The book: Salvage
The author: Alexandra Duncan
The rating: 3.5 stars
"Are we always our mistakes? Does anything we do heal them?"
It's never wise to judge a book by the quotes on the back of the dust jacket, but some glowing praise from my favourite YA sci-fi writer, Beth Revis, as well as other just-as-rave reviews which dubbed Salvage "kick-ass, brilliant, feminist science fiction" definitely gave me high hopes for this debut novel.
While Salvage was enjoyable enough, it certainly didn't live up to my lofty expectations. A good novel needs a lot of the things, but when that novel is science fiction, perhaps the element that is paramount is its worldbuilding. A good world can make or break a novel, and while generic worldbuilding can be redeemed by an extremely intriguing plot or characters, a well-built world can carry a generic cast of characters or a well-worn plot a far ways. Unfortunately, Salvage's world failed to deliver. From the very beginning, I found it difficult to buy into the whole Space Amish scenario; even once the setting shifted to the Gyre, the worldbuilding continued to puzzle. A futuristic setting is unique in that it enables the author to easily communicate their view on present-day issues through the future they create, but Duncan seems to shy away from making any sort of statement one way or another on any issue other than feminism. A continent made of trash is bound to carry connotations of some sort regarding environmentalism or commercialism or... something. But instead, the setting of the Gyre is vastly underdeveloped, used for nothing more than yet another cheap tragedy to push the main plot along. Forget Diet Theme... Duncan introduces InvisiTheme, so hard to see, it's like it's not even there!
While I've stated that unique characters and their characterization can make up for a dull world, the cast of Salvage is nothing new. Be it in the Parastrata, the Gyre, or Mumbai, Duncan's world seems to be populated exclusively with stock characters. Child prodigy? Check. The golden-hearted one with a troubled past? Check. The kind mentor figure whose death acts as a driving force to our hero's quest? Check. The calculating, immoral, and emotionless scientist? Check. There's very few characters in Salvage that you haven't seen a thousand times before, and in likely more nuanced variations. Furthermore, these characters are exceptionally flat... save for dying, nobody changes much over the course of the lengthy novel, and this lack of depth and development prevents the reader from becoming engrossed in Duncan's tale.
The one exception to this rule is Ava Parastrata, the story's heroine. Her character development - and the feminist theme portrayed by this development - are easily the most engaging aspects of Salvage (almost as if Ava and the girl-power message sucked every last drop out of the characterization and theme budgets, making them intriguing, rich splashes on a backdrop of grey and cliche). My opening quote provides a good summation of Ava's storyline and conflict: is redemption possible? Can one become whole again, become someone new? Refreshingly explored and thoughtfully developed, this thread, coupled with some good ol' girl-power that is not often found in sci-fi novels, provides a taste of what I'd hoped Salvage would be. It's not enough to truly allow the novel to realize its potential, but it's certainly better than nothing.
The other redeeming feature of Salvage is the way Duncan resists the urge to follow in the current YA fad of stretching every story over a trilogy. I can easily see how a lesser writer might have split Salvage into three books: book one taking place on the Parastrata, book two in the Gyre, and book three beginning once Ava and Miyole arrive in Mumbai. As I've mentioned before, there are few things I appreciate more than a writer penning a solid stand-alone, and I'm glad to say that Salvage was that. A multi-segmented tale was started, developed, and finished between two covers, and I was thoroughly satisfied by the time I flipped the last page. Yes, Salvage wasn't all that I hoped it would be, and yes, it was rather myopic, focusing almost exclusively on Ava and the central theme at the expense of all else, but I had a smile on my face by the time I turned the last page, and from one reader to another, can we really ask for much else?
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Saturday, 8 March 2014
10. Crescendo
The book: Cress (The Lunar Chronicles #3)
The author: Marissa Meyer
The rating: 5 stars
Sometimes, I feel as if reading has lost its luster for me. Every book I read is pretty okay, but none are as amazing as the ones I've read in the past, and I wonder if it's not the books that are changed, but me. Then I read a book like Cress, and my faith in literature is restored. Books haven't changed--I just haven't been reading the right books--and Cress is most definitely one of the greats.
