholic science fiction fans, the stories in this collection all imagine the future role of the Roman Church. Not all of the writers involved are Catholics, but their tales are respectful and envision a Church against which the gates of Hell have not prevailed.
As is the case with any anthology, the quality of the writing varies from story to story. Some of the writers are veterans, while others are still honing their skills. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the majority of these offerings, and was more than once borne away by a concept that at first glance seemed unpromising.
Among my favorites was Colleen Drippe’s “Brother John.” John Melchior is a thug-turned-monk, who along with his order tries to bring the Gospel to a lost space colony. One hears echoes of the early Jesuits in his struggles with the authorities, the natives, and himself.
Another memorable tale was “Stabat Mater,” by Rose Dimond. I always find stories about unconventional Popes interesting, whether it’s the African Pope from Russell’s Children of God, or the improverished Pope in Wolfe’s “How the Whip Came Back.” Dimond’s Pope has “one foot and four toes in the grave” but is striving to end a war and ensure the survival of the Church on other planets. The main character, Theresa, has a special task entrusted her by the Virgin Mary, and tries to carry it out in the face of destruction and despair.
Other stories will stay with me, like Tim Myers' “Brother Jubal in the Womb of Silence,” which is about a hermit practicing contemplation on the Moon. “Hopkin’s Well” by Adrienne Ray, channels R.A. Lafferty’s sardonic wit and sense of the absurd in a tale of church-state tension on Mars. “Our Daily Bread,” by the editors, Robert and Karina Fabian, relates the story of a hard-working Catholic deacon on an asteroid mining operation.
The Fabians’ introduction and prefaces provide interesting information, though I would suggest reading the section prefaces after you read the related fiction, so as to approach the stories on their own terms.
All in all, Infinite Space, Infinite God is an interesting addition to the field that will appeal to most fans of Christian-themed science fiction.
3.5 out of 5
(ISIG is currently available as an e-book, and will be released in print as of August 2007. Here's my interview with the editors.)
Monday, December 11, 2006
Book Review - Trackers
by Kathryn Mackel. WestBow, 2006. 311 p.
Trackers returns us to the half-ruined world of the Birthright Project, picking up with our young heroes shortly after Outriders left off. Brady is in charge, Ajoba is in trouble, and both Timothy and Niki are in love with people they can’t have.
As before their foes are twisted “mogs” (modified animals) and the power-hungry leaders of Traxx. But there is a new enemy: a demonic presence has begun manipulating events in a bid to destroy Horesh and even the hidden Ark itself. The trackers and outriders find themselves caught up in a complex web of subterfuge and ever-increasing violence.
Trackers is quite a bit darker than Outriders, with instances of torture and rape added to the fighting of the first volume. Though this is marketed as a ‘young adult’ book, I would not recommend it to younger teens. Still, these elements aren’t gratuitous, but stem from Mackel’s depiction of the unglamorous reality of evil. There’s also a sense of heightened moral danger: the young characters are not only battered physically, but are faced with extremely difficult decisions.
As with Outriders, there were a few places in Trackers that seemed rushed, as though drafted sections had been left unrevised. Nevertheless, I kept getting caught up by the twists and turns of the compelling story. It’s hard not to care what happens to these characters. There are also several vision sequences involving demonic enemies which are chillingly surreal.
Mackel’s story will appeal primarily to Christians who will recognize and respond to her biblical symbolism (this time the story of Moses makes an appearance). Her approach seemed less specifically evangelical in this volume, with one exception: I’m not sure all Christians would identify doubt as the primal sin which gave rise to all others. (What about pride, disobedience, or selfishness?) All in all, though, I enjoyed this spiritual tale and look forward to reading the final book in the Birthright trilogy.*
3.5 out of 5
*And there had better be one, too, Mr. Publisher!
Trackers returns us to the half-ruined world of the Birthright Project, picking up with our young heroes shortly after Outriders left off. Brady is in charge, Ajoba is in trouble, and both Timothy and Niki are in love with people they can’t have.
As before their foes are twisted “mogs” (modified animals) and the power-hungry leaders of Traxx. But there is a new enemy: a demonic presence has begun manipulating events in a bid to destroy Horesh and even the hidden Ark itself. The trackers and outriders find themselves caught up in a complex web of subterfuge and ever-increasing violence.
Trackers is quite a bit darker than Outriders, with instances of torture and rape added to the fighting of the first volume. Though this is marketed as a ‘young adult’ book, I would not recommend it to younger teens. Still, these elements aren’t gratuitous, but stem from Mackel’s depiction of the unglamorous reality of evil. There’s also a sense of heightened moral danger: the young characters are not only battered physically, but are faced with extremely difficult decisions.
As with Outriders, there were a few places in Trackers that seemed rushed, as though drafted sections had been left unrevised. Nevertheless, I kept getting caught up by the twists and turns of the compelling story. It’s hard not to care what happens to these characters. There are also several vision sequences involving demonic enemies which are chillingly surreal.
Mackel’s story will appeal primarily to Christians who will recognize and respond to her biblical symbolism (this time the story of Moses makes an appearance). Her approach seemed less specifically evangelical in this volume, with one exception: I’m not sure all Christians would identify doubt as the primal sin which gave rise to all others. (What about pride, disobedience, or selfishness?) All in all, though, I enjoyed this spiritual tale and look forward to reading the final book in the Birthright trilogy.*
3.5 out of 5
*And there had better be one, too, Mr. Publisher!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Book Review - Outriders
by Kathryn Mackel. WestBow Press, 2004. 288 p.
How often have you read stories about radical environmentalist evangelicals having adventures in a post-apocalyptic world? Probably never, right? Kathryn Mackel’s world gets full points for creativity. It’s got transmogrified giants, out-of-time armor, messenger sparrows, delivery whales, geneticist-sorcerers, and much more.
Aimed at a teenaged audience, Outriders depicts a future in which cataclysmic wars have ravaged the Earth. Most humans live in brutish feudal states. Practically the only surviving advanced technology is a kind of genetic manipulation that mutates humans, animals and plants. Thought to be magic, it is wielded aggressively by sorcerers who seek ever greater power for their respective kingdoms. The natural world, already damaged, is being twisted out of existence for short-term gain.
But all is not lost. A faithful remnant, guided by angels, has preserved or rediscovered the high technology of days gone by. With it, they construct an Ark beneath the polar ice and send out outriders to gather in specimens of all Earth’s surviving species, for study and conservation. These young men and women must risk life and limb to battle the forces of the feudal strongholds, gather animals, and protect and evangelize the oppressed, humans and mutants alike.
Mackel’s writing is crisp and catchy, appropriate for teens with short attention spans. At times I felt the prose became disjointed and clunky, but there were also places where the style worked quite well, along with some very funny bits. Besides their heroic duties, the characters have typical young-person concerns – romantic interests, identity crises and growing pains.
Outriders alludes to a number of vivid biblical stories, like those of Jonah, Noah, and Josiah. There are struggles with very literal demons, as well as more mundane (but still moving) temptations and crises. My sense is that this book was designed primarily for evangelical audiences; non-Christians might find the spiritual themes somewhat confusing or intrusive. There’s a praise-and-worship song which is occasionally sung by the characters that seemed out of place to me, but that may just reflect my tastes in religious music.
Some readers may see parallels with SF classic A Canticle for Leibowitz. Aside from the theme of a remnant trying to preserve technology along with religion, there are references in both works to a time after the wars when a resentful humanity rose up and spitefully destroyed what was left of science and learning. I was also reminded of R.A. Lafferty’s story "And Walk Now Gently Through The Fire," which has range-riding representatives of the apostolic Church working with untainted animals and being assailed by demons in a world that’s fallen apart.
I would call this a work of science fantasy – there are science fiction elements, but with an overlay of swords and supposed sorcery. Occasionally the underlying science, as well as some of the action sequences, strain the limits of credibility, so SF purists may be unhappy. However, those who are seeking an exuberantly inventive adventure tale will be rewarded.
3.5 out of 5
How often have you read stories about radical environmentalist evangelicals having adventures in a post-apocalyptic world? Probably never, right? Kathryn Mackel’s world gets full points for creativity. It’s got transmogrified giants, out-of-time armor, messenger sparrows, delivery whales, geneticist-sorcerers, and much more.
