Barrayar by Lois McMaster Bujold
My rating: 4 of 5 stars "Welcome to Barrayar, abode of cannibals." "I am afraid," thinks Cordelia Vorkosigan nee Naismith. "Why did I ever come here to Barrayar? What have I done to myself, to my life?" Four months earlier she left her home on Beta Colony, a technologically, politically, and culturally advanced world where she was an astronomical survey captain slash jump ship navigator, to marry Admiral Aral Vorkosigan and live with him on Barrayar, a hidebound, martial, "primitive" world where soldiers are everywhere and capable women nowhere. On Barrayar, which has only been part of Galactic Civilization after a long age of Isolation, "people still burned vegetable matter [wood] just for the release of its chemically bound heat," get their protein from the carcasses of mammals, and tolerate the existence of impoverished slums. And as Louise McMaster Bujold's novel Barrayar (1991) begins, the couple has had "Their lives . . . turned upside down," as Aral has been called out of retirement to serve as Regent for four-year-old Prince Gregor, making Cordelia the Regent-consort. Emperor Ezar is about to die, so Aral will rule for his grandson Prince Gregor till the boy turns twenty and takes over as a well-groomed, preferably sane Emperor (Gregor's corrupt father having been disposed of during a war). And the "faction-fractured political landscape" of Barrayar is rife with foes of the new Regent: conservative, progressive, or ambitious Vor lords; Barrayar's old enemy the Cetagandan Empire; Barrayar's conquered world Komarr; etc. Soon Bujold is putting her compelling characters through psychological and physical wringers. Take Sergeant Bothari, the two meters tall, gargoyle-faced, former torturer’s tool. He has had some politically sensitive and personally nightmarish memories pharmaceutically suppressed, causing terrible bouts of migraines and nausea. He also happens to be sexually aroused by violence and to be fixated on Cordelia as her pet monster-dog. Aral wants to reform Barrayar to "Make the government more like the military at its best, with ability promoted regardless of background," without letting the government ministries become too corrupt or the nobles too weak. He wants to do his best for his empire and his future emperor, but is beset by enemies, friends, duties, impossible decisions, and paranoia. Aral's father Count Lord Piotr Vorkosigan is an aging war hero out of step with the changing times and his "radical" son. He seems to take a shine to Cordelia when she becomes pregnant with a boy, but what would happen if something were to happen to that gestative scion? Bujold writes a romantic comedy relief element into her novel, too, with the out of place bodyguard Ludmilla Droushnakovi and nerve-damaged Regent's aid Lieutenant Koudelka (though perhaps they are a little too naïve to be true). As for Cordelia, the point of view character of the novel, she misses being alone with Aral and longs for her Betan home, being repulsed by "insane," barbaric Barrayaran traditions and stubborn male honor, prejudice against cripples and women, and imperial delusions. Being pregnant on such a world without being able to use a Betan uterine replicator is not comforting. Through Cordelia, Bujold writes plenty of culture shock contrasts between Beta and Barrayar: e.g., wood is as common as plastic on Barrayar; Barrayarans are into clothes, Betans into body art; and Barrayar has prostitutes, Beta Licensed Practiced Sexuality Therapists. All that said, Cordelia remembers that it's best to "Check your assumptions at the door," and that Beta Colony is no utopia. Indeed, Cordelia finds herself bound ever more tightly to Barrayar and its people. She is intelligent and perceptive, gifted with the ability to both read and advise people, so that she is often maternally counseling and soothing them. However, she is also capable of gross miscalculation (and is perhaps let off too easily by Bujold for it), as we see in the climax of the novel. Cordelia's personality is summed up neatly when someone tells her, "We thought you were a soldier," and she replies, "Never. But that doesn't mean I never fought." As with her other books, Bujold writes many witty lines: --"Oh--you all stopped looking like the enemy to me even before the war was over. Just assorted victims, variously blind." --"He looked, she realized, exactly like a man who had thrown a bomb, had it go fizz instead of boom, and was now trying to stick his hand in and tap the firing mechanism to test it." --"He's also a little boy. Emperor is the delusion you all have in your heads." --"By this act I bring one death into the world." Audiobook reader Grover Gardener is the only Voice of Vorkosigan Bujold I can imagine. I like that he lets the text do most of the heavy lifting, so that, for instance, he doesn't try to talk like a 4-year-old when Bujold writes, "His childlike voice drifted back, ‘Droushi, can I have a cream cake, and one for Steggie?’” However, I wonder if he couldn't hint a bit at accents. Cordelia has a Betan accent that makes her stand out on Barrayar (at one critical point she can't speak for fear of attracting attention), but Gardner never does any accents. (Though perhaps that's better than uncomfortably trying a Russian accent for Barrayaran characters and an American one for Cordelia!) A word about the Vorkosigan Saga's reading order. If you (like me) were to read Barrayar after reading later books featuring Miles Vorkosigan, this novel would be full of poignant foreshadowings and backstoryings. But probably it would be best to read Shards of Honor (1986) first, this one second, Warrior's Apprentice (1986) third, and so on. I do think the early Vorkosigan books are superior to the later ones, having more of a dark bite. Anyway, Bujold's thoughtful, political, and cultural space opera is quite appealing. Barrayar ends with a great epilogue that brought tears to my eyes. View all my reviews
