The White-Luck Warrior - R. Scott Bakker

The sun glares. The air chills. The Mop tosses on and on, an endless ocean of swaying crowns. Whatever relief they hope to find in wind and sunlight is snuffed when they look to one another. Squinting. Eyes glittering from blackened faces. Ragged like beggars. In the gloom below, they seemed as true to their surroundings as the moss or the humus. Here on the heights, there is no overlooking either their straits or their desperation.

This book, and the series of which it is a part, falls easily into the category of world-building fantasy novels that pit evil forces against mankind, rife with battles, sex and court intrigue, sorcerers and gods and superhumans and non-human creatures both vile and sublime, and might easily be written off as one of the many Tor paperbacks that line the shelves of your local bookstore, the author's name stamped on a line of similarly designed covers. But what sets this series apart from other fantasy is the author's ambition. Embedded within the story is a philosophical core that is often absent in other books in the genre, one that guides not only many of the character's actions, but one that also seems to define the way that the world seems to move, the way that the story seems to unfold.


To summarize the plot would be tedious, but suffice it to say it is complicated, and has a novel structure in that narrative arcs are broken up into trilogies (so far). And despite Bakker's attempts to inject more seriousness into the genre, at times it seems the books take themselves too seriously, with the characters' conversations sometimes crossing the line into pedantry. The prose, which is far from terrible, at times becomes ponderous, as in the quotation above.

But the plot alone is worth plodding through the more tortuous sentence constructions, and the vision and the discipline evident in the execution of that vision are remarkable. It seems that Bakker has the whole story laid out in his mind, given the excellent pacing of the narratives in every story, as if each part is simply waiting for the book's bindings before it can be put on the shelf. For all its flaws, the story ranks high in the fantasy writing pantheon, even if it seems to fall short of the author's goals.

A Song of Ice and Fire (Series) - George R.R. Martin

This sprawling, epic, high-fantasy tale begins with A Game of Thrones, blooms into A Clash of Kings and A Storm of Swords, only to falter with the latest installment in the series, A Feast for Crows. There is a forthcoming release of the next installment in July, A Dance With Dragons, which, if the author is to be believed, will be followed by two more installments some time in the distant future. Despite each volume's size (they range from around 800 pages to 1200), they don't easily fit into the category of novels, as they are more book-length chapters in a larger work, akin to the novel-in-three-parts structure of The Lord of the Rings, the progenitor of the modern fantasy story. The reason for this is simple: None of the books contains a true narrative arc, and each one ends with the explicit suggestion of a cliffhanging TV drama's 'to be continued,' which says nothing about the quality of the series but suggests an admirable span of attention and intensity of ardor in those who love the genre.

The story is as simple as it is complex. A kingdom that has known peace for a decade faces both internal and external threats. As the power structure that keeps the kingdom together crumbles, a many-sided war breaks out in the resultant power vacuum, with long-simmering grudges and rivalries coming up to a boil, all while in the background twinned supernatural threats loom large. The complexity is introduced by means of the narrative structure, a first person limited accounting of events from the viewpoints of an ever-increasing cast of characters, and as the larger, world-encompassing events unfold, the reader is given long, uninterrupted views of the denizens of the world in their cups, in bed, in battle, and generally doing their best to survive in an uncertain and cruel world at war.

The quality of the prose in the books seems to suffer with each new installment, which isn't necessarily a barrier to enjoying the extant works as a whole, but by the third book a vicious editor would have been a godsend, and the fourth book could easily be cut in half--it seems like there are whole chapters that can be skipped over with impunity. But the first book is excellent in its economy of pacing of events and exposition, and by the time you've finished it you're either hooked on the plot or your not, so anyone who'd continue on with the series would understandably, much like the author, be more focused on the plot developments than the intricacies of how well a given passage might be written.

One aspect of the books that is extremely well done is the restraint with which Martin uses magic. Magic and the supernatural crop up rarely, but often enough to foster a sense of wonder and speculation, which ultimately buttresses the reader's interest in the characters, their stories, their ultimate fates, and, in some cases, their origins, which is, in the end, the reason why so many have read and now wait for the next installment, and will wait for the next one after that.

Julian by Gore Vidal

In this historical fiction novel, Vidal depicts the life of the Byzantine emperor, Julian. Although, most of the story is told through Julian’s own memoirs, Vidal includes two other points of view.


The novel begins with a correspondence between Priscus, an Athenian intellectual and Libanius, an intellectual at Daphne. What is revealed in this correspondence is a mutual desire to revive the mission Julian tried to accomplish throughout the Roman Empire: bring down Christianity and revive Hellenism. Priscus is in possession of both Julian’s memoirs and his journal and Libanius plans to revive Hellenism by making these public.

