Ilium, Dan Simmons’ science fiction adaptation of Homer’s Iliad, ended with the scholic Hockenberry’s successful turning of the Greeks and Trojans against the gods on Mount Olympus, and Earth’s posthumans’ epiphany of their collective history and existence. Nevertheless, Ilium had only started to uncover the greater truths, and there were still many puzzles that have not been resolved yet. Olympos is the novel that promises to bring all the storylines together and reveal all the mysteries — and it does, albeit in a byzantine and flawed manner.

Olympos opens with the three storylines begun in Ilium. The Greeks and Trojans and the Olympians wage ferocious war on the foot of Mount Olympus, although both sides are plagued with schisms and schemings and fallings-out. On Earth, the human protagonists have regained some of their history through the efforts of Odysseus and the avatars Ariel and Prospero, but the human species is under relentless attack from both the mysterious mechanical voynix, and an alien force called Setebos which has arrived to destroy the collective memory of the human race. And the moravecs continue their investigation of quantum fluctuations on both Earth and Mars, and uncover astonishing truths about the manifestations of the gods and the literary avatars, and the origins of the remnant human civilization on Earth. These three subplots operate in parallel and eventually converge, with facts from one storyline clarifying another storyline’s puzzles. Eventually the things that were initially disparate — Ilium and Earth, gods and mortals, the literary avatars and the voynix and other alien entities — are linked to a common past, and the mysteries of how the story’s present human civilization came to be, are all revealed.

The result is an epic novel: not only does it have a vast plot, and a huge cast with awesome superpowers, it also encapsulates heavy-duty hard science (mostly of the quantum physics sort), their applied technologies and the consequences of their use, and human nature and the collective consciousness of Western civilization in literature. Ilium and Olympos together explore various aspects of literary form and how they reflect humanity’s values and collective consciousness, the massive potential of extremely advanced quantum physical technology and its impact on space-time and reality, the consequences of humanity losing the foundations of its past — plus, how mythology may actually take on reality through the quantum physical avenue. (Sound mind-bending? Read the book and find out!) The three storylines deal variously with these issues, but they collectively speak about the human race and civilization.

This overarching dialectic, begun in Ilium and extended in Olympos, was exceedingly fascinating and made for a lot of brain food. There aren’t many SF authors out there who can and do discuss human history and civilization through literary classics! However, I have not read many of the literary works quoted by Simmons — Homer, Shakespeare, Proust, and various 18th century poets. So although I could see the overall message, someone better-read in the clasics would fully appreciate the quotes in both their original and Olympos context.

The novel is not without flaws. I appreciate the strength of its themes, but their execution in the plot left much to be desired. Olympos was actually quite confusing in its conclusions. The pieces to all the mysteries were eventually uncovered, but I felt in a haphazard and roundabout manner. One evidence uncovered in one storyline doesn’t explain much for that storyline, but seems to explain a mystery in another one. These cross-plot connections were not clear, and I found it difficult to piece everything together; even now I haven’t fully understood all the whys and wherefores. (The scenes involving the Titans, and the reasoning of how post-humans are connected to the Olympian gods, and how quantum physics comes into that, were completely befuddling. I still don’t get it.) So I came away from Olympos with many parts of the puzzle pieced together, but still unable to make the full picture. It’s frustrating to read a novel which you know has all the answers to the question, but you’re not able to put everything together! Is it the fault of the author? In this case, I do think Simmons did not make all the connections evident to me, as the reader.

Perhaps the novel’s heft was partly responsible for this muddle. Olympos was not as tightly scripted as Ilium, and suffered from extravagant histrionics. I think Ilium, despite its length, still moved much faster because its plot had to follow the Iliad. Since Olympos splits completely from Homer’s saga, this freedom may have led to excessive meandering. I felt this novel lingered too long on certain scenes, and devoted too many words to superlative writing. There is a time and place for pomp and circumstance, luxuriant mood-setting and descriptive writing, but in a novel that had to traverse so many details and expound so much knowledge as Olympos? I felt purple prose was completely uncalled for here and didn’t add to the novel; in fact it intruded into my awareness, and “noticeable writing” is one of the most infuriating intrusions to me as a reader. I found myself often thinking, “Yeah, yeah, you’ve already described the mood of the situation, you don’t have to dwell on it for another paragraph! Get with the story!!”