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Istanbul by Bettany Hughes
My rating: 4 of 5 stars Greeks, Romans, Ottomans and the World's Desire Bettany Hughes' Istanbul: A Tale of Three Cities (2016) enthusiastically relates the three main manifestations of the Queen of Cities: Greek Byzantium (c. 679 BC to AD 330), Roman Constantinople (c. AD 330-1453), and Ottoman Istanbul (c. AD 1453-on). She's written "A personal, physical journey. . . to comprehend both the city and ourselves." She succeeds by covering the major internal and external historical and cultural forces, events, and figures related to the city over the eras (e.g., the wars between Greece and Persia, the development of the Roman Empire, the rise and spread of Christianity and Islam, the route of the Silk Road), as well as by incorporating recent archeological finds (e.g., a 2015 shopping center construction near Vienna revealing a well-preserved camel from the Ottoman siege of 1683) and contemporary developments (e.g., Syrian refugees walking the ancient Roman Via Egnatia). She vividly presents exotic past cultures, events, artifacts, and people and connects the history to our own lives here and now. For Hughes, Istanbul is "A place where stories and histories collide and crackle; a city that fosters ideas and information to spin her own memorial. A prize that meant as much as an abstraction, as a dream, as it did as a reality. A city that has long sustained a timeless tradition as old as the birth of the modern mind--where past narratives are nourished that tell us who we are in the present." She provides numerous interesting details: ancient Greeks having no word for religion, early Christians getting baptized right before death rather than right after birth, eunuchs seeming to be liminal beings with a sublime hotline to god, Janissairies serving as firemen, executioners, butchers, and entrepreneurs as well as elite soldiers, the Sultan's harem being both a political power source and a "Petri dish" of cholera, TB, small pox, and syphilis, Stalin's firing squads executing painted icons--and much more. She's quite good with charismatic figures like Theodora and, here, Alcibiades: "Born an aristocrat, with a Spartan wet-nurse, Alcibiades tore a strip through the classical world as he has done through history. The mess-mate of the philosopher Socrates, his would-be lover, he was everything the Athenian thinker was not. Feckless, over-sexed, immoderate, dazzling, raffish, louche, Alcibiades would be described by ancient authors as 'the adored tyrant of Athens.'" Her imaginative, sensual writing puts us physically in a distant time and place, as when she explains the power of ancient statues: “They were thought to be psycho-physical parcels; an incarnation of both the rational and irrational. These images were painted, washed in softening milk-lotions, dressed in clothes, garlanded with flowers, perfumed with rose-oil. Their metal hair was so fine it lifted in the breeze and their rock-crystal eyes followed you as you walked past.” She writes with appealing wit: -"For fifty years, Athena's city became adept at exporting democracy across the Mediterranean at the point of a sword." -"Stand next to these massive stones and you can virtually smell Constantine's ambition." -“The Christ-cult genie was out of the bottle.” -"Men beat their chests, and kept their swords in their scabbards." -"And yet there are no true caesuras in history: there is always some kind of continuum." Throughout her book Hughes sprinkles neat etymologies: guest and host (and ghost) derive from the same root; the root of nemesis means give and take; slave comes from Slav (choice commodities for Vikings); soldier comes from Latin solidus (a Roman coin used to pay soldiers); hermit comes from the Greek for desert; tulip derives from the Turkic word for turban; and so on. Hughes is no military historian, being uninterested in battles (armies, arms, tactics, actions, etc.) which other histories go into great detail about. Whereas entire books are devoted to the siege of Constantinople in 1453 or that of Vienna in 1683, or to the Battle of Lepanto in 1571, she gives them the briefest of coverage to focus instead on cultural trends before and after the battles. If I had to criticize the book, I would mention that after 1924 she largely stops her history. Despite several brief, interesting mentions of recent contemporary developments relating to the city, like Syrian refugees or the foiled-coup, most of the 20th century is missing. Also, she almost seems more sympathetic with the Caliph and his family living in exile than with Armenians dying in genocide. A stylistic criticism is that Hughes at times tries to make her book too accessible via contemporary idioms (e.g., "up their game," "had their backs," "to the max"), which connects the history to us but also dates it as being told now. Also, perhaps to make her book more user-friendly she writes 77 short chapters, many of which could have been combined into longer ones, and tends to end them with provocative one liners foreshadowing the next chapters like "Unfortunately