Julian’s memoir describes different events in his life, beginning with watching his father being taken for execution while Julian and his brother are sent away for schooling where the present emperor, Constantine (their cousin), can keep a watchful eye on them ensuring they don’t threaten his position on the throne. Julian’s appetite for knowledge and quest for truth was evident at a young age; he always questioned Christianity and eventually found truth in the Greek Gods. Of course he mentions his different relationships with friends, academics and lovers. The relationship that I found to be most interesting was the one he had with his brother, Gallus. The two were complete opposites; Julian admired his brother’s strength (but also shocked and disgusted by how he used it) while Gallus constantly put Julian down. Such a juxtaposition leads to some intense scenes.

The construction of the narrative weaves in the voices of Libanius and Priscus, particularly the latter, throughout Julian’s memoirs. Either through their correspondence or notes scribbled in the margins of Julian’s manuscript, their version of the story is also presented. Vidal also keeps their voices consistent and different from each other’s. At points it felt like reading actual historical documents rather than an historical novel. Furthermore, the different points of view provide a structure to the novel that motivates the reader to continue, even if he is well informed about the history of Julian.

Hypocrisy plays a heavy role in many different aspects, the most obvious one being the role the Orthodox Church played in Byzantine society which is what led to Julian’s rejection of it at a young age. The following quote shows him taking action towards this corrupt bunch as emperor,

“Yet your religion preaches that you should not resist injury or go to law or even hold property, much less steal it! You have been taught to consider nothing your own, except your place in the other and better world. Yet you wear jewels, rich robes, build huge basilicas, all in this world, not the next. You were taught to despise money, yet you amass it,” (pg 336).

But even Julian, whose hypocrisies were not as blatant and reckless, made certain unethical decisions to further his own cause, such as letting his soldiers capture and rape women to keep their morale up or allowing the execution of an innocent man to maintain good relations with the senators (I think). There were even points where he compared his decision making to his hated cousin, Constantius, the emperor before him.

Priscus and Libanius also reveal some hypocrisies of their own. In their correspondence Libanius keeps a cheerful tone, even praising him at times, while he notes in the margin of Julian’s memoir “I hate Priscus”. Furthermore, Priscus presents himself as an honest person, he is even forward about his own hypocrisies. However, he scams Libanius for the documents of Julian! This makes the characters all very real and addresses the issue of everyone’s individual hypocrisies, yet, as an institution the hypocrisies become much more harmful and sickening. Despite some of Julian’s decisions he truly did try to eradicate the hypocrisies of both the palace and the church.

Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte

"It is only your guest, sir," I called out, desirous to spare him the humiliation of exposing his cowardice further. "I had the misfortune to scream in my sleep, owing to a frightful nightmare. I'm sorry I disturbed you."
-pg 33

An odd book, made odder still by its uncanniness, that unheimlich so well explained by Freud's exegesis of E.T.A. Hoffman's story The Sandman. For it's a familiar story, familiarly told, love unrequited followed by revenge, told through the eyes of a more or less passive observer to a passive listener, describing events that are so beyond the ken of normal life as to seem mythical, taken to such extremes as to be pure fantasy. There is something of fable about it, some Grimm unlogic to the lives, loves, motivations, and hatreds of the characters, that their actions, so far removed from what one would normally expect of the Victorian English, lose their unreality and seem to become etched in stone, like the lives of heroes and villains from some bygone age where, as in the Old Testament or Shakespeare, people know what it is to sin, and know well how to hate.

Mr. Lockwood, the man to whom the story of Heathcliff's revenge is told, seems to sum it up in the quotation above: The story is a nightmare which we, the readers and the listener, have entered into; the strange doublings, the two seemingly isolated estates, the many repetitions of names, and the surly demon around which it all revolves are the product of a sentient but troubled mind, and there is no moral purpose which guides them all, just dreamy developments that compound horror and outrage; to wake up would be a relief, but we're forced to move on by that same sadistic interest that draws people to bullfights, or, more apt, perhaps, car accidents and tragedies, auto-da-fes, perp walks, and other public, if less lethal, yet more lasting humiliations.

But to say it's a nightmare does not quite grasp the horrific fascination that I felt while reading the book. Instead, it might be better to say that it convinces you in some manner beyond belief that these characters are real, and terrible to behold, and if the characters are plagued by ghostly visitations and vengeful lives and loves from beyond the grave, leering up from the moist warm earth, scratching at windows, infiltrating dreams, then the characters themselves are ghosts set loose by Emile Bronte's awful imagination, and sent, as ghosts are, to trouble your waking life, not your dreams.