I suppose at least 100 pages could’ve been cut out of an almost-900 page novel, if the writing had been tighter and more plot-focused. And I think this stylistic weakness in Olympos may have contributed to my confusion about the conclusions. Honestly though, whether it’s Simmons’ lack of clarity, or my distraction and/or ignorance of Western literature… it’s all debatable. I would definitely like the hear the opinions of another reader more familiar with the literary references!

Finally — although this is less critical than the previous flaws — the motives of the Greek pantheon and literary avatars remained mysterious, especially the latter. Even though Prospero and Ariel helped bring humanity to enlightenment, their real motives remained confounding; whilst Setebos and Caliban had more obvious goals, the manifestation of these avatars and their vassals on Earth made no sense. But then again, I didn’t fully understand the myriad connections between the quantum physics, the link between Earth and Ilium, the manifestation of literary and mythological figures, the doings and motives of the post-humans, the deeds of the past that led to the present situation… of course I wouldn’t understand the reasons of (for?) the gods. But I shouldn’t be surprised either that gods will always be capricious and beyond mortal reason.

That’s all I can say about Olympos. Even though the story was complicated, the overall message of the novel is fascinating indeed. There is much food for thought and details to chew over for any reader who loves dense and dialectic plots. Even though the writing detracted from my reading experience, I’m sure another reader would enjoy pulling all the threads together and seeing how all the stories and settings are connected to each other. And I’m certain that Simmons explained everything. I just couldn’t pull it all together!

Olympos is a fitting continuation and conclusion to Ilium, that portrays a fascinating interpretation of our universe, how mythic figures and literary traditions can be made manifest through hard science, without losing their legendary quality. A magnificent saga indeed, grounded in both sophisticated hard science and a strong literary background. I recommend at least Ilium for anyone who loves SF and classic literature (especially Homer and Shakespeare), and I hear Hyperion also has literary references, so I will have to check that out!

This was also one of the hardest reviews I’d ever written. I wanted to do Simmons justice but also point out the problems with Olympos. What a relief to finally post this!

Neil Gaiman is good at writing timeless stories where there is no sense of time and and historical place, but the story could take place at any time you can imagine. That’s the quality of the Sandman graphic novels, and also Stardust. Gaiman’s fairy tale of a young man from a village who goes on a quest into Faery to bring back a fallen star for his beau — but discovers that desires and sentiments change, and he is destined for more than just a simple village life.

A fine fairy tale, mixing elements of various mythologies, and with a characteristically Gaiman ending — ambivalent, realist, and neither tragic or happily ever after. A good story, but like all of Gaiman’s other works, impersonal and a bit detached. I’ve never been able to warm to Gaiman’s stories or characters, and he’s never invited me to. So far I remain appreciative but indifferent to his writing.

I also had a chance to look at the graphic novel of Stardust, illustrated by Charles Vess. (It’s actually the novel with copious illustrations.) Vess’ artistic style doesn’t capture me, but it is colourful, intricate and fairy-like, and appropriate for the story. I also saw snatches of the movie adaptation, and whilst I can understand the movie’s very different ending, I prefer the novel’s ending much more.

If you like the wit and humour of Charles Dickens or Terry Pratchett, an anachronistic “gaslight romance”-esque setting where technology and magic clash and meld together, and light-hearted, optimistic detective stories, Matthew Hughes’ tales of Henghis Hapthorn will surely appeal to you. These stories are set in a very distant future that could well be fantastical, in an age where Reason, or “linear rationalism”, and its attendant technologies prevail. But the forces of Magic, or “sympathetic association”, are on the rise in this universe, and they intrude prematurely into the life of Henghis Hapthorn, Old Earth’s foremost freelance detective. Hapthorn’s sensible, orderly and logical life is thrown out of kilter when his integrator (an A.I. or computer) transforms into a small fruit-eating mammal, and the intuitive part of his psyche takes on a persona of its own, essentially becoming a separate person but sharing the same body. The two novels of Majestrum and The Spiral Labyrinth follow Hapthorn as he struggles to cope with this (to him) infuriating situation, all the while tackling two mysterious cases which ultimately bring him to the chaotic interface of Reason and Intuition/Magic.

