Adrian Tchaikovsky, Eyes of the Void (2022)

Author: Adrian Tchaikovsky

Title: Eyes of the Void

Format: Hardcover

Pages: 608

Series: The Final Architecture #2

Welp. I have a lot of sentiment for Tchaikovsky, mostly for his truly outstanding (if a bit too goody even for our resident Polyanna) fantasy series, Shadows of the Apt. I respect his writing skill and his imagination, I admit our views on many things are generally aligned, and I suspect he’s a really nice guy to boot. But for all that, I find it increasingly difficult to find a book of his that really awes me, makes me think, or at least fully entertains. I had some hopes for his new SF series, of which Eyes of the Void is the second installment. The first book, Shards of Earth, was quite interesting – maybe not very original, but pretty enjoyable. Alas, I’m sad to say that with Eyes of the Void it’s just more of the same, only without any length limitations, to the further detriment of the whole endeavor.

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Yasunari Kawabata, The Master of Go (1951)

Author: Yasunari Kawabata

Title: The Master of Go

Format: Paperback

Pages: 189

Series: –

Hi everyone, apologies for the sudden radio silence of the last few weeks. I’m preparing for an exam and cloud characteristics are taking all of my computing power, as well as all of my available time 😉 This situation should be remedied in the next couple of weeks, when I hopefully sit and pass the exam. But till then, I’ll be scarce in the blogosphere, not posting much or visiting much. I’m alive, though, and kicking – just in a different direction ;).

Now, then, onto today’s real topic – Kawabata’s intriguing mix of fact and fiction, a reportage turned into a meditation on cultural change turned into a dirge for the past. I’ll be usin my GR review as the foundation, and I’ll be adding a thought here and there, to explain my admittedly short and slightly whimsical initial impression.

The crux: Interesting, unusual, meditative.

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Daniel Polansky, March’s End (2023)

Author: Daniel Polansky

Title: March’s End

Format: e-book

Pages: ???

Series: –

What review would be better to start the month of March with than a review of March’s End? Polansky’s new book offers his trademark blend of gritty realism and fantastic flights of fancy. It’s casually cruel, in love with the melody of its own language, melancholy and tender at times, but mostly, and always – beautifully, clinically detached.

Polansky is sharp. All sharp edges, short witty remarks, quick, astute observations. I do wonder if he fences; those books of his that I have read certainly remind me of fencing – finding the opponent’s weak spot and lunging, without hesitation or remorse. There is certain urgency in his writing, a particular blend of ruthlessness and vulnerability that demands to be read. I enjoy it; it is rather unique in our times of effusive wordy diarrhoea, of sickly sweetness and hand-holding, back-patting cosiness and hidden feelings of authorial superiority. Yup, Polanski is none of those things, thank goodness. His unique second-person-perspective narrative in The Seventh Perfection made that book one of my favourites of 2020, but March’s End is closer in theme and mood to the novella The Builders

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Ada Palmer, Too Like the Lightning (2016)

Author: Ada Palmer

Title: Too Like the Lightning

Format: paperback

Pages: 432

Series: Terra Ignota #1

This was a recommended read – both Bart and Jeroen were enthusiastic about this series, and wrote such lengthy reviews of the books, that I had no choice but to join the discussion – and here I want to offer my thanks to them both. 

Palmer’s debut novel seems to evoke strong feelings across the aisle – people seem to either love it or hate it, with not much in between. And that’s why writing this review proves harder than usual – for usually I’m one of the firebrands with strong opinions delivered gleefully and with no compunction, equally passionately for both positive and negative reviews. And here I am left in the middle, not too moved either way, able to appreciate the many strengths of this book but equally able to point out the weaknesses. So, then, let’s dive into it.

Palmer’s novel is set in the 25th century. In her world, humanity has changed drastically, at least in terms of culture and worldviews. After brutal wars religion had become more or less forbidden, a taboo, but spiritual need is recognized as legitimate and universal, and non-factional (or are they?) people of the cloth pay weekly visits to their parishioners to talk about ethics and afterlife. Gender has also been deemed outdated, though no real reason is given for this, and everybody sports neutered pronouns and frowns when an uncouth “he” or “she” enters the discussion. Anne Leckie’s example has been waved over Palmer’s head long enough, so I’m not going to dive into the motivations, I will just proceed to dissect the illogicalities of Palmer’s execution of this choice. But that will come later. Nations have also been dissolved, as well as nuclear families; people live in Hives, large global organisations divided into bash’es, which in turn are small, mostly voluntary groups of mostly unrelated members who share similar views and vocations, and Hive affiliation. Because nuclear families, and multi-generational too, for that matter, were removed from their dominant position as a fundamental unit of social organisation, sex has become an idle pleasure akin to grooming among apes – shared without jealousy between many consenting individuals and deprived of significance we tend to assign to it – but with an exception I’ll write about later. Work is also a big theme, for in this world of abundance everybody works of their own will (mostly, I guess economy wasn’t Palmer’s concern, and that’s fine) and works a lot – a sort of Marxist utopia of people spending most of their waking hours on things they love to do and being paid for it. Death penalty is non-existent; prisons have been removed from the picture entirely – instead, we have a form of institutionalised slavery where criminals cannot possess anything and work for food. Everybody in this world is tracked; instead of one Big Brother we have an oligopoly of them, a tight-knit group of rather incestous world leaders who nevertheless seem to have humanity’s best interests at heart. Which also leads to me the sadly typical shortcoming of depicting the political scene as something consisting solely of cliques and conspiracies, here in full regalia of Emperors and Presidents and Madams and some such.

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Neal Stephenson, Cryptonomicon (1999)

Author: Neal Stephenson

Title: Cryptonomicon

Format: e-book

Pages: 1152

Series: Baroque Cycle #0

Cryptonomicon is one of those bricks that can kill you, if thrown with adequate velocity. It can damage your metacarpals and wrists, and it may even make your head hurt. It’s a proof of the ultimate self-indulgence as much as that of sheer writing talent. So what can a poor reviewer do with such a conundrum?

Let’s be blunt: this is no Anathem. Cryptonomicon can claim more kinship with Seveneves, in that infuriating unevenness, disjointedness and political context that characterises both books; as Seveneves, it makes the readers follow two separate timelines, merging together, to an extent, through the generational and thematic links. Unlike Seveneves, it wears its juvenile, masculine self-obsessions on its sleeve, gladly offering pages upon pages to vapid ruminations on the necessity – or lack of it – of masturbation, virginity, and large wisdom teeth, and regaling the readers with facts about workings of the prostate. I would’ve gladly been spared all of it; and I’m also pretty certain the book would’ve been much better if a good editor went through it with the requisite ruthlessness and sharp eye. I’m also quite sure Stephenson thought back in 1999 that he was fearlessly pushing boundaries of custom and habit, introducing new hot cultural topics into the sanitized reality we purportedly live in; alas, there is a good reason for not having prolonged pooping scenes, or brushing teeth/ flossing/ pimple removal/ put whatever physiological activity you want here/etc. in mainstream novels. It’s not revelatory; just boring. It doesn’t bring value to the plot, doesn’t endear the protagonists nor does it make them more relatable – if anything, it makes them look more like self-obsessed, anally retentive jerks. Of course, there are hypothetical – and a few real – examples of when such literary devices might work, especially when making a self-obsessed, OCD asshole of the protagonist is the author’s intention; sadly, Cryptonomicon is not one of them.

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