Rave reviews tend to be a bit dull, so I'll try to keep my praise brief. Cress ties POV to pacing in a unique and effective way, with not one, not two, but with at least eight alternating perspectives. It's not a big cycle, though--Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder--or anything like that. The reader never knows from whose perspective the next chapter will come, and this keeps the reader engaged and enthralled. I'm particularly partial to ensemble casts, and Cress embraced this concept with bells on. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles series adds a few protagonists to their growing roster, but still keeps our heroes from the books of yore. This results in a diverse cast that never overwhelms the reader. It's like that picnic game that elementary school kids like to play: the first person is bringing an aardvark, the second is bringing an aardvark and a banana, the third is bringing an aardvark, a banana, and a crystal ball... while you're unlikely to be able to remember a list of 26 items from the get-go, after going through the entire game, you will probably still be able to recite the list days later. We became well acquainted with Cinder, Kai, and Iko in Cinder, as well as a slew of supporting characters, and then with Scarlet and Wolf in Scarlet, and Cress raises Thorne, Cress, and Dr. Erland to prominence. I've never read A Game of Thrones, but it's kind of how I imagine the A Song of Ice and Fire series to be (except without copious amounts of death).
My other literary weakness is retellings; I adore them. I feel that it can create an even richer world, drawing on the reader's knowledge of the source material, and playing off it or subverting it in a new environment. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles is a sci-fi retelling of a classic fairy tale, and Cress, as you might have guessed by the title, is based loosely upon the story of Rapunzel (if you're like my dad and don't understand the connection, cress and rapunzel are both types of leafy greens). I'll admit, each time I caught a parallel between Cress and Rapunzel I felt a bit proud of myself (and I couldn't resist comparing Thorne to Tangled's Flynn Ryder). Cress struck a great balance between old and new, never dwelling too much in Rapunzel or too little to make the premise pointless.
The setting was also phenomenal. Meyer's worldbuilding is among the best in the business, and I'd love to spend a day wandering her future Earth with its cyborgs and androids, cultures and countries, even with Luna shining up above. The Eastern Commonwealth is a delightful smorgasbord of culture, although it's arguably less prominent in Cress than it was in early installments, as Cinder and her gang are now on the run. I'd say the most standout setting is the Sahara and the African cities, with their mix of old and new technologies and their intermingling of Lunar and Earthen traditions. The world is so incredibly engrossing; the only shadow on the horizon as I read Cress was that the trilogy would soon be over, and I'd be forced out of Meyer's remarkable world forever.
Over the entire time it took me to read Cress, I was positive it was the series finale. I'm not sure why I had it in my head that the series was a trilogy, perhaps just because so many are, but I had no doubt in my mind that this would be the end of the line for Cinder and the gang. When I was at 91% complete, I was getting a bit miffed; after all this, the conclusion's going to be a disappointment; there's no way Meyer can wrap all this up in the last 9%. And then the reader gets their first glimpse of Princess Winter, and I think: Hey, it's Snow White! Too bad she's not going to get her own book, and really, what is Meyer doing introducing new characters so late in the game? We're not going to get the chance to get to know them.
And then I turned the last page, and my paradigm shifted in the best of ways. Cress wasn't the end--it was just the crescendo--and I absolutely cannot wait to see what Meyer has in store in Winter, what might be the last book in the series? Maybe? I guess we'll see in February 2015.
The author: Marissa Meyer
The rating: 5 stars
Sometimes, I feel as if reading has lost its luster for me. Every book I read is pretty okay, but none are as amazing as the ones I've read in the past, and I wonder if it's not the books that are changed, but me. Then I read a book like Cress, and my faith in literature is restored. Books haven't changed--I just haven't been reading the right books--and Cress is most definitely one of the greats.