Majestrum begins when the Archon of Old Earth approaches Hapthorn regarding a missing artefact. This case leads him on a search through the Spray, through the history of humanity in the universe, and finally face-to-face with a powerful force of magic from the past. In The Spiral Labyrinth, Hapthorn and his intuitive alter ego investigate a magical labyrinth. In the process Hapthorn becomes stranded — without his alter ego — in a future where magic has virtually taken over his world, and has to make his way back to his own time, all the while solving the mystery of the labyrinth and its powerful creator.

Both books follow a similar but effective formula: Hapthorn first encounters a small but easy case that he solves quite quickly. Then he is formally presented with the main case, which gradually grows and becomes complicated and intriciate, and is inevitably linked to powerful magic or the intrusions of magic in the rational world. As Hapthorn manoeuvres through this big mystery, he discovers that the small first case, which on first glance seems to be wholly unrelated, is actually a major clue for solving the main case. In the process, Hapthorn travels all over the Spray, meets unusual cultures and people and gets odd clues, all the while working and wrangling with his alter ego and his transformed integrator. Eventually Hapthorn solves the mystery — but the answer is completely out-of-the-blue and confounds his rational mind, and he is often left a spectator to acts of magic and leaps of intuition as his alter ego takes charge. Ultimately, Hapthorn is awed and humbled, and even more disconcerted that his familiar world is ending and the age of magic rising.

I enjoyed both novels thoroughly, for they meld a lot of elements that I enjoy: an anachronistic future that is simultaneously ancient and advanced (Hapthorn’s world reminded me of Iain M. Banks’ The Algebraist); magic and reason entwined and often clashing more than agreeing; dry wit, sharp wordplay and liberal punning; and a clever, intricate detective story that makes sense and is easy to follow. Furthermore, both rational and intuitive sides of Hapthorn (plus his transformed integrator) have complementary strengths and weaknesses, and must work together to solve the puzzles. It doesn’t mean that they have to get along whilst cooperating, though, and their constant bickering definitely adds to the story’s humour. This ongoing tension and reluctant truces between Hapthorn and his alter ego, and their jibes at each other, also serve as a vehicle for investigating the complementary functions of reason and intuition, as different but equal qualities that an individual must have in balanced measures. It is poignant (and often amusing) to hear Hapthorn’s first-person thoughts concerning his magical alter ego, especially since we don’t have first-person perspective for his intuition, and only see the latter’s actions and words through the very prejudiced view of the former. Hughes depicted the clash between magic and reason excellently, and Hapthorn himself is well-rounded character, he never once felt unbalanced or excessively schizophrenic. This dynamic was a major highlight of these novels.

The stories were very well-written, and the plot kept me turning the pages. These are thoroughly enjoyable and delightful mystery-adventures — never dark or sombre, always bright and optimistic and forward-looking. If you’re up for a light but clever fantasy-mystery story, these Hapthorn novels will fit the bill. I’m looking forward to reading Hespira, the third book and due out in late 2009.

I had the misfortune of reading Sean McMullen’s Greatwinter trilogy out of order — The Miocene Arrow before Souls in the Great Machine — and have finally read Eyes of the Calculor almost 3 years late, when I’d forgotten much of the previous two books. But memories began to come back, and I was able to recall the backstories to some degree and understand the entire series as a whole. As these novels run together with little pause, I recommend that you don’t do as I did, and instead read the series in quick succession before you forget the details (of which there are many).