Aimed at a teenaged audience, Outriders depicts a future in which cataclysmic wars have ravaged the Earth. Most humans live in brutish feudal states. Practically the only surviving advanced technology is a kind of genetic manipulation that mutates humans, animals and plants. Thought to be magic, it is wielded aggressively by sorcerers who seek ever greater power for their respective kingdoms. The natural world, already damaged, is being twisted out of existence for short-term gain.
But all is not lost. A faithful remnant, guided by angels, has preserved or rediscovered the high technology of days gone by. With it, they construct an Ark beneath the polar ice and send out outriders to gather in specimens of all Earth’s surviving species, for study and conservation. These young men and women must risk life and limb to battle the forces of the feudal strongholds, gather animals, and protect and evangelize the oppressed, humans and mutants alike.
Mackel’s writing is crisp and catchy, appropriate for teens with short attention spans. At times I felt the prose became disjointed and clunky, but there were also places where the style worked quite well, along with some very funny bits. Besides their heroic duties, the characters have typical young-person concerns – romantic interests, identity crises and growing pains.
Outriders alludes to a number of vivid biblical stories, like those of Jonah, Noah, and Josiah. There are struggles with very literal demons, as well as more mundane (but still moving) temptations and crises. My sense is that this book was designed primarily for evangelical audiences; non-Christians might find the spiritual themes somewhat confusing or intrusive. There’s a praise-and-worship song which is occasionally sung by the characters that seemed out of place to me, but that may just reflect my tastes in religious music.
Some readers may see parallels with SF classic A Canticle for Leibowitz. Aside from the theme of a remnant trying to preserve technology along with religion, there are references in both works to a time after the wars when a resentful humanity rose up and spitefully destroyed what was left of science and learning. I was also reminded of R.A. Lafferty’s story "And Walk Now Gently Through The Fire," which has range-riding representatives of the apostolic Church working with untainted animals and being assailed by demons in a world that’s fallen apart.
I would call this a work of science fantasy – there are science fiction elements, but with an overlay of swords and supposed sorcery. Occasionally the underlying science, as well as some of the action sequences, strain the limits of credibility, so SF purists may be unhappy. However, those who are seeking an exuberantly inventive adventure tale will be rewarded.
3.5 out of 5
Monday, November 20, 2006
Book Review - The Golden Gryphon Feather
by Richard Purtill. Daw Books, 1979. 160 p.
Purtill is a Catholic philosopher and Tolkien scholar, and The Golden Gryphon Feather was his first published novel. It is the story of a girl named Chryseis, who is sent as tribute to M’nos of Kaphtu, along with 13 other young Athenians.
Blending mythology with what is known of Minoan civilization, Purtill spins a tale of the gods and heroes of the ancient world which is reminiscent of Lewis’ Till We Have Faces or Wolfe’s Soldier of the Mist. One exciting theme involves the acrobatic bull-leaping dance which the Minoans depicted in their art.
As with many first novels, the writing here is a little uneven. It’s the characters all tend to speak in a similarly crisp, matter-of-fact fashion which can make them a little hard to distinguish from one another. The main character is an interesting and competent girl, but she’s sometimes a little too competent. Exotic threats and life-threatening problems seem rather humdrum when Chryseis, Ariadne, and their friends are on the case.
The thought-world of the Greeks comes to life in a respectful and vivid manner. Purtill constructs an intriguing history and genealogy of the many pagan gods, demigods and monsters which is consistent with a belief in one supreme God, along the lines of Tolkien’s Silmarillion or Wolfe’s The Wizard Knight.
The Golden Gryphon Feather is the first book of a trilogy which continues in The Stolen Goddess and The Mirror of Helen.
3 out of 5
Purtill is a Catholic philosopher and Tolkien scholar, and The Golden Gryphon Feather was his first published novel. It is the story of a girl named Chryseis, who is sent as tribute to M’nos of Kaphtu, along with 13 other young Athenians.
Blending mythology with what is known of Minoan civilization, Purtill spins a tale of the gods and heroes of the ancient world which is reminiscent of Lewis’ Till We Have Faces or Wolfe’s Soldier of the Mist. One exciting theme involves the acrobatic bull-leaping dance which the Minoans depicted in their art.
As with many first novels, the writing here is a little uneven. It’s the characters all tend to speak in a similarly crisp, matter-of-fact fashion which can make them a little hard to distinguish from one another. The main character is an interesting and competent girl, but she’s sometimes a little too competent. Exotic threats and life-threatening problems seem rather humdrum when Chryseis, Ariadne, and their friends are on the case.
The thought-world of the Greeks comes to life in a respectful and vivid manner. Purtill constructs an intriguing history and genealogy of the many pagan gods, demigods and monsters which is consistent with a belief in one supreme God, along the lines of Tolkien’s Silmarillion or Wolfe’s The Wizard Knight.
The Golden Gryphon Feather is the first book of a trilogy which continues in The Stolen Goddess and The Mirror of Helen.
3 out of 5
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Book Review - The Golden Age
by John C. Wright. Tor, 2002. 336 p.
The Golden Age is the first volume of a science fiction trilogy. Its title has two or possibly three meanings. It is the label given to a bright time in the far future, when humanity enjoys unprecedented peace, wealth and knowledge. It also refers to the Golden Age of science fiction, when authors like A.E. van Vogt and Isaac Asimov shaped the genre with epic, galaxy-spanning tales. Wright seeks to recapture that same sense of wonder in 21st century science fiction. It may also be a reference to the fabled Golden Age of Greek mythology, as Wright’s tale is heavily influenced by a classical sensibility.
Phaethon, the protagonist, lives in a hugely complex civilization which spans the entire densely populated solar system, from the surface of the sun to frozen Neptune. The denizens of this civilization are descended from humans, but have split into a great many different kinds of life. These are classified mainly by what style of brain they use, since they can change body types quite readily. There are mass-minds, disembodied intelligences, super-intuitive Warlocks, purely logical beings, and a whole host of others, most integrated with highly advanced computers to one degree or another. Wright imagines a dazzling array of technologies, but manages to keep them intelligible and interesting to primitive contemporary humans.
Phaethon finds himself at a year-long masquerade ball full of delights and wonders. But soon questions begin to surface as he stumbles into puzzling situations and realizes that something is wrong with his memories. He resolves to find the truth, a decision that leads him to encounters with a mysterious Neptunian, the last remaining soldier of his civilization, various powerful Peers, massively intelligent Sophotechs, and even the Earthmind Herself, the personification of all combined terrestrial computer intelligence.
Wright’s tale is a very old one – the story of a rebel who becomes disaffected with utopia. Nevertheless, he tells it with freshness, verve and style, pulling the reader into a fascinating society. We witness a high-stakes legal battle waged by brilliant computers, a theatrical eco-system performance, and philosophical debates between post-human leaders. And even a utopia can become the site of unimaginable danger.
Wright was an atheist when he wrote this novel (he has since converted to Christianity). However, his philosophical orientation was a conservative one, influenced by classical Stoicism. Therefore, unlike many contemporary atheists he was deeply concerned with truth, beauty and an objective standard of morality. This is clearly reflected in The Golden Age, and in his adventures Phaethon wrestles with many questions of ancient philosophy, which are given new meanings in an incredibly technologically-developed age. Religious readers will find much to reflect on and agree with here. On the other hand, there is also a theme of Romantic or Promethean defiance, the lone hero struggling against the restraints of convention, about which such readers will likely be more ambivalent.
Thus The Golden Age is enjoyable both as an exciting tale set in a mysterious future and also an intellectually stimulating work of scientific and philosophical extrapolation. I’m eagerly looking forward to reading the other volumes.
4 out of 5
The Golden Age is the first volume of a science fiction trilogy. Its title has two or possibly three meanings. It is the label given to a bright time in the far future, when humanity enjoys unprecedented peace, wealth and knowledge. It also refers to the Golden Age of science fiction, when authors like A.E. van Vogt and Isaac Asimov shaped the genre with epic, galaxy-spanning tales. Wright seeks to recapture that same sense of wonder in 21st century science fiction. It may also be a reference to the fabled Golden Age of Greek mythology, as Wright’s tale is heavily influenced by a classical sensibility.