Rave reviews tend to be a bit dull, so I'll try to keep my praise brief. Cress ties POV to pacing in a unique and effective way, with not one, not two, but with at least eight alternating perspectives. It's not a big cycle, though--Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder--or anything like that. The reader never knows from whose perspective the next chapter will come, and this keeps the reader engaged and enthralled. I'm particularly partial to ensemble casts, and Cress embraced this concept with bells on. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles series adds a few protagonists to their growing roster, but still keeps our heroes from the books of yore. This results in a diverse cast that never overwhelms the reader. It's like that picnic game that elementary school kids like to play: the first person is bringing an aardvark, the second is bringing an aardvark and a banana, the third is bringing an aardvark, a banana, and a crystal ball... while you're unlikely to be able to remember a list of 26 items from the get-go, after going through the entire game, you will probably still be able to recite the list days later. We became well acquainted with Cinder, Kai, and Iko in Cinder, as well as a slew of supporting characters, and then with Scarlet and Wolf in Scarlet, and Cress raises Thorne, Cress, and Dr. Erland to prominence. I've never read A Game of Thrones, but it's kind of how I imagine the A Song of Ice and Fire series to be (except without copious amounts of death).
My other literary weakness is retellings; I adore them. I feel that it can create an even richer world, drawing on the reader's knowledge of the source material, and playing off it or subverting it in a new environment. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles is a sci-fi retelling of a classic fairy tale, and Cress, as you might have guessed by the title, is based loosely upon the story of Rapunzel (if you're like my dad and don't understand the connection, cress and rapunzel are both types of leafy greens). I'll admit, each time I caught a parallel between Cress and Rapunzel I felt a bit proud of myself (and I couldn't resist comparing Thorne to Tangled's Flynn Ryder). Cress struck a great balance between old and new, never dwelling too much in Rapunzel or too little to make the premise pointless.
The setting was also phenomenal. Meyer's worldbuilding is among the best in the business, and I'd love to spend a day wandering her future Earth with its cyborgs and androids, cultures and countries, even with Luna shining up above. The Eastern Commonwealth is a delightful smorgasbord of culture, although it's arguably less prominent in Cress than it was in early installments, as Cinder and her gang are now on the run. I'd say the most standout setting is the Sahara and the African cities, with their mix of old and new technologies and their intermingling of Lunar and Earthen traditions. The world is so incredibly engrossing; the only shadow on the horizon as I read Cress was that the trilogy would soon be over, and I'd be forced out of Meyer's remarkable world forever.
Over the entire time it took me to read Cress, I was positive it was the series finale. I'm not sure why I had it in my head that the series was a trilogy, perhaps just because so many are, but I had no doubt in my mind that this would be the end of the line for Cinder and the gang. When I was at 91% complete, I was getting a bit miffed; after all this, the conclusion's going to be a disappointment; there's no way Meyer can wrap all this up in the last 9%. And then the reader gets their first glimpse of Princess Winter, and I think: Hey, it's Snow White! Too bad she's not going to get her own book, and really, what is Meyer doing introducing new characters so late in the game? We're not going to get the chance to get to know them.
And then I turned the last page, and my paradigm shifted in the best of ways. Cress wasn't the end--it was just the crescendo--and I absolutely cannot wait to see what Meyer has in store in Winter, what might be the last book in the series? Maybe? I guess we'll see in February 2015.
Friday, 28 February 2014
9. Short and Sour
The book: "Master Harold" ...and the Boys
The author: Athol Fugard
The rating: 2 stars
Master Harold shares a few similarities with Streetcar: it's not what I typically read; it's a play, not a novel; I was assigned to read it for English class... It's also one of those 'literary merit'-type of books, full of sophisticated themes and poignant social commentary, and unbearably dry. As I mentioned in my Streetcar review, I love a large number of works of classic fiction, but I always prefer genre pieces to literary ones. Plays like Master Harold feel more like a thinly-veiled essay than a story, and I've never been a fan of that.