The Greatwinter trilogy is about a future-Earth where the human race, after a series of apocalyptic catastrophes followed by a long “dark age”, has rebuilt into a agrarian, semi-technological civilization. It is a saga spanning continents, cultures and numerous characters, and could be best described as a future-Earth geopolitical epic.

I’ll summarize the best I can (also check out my earlier reviews for more about the setting). The story spans Australia and America. Technology resembles that of late Victorian England, mixed with anachronistic future technology. Australia is a loose confederacy of nations called mayorates, the three religions of Christianity, Islam and “Gentheism” coexist relatively peaceably, the continent relies on solar, wind and manpower as sources of energy, and all information and technology are controlled by the influential Dragon Librarians, whose source of power is the Calculor, their mighty human-powered computer. On the other side of the world, America is fractured into small mountainous dominions governed by the aristocratic airlords, compressed alcohol-spirit is the main form of energy, and nobility-owned airwings are the main forms of transport and communication between the Havens. Human civilization is hemmed in on all sides by the A.I.-governed satellite called Mirrorsun, the Call which drives humans blindly into the sea and to death, and aviads, genetically-modified humans that can resist the Call.

But now the Call has mysteriously ceased, electricity (which was restored in The Miocene Arrow) has been abolished, and as Australia undergoes political upheaval, mayorates begin to fall under the tyranny of a self-proclaimed prophetess. Meanwhile, aristocratic envoys from America make a perilous airborne journey across the Pacific Ocean in hopes of brokering peace and trade with Australia — but they encounter more dangers than expected.

Yes, the Greatwinter world is unbelievably complex both in setting and plot. McMullen has also populated this intricate world with a myriad of characters, all with schemes, hidden motives and secrets of their own, and placed them into a byzantine setting rife with political intrigue, backstabbing, scheming and underhand dealing. And the author remarkably manages to keep all the details straight and largely easy to follow: I never felt lost or confused even in the midst of such complexity. The story is also fast-paced, apart from being fascinatingly complex, and the momentum of the plot kept me reading. The story is highly readable and far from dull, or pessimistic. The story makes every opportunity to laugh at itself and the world, and there is plenty of wit, farce and irony in every situation, no matter how grave. Definitely engaging and fun to read.

McMullen is one of the most original world-builders I’ve ever read, and I commend him for inventing a realistic, high-definition geopolitical future-Earth epic. However, I have much criticism for many other aspects of the novel, which echo the thoughts raised in my previous reviews.

Firstly and most maddeningly, all of the characters are so stylistically similar. For example, the dialogue is witty — and all characters speak with wit and cynical humour. There is much sex and bawdiness (a bit too much for me) — all chars ultimately hook up with each other. (There wasn’t one chaste character!) There is obsession, drive, ambition, megalomania — and all chars are obsessed over something or another. In other words, all the characters seemed to have come from the mould; after a while they looked way too much like the same character dressed up in different flesh. While I wasn’t overly irritated, it was disappointing, because too much homogeneity makes for bland and predictable characters.

Another objection I made about the previous books also plagues Eyes of the Calculor. There seems to be a bit too much “godmodding”, for lack of a better word. That is, all the characters have a reason, an excuse, an escape hatch at every sticky situation. Whilst I wouldn’t go as far to call this deus ex machina, the reason or excuse was never revealed before the point. To put it another way, a char encounters a problem or confrontation, or is found in a place where we wouldn’t expect him to be — bam! he has a way out, or a motive to explain himself, or knowledge that we didn’t know he had before. It seemed all too convenient, and gave the chars dubious “powers”. I can’t quite put a finger or adequately describe this phenomenon… but it smacks of godmodding and was a recurring theme in the trilogy. And it irked me, because it all seemed too easy.

Lastly, which ties in with the previous issue — characters sometimes don’t give a reason for their behaviour or changes in behaviour. I feel that McMullen spread himself just a bit too thin, following too many chars in too many sub-storylines, so the novel is largely driven by plot developments with char development almost neglected. True, this is a geopolitical novel so the plot is the main priority, but the chars never felt that they had any meaning or life beyond the context of story. They were merely pawns being moved by the plot, and I didn’t feel any connection with them. Perhaps that is the effect that McMullen is trying to convey after all: in the light of global events and world history, humans are no more than pawns.