Bleak House - Charles Dickens

Not only is it a still night on dusty high roads and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away into a fringe of trees against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom upon them; not only is it a still night in gardens and in woods, and on the river where the water-meadows are fresh and green, and the stream sparkles on among pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only does the stillness attend it as it flows where the houses cluster thick, where many bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping make it black and awful, where it winds from these disfigurements through marshes whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed ashore, where it expands through the bolder region of rising grounds, rich in cornfield wind-mill and steeple, and where it mingles with the ever-heaving sea; not only is it a still night on the deep, and on the shore where the watchers stands to see the ship with her spread wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented only to him; but even on this stranger's wilderness of London there is some rest.
pg. 668

The geography of this sentence seems to cover all; we begin on a high hill with a grand view of the surrounding land, behold the river and effortlessly follow its meandering path down to the sea, stop briefly to consider the distant deep, only to be arrested by the vision of a boat coming into a harbor beaconed in by a lighthouse's light, and then come back to rest in the middle of the city of London. At the beginning, it seems the night is the subject; then, the stillness of that night; and by the end of the sentence we discover what we've known all along, that sound is the paragraph's main concern, building up to what will be the crescendo of the passage, where "every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating."

And what is that sound? The noise of life? And why not, after all, characterize it that way? Dickens ranges both high and low to give a full portrait of London society, from street sweepers to Baronets, and weaves together every character's fate in a way that suggests that despite their differences, they all are part of the same entity, this vast vibrating glass, the consciousness contained within the muddy, foggy, wet, dispiriting city of London.

The novel is anchored by an ongoing case in the English courts of equity, Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce, which has gone on for so long with so little progress that the original claimants are long dead and it is their various descendants who stand to reap a reward from its successful resolution, despite the fact that the case is nowhere near its conclusion. In the end, the case is a joke, Dickens's damnation of the entire court, but it serves to draw all the main characters into a common orbit, just as the city does, and there might be a statement inherent in their juxtaposition, where both are foggy, muddy entities around which the huddled masses gather to look for some meaning, the courts seem populated with dust, decay, and a grinding forth of the lowest form of existence--there are no people there, just lawyers, judges, claimants, and cases--whereas the city in contrast seems to sing with sympathetic life, for all the mean tragedies and awful loves won and lost, it is still a wondrously alive thing.

Another Country by James Baldwin

"The silence of the listeners became strict with abruptly focused attention, cigarettes were unlit, and drinks stayed on the tables; and in all of the faces, even the most ruined and most dull, a curious, wary light appeared. They were being assaulted by the saxophonist who perhaps no longer wanted their love and merely hurled his outrage at them with the same contemptuous, pagan pride with which he humped the air. And yet the question was terrible and real; the boy was blowing with his lungs and guts out of his own short past; somewhere in that past, in the gutters or gang fights or gang shags; in the acrid room, on the sperm-stiffened blanket, behind marijuana or the needle, under the smell of piss in the precinct basement, he had received the blow from which he never would recover and this no one wanted to believe. Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?"

The title of Baldwin's book unintentionally captures what it is like to read it in 2011, so many decades after its first publication. Set in the years following World War II, the New York presented here feels like another universe. It is a place where a black man lives in fear of the cop on the corner, making every street a terrifying gauntlet. Mixed-race couples are confronted with scorn and revulsion in the faces they pass in Washington Square Park. A corned beef sandwich and a beer can buy you a young homeless man for the night, if you're lonely. After last call, in the city's shadowy spaces, patrons from the gay bar and the longshoreman bar meet in violent embrace, even though they would never acknowledge each other in the harsh light of day. Young couples live in cramped apartments, nothing more than cages where they claw at each other. Aging bohemians haunt the same haunts of their youth, clinging to the same stale dreams, and endlessly repeating the same stale ideas on how to live.

Above all it is a place where everyone, everywhere, is searching for love. And yet they hate themselves so much that all they can do is unleash their hate on those closest to them. This self-hate, which perpetuates a destructive Oresteia-like cycle, stems from the mere fact that they're black, or gay, or white even, a reminder that racism and prejudice poison both the oppressed and the oppressor.

Of course, some of these aspects of New York life are eternal; others, particularly those concerning the lives of blacks, I'm not in a position to say, and the news gives reasons for equal measures of optimism and pessimism. It would be comforting to think that things have changed, that we hate ourselves less, or at least for reasons that are less arbitrary. Yet Baldwin's vision of New York is so convincingly miserable, and at times so depressingly familiar, that I often wondered what I was doing here myself.

Another Country, as you can probably tell, is a brutal book, and brutally told, with the blunt force of the saxophonist described above, thrusting all his rage, all that is terrible and real, on an awestruck and uncomfortable audience. I suppose the question is whether that brutality serves some purpose in the end, whether in some twisted way such trials make for a better person, or a better nation as a whole. Perhaps by recounting the effects of society's sins, Baldwin is suggesting that some sacrifice has been made by his suffering characters, offering those who survive a chance to redeem all of history. It is an open-ended question whether redemption is possible for the characters in the book, who only rarely, if ever, rise above the maelstrom of their time and see a way to move forward. More worryingly, it remains an open-ended question for the contemporary reader too.