While others are frequently referenced and hold great importance to the plot, only three characters appear in the 60-page play: seventeen-year-old Hally (the titular Master Harold), and older black men Willie and Sam (the boys) who work for Hally's mother at her tea house. I have noticed that one of the biggest differences between adult and YA/children's fiction is the role of the protagonist. In stories for the younger crowd, protagonist = hero, almost without exception. In works for adults, this equivalency does not exist, as is the case in Master Harold. From the beginning, Hally made me want to scratch out my eyeballs. The play may be set in 1950, but Hally was eerily like some insufferable seventeen-year-olds I know. You'd recognize the type: almost a hipster, pretentious and condescending; an atheist not because of well-considered philosophical beliefs, but because believing in things is for stupid people. The world revolves around them and their struggles are paramount; nobody could possibly understand what they are going through, and nobody has ever suffered anything worse. Add in some intense racism towards the boys and a disgust towards his father, not due to his unsavoury personality, but because he is a cripple, and suffice to say Hally's not the type of boy I'd want to ask to Senior Prom.
As I mentioned, the play often reads more like an essay than anything else. Hally and Sam debate about men of greatness; the impact of racism in South Africa is explored; Hally is a complete and utter asshat to every person in his life. And yeah. That's it. That's the play. It's definitely not my cup of tea, but for what it is--a statement about the South African apartheid--it is interesting enough.
Next week: Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
The author: Athol Fugard
The rating: 2 stars
Master Harold shares a few similarities with Streetcar: it's not what I typically read; it's a play, not a novel; I was assigned to read it for English class... It's also one of those 'literary merit'-type of books, full of sophisticated themes and poignant social commentary, and unbearably dry. As I mentioned in my Streetcar review, I love a large number of works of classic fiction, but I always prefer genre pieces to literary ones. Plays like Master Harold feel more like a thinly-veiled essay than a story, and I've never been a fan of that.
While others are frequently referenced and hold great importance to the plot, only three characters appear in the 60-page play: seventeen-year-old Hally (the titular Master Harold), and older black men Willie and Sam (the boys) who work for Hally's mother at her tea house. I have noticed that one of the biggest differences between adult and YA/children's fiction is the role of the protagonist. In stories for the younger crowd, protagonist = hero, almost without exception. In works for adults, this equivalency does not exist, as is the case in Master Harold. From the beginning, Hally made me want to scratch out my eyeballs. The play may be set in 1950, but Hally was eerily like some insufferable seventeen-year-olds I know. You'd recognize the type: almost a hipster, pretentious and condescending; an atheist not because of well-considered philosophical beliefs, but because believing in things is for stupid people. The world revolves around them and their struggles are paramount; nobody could possibly understand what they are going through, and nobody has ever suffered anything worse. Add in some intense racism towards the boys and a disgust towards his father, not due to his unsavoury personality, but because he is a cripple, and suffice to say Hally's not the type of boy I'd want to ask to Senior Prom.
As I mentioned, the play often reads more like an essay than anything else. Hally and Sam debate about men of greatness; the impact of racism in South Africa is explored; Hally is a complete and utter asshat to every person in his life. And yeah. That's it. That's the play. It's definitely not my cup of tea, but for what it is--a statement about the South African apartheid--it is interesting enough.
Next week: Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Monday, 24 February 2014
8. Identity Crisis
The book: The Lost Girl
The author: Sangu Mandanna
The rating: 4 stars
"Come on," I say, "let's go be star-crossed lovers and court disaster."
Premise, setting, characters. These are the three things I loved about The Lost Girl, a book that is refreshingly unique in all three ways. Mandanna's writing is very tongue-in-cheek, poking fun at the cliches of the genre (the phrase 'make like a tortured vampire' is used), while spinning a thoughtful, intriguing world. Mandanna's Weavers, Loom, and echoes strongly reminded me of Joss Whedon's Dollhouse, and like that series, The Lost Girl is a fascinating exploration of what makes someone human and the meaning of identity.
A sense of adventure stirs in my chest. I imagine sailing into open seas, seizing my fate in both hands. I imagine swashbuckling battles, swords and cutlasses and battle scars. I imagine desire, the raw passion of falling into bed after a long reckless day and kissing somebody.
The Lost Girl is split between two settings: small-town England and big-city India. For a reader like me, following Eva on her journey from a world on the opposite side of the Atlantic ocean, both of the settings are filled with a novelty and colour that most American-set novels of the genre lack. I've never been to India (or England, for that matter), so I can't say how accurate The Lost Girl is in its depictions, but the same adventure was stirred in me as was stirred in Eva. Tastes, sights, smells... the description in The Lost Girl is glorious, creating a world that seems almost fantastical.
