asakiyume: (Em reading)
I finished Embassytown, and I have to say, it did a thing I'm not sure any other book has done for me, which is alienate me for a good 45 percent of the book (from about the 45 percent mark until about the 90 percent mark)--such that I was writing frustrated, seething notes on Goodreads--and then, WOW, pull meaning and heart out of that mess in a way that really, really moved and impressed me. For those of you who've read the book, the thing that I loved more than anything else was Spanish Dancer's speech at the end. (So much. SO MUCH.) For everyone else, I wish I could share it, but it would spoil the book, and also it probably wouldn't mean much without the whole preceding story for context.

Some things (plot developments, character actions) that frustrated me during the story ceased to in retrospect--instead they seemed important and necessary. That's a weird feeling: as if the sensemaking reached back and made my irritation less not only in the present but also in the past. Mental time travel.

But some things still just straight out didn't work for me. For one thing, the narrator, Avice. I didn't like her very much. She would do things while dissing them--a characteristic I dislike--and she was weirdly aimless.

"It was in circles such as this," she tells us, "Embassytown society, that I met CalVin and became their lover." Okay, but why did you become CalVin's lover? What did you feel about them?

When Avice does share her feelings, I had trouble believing in them: "I had so much sadness in me. I cried, only when I was alone. I was so sorry for Hasser, silly secret zealot; and for Valdik"--but see how she calls Hasser silly? She holds herself so apart from everyone, is so cool ... I guess I would have preferred her to evince more interest in stuff, to be more warm and less detached. But that's just personal taste; other readers won't necessarily feel that way. She's portrayed consistently, and her actions and reactions feel genuine, so in that sense she's a satisfying character.

What I really loved the book for was its exploration of what it means to come up against something really, truly alien. Something truly alien might require you to change how you think, just in order to understand what it is you're dealing with. You might not even be able to articulate the change you need to make. That's how it is for the aliens in this story. (Yeah: the aliens get to do this growing, not the humans--maybe because it's pretty much impossible to show that for humans--you can fake-show it, but to really **do** it, you yourself would have to have expanded beyond our current thought limitations, and then you'd have to be able to share that in a comprehensible way--not easily done.) The aliens' learning curve is pretty harrowing (for far too long; I could have done with considerably less of the harrowing part), but--well, I liked how it ended up.

Good job, Miéville!
asakiyume: (squirrel eye star)
I finished The Raven Tower. I really liked it, especially the god-narrator's story arc. I loved him, and I loved his best-friend god, the Myriad, who was initially a meteorite but spends most of her time incarnating in swarms of mosquitoes. There was a Justice-of-Toren moment in the story that was very perfect. Ann Leckie sure does know how to show strong emotion in beings that aren't given to emotions; sometimes a very few words indeed will do. And the god-narrator's reflection on the inevitability of change/death and what makes life meaningful was beautiful. The ninja girl is reading it now, and we're having avid conversations. The healing angel has expressed interest in reading it too, and meanwhile we're reading Hamlet aloud together--you know, taking parts--which is very fun. (The human story arc in The Raven Tower has a Hamlet-esque situation and a few analogue characters, though that's more incidental than plot- or character-central).

Having finished The Raven Tower, I started China Miéville's Embassytown, which I've been meaning to read for quite a while. It is *very* rewarding to get around to reading a book you've been meaning to read for quite a while; it feels like keeping a promise. So far I'm liking this book considerably more than Kraken but not quite as much as Railsea. China Miéville has this gonzo imagination that can be a strength or a liability. I found it beautifully, poetically directed in Railsea, but overexuberant (felt self-indulgent) in Kraken. In this one it's better controlled--it's focused on language and other-ness, which I love, but ... I'm waiting to see if the story will have the heart that Railsea had. I'm not holding my breath, though.

In a way it's a perfect book to read after The Raven Tower, because RT had the premise that a god's utterance was performative/became/must be true, and Embassytown features aliens whose language is so bound up in the speakers' perception of reality that they cannot lie, or barely can lie. The (human) narrator and her husband have this conversation:
“Millions of years back there must have been some adaptive advantage to knowing that what was communicated was true,” Scile said to me, last time we’d hypothesised this history. “Selection for a mind that could only express that.”

“The evolution of trust …” I started to say.

“There’s no need for trust, this way,” he interrupted. Chance, struggle, failure, survival, a Darwinian chaos of instinctive grammar, the drives of a big-brained animal in a hard environment, the selection out of traits, had made a race of pure truth-tellers.

And THAT prompted a cynical thought in me about SF worldbuilding--about how even as SF writers play with the rules of one branch of science, imagining (say) a universe with very different physics, they remain very trammelled and hidebound when it comes to other fields--like (in this case) evolutionary biology. Apparently a gajillion years (or mega hours, as the book would have it, because somehow "hour" is a less subjective time unit than a year [why--oh! There is an actual good reason that I was ignorant of: [personal profile] minoanmiss explains here]) in the future, there is no other-better-different notion for how life all and everywhere comes about than Darwinian evolution.

I mean, I get that if you strange up too many spheres of science simultaneously, you end up with a hard-to-understand mess, but still: I'd like to see a book that broke free from the limitations of evolutionary biology. I suppose you could say Le Guin's Lathe of Heaven did that, with characters able to dream things into existence.
asakiyume: (man on wire)






First, have a quote from Railsea


What, above all, about wood?

That is the key mystery. Wood makes trees trees. Wood is also what makes ties--those bars crosswise between railsea rails--ties. A thing can have only one essence. How can this, then, be?

Of all the philosophers' answers, three stand out as least unlikely.

--Wood & wood are, in fact, appearances not withstanding, different things.

--Trees are creations of the devil that delights in confusing us.

--Trees are the ghosts of ties, their gnarled & twisted & dreamlike echoes born when parts of the railsea are damaged & destroyed. Transubstantiated matter.

--China Miéville, Railsea, pp. 249-50.

Now, do you see my problem? I do love Railsea, and this quote is virtuoso storytelling fun, but I'm afraid Miéville has his logic mixed up here. If wood is the essence of trees, and wood is the essence of ties, then both those things have a single essence--namely, wood. It's an essence with two manifestations. To express this elegant confusion and not fall foul of logic, he could simply have said, "How could an essence like wood have two such different manifestations?" (but in more baroque, Railsea-esque language) and then gone on with his three great possibilities.

Still loving the story, though!

And now back to work.



asakiyume: (turnip lantern)
My best friend in the night sky right now is Jupiter, so golden there below the Pleiades.

And here's a silver track. Don't fall off! The ground is poisonous! At least in Railsea.

silver rail

Railsea, where the train captains lose limbs to the giant burrowing animals, and develop philosophies:

"You know how careful are philosophies," Naphi said. "How meanings are evasive. They hate to be parsed. Here again came the cunning of unreason. I was creaking lost, knowing that the ivory-coloured beast had evaded my harpoon & continued his opaque diggery, resisting close reading & a solution to his mystery. I bellowed, & swore that one day I would submit him to a sharp & bladey interpretation . . . I've had my blood & bone ingested by that burrowing signifier," she said, waving her intricately splendid arm. "A taunt, daring me to ingest him back."
China Miéville, Railsea (New York: Del Rey Books, 2012), 104-5.


Hahaha, litcrit speak.

And now I'm going to get back to making [livejournal.com profile] desperance's marmalade. I had to go buy some sugar (and so I saw Jupiter, and so I got my binoculars, but I couldn't see its moons, though the Internet promised I might--but then I turned the binoculars on the Plieades and saw an explosion of stars hidden from my unaided eye).


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