Phaethon, the protagonist, lives in a hugely complex civilization which spans the entire densely populated solar system, from the surface of the sun to frozen Neptune. The denizens of this civilization are descended from humans, but have split into a great many different kinds of life. These are classified mainly by what style of brain they use, since they can change body types quite readily. There are mass-minds, disembodied intelligences, super-intuitive Warlocks, purely logical beings, and a whole host of others, most integrated with highly advanced computers to one degree or another. Wright imagines a dazzling array of technologies, but manages to keep them intelligible and interesting to primitive contemporary humans.
Phaethon finds himself at a year-long masquerade ball full of delights and wonders. But soon questions begin to surface as he stumbles into puzzling situations and realizes that something is wrong with his memories. He resolves to find the truth, a decision that leads him to encounters with a mysterious Neptunian, the last remaining soldier of his civilization, various powerful Peers, massively intelligent Sophotechs, and even the Earthmind Herself, the personification of all combined terrestrial computer intelligence.
Wright’s tale is a very old one – the story of a rebel who becomes disaffected with utopia. Nevertheless, he tells it with freshness, verve and style, pulling the reader into a fascinating society. We witness a high-stakes legal battle waged by brilliant computers, a theatrical eco-system performance, and philosophical debates between post-human leaders. And even a utopia can become the site of unimaginable danger.
Wright was an atheist when he wrote this novel (he has since converted to Christianity). However, his philosophical orientation was a conservative one, influenced by classical Stoicism. Therefore, unlike many contemporary atheists he was deeply concerned with truth, beauty and an objective standard of morality. This is clearly reflected in The Golden Age, and in his adventures Phaethon wrestles with many questions of ancient philosophy, which are given new meanings in an incredibly technologically-developed age. Religious readers will find much to reflect on and agree with here. On the other hand, there is also a theme of Romantic or Promethean defiance, the lone hero struggling against the restraints of convention, about which such readers will likely be more ambivalent.
Thus The Golden Age is enjoyable both as an exciting tale set in a mysterious future and also an intellectually stimulating work of scientific and philosophical extrapolation. I’m eagerly looking forward to reading the other volumes.
4 out of 5
Monday, September 25, 2006
Book Review - The Urth of the New Sun
The Urth of the New Sun, by Gene Wolfe. 1987.
Upon reading the completed Book of the New Sun, Gene Wolfe’s editor asked him if he could add a paragraph at the end explaining that Severian later went off into space and brought back a new sun. Wolfe replied that he would need a lot more than a paragraph. The Urth of the New Sun was the result of that conversation. While the first four volumes of Severian’s story can stand alone, they contain many hints and glimpses of the messianic Conciliator and the apocalyptic coming of the New Sun. Thus Urth expands, illuminates, and completes this epic tale.
Severian has been Autarch for ten years when we meet him again on the spaceship that is bearing him to Yesod, the universe higher than his own. He goes to be examined by the Hierogrammates, those exalted beings who seek to reshape humanity. On board he encounters any number of dangers and wonders, from intelligent suits of armor to mutant mutineers. One of the most interesting characters here is the furry creature Zak.
In Yesod, Severian is judged as the representative of all Urth in a strange trial which is only the completion of the examination that has gone on all throughout his journey. Here we meet Apheta, a woman who pulses with light, and the Hierogrammate Tzadkiel, who has great wings covered with eyes. His consciousness having been joined with a White Fountain that can renew the sun, Severian is returned to Urth, but at a time unfamiliar to him. He finds the people oppressed politically and fearful about the failing sun. Almost unintentionally he begins a journey of healing, teaching, and reconciliation which leads him to confrontations with a sorcerer and a tyrant.
Learning that he has the ability to travel through time as well as space, Severian moves to the point when the White Fountain arrives and resurrects the old sun. He finds himself caught up in scenes similar to those in Dr. Talos’ play Eschatology and Genesis, reunited with his wife Valeria, as well as Baldanders, Juturna, and a prophetess whom he healed long ago. Now he witnesses the destruction and renewal of Urth, both horrifying and glorious. But even this is not the end of his journey.
Wolfe’s prose is as rich and rewarding as ever, though the plot of Urth is less tightly constructed than that of the first New Sun books. At places it might be accused of meandering. On the other hand, as the barriers of time and space break down for him, it’s understandable that Severian’s narrative would also take some odd turns.
I’ve only scratched the surface in describing the many biblical and theological concepts that appear in this book – there are beautiful scenes of creation, ransom, discipleship, resurrection, and salvation. Wolfe has said that Severian is not so much a Christ-figure as a Christian figure. Be that as it may, I’ve found that this novel opens up fresh and inspiring perspectives on the New Testament for me. In this regard, Wolfe’s luminous work is comparable with the best from Christian masters like Tolkien and Lewis.
5 out of 5
Upon reading the completed Book of the New Sun, Gene Wolfe’s editor asked him if he could add a paragraph at the end explaining that Severian later went off into space and brought back a new sun. Wolfe replied that he would need a lot more than a paragraph. The Urth of the New Sun was the result of that conversation. While the first four volumes of Severian’s story can stand alone, they contain many hints and glimpses of the messianic Conciliator and the apocalyptic coming of the New Sun. Thus Urth expands, illuminates, and completes this epic tale.
Severian has been Autarch for ten years when we meet him again on the spaceship that is bearing him to Yesod, the universe higher than his own. He goes to be examined by the Hierogrammates, those exalted beings who seek to reshape humanity. On board he encounters any number of dangers and wonders, from intelligent suits of armor to mutant mutineers. One of the most interesting characters here is the furry creature Zak.
In Yesod, Severian is judged as the representative of all Urth in a strange trial which is only the completion of the examination that has gone on all throughout his journey. Here we meet Apheta, a woman who pulses with light, and the Hierogrammate Tzadkiel, who has great wings covered with eyes. His consciousness having been joined with a White Fountain that can renew the sun, Severian is returned to Urth, but at a time unfamiliar to him. He finds the people oppressed politically and fearful about the failing sun. Almost unintentionally he begins a journey of healing, teaching, and reconciliation which leads him to confrontations with a sorcerer and a tyrant.
Learning that he has the ability to travel through time as well as space, Severian moves to the point when the White Fountain arrives and resurrects the old sun. He finds himself caught up in scenes similar to those in Dr. Talos’ play Eschatology and Genesis, reunited with his wife Valeria, as well as Baldanders, Juturna, and a prophetess whom he healed long ago. Now he witnesses the destruction and renewal of Urth, both horrifying and glorious. But even this is not the end of his journey.
Wolfe’s prose is as rich and rewarding as ever, though the plot of Urth is less tightly constructed than that of the first New Sun books. At places it might be accused of meandering. On the other hand, as the barriers of time and space break down for him, it’s understandable that Severian’s narrative would also take some odd turns.
I’ve only scratched the surface in describing the many biblical and theological concepts that appear in this book – there are beautiful scenes of creation, ransom, discipleship, resurrection, and salvation. Wolfe has said that Severian is not so much a Christ-figure as a Christian figure. Be that as it may, I’ve found that this novel opens up fresh and inspiring perspectives on the New Testament for me. In this regard, Wolfe’s luminous work is comparable with the best from Christian masters like Tolkien and Lewis.
5 out of 5
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Book Review - The Citadel of the Autarch
by Gene Wolfe. Simon & Schuster, 1982.
This is the fourth volume of The Book of the New Sun. Having passed through the mountains, Severian now encounters the war that is being fought between his own Commonwealth and the Ascians of the northern continent. The Ascians come from a rigid, totalitarian society and speak only by quoting the approved writings of their rulers, the Group of Seventeen (though ultimately they are all slaves of the monstrous Erebus.)
Succumbing to illness and his wounds, Severian finds himself being nursed in a lazaret of the Pelerines, a female monastic order. Here he converses with Pelerines, their slaves, and a number of wounded soldiers. A female patient with several suitors has them engage in a story-telling contest (in which she herself participates), and asks Severian to judge which story is best. Among these interesting digressions is a version of the Parable of the Wicked Tenants. Once he has left the lazaret, Severian enlists with a unit of mercenary cavalry. He is soon embroiled in hair-raising battles fought between bizarre varieties of troops armed with weapons both futuristic and primitive. Wolfe drew on his own experiences in the Korean War to depict the boredom, excitement and horror of a soldier’s life.
It is on the battlefield that Severian again encounters the Autarch and learns the intriguing inner nature of his rule. All of the threads of The Book of the New Sun are drawn together as old haunts are revisited, debts repaid and conflicts come to their head. Vodalus, Agia, Dorcas, and Master Palaemon all make appearances as Severian’s ascension to the throne reaches culmination. Particularly memorable is a moving mystical insight that overtakes him at the edge of the sea.