for the inhabitants of Byzantion, Byzas' City was on the Persians' list." As for the audiobook (which comes with a pdf file full of color plates, notes, and annotated timeline), Hughes has a clear and pleasing reading manner and voice. She enhances the mood or agenda of the many apt quotations she incorporates into her history. At times, however, she does assume the overly-dramatic delivery of a BBC documentary narrator who's trying too hard to spice up already fascinating material, especially at the near cliffhanger ends of chapters, like, "Whatever its political or personal motivation, Constantine must have known that this fight for territory and for the control of the idea that was Rome, would also [pregnant pause] be a fight [pregnant pause] to the death." Anyway, really anyone interested in Byzantium, Constantinople, and Istanbul or in well-written, thoughtful, informative, and interesting histories should like Hughes' book. View all my reviews
The Venetian's Wife: A Strangely Sensual Tale of a Renaissance Explorer, a Computer, and a Metamorphosis by Nick Bantock
My rating: 4 of 5 stars Hindu Statues Are More Sexy than Mere Text Sara Wolfe is a repressed art restorer working for a San Francisco museum when she is headhunted (hearthunted!) via email by Mr. N. Conti, a mysterious rich old man who hires her to help him locate and acquire four statues of Hindu divinities (Ganesha, a Celestial Woman, Kali, and Parvati). Her new boss has unlimited funds and computer access. He also strangely knows a lot about Sara, including her emotions and private communications. (Sara has been shy and reserved, unwilling to get involved with someone romantically, but she's full of erotic potential, judging by her response to a drawing of Shiva which sends her fleeing and deflecting, "Getting aroused has always been pointless for me.") Nick Bantock's The Venetian's Wife (1996) is a collage of Sarah's computer journals (complete with her quirky illustrations), the emails she exchanges with Conti, and some other documents (like an excerpt from an art-catalogue), as well as some narration by Conti. It is a high production value book, with vividly and beautifully reproduced art. As Mr. Conti learns more about Sara, so she learns more about him, including the story of his apparent ancestor Niccolo Dei Conti, the 15th-century Venetian merchant explorer who originally accumulated the collection of 42 statues that the current Conti wants to finish reassembling. As Sara travels around trying to find and acquire the statues, the novel develops the relationships between Conti and his wife Yasoda, Conti and Sarah, and Sarah and Marco (a guy she's been attracted to at the museum where she worked). It also reveals interesting details about some of the Hindu gods and goddesses and their relationships, metamorphoses, and meanings. At its best, Bantock's writing is elliptical and rich, as in this account of Niccolo's demise on the first page of the novel: "He's considering the solitude of his wifeless bed when a visitor arrives. She moves like Mercury, circling the room, touching with golden fingers the pots, pans, candle holders and all things metal. She discovers the knife that Niccolo Dei Conti's hand rests on, and because his feet are firmly planted on the floor she burns out his heart." "Niccolo Dei Conti has his wish; lightening has separated his spirit from his tired body. But his journey is not over. He has been a traveler all his life and he still has far to go." This is a romantic book about the power of love to both persist over centuries and to grow up suddenly. It's a paean to exotic, erotic, beautiful art. However, despite the subtitle of the novel ("A strangely sensual tale of a renaissance explorer, a computer, and a metamorphosis"), the text is less sensual than the photos of statues of Parvati and company, who look nearly 3D in their sexy, stony curves. Furthermore, Conti is a bit too deus ex machina in his limitless wealth and access to computer networks, the story a bit too neat. Nevertheless, the art and the passion do feel physical and spiritual and potent, and Sara and Conti are likeable co-protagonists. Conti's enticing job offer to Sara describes Bantock's ideal reader: "The job I'm offering you will require resourcefulness, imagination, willingness to travel, plus a deep love of artifact." Yes, people interested in art, travel, romance, Hindu divinities, ghost stories, and books that are beautiful objects should enjoy this short illustrated novel. But for all its beauty and love, I suspect it will not long remain with me. View all my reviews
Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney
My rating: 3 of 5 stars The Pleasing Diary of an Unpleasant Anti-Hero Clueless teachers, brutal bullies, dorky friends, sadistic big brothers, spoiled kid brothers, interfering parents (including mothers who make you do things you don't want to do because your reluctance means they'll be good for you), ineffectual relatives, moldy cheese cooties, and more. In Jeff Kinney's popular Diary of a Wimpy Kid (2007), Greg Heffley is writing his JOURNAL (though the book his mother got him says "diary" on the cover, diaries are for sissies), detailing the trials and tribulations of a year of middle school. School is not idyllic. Greg figures that he's ranked about 53rd in popularity, and his only "friend," Rowley Jefferson, is about 150. Greg egregiously takes advantage of Rowley, playing mean tricks on him that his own big brother plays on him and that he doesn't dare playing on