He can see what move I'm planning to make in chess and counters before I can do it. He always knows who the killer is in a detective story. I think he could make a career out of detecting, but he wants to write plays for theater. Maybe he could be a Shakespeare instead of a Sherlock. He could be anything. Anything he wants to be.
That description pretty much sums up Sean, Eva's principal love interest. Suffice to say, I was head over heels by chapter three. Agency in novels is a balancing act, and their relationship had the perfect balance; neither was ever a puppet on a string, bowing meekly to the whims of the plot, despite the restraints and expectations of the lives they lead. I think I've made my views on love triangles abundantly clear in the past, and The Lost Girl did not disappoint in that regard. There is a second boy in the picture, Ray, but it's not what you'd think; he was Amarra's boyfriend, the girl that Eva was born to replace, and the choice he represents is not whether he is the one Eva loves more. Rather, he is symbolic of identity, duty, free will... the central themes of the novel. It is always clear that Sean is the one Eva loves, and this makes Ray's presence not tawdry, but poignant.
"I am not kind. Handsome, certainly. And undoubtedly brilliant. But not kind."
A good novel needs good antagonists, and The Lost Girl has the Weavers. Again, their presence sets the novel a cut above most stories you see in this genre. Their evilness is ambiguous; the Loom seems dark and twisted, particular as we follow the story from Eva's perspective. A sinister underground organization... corrupt people with the power over life and death. But the Loom is more than your typical Evil Inc., and that depth kept me interested, what with the juxtaposition of Ophelia's loving viewpoint, Elsa's gentleness, the flashes of the green nursery... With regards to the above quote in particular, Matthew very much reminded me of the BBC version of Sherlock Holmes. Throughout the novel, I was constantly struck by the thought that the Weavers could be the antihero of another story (a la Dollhouse), and given that authors tend to force the reader into the myopic perspective of their hero or heroine, I found this presentation to be quite enjoyable. Frankenstein is a constant motif, and its pertinence is relayed through the antagonists as well: what makes a monster, and what makes a monster maker?
"I'll give in gracefully when the time's right. But until then, I'm not going gently into any good night, thank you very much."
And finally, Eva. Our protagonist. In terms of characters, I would actually dub her the weak link. She's your typical "doesn't-play-by-the-rules" protagonist, the one with the temper, the sharp tongue, and the tendency to start whining. She's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, making some really jarring blunders in service to the plot. She's the type that sends her friends away at the climax to face the Big Bad alone so that she doesn't hurt the ones she loves, but ends up doing so anyway... in a book that bucks cliches, she is a surprisingly textbook archetype. I didn't exactly hate her, but I can't say I was particularly fond of the girl (other than her impeccable taste in poetry and prose).
Overall, I'd have to say The Lost Girl was a pretty solid book. It was intriguing; it was thrilling; it made me think and it made me feel. Still, it's not the kind of book that pulls you in and doesn't let you go until the last page has been flipped. The Lost Girl is more of a reflective type of novel, the kind best suited for reading a chapter or two on a train or waiting at the dentist's office. It also makes for a wonderful stand-alone story; I have the utmost respect for authors who can tell a tale from start to finish in one tome without the need to stretch it out over a trilogy or a saga. Whenever Mandanna pens her next novel, I will without a doubt be eager to delve into whatever new world or new idea she has concocted.
The author: Sangu Mandanna
The rating: 4 stars
"Come on," I say, "let's go be star-crossed lovers and court disaster."
Premise, setting, characters. These are the three things I loved about The Lost Girl, a book that is refreshingly unique in all three ways. Mandanna's writing is very tongue-in-cheek, poking fun at the cliches of the genre (the phrase 'make like a tortured vampire' is used), while spinning a thoughtful, intriguing world. Mandanna's Weavers, Loom, and echoes strongly reminded me of Joss Whedon's Dollhouse, and like that series, The Lost Girl is a fascinating exploration of what makes someone human and the meaning of identity.