The first part of Citadel feels like a digression from the direction the previous volume took (particularly the stories of the lazaret) though all these pieces do eventually come together. While Severian is still at times proud, lustful and violent, his travels and sufferings have changed him, and we see the beginning of wisdom, particularly as he takes up the power and responsibility of the Autarch. There are some beautiful scenes of grace and forgiveness.
Citadel completes The Book of the New Sun and the first stage of Severian’s story. Several years later, Wolfe wrote The Urth of the New Sun, which in expanding Severian’s journey depicts the numinous salvation history which the first part hints at– the story of the Conciliator and the New Sun.
5 out of 5
This is the fourth volume of The Book of the New Sun. Having passed through the mountains, Severian now encounters the war that is being fought between his own Commonwealth and the Ascians of the northern continent. The Ascians come from a rigid, totalitarian society and speak only by quoting the approved writings of their rulers, the Group of Seventeen (though ultimately they are all slaves of the monstrous Erebus.)
Succumbing to illness and his wounds, Severian finds himself being nursed in a lazaret of the Pelerines, a female monastic order. Here he converses with Pelerines, their slaves, and a number of wounded soldiers. A female patient with several suitors has them engage in a story-telling contest (in which she herself participates), and asks Severian to judge which story is best. Among these interesting digressions is a version of the Parable of the Wicked Tenants. Once he has left the lazaret, Severian enlists with a unit of mercenary cavalry. He is soon embroiled in hair-raising battles fought between bizarre varieties of troops armed with weapons both futuristic and primitive. Wolfe drew on his own experiences in the Korean War to depict the boredom, excitement and horror of a soldier’s life.
It is on the battlefield that Severian again encounters the Autarch and learns the intriguing inner nature of his rule. All of the threads of The Book of the New Sun are drawn together as old haunts are revisited, debts repaid and conflicts come to their head. Vodalus, Agia, Dorcas, and Master Palaemon all make appearances as Severian’s ascension to the throne reaches culmination. Particularly memorable is a moving mystical insight that overtakes him at the edge of the sea.
The first part of Citadel feels like a digression from the direction the previous volume took (particularly the stories of the lazaret) though all these pieces do eventually come together. While Severian is still at times proud, lustful and violent, his travels and sufferings have changed him, and we see the beginning of wisdom, particularly as he takes up the power and responsibility of the Autarch. There are some beautiful scenes of grace and forgiveness.
Citadel completes The Book of the New Sun and the first stage of Severian’s story. Several years later, Wolfe wrote The Urth of the New Sun, which in expanding Severian’s journey depicts the numinous salvation history which the first part hints at– the story of the Conciliator and the New Sun.
5 out of 5
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Book Review - Three Days to Never
by Tim Powers. William Morrow, 2006.
When Frank Marrity gets an enigmatic phone call from his grandmother, telling him that she’s burned down her garden shed, he and his twelve-year-old daughter Daphne head over to investigate. When they arrive, the shed, though decrepit, is still standing, while his grandmother has mysteriously vanished. Inside the shed they find a signed slab of concrete with Charlie Chaplin’s hand- and foot-prints on it, a box full of letters from Albert Einstein, and some strange gold wiring sticking out from under the floor. There’s also a TV and a VCR, and just before they are interrupted Daphne takes the videotape. Watching it later at home, she discovers that it contains a terrifying silent film that makes the room spin about her. And then things begin to burst into flame.
Oren Lepidopt is a devout Jew who works for a special branch of the Israeli secret services. Educated in the sacred texts of Judaism and the mystical Kabbalah, Lepidopt and his fellow ‘Halomot’ agents use both mundane and paranormal techniques in their work. They are tasked with tracking down the secret discoveries that Einstein considered more dangerous than the atom bomb – too dangerous to share with any government. Also on the trail is a ruthless occult order known as the Vespers, descended from the Albigenses of Languedoc. Their symbol is the two joined cones of the Grail, symbolizing the future and the past, both opening up and moving away from the present. It is their ambition to find a means of altering the past, and thus achieve godlike power.
As is his usual practice, Powers takes unusual events from the lives of historical figures and imagines a secret history that would explain them. He also links his story loosely to The Tempest and mixes in biblical references, the Six-Day War, quantum mechanics, dybbuks, and the paradoxes of time travel. The treatment of this last topic is in some ways reminiscent of Gene Wolfe’s Free Live Free, and Powers’ take on destiny (or Providence) has some interesting points in common with Connie Willis’ To Say Nothing of the Dog.
The story contains some truly chilling moments, interspersed with Powers’ usual brand of wry humour (Daphne is particularly charming.) He remains as deft as ever at keeping his readers guessing. While I thought Frank Marrity’s romantic involvement came together a little unrealistically, the decisions of certain other characters surprised me. I also felt that Powers did a great job of keeping up the tension by moving the story along at a compelling pace, a skill he’s honed through years of writing complicated novels. However, as with Declare, there are a few sections in which people explain the back story through weighty speeches that seem out of character.
There are, of course, plenty of religious references in this book, drawn mainly from Judaism and the Hebrew scriptures, and there is a resurrection of sorts. The moral journey of the characters is not as openly spiritual as in Declare, but their dilemmas and choices do mesh with Jewish and Christian beliefs. The question confronting them all is: Do the ends justify the means? Is it acceptable to override ‘common’ morality if the rewards are big enough? In this regard the Vespers occultists are like the demon worshippers of That Hideous Strength, attempting to attain perfect ‘objectivity’ by recasting good as cowardice and evil as efficiency, but turning themselves into monsters in the process.
Powers hasn’t lost his touch – this is a memorable and thought-provoking book.
4.5 out of 5
When Frank Marrity gets an enigmatic phone call from his grandmother, telling him that she’s burned down her garden shed, he and his twelve-year-old daughter Daphne head over to investigate. When they arrive, the shed, though decrepit, is still standing, while his grandmother has mysteriously vanished. Inside the shed they find a signed slab of concrete with Charlie Chaplin’s hand- and foot-prints on it, a box full of letters from Albert Einstein, and some strange gold wiring sticking out from under the floor. There’s also a TV and a VCR, and just before they are interrupted Daphne takes the videotape. Watching it later at home, she discovers that it contains a terrifying silent film that makes the room spin about her. And then things begin to burst into flame.
Oren Lepidopt is a devout Jew who works for a special branch of the Israeli secret services. Educated in the sacred texts of Judaism and the mystical Kabbalah, Lepidopt and his fellow ‘Halomot’ agents use both mundane and paranormal techniques in their work. They are tasked with tracking down the secret discoveries that Einstein considered more dangerous than the atom bomb – too dangerous to share with any government. Also on the trail is a ruthless occult order known as the Vespers, descended from the Albigenses of Languedoc. Their symbol is the two joined cones of the Grail, symbolizing the future and the past, both opening up and moving away from the present. It is their ambition to find a means of altering the past, and thus achieve godlike power.
As is his usual practice, Powers takes unusual events from the lives of historical figures and imagines a secret history that would explain them. He also links his story loosely to The Tempest and mixes in biblical references, the Six-Day War, quantum mechanics, dybbuks, and the paradoxes of time travel. The treatment of this last topic is in some ways reminiscent of Gene Wolfe’s Free Live Free, and Powers’ take on destiny (or Providence) has some interesting points in common with Connie Willis’ To Say Nothing of the Dog.
The story contains some truly chilling moments, interspersed with Powers’ usual brand of wry humour (Daphne is particularly charming.) He remains as deft as ever at keeping his readers guessing. While I thought Frank Marrity’s romantic involvement came together a little unrealistically, the decisions of certain other characters surprised me. I also felt that Powers did a great job of keeping up the tension by moving the story along at a compelling pace, a skill he’s honed through years of writing complicated novels. However, as with Declare, there are a few sections in which people explain the back story through weighty speeches that seem out of character.
There are, of course, plenty of religious references in this book, drawn mainly from Judaism and the Hebrew scriptures, and there is a resurrection of sorts. The moral journey of the characters is not as openly spiritual as in Declare, but their dilemmas and choices do mesh with Jewish and Christian beliefs. The question confronting them all is: Do the ends justify the means? Is it acceptable to override ‘common’ morality if the rewards are big enough? In this regard the Vespers occultists are like the demon worshippers of That Hideous Strength, attempting to attain perfect ‘objectivity’ by recasting good as cowardice and evil as efficiency, but turning themselves into monsters in the process.