I must also say that the ending of Eyes of the Calculor was a bit anti-climactic. I can’t help being a little disappointed at how quiet the conclusion was, compared to the intensity that was maintained throughout the main story. But to the book’s credit, I had no idea how it would turn out, and I can’t think of a better ending. I suppose that it was appropriate after all, given that the ultimate “happy ending” is the assurance that the characters — and the entire human civilization — will continue to endure beyond the bounds of the story.

Whilst I’m glad I finally got to read Eyes of the Calculor, I would rank the Greatwinter trilogy as solidly average and nothing more. The world-building is highly original and top class, and the story was interesting and kept me engaged. But the characters were the weakest part of the novels (when they ought to be the strongest), the overall epic story made little impression on me, and all I’d probably remember of it is the fine world-building and “future history” setting.

Zoe’s Tale complements The Last Colony (complete Scalzi review), as a retelling of the same events of the earlier novel from the point of view of Zoë Boutin-Perry, the adopted daughter of John and Jane Perry. Whilst it is essentially the same story of the human colony colonizing the new planet of Roanoke amidst astro-political upheaval and warring between the human Colonial Union and the alien Conclave, it is narrated in Zoë’s distinct voice, provides a new perspective on the same events, and fills in some gaps that weren’t dealt with in The Last Colony.

I was pleased with what John Scalzi achieved in Zoe’s Tale. The Last Colony had shortcomings: as stated in my review, it wasn’t as masterful as Scalzi’s previous novels, and it had a number of narrative gaps and plot holes that weren’t addressed to (my) satisfaction. Zoe’s Tale managed to deal with two major gaps, being what Zoë did when she left Roanoke to seek help beyond her colony, and how the issue of the indigenous “werewolves” (that were terrorizing the colony) was resolved — namely, by Zoë and her friends. I’m glad that the author elaborated on those points, for they were the ones I was most critical of in The Last Colony.

Whilst Zoe’s Tale was partly written to address those gaps (Scalzi said so in the novel’s acknowledgements section, and elsewhere), it its main goal is to give us an intimate look into Zoë’s life. We saw her in The Ghost Brigades as a little child without a voice, and in The Last Colony as a secondary character in the shadow of her parents, and described by her foster-father John Perry. This time Zoë is the main character, in the story as she tells it. At times her voice was a little too reminiscent of John’s — both characters happen to be droll, understated and sarcastic, and Zoë occasionally felt a bit too detached for her age — but those occasions were infrequent, and I’d say that Scalzi successfully pulled off the female teenager’s first-person perspective. What’s more, Zoë provided a different and interesting perspective to colony development that could not be told by John and Jane.

And not only that, Scalzi well described Zoë’s unique role as figurehead and almost-deity to an entire race of aliens, which she finds both a huge honour and huge burden. This is where Zoe’s Tale came into its own, depicting Zoë’s conflicted feelings, inner and outer struggles, the many different interactions with humans and alien Obin, and how all her actions — indeed her entire life — is influenced by her position. Indeed, Zoë’s life in the Roanoke colony is inevitably overshadowed by her position amongst the Obin aliens, and the entire novel successfully conveyed that atmosphere to me.

Even though Zoe’s Tale dealt with Zoë’s myriad challenges, it did so straightforwardly and — dare I say — a little simplistically. Now, I like how Scalzi tells a linear, uncomplicated story without murky subplots or convolutions; nevertheless I find that, like The Last Colony, Zoe’s Tale doesn’t have the same nuance and complex foundation that made Old Man’s War and The Ghost Brigades so much more thought-provoking. Perhaps it’s the nature of the Roanoke-colonizing tale that Zoe’s Tale shares the same shortcomings as The Last Colony, and Zoë’s own struggles are depicted linearly, without the nuance that John Perry and Jared Dirac experienced in the first two novels respectively.