A sense of adventure stirs in my chest. I imagine sailing into open seas, seizing my fate in both hands. I imagine swashbuckling battles, swords and cutlasses and battle scars. I imagine desire, the raw passion of falling into bed after a long reckless day and kissing somebody.
The Lost Girl is split between two settings: small-town England and big-city India. For a reader like me, following Eva on her journey from a world on the opposite side of the Atlantic ocean, both of the settings are filled with a novelty and colour that most American-set novels of the genre lack. I've never been to India (or England, for that matter), so I can't say how accurate The Lost Girl is in its depictions, but the same adventure was stirred in me as was stirred in Eva. Tastes, sights, smells... the description in The Lost Girl is glorious, creating a world that seems almost fantastical.
He can see what move I'm planning to make in chess and counters before I can do it. He always knows who the killer is in a detective story. I think he could make a career out of detecting, but he wants to write plays for theater. Maybe he could be a Shakespeare instead of a Sherlock. He could be anything. Anything he wants to be.
That description pretty much sums up Sean, Eva's principal love interest. Suffice to say, I was head over heels by chapter three. Agency in novels is a balancing act, and their relationship had the perfect balance; neither was ever a puppet on a string, bowing meekly to the whims of the plot, despite the restraints and expectations of the lives they lead. I think I've made my views on love triangles abundantly clear in the past, and The Lost Girl did not disappoint in that regard. There is a second boy in the picture, Ray, but it's not what you'd think; he was Amarra's boyfriend, the girl that Eva was born to replace, and the choice he represents is not whether he is the one Eva loves more. Rather, he is symbolic of identity, duty, free will... the central themes of the novel. It is always clear that Sean is the one Eva loves, and this makes Ray's presence not tawdry, but poignant.
"I am not kind. Handsome, certainly. And undoubtedly brilliant. But not kind."
A good novel needs good antagonists, and The Lost Girl has the Weavers. Again, their presence sets the novel a cut above most stories you see in this genre. Their evilness is ambiguous; the Loom seems dark and twisted, particular as we follow the story from Eva's perspective. A sinister underground organization... corrupt people with the power over life and death. But the Loom is more than your typical Evil Inc., and that depth kept me interested, what with the juxtaposition of Ophelia's loving viewpoint, Elsa's gentleness, the flashes of the green nursery... With regards to the above quote in particular, Matthew very much reminded me of the BBC version of Sherlock Holmes. Throughout the novel, I was constantly struck by the thought that the Weavers could be the antihero of another story (a la Dollhouse), and given that authors tend to force the reader into the myopic perspective of their hero or heroine, I found this presentation to be quite enjoyable. Frankenstein is a constant motif, and its pertinence is relayed through the antagonists as well: what makes a monster, and what makes a monster maker?
"I'll give in gracefully when the time's right. But until then, I'm not going gently into any good night, thank you very much."
And finally, Eva. Our protagonist. In terms of characters, I would actually dub her the weak link. She's your typical "doesn't-play-by-the-rules" protagonist, the one with the temper, the sharp tongue, and the tendency to start whining. She's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, making some really jarring blunders in service to the plot. She's the type that sends her friends away at the climax to face the Big Bad alone so that she doesn't hurt the ones she loves, but ends up doing so anyway... in a book that bucks cliches, she is a surprisingly textbook archetype. I didn't exactly hate her, but I can't say I was particularly fond of the girl (other than her impeccable taste in poetry and prose).
Overall, I'd have to say The Lost Girl was a pretty solid book. It was intriguing; it was thrilling; it made me think and it made me feel. Still, it's not the kind of book that pulls you in and doesn't let you go until the last page has been flipped. The Lost Girl is more of a reflective type of novel, the kind best suited for reading a chapter or two on a train or waiting at the dentist's office. It also makes for a wonderful stand-alone story; I have the utmost respect for authors who can tell a tale from start to finish in one tome without the need to stretch it out over a trilogy or a saga. Whenever Mandanna pens her next novel, I will without a doubt be eager to delve into whatever new world or new idea she has concocted.
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