Powers hasn’t lost his touch – this is a memorable and thought-provoking book.
4.5 out of 5
Monday, August 28, 2006
Book Review - The Anubis Gates
by Tim Powers. Ace, 1983.
After I was introduced to Tim Powers through his Cold War fantasy, Declare, I attempted to track down his earlier works at libraries and used bookstores. Several proved impossible to find. Among these was the novel that first made him famous: The Anubis Gates, so eventually I gave in and bought a new copy. Now, having read it, I understand the reason for its rarity: no one in their right mind would relinquish a copy of such a marvelous book!
Brendan Doyle, a second-rate Coleridge scholar, is hired by wealthy J. Cochran Darrow as part of a peculiar money-making scheme. Darrow has discovered a quasi-magical means of limited time travel, and to raise funds for other exploits, he has arranged to take ten customers back to 1810 to hear Coleridge give a lecture. Doyle’s job is to give the venture a bit of academic gravitas. The first part of the plan goes smoothly, but after the lecture Doyle is kidnapped by a huge bald-headed sorcerer who is intent on learning his magical secrets. Doyle escapes by the skin of his teeth, but finds himself stranded in the past, a friendless pauper.
I’m not sure I could describe the rest of the plot if I wanted to, because it would sound utterly insane. One of Powers’ gifts is the ability to take strange details of the past and knit them together into a convincing secret history, filling in the blanks with a bizarre but logically coherent framework. Suffice it to say that it involves an evil clown, Byron, Coleridge, Egyptian gods, gypsies, a body-switching killer, horrible medical experiments, magical homunculi, Napoleon, a depilatory salon, fire elementals, and a little wooden monkey. And, of course, the fate of the whole world hangs in the balance!
While the plot is complex, it keeps up a fast pace and never gets bogged down in its own twists and turns. For the most part Powers avoids the explanatory speeches which show up in his later works. There’s plenty of sly humour, and a lot of frights, but overall the story plays it straight and doesn’t veer off into the horror or comedy genres. I’ve read quite a few books that tried to follow a similar formula – a rollicking adventure spiced with weird ideas. Usually those works fell flat, were overly predictable, or came off as gimmicky and contrived. Not so with this book – all the pieces work together admirably. The Anubis Gates is the real thing, a classic which no doubt spawned many imitations.
What about religious elements? Early on we learn that the power of sorcery is fading thanks to the newer religions, in particular Christianity. Therefore, one of the main reasons the villains are plotting against England is because of its role in spreading this faith around the world. Coleridge, while a tormented man, was also a passionate and intellectually adventurous Christian, and this shows up in the book through a few of the remarks he makes, along with a brief conversation about the Logos. There’s a vivid resurrection sequence, and by the end of the book one gets the sense that Doyle has been an agent of Providence. Finally, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to see Powers’ Catholic faith reflected in the implicit moral dimension of the story. Several of his recurring themes make themselves felt: the importance of making reparations for past wrongs, of paying debts owed; and the wickedness of trying to extend one’s own life or power unnaturally by preying off the vulnerable.
All in all, a tour de force. Skip the used bookstores for this one - go out and buy a new copy today!
5 out of 5
After I was introduced to Tim Powers through his Cold War fantasy, Declare, I attempted to track down his earlier works at libraries and used bookstores. Several proved impossible to find. Among these was the novel that first made him famous: The Anubis Gates, so eventually I gave in and bought a new copy. Now, having read it, I understand the reason for its rarity: no one in their right mind would relinquish a copy of such a marvelous book!
Brendan Doyle, a second-rate Coleridge scholar, is hired by wealthy J. Cochran Darrow as part of a peculiar money-making scheme. Darrow has discovered a quasi-magical means of limited time travel, and to raise funds for other exploits, he has arranged to take ten customers back to 1810 to hear Coleridge give a lecture. Doyle’s job is to give the venture a bit of academic gravitas. The first part of the plan goes smoothly, but after the lecture Doyle is kidnapped by a huge bald-headed sorcerer who is intent on learning his magical secrets. Doyle escapes by the skin of his teeth, but finds himself stranded in the past, a friendless pauper.
I’m not sure I could describe the rest of the plot if I wanted to, because it would sound utterly insane. One of Powers’ gifts is the ability to take strange details of the past and knit them together into a convincing secret history, filling in the blanks with a bizarre but logically coherent framework. Suffice it to say that it involves an evil clown, Byron, Coleridge, Egyptian gods, gypsies, a body-switching killer, horrible medical experiments, magical homunculi, Napoleon, a depilatory salon, fire elementals, and a little wooden monkey. And, of course, the fate of the whole world hangs in the balance!
While the plot is complex, it keeps up a fast pace and never gets bogged down in its own twists and turns. For the most part Powers avoids the explanatory speeches which show up in his later works. There’s plenty of sly humour, and a lot of frights, but overall the story plays it straight and doesn’t veer off into the horror or comedy genres. I’ve read quite a few books that tried to follow a similar formula – a rollicking adventure spiced with weird ideas. Usually those works fell flat, were overly predictable, or came off as gimmicky and contrived. Not so with this book – all the pieces work together admirably. The Anubis Gates is the real thing, a classic which no doubt spawned many imitations.
What about religious elements? Early on we learn that the power of sorcery is fading thanks to the newer religions, in particular Christianity. Therefore, one of the main reasons the villains are plotting against England is because of its role in spreading this faith around the world. Coleridge, while a tormented man, was also a passionate and intellectually adventurous Christian, and this shows up in the book through a few of the remarks he makes, along with a brief conversation about the Logos. There’s a vivid resurrection sequence, and by the end of the book one gets the sense that Doyle has been an agent of Providence. Finally, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to see Powers’ Catholic faith reflected in the implicit moral dimension of the story. Several of his recurring themes make themselves felt: the importance of making reparations for past wrongs, of paying debts owed; and the wickedness of trying to extend one’s own life or power unnaturally by preying off the vulnerable.
All in all, a tour de force. Skip the used bookstores for this one - go out and buy a new copy today!
5 out of 5
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Book review - Crown of Fire
by Kathy Tyers. 2000. Bethany House.
The final volume of the Firebird trilogy, Crown of Fire brings the adventures of our heroine and her husband to a grand conclusion.
Having returned to Netaia to be confirmed an heiress, Firebird must find her way through a number of sticky political situations, while secretly playing a more dangerous game. She and Brennen must act as bait to trap the Shuhr. The Sentinels have a temporary edge over their ancient enemies, thanks both to new RIA technology and the powerful telepathic fusion ability which Brennen and Firebird have discovered. For the Shuhr to learn these secrets would be a catastrophe, in light of their horrific plans for the rest of humanity. The Federacy, desperate to prevent any further destruction, has given Brennen clear orders – interrogate one of the Shuhr, and then use the resulting information to lead a strike force against them.
I found the first half of the book to be rather unexciting, as various factions and personalities maneuver into position and the Sentinels wait for their enemies to commit themselves. After the terrors and thrills of Fusion Fire, it was hard to get too concerned with the machinations of Netaian politicians. But the Shuhr are as ruthless and frightening as ever, and when they finally do strike, the story explodes. I can think of few other authors who regularly put women and children in such hideous danger as Tyers does in this trilogy (particularly danger that the reader truly feels) and Firebird suffers some terrible damage.
I appreciate the way Tyers depicts unmistakably evil people while showing them in context. In their own minds, they have perfectly sane and moral reasons for the things they do, and the author emphasizes how easy it would be for any of us to go down that road. She also does a good job of portraying controversial social issues without descending into polemic. For example, she imagines what a society which regularly manipulated, killed and ‘harvested’ cloned embryos would look like, and lets her readers drawn their own conclusions. Despite the structural and entrenched nature of the Shuhr’s sins, however, Tyers does not deny them grace. Terza Shirak, a Shuhr geneticist, becomes an unexpectedly sympathetic character as she begins to wonder if a different life is possible.