his younger brother Mannie, using Rowley as a fall guy when he himself would otherwise get in trouble for something, all while telling us (or his diary, er, journal) that he's taken Rowley under his wing, feeling sorry for him. Mind you, we take most of what Greg says with a grain of salt. He fantasizes about becoming rich and famous and says that the other kids in his school are morons, but he plugs the headphones into the wrong jack and falls for his brother's "first day of school" practical joke, and sees his schemes to become popular usually end up making him infamous. Jeff Kinney, by the way, has Greg's voice down pat: "I thought about really letting Rowely have it for ratting me out like that, but then I realized something. In June, all the officers in the Safety Patrol go on a trip to Six Flags, and they get to take along one friend. I need to make sure Rowley knows I'm his guy." And the text is all hand-printed, in typical middle-school age boy's style, which suits the many cartoonish illustrations with which Greg adorns his experiences. His simple and crude pictures are effective, spicing up and complementing his words. Greg draws himself neutrally and other characters as having exaggeratedly ugly or weird features, like big noses and big mouths, which is of a piece with his illusion of superiority. The comics that Greg and Rowley draw at one point are pretty funny in an immature way, even cruder than the base illustrations, and just as effective. The plot is episodic or picaresque; perhaps if there were an over-arching story woven through the humiliations and disappointments of middle-school life, it would be Greg's friendship with Rowley, which undergoes a severe test at one point, when Rowley's usually saintly patience and good humor is bent to the breaking point (unsurprisingly, Greg sees himself, not Rowley, as the abused party). There are plenty of real moments, like Greg's embarrassment when Rowley invites him over "to play after school" (instead of "to hang out"); Greg's preferring video game wrestling to PE wrestling; Greg's confusion about popularity (the favorite boy of girls in elementary school was the fastest runner, but in middle school things are about wealth and fashion and physical appearance); Greg's well-meaning but embarrassing Mom, who makes him do things like try out for a part in the Wizard of Oz musical and scolds a worker in a Haunted House for being too scary; etc. There are humorous happenings, like Rowley and Greg's night of trick-or-treating or Greg's explanation for wanting a Barbie Dream House for Christmas. There are also unfunny and even disturbing events, like Greg breaking Rowley's arm while "playing" with a Big Wheel and a football, or not helping his Grandmother clean her house after it was toilet papered because of Greg. The denoument of the Wizard of Oz sequence was supposed to be funny but didn't crack me up. The do-it-yourself haunted house scene was supposed to be funny but felt lame. Of course, all that must be part of the humor, for I imagine that kids must enjoy seeing a boy act badly in ways they know they couldn't get away with. Greg is quite the anti-hero. And after all, Jeff Kinney usually has Greg get nailed by karma or divine retribution or adults or other kids. If young readers cotton onto the irony by which Greg's failings as a person (student, son, brother, friend, etc.) are depicted from his own selfish and self-centered point of view and realize that they are meant to be avoided and not emulated, the book's quirky satire of school and teachers and parents should be benignly entertaining. With its diary illusion and anti-hero irony and short sentences, short paragraphs, and many funny pictures, the book must be easy and fun to read for kids who usually don't like reading (and of course for those who love reading). However, I can't help but compare Diary of a Wimpy Kid to something like Louise Fitzhugh's Harriet the Spy (1964) or even to Bill Watterson's Calvin and Hobbes (1985-95) and feel that I'm witnessing the decline in substance and quality of American popular culture. Or is it just that Kinney and Greg make me uncomfortably recall my own junior high hell? View all my reviews |
Jefferson Peters
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by Sabaa Tahir
A Young Adult Epic Fantasy with Lots of Violence & Romance
Elias is an elite Martial soldier, Laia a naïve Scholar slave. As they alternate telling their stories (in trendy Young Adult first person, present tense narration), we soon rea...
"It must be due to some fault in ourselves"--
George Orwell's Animal Farm (1945) is an anti-totalitarian-communist allegory in which the exploited animals of the Manor Farm kick Farmer Jones out and set about running the farm. At first...
by Lu Xun
Perfect Stories of Life in Early 20th Century China
Chinese Classic Stories (1998) by Xun Lu is an excellent collection of seven short stories by perhaps the most important 20th century Chinese writer of fiction. Lu Xun (1881-1936) stu...
Fine Writing, Great Characters, Immersive World
The Surgeon's Mate (1980) is the 7th novel in Patrick O'Brian's addicting series of age of sail novels about the lives, loves, and careers of the British navy captain Jack Aubrey and the ...
An Overwritten, Oddly Compelling Gothic Father
Matthew Lewis' notorious and influential Gothic novel The Monk (1796) takes place during the heyday of the Spanish Inquisition. Ambrosio, the monk/friar/abbot/idol of Madrid, is nicknamed ...
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