Firebird always struggles with pride, and many occasions for it arise in Crown of Fire. She imagines becoming a triumphant Netaian queen who brings salvation to her people. Brennen, in turn, seeks to know God’s will for him in the war, and steels himself to make an awful sacrifice. Besides this spiritual growth there are some interesting theological insights, as when Firebird imagines the fulfillment of prophecies as being like “a series of mountain ranges, with nearby peaks obscuring the distant ones. Only when you arrived at the first summit could you see that the second range was still far off.” (p. 241) And I think Tyers handles the overlapping human and divine causes of the final cataclysm with appropriate subtlety.
Though it takes its time in picking up speed, Crown of Fire is a fine ending to this exciting series.
4 out of 5
The final volume of the Firebird trilogy, Crown of Fire brings the adventures of our heroine and her husband to a grand conclusion.
Having returned to Netaia to be confirmed an heiress, Firebird must find her way through a number of sticky political situations, while secretly playing a more dangerous game. She and Brennen must act as bait to trap the Shuhr. The Sentinels have a temporary edge over their ancient enemies, thanks both to new RIA technology and the powerful telepathic fusion ability which Brennen and Firebird have discovered. For the Shuhr to learn these secrets would be a catastrophe, in light of their horrific plans for the rest of humanity. The Federacy, desperate to prevent any further destruction, has given Brennen clear orders – interrogate one of the Shuhr, and then use the resulting information to lead a strike force against them.
I found the first half of the book to be rather unexciting, as various factions and personalities maneuver into position and the Sentinels wait for their enemies to commit themselves. After the terrors and thrills of Fusion Fire, it was hard to get too concerned with the machinations of Netaian politicians. But the Shuhr are as ruthless and frightening as ever, and when they finally do strike, the story explodes. I can think of few other authors who regularly put women and children in such hideous danger as Tyers does in this trilogy (particularly danger that the reader truly feels) and Firebird suffers some terrible damage.
I appreciate the way Tyers depicts unmistakably evil people while showing them in context. In their own minds, they have perfectly sane and moral reasons for the things they do, and the author emphasizes how easy it would be for any of us to go down that road. She also does a good job of portraying controversial social issues without descending into polemic. For example, she imagines what a society which regularly manipulated, killed and ‘harvested’ cloned embryos would look like, and lets her readers drawn their own conclusions. Despite the structural and entrenched nature of the Shuhr’s sins, however, Tyers does not deny them grace. Terza Shirak, a Shuhr geneticist, becomes an unexpectedly sympathetic character as she begins to wonder if a different life is possible.
Firebird always struggles with pride, and many occasions for it arise in Crown of Fire. She imagines becoming a triumphant Netaian queen who brings salvation to her people. Brennen, in turn, seeks to know God’s will for him in the war, and steels himself to make an awful sacrifice. Besides this spiritual growth there are some interesting theological insights, as when Firebird imagines the fulfillment of prophecies as being like “a series of mountain ranges, with nearby peaks obscuring the distant ones. Only when you arrived at the first summit could you see that the second range was still far off.” (p. 241) And I think Tyers handles the overlapping human and divine causes of the final cataclysm with appropriate subtlety.
Though it takes its time in picking up speed, Crown of Fire is a fine ending to this exciting series.
4 out of 5
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Book revew - Fusion Fire
by Kathy Tyers. Bethany House, 2000.
The second book in the Firebird trilogy, Fusion Fire defies the traditional wisdom about sequels being inferior creatures. In fact, it overshadows its predecessor, expanding the scale of the story and serving up a heady mix of fast-moving action and terrifying new threats.
Picking up the narrative eight or nine months after it left off, we find our heroes married and expecting twins. Pregnant though she is, Firebird is far from helpless when an assassin comes in the night. No sooner is that threat dealt with than worse ones arise, along with some fresh tragedies. It seems that someone is intent on wiping out Brennen’s family, due to ancient prophecies which indicate the Messiah will arise from his line.
While the devout Sentinels follow a strict code that prevents misuse of their special abilities, their equally gifted cousins care nothing for laws or the precepts of religion. Known as the Shuhr (pronounced ‘Sith’), they serve only themselves and seek to dominate the galaxy. Infiltrating both Netaia and the Federacy, they are intent on wiping out the Sentinels who stand in their way. Masters of the biosciences, equipped with an arsenal of horrific techniques, they have found ways to increase their lifespans and telepathic powers by preying off the vulnerable.
Firebird borrowed concepts from Star Wars, Star Trek, and other places, but in Fusion Fire Tyers demonstrates how deftly she has reworked these elements into an original story. Readers get to see more of interesting characters such as Carradee and Tel Tellai, and find themselves in the unlikely position of pitying Firebird’s malicious sister Phoena. They also observe the somewhat amusing fate of Ellet Kinsman, the manipulative woman who only had eyes for Brennen.
Firebird is relentlessly confronted by evil, both within and without. Seeking to uncover her own latent psychic talents, she must wrestle with darkness inside herself. The malevolent Shuhr are a truly hideous menace, particularly the masterminds Dru Polar and Eshdeth Shirak. Tyers inflicts a great deal of damage on her characters. Both they and her readers must ask how God can permit such evil, and what He is doing while His creatures suffer. As in our world, His purposes are often opaque to mortals, but eventually Firebird is permitted to see some of them come together as retribution strikes at the heart of the Shuhr’s arrogant schemes.
Fusion Fire also reveals more of the Sentinel’s religion. The ceremony of Firebird’s consecration includes a very striking vision of the Sentinel’s ancestors and a desperate midnight sacrifice that hints at a greater atonement. However, I felt there were places when the Sentinels’ language and beliefs corresponded a bit too obviously with contemporary evangelicalism. For example, the fiery darkness inside Firebird is already a potent symbol for original sin, without the characters meditating on it and explaining it in theological terms.
Overall, though, this is a highly enjoyable work. Moving from hand-to-hand combat and outer space dogfights to psychological disintegration and a nearly fatal childbirth, Fusion Fire is a very compelling ride.
4 out of 5.
The second book in the Firebird trilogy, Fusion Fire defies the traditional wisdom about sequels being inferior creatures. In fact, it overshadows its predecessor, expanding the scale of the story and serving up a heady mix of fast-moving action and terrifying new threats.
Picking up the narrative eight or nine months after it left off, we find our heroes married and expecting twins. Pregnant though she is, Firebird is far from helpless when an assassin comes in the night. No sooner is that threat dealt with than worse ones arise, along with some fresh tragedies. It seems that someone is intent on wiping out Brennen’s family, due to ancient prophecies which indicate the Messiah will arise from his line.
While the devout Sentinels follow a strict code that prevents misuse of their special abilities, their equally gifted cousins care nothing for laws or the precepts of religion. Known as the Shuhr (pronounced ‘Sith’), they serve only themselves and seek to dominate the galaxy. Infiltrating both Netaia and the Federacy, they are intent on wiping out the Sentinels who stand in their way. Masters of the biosciences, equipped with an arsenal of horrific techniques, they have found ways to increase their lifespans and telepathic powers by preying off the vulnerable.
Firebird borrowed concepts from Star Wars, Star Trek, and other places, but in Fusion Fire Tyers demonstrates how deftly she has reworked these elements into an original story. Readers get to see more of interesting characters such as Carradee and Tel Tellai, and find themselves in the unlikely position of pitying Firebird’s malicious sister Phoena. They also observe the somewhat amusing fate of Ellet Kinsman, the manipulative woman who only had eyes for Brennen.
Firebird is relentlessly confronted by evil, both within and without. Seeking to uncover her own latent psychic talents, she must wrestle with darkness inside herself. The malevolent Shuhr are a truly hideous menace, particularly the masterminds Dru Polar and Eshdeth Shirak. Tyers inflicts a great deal of damage on her characters. Both they and her readers must ask how God can permit such evil, and what He is doing while His creatures suffer. As in our world, His purposes are often opaque to mortals, but eventually Firebird is permitted to see some of them come together as retribution strikes at the heart of the Shuhr’s arrogant schemes.
Fusion Fire also reveals more of the Sentinel’s religion. The ceremony of Firebird’s consecration includes a very striking vision of the Sentinel’s ancestors and a desperate midnight sacrifice that hints at a greater atonement. However, I felt there were places when the Sentinels’ language and beliefs corresponded a bit too obviously with contemporary evangelicalism. For example, the fiery darkness inside Firebird is already a potent symbol for original sin, without the characters meditating on it and explaining it in theological terms.
Overall, though, this is a highly enjoyable work. Moving from hand-to-hand combat and outer space dogfights to psychological disintegration and a nearly fatal childbirth, Fusion Fire is a very compelling ride.
4 out of 5.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Book review - Firebird
by Kathy Tyers. 1999. Bethany House.
Firebird is a fast-paced space opera which was originally published in the mainstream SF market, and then rewritten for an evangelical audience. It centers around two characters: strong-willed Firebird Angelo, and the telepathic Brennen Caldwell.
Born into the ruling family of Netaia, Firebird is wealthy and educated, but she knows her life will not be long. The Netaian nobility eliminates excess heirs once they fall past a certain point in the succession, and Firebird has fallen to the point of no return. Thus she eschews romance and long-term plans, training as a fighter pilot and hoping to die in a blaze of glory. Her class lives in opulent luxury, repressing the common people through a state religion, a culture of obedience and brute force. Their vaguely Confucian religion preaches conformity and worships a set of deified attributes, such as Strength, Knowledge, and Excellence. Their culture is xenophobic, holding itself proudly aloof from the Federacy, an interstellar alliance which upholds human rights and freedoms.
When Netaia begins a war of expansion on nearby Veroh, Firebird eagerly goes off, seeking a glorious death. But Veroh is a Federacy protectorate and she soon finds herself a prisoner, captured and interrogated by Brennen, a Sentinel.
Descended from a nearly extinct people who genetically altered themselves to gain uncanny powers, the Sentinels who live in the Federacy follow a strict code of conduct which regulates use of their telepathic and telekinetic abilities. They also wield a special weapon - the crystace is a simple hilt from which, upon activation, emerges a long crystal blade that can deflect laser blasts and cut practically anything. (Sounds like the Jedi, huh?)
Ever since the Sentinel’s ancestors misused their powers and died in a catastrophic civil war, a small, exiled remnant has sought to atone by using their powers for good and remaining faithful to their religion. They worship one God, whom they hope one day will send a Messiah. They’re essentially Jews.
But not quite. These people have two testaments, and a Trinitarian concept of God. Nor do they seem to sacrifice animals. Their preoccupations and expectations are more Christian than Jewish. As might be expected, their emphases are evangelical. For example, only two aspects of their hoped-for Messiah are mentioned in this volume: he will perform an act of sin-cleansing substitionary atonement; and after he comes his people will again be allowed to proselytize. So perhaps it would be correct to say that the Sentinels are Jedi Jews for Jesus!
Does all this sound derivative? You bet. We’ve got the Star Trek Federation battling World War II Japan while Jewish Jedi rush about performing mind melds. But Tyers manages to spin it into an entertaining space opera. She accomplishes this by providing plenty of action, and by focusing on strong characters. Firebird is daring, driven and self-destructive. Brennen is powerful, conscientious and intense, and it’s not surprising that a romance soon sparks between them.
I felt that Tyers created so much excitement and tension with the military exploits of the first half of the story that the second half seemed rather tame and predictable. Firebird and Brennen go on to engage in dangerous James Bond-style adventures, but the shift in scale creates the impression we’ve switched genres, from military SF to romantic thriller. Much of the political intrigue will only be interesting if you go on to read the other sections of the trilogy, and I suspect Tyers reworked her books to flow best when read as one epic tale.
The spiritual elements work fairly well. Firebird rejects the graceless tradition she was raised in, but she is not immediately comfortable with Brennen’s unfamiliar religion. She struggles with her pride and selfishness while trying to understand his faith. I was particularly moved by her vision of God as an almighty singer, creating and conducting the music of the galaxies. It fits nicely with Firebird’s talent as a harpist, and the musically themed chapter headings.
Firebird is a worthy addition to the field of Christian SF, though it’s best read along with its sequels.
3.5 out of 5
Firebird is a fast-paced space opera which was originally published in the mainstream SF market, and then rewritten for an evangelical audience. It centers around two characters: strong-willed Firebird Angelo, and the telepathic Brennen Caldwell.
Born into the ruling family of Netaia, Firebird is wealthy and educated, but she knows her life will not be long. The Netaian nobility eliminates excess heirs once they fall past a certain point in the succession, and Firebird has fallen to the point of no return. Thus she eschews romance and long-term plans, training as a fighter pilot and hoping to die in a blaze of glory. Her class lives in opulent luxury, repressing the common people through a state religion, a culture of obedience and brute force. Their vaguely Confucian religion preaches conformity and worships a set of deified attributes, such as Strength, Knowledge, and Excellence. Their culture is xenophobic, holding itself proudly aloof from the Federacy, an interstellar alliance which upholds human rights and freedoms.
When Netaia begins a war of expansion on nearby Veroh, Firebird eagerly goes off, seeking a glorious death. But Veroh is a Federacy protectorate and she soon finds herself a prisoner, captured and interrogated by Brennen, a Sentinel.
Descended from a nearly extinct people who genetically altered themselves to gain uncanny powers, the Sentinels who live in the Federacy follow a strict code of conduct which regulates use of their telepathic and telekinetic abilities. They also wield a special weapon - the crystace is a simple hilt from which, upon activation, emerges a long crystal blade that can deflect laser blasts and cut practically anything. (Sounds like the Jedi, huh?)
Ever since the Sentinel’s ancestors misused their powers and died in a catastrophic civil war, a small, exiled remnant has sought to atone by using their powers for good and remaining faithful to their religion. They worship one God, whom they hope one day will send a Messiah. They’re essentially Jews.
But not quite. These people have two testaments, and a Trinitarian concept of God. Nor do they seem to sacrifice animals. Their preoccupations and expectations are more Christian than Jewish. As might be expected, their emphases are evangelical. For example, only two aspects of their hoped-for Messiah are mentioned in this volume: he will perform an act of sin-cleansing substitionary atonement; and after he comes his people will again be allowed to proselytize. So perhaps it would be correct to say that the Sentinels are Jedi Jews for Jesus!
Does all this sound derivative? You bet. We’ve got the Star Trek Federation battling World War II Japan while Jewish Jedi rush about performing mind melds. But Tyers manages to spin it into an entertaining space opera. She accomplishes this by providing plenty of action, and by focusing on strong characters. Firebird is daring, driven and self-destructive. Brennen is powerful, conscientious and intense, and it’s not surprising that a romance soon sparks between them.
I felt that Tyers created so much excitement and tension with the military exploits of the first half of the story that the second half seemed rather tame and predictable. Firebird and Brennen go on to engage in dangerous James Bond-style adventures, but the shift in scale creates the impression we’ve switched genres, from military SF to romantic thriller. Much of the political intrigue will only be interesting if you go on to read the other sections of the trilogy, and I suspect Tyers reworked her books to flow best when read as one epic tale.
The spiritual elements work fairly well. Firebird rejects the graceless tradition she was raised in, but she is not immediately comfortable with Brennen’s unfamiliar religion. She struggles with her pride and selfishness while trying to understand his faith. I was particularly moved by her vision of God as an almighty singer, creating and conducting the music of the galaxies. It fits nicely with Firebird’s talent as a harpist, and the musically themed chapter headings.
Firebird is a worthy addition to the field of Christian SF, though it’s best read along with its sequels.
3.5 out of 5
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Book Review - The Sword of the Lictor
The Sword of the Lictor, by Gene Wolfe. 1981.
This is the third volume of The Book of the New Sun. When we meet him again, Severian has taken up his post as lictor (executioner, torturer and prison warden) of the city of Thrax. It is not a position he occupies long, though, for a crisis of conscience causes him to disobey the local archon. He flees into the wild, a hunted outlaw.
This book shows us more of Wolfe’s glorious and eccentric future landscape. The mountains through which Severian travels were long ago carved into monumental statues depicting forgotten emperors. In the valleys he encounters the animalistic zoanthrops, people who have renounced their humanity. On Lake Diuturna he sees the traveling islands and the free fisherfolk who dwell on them.
While there are sections in which our narrator, wandering alone, muses eloquently on questions philosophical and theological, Wolfe still provides plenty of action. Severian’s twilight encounter with the alzabo, a creature which speaks with the voices of its victims, remains one of the most tense scenes I’ve ever read. Equally exciting are his confrontations with a fiery assassin, a cabal of jungle sorcerors, and the demonic ruler Typhon.
It is in this third volume that Wolfe begins to supply answers to some of his riddles. We learn who is behind the attacks on Severian, and where Dorcas came from. We again meet Dr. Talos and the giant Baldanders, but see them in a very different light. We learn why the Claw is so named. And we are permitted a glance beneath the double masks of the alien cacogens.
A number of these insights and encounters combine to indicate that something profound is going on beneath the adventures, something of great import for Urth and her peoples. While only reaching fulfillment in the four and fifth volumes, it is becoming apparent that Severian’s story is actually one of salvation history.
5 out of 5.
This is the third volume of The Book of the New Sun. When we meet him again, Severian has taken up his post as lictor (executioner, torturer and prison warden) of the city of Thrax. It is not a position he occupies long, though, for a crisis of conscience causes him to disobey the local archon. He flees into the wild, a hunted outlaw.
This book shows us more of Wolfe’s glorious and eccentric future landscape. The mountains through which Severian travels were long ago carved into monumental statues depicting forgotten emperors. In the valleys he encounters the animalistic zoanthrops, people who have renounced their humanity. On Lake Diuturna he sees the traveling islands and the free fisherfolk who dwell on them.
While there are sections in which our narrator, wandering alone, muses eloquently on questions philosophical and theological, Wolfe still provides plenty of action. Severian’s twilight encounter with the alzabo, a creature which speaks with the voices of its victims, remains one of the most tense scenes I’ve ever read. Equally exciting are his confrontations with a fiery assassin, a cabal of jungle sorcerors, and the demonic ruler Typhon.
It is in this third volume that Wolfe begins to supply answers to some of his riddles. We learn who is behind the attacks on Severian, and where Dorcas came from. We again meet Dr. Talos and the giant Baldanders, but see them in a very different light. We learn why the Claw is so named. And we are permitted a glance beneath the double masks of the alien cacogens.
A number of these insights and encounters combine to indicate that something profound is going on beneath the adventures, something of great import for Urth and her peoples. While only reaching fulfillment in the four and fifth volumes, it is becoming apparent that Severian’s story is actually one of salvation history.
5 out of 5.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Book Review - Till We Have Faces
Till We Have Faces, by C.S. Lewis. Geoffrey Bles, 1956.
Lewis considered this, his last novel, to be his best, and many of his readers agree. It is the first-hand story of the ugly princess Orual’s love for her sister, and her complaint against the gods. Orual lives in Glome, a little barbarian kingdom of ancient times. Glome and its closest neighbours are fictional, but Lewis uses his considerable knowledge of classical history to imbue it with all the beauty and horror of pagan culture.
Orual’s kingdom lives under the distant influence of Greece, and her people worship local variations of the Greek gods. Their primary goddess is Ungit, elsewhere known as Aphrodite or Venus. Ungit is not the clean-limbed beauty of the Greeks, however. In Glome she is an almost shapeless black rock, spattered with the blood of sacrifices, crouching in the darkness of her temple.
The King, a violent and insecure man, is always seeking a male heir but gets daughters instead: Orual and Redival with his first wife, and Istra with his second. Istra is a stunningly beautiful child, and Orual, repulsively ugly, loves her whole-heartedly. It is from their foreign tutor, a slave know as The Fox, that Orual learns the Greek version of her sister’s name: Psyche.
Lewis is retelling the classical myth of Cupid and Psyche, refocusing the story on a mortal who has her heart broken by the deeds of the gods. Psyche is loved and worshipped by the people for her beauty, which incurs the jealous anger of Venus/Ungit. The goddess afflicts the lands with a curse, until the people turn on Psyche and send her away as a sacrifice. Cupid, known in Glome as the god of the Grey Mountain, is sent to destroy her, but upon seeing her, falls in love and bears her away to live with him. And thus Orual’s true problems begin.
If this all sounds very complicated and mythic, blame the reviewer. Till We Have Faces is in fact a straight-forward and grittily compelling book. The narrator is a very real woman, part of a dysfunctional royal family, and her story is frank about sex, politics and violence. Her book is, in part, a formal (if bitter) complaint against the gods, so she restricts herself as much as possible to the facts.
This emphasis on showing, rather than telling, may be what makes it Lewis’ greatest novel. It enabled him to bypass what Owen Barfield called his ‘expository demon,’ a temptation to explain everything and to freight his allegories with too much obvious meaning. Orual's story comes across as a simple report of things which happened, and as the self-portrait of a remarkable but talented woman.
It also has a depth that bespeaks Lewis’ spiritual maturity. Some of his earlier writings evince a kind of vehemence, a convert’s testiness. His interpretations of Christian ideas were always fresh and insightful, but there was occasionally a sense that anyone who disagreed with the Lewis version was a fool, and perhaps a damned fool. Till We Have Faces, though, displays a more confident, settled faith. Lewis is more at ease with showing the messiness of life, allowing a number of different voices to speak and waiting until the end to show which contains the greater truth.
It should be remembered that Lewis, while a formidable debater and logical thinker, was led into Christian faith less by rational debate than by story and song. It was, in large part, the unexpected joy and beauty found in pagan myths and epic poems which set him on the path to Christ. In this story he seeks to retrace that journey. Readers familiar with Lewis’ life will find a number of biographical elements and characters (Alan Jacob’s The Narnian does a wonderful job of explaining these.) In Orual's deeply moving story we see the grapplings of one who wrestled with divinity.
5 out of 5.
Lewis considered this, his last novel, to be his best, and many of his readers agree. It is the first-hand story of the ugly princess Orual’s love for her sister, and her complaint against the gods. Orual lives in Glome, a little barbarian kingdom of ancient times. Glome and its closest neighbours are fictional, but Lewis uses his considerable knowledge of classical history to imbue it with all the beauty and horror of pagan culture.
Orual’s kingdom lives under the distant influence of Greece, and her people worship local variations of the Greek gods. Their primary goddess is Ungit, elsewhere known as Aphrodite or Venus. Ungit is not the clean-limbed beauty of the Greeks, however. In Glome she is an almost shapeless black rock, spattered with the blood of sacrifices, crouching in the darkness of her temple.
The King, a violent and insecure man, is always seeking a male heir but gets daughters instead: Orual and Redival with his first wife, and Istra with his second. Istra is a stunningly beautiful child, and Orual, repulsively ugly, loves her whole-heartedly. It is from their foreign tutor, a slave know as The Fox, that Orual learns the Greek version of her sister’s name: Psyche.
Lewis is retelling the classical myth of Cupid and Psyche, refocusing the story on a mortal who has her heart broken by the deeds of the gods. Psyche is loved and worshipped by the people for her beauty, which incurs the jealous anger of Venus/Ungit. The goddess afflicts the lands with a curse, until the people turn on Psyche and send her away as a sacrifice. Cupid, known in Glome as the god of the Grey Mountain, is sent to destroy her, but upon seeing her, falls in love and bears her away to live with him. And thus Orual’s true problems begin.
If this all sounds very complicated and mythic, blame the reviewer. Till We Have Faces is in fact a straight-forward and grittily compelling book. The narrator is a very real woman, part of a dysfunctional royal family, and her story is frank about sex, politics and violence. Her book is, in part, a formal (if bitter) complaint against the gods, so she restricts herself as much as possible to the facts.
This emphasis on showing, rather than telling, may be what makes it Lewis’ greatest novel. It enabled him to bypass what Owen Barfield called his ‘expository demon,’ a temptation to explain everything and to freight his allegories with too much obvious meaning. Orual's story comes across as a simple report of things which happened, and as the self-portrait of a remarkable but talented woman.
It also has a depth that bespeaks Lewis’ spiritual maturity. Some of his earlier writings evince a kind of vehemence, a convert’s testiness. His interpretations of Christian ideas were always fresh and insightful, but there was occasionally a sense that anyone who disagreed with the Lewis version was a fool, and perhaps a damned fool. Till We Have Faces, though, displays a more confident, settled faith. Lewis is more at ease with showing the messiness of life, allowing a number of different voices to speak and waiting until the end to show which contains the greater truth.
It should be remembered that Lewis, while a formidable debater and logical thinker, was led into Christian faith less by rational debate than by story and song. It was, in large part, the unexpected joy and beauty found in pagan myths and epic poems which set him on the path to Christ. In this story he seeks to retrace that journey. Readers familiar with Lewis’ life will find a number of biographical elements and characters (Alan Jacob’s The Narnian does a wonderful job of explaining these.) In Orual's deeply moving story we see the grapplings of one who wrestled with divinity.
5 out of 5.
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