Whilst Zoe’s Tale and The Last Colony do not rise to the level achieved by Old Man’s War and The Ghost Brigades, both are indeed solid, engaging novels about interesting characters, if somewhat pedestrian. If you’ve read The Last Colony, I suggest that you round out the story with Zoe’s Tale.

II.
Where do you head for in a bookstore? was a question asked by Jeff VanderMeer a while back. On my part, I make a beeline towards the (1) SF/Fantasy section to scope out the latest interesting titles, then comes: (2) graphic novels/illustrated/artbooks, (3) kids/young adults fiction, (4) literary fiction, (5) non-fiction science/mathematics/natural history, (6) non-fiction arts/culture, (7) general fiction, (8) non-fiction artbooks (ie. architecture, design, photography), and finally (9) latest releases and bargain bins, by which time I’m tired of the bookstore and proceed to the exit. Most of the time I don’t make it past (3).
How do you make your rounds in a bookstore?

III.
Sundry updates! I’m still on my official graphic novel reading challenge; since it’s proven to be a great success I shall extend it to the end of August. I’m currently working through my back-log of book and film reviews. Also in the works are more Bookshelf posts (including the recent autograph session with China Miéville) and reviews and summary of the graphic novel challenge.

Stay tuned!

Last Exile is set in a retro-futuristic world, where the two nations of this world are at perpetual war. Airborne warships wage orchestrated war under strict codes and regulations, and each battle is umpired by the mysterious Guild. Meanwhile, civilians endure perpetual wartime livelihood. Teenagers Claus Valca and Lavie Head fly a messenger vanship, essentially a small and versatile two-person airship. In a strange turn of events they are charged with taking a young girl to the itinerant warship Silvana. Meanwhile, the Silvana, captained by the intense, brooding Alex Rowe, searches for a legendary entity called the Exile. The saga is all about the people: Claus and Lavie, the Silvana’s crew, and their relationships, histories and secrets, whilst they quest for the Exile, uncover the true motives of the Guild, and strive to end this perpetual war and bring peace to the world.

Last Exile is the first anime series I watched, and I think it’s quite good. I was beguiled by the setting — steampunk and retro-futuristic anachronism never cease to fascinate me — and world-building that went into the warring nations and the Guild. (I especially liked the science-fiction-esque look of the Guild’s architecture and clothing.) The animation itself is spectacular, the 3-D modelling and 2-D drawings melding seamlessly together. Apart from having a fascinating world and aesthetic, the story contains a fine mix of interesting and varied characters, action, plot twists, contemplation and reminiscing, relationship and character development, and mystery — everything that a well-fleshed series ought to have. I was happy with the characters — like the cast of Firefly, the Last Exile characters make a good team, complete with varied personalities and relationship dynamics. They are all well-rounded chars, and although some stereotypes prevail, they have sufficient depth beyond mere one-dimensional team tropes. Furthermore, we also learn why and how they became who they were, but not completely — so one can have fun speculating on the unspoken thoughts and unexplained activities of the chars. Favourite character? I really can’t choose, since the Silvana’s crew was a great team!

The story has many sub-plots, half of which were about relationships — these revealed the backstory and motives of the characters, and never got bogged down or murky. The other half drove the main plot and added little surprises to an otherwise straightforward story. On the whole, everything hung together and made good sense, and whilst I thought there were too many coincidences to be realistic, I was happy to suspend disbelief and enjoy the coincidences as part of the story. Perhaps the only downfall was the finale and climax: it happened all too quickly, wasn’t well explained, and ended like a dream and a deus ex machina. I had to read up on the Net about the backstory before I understood the meaning of the ending.

Nevertheless, that’s not a big quibble, and I enjoyed Last Exile very much and thought it was a good series to ease me into anime. (My friend, who watches more than I do, says it’s superior to many other anime series.) I also liked the titles of the episodes, which all reference chess moves and concepts — very clever and befitting to the strict martial setting and intricate, calculated, purposeful storyline. In all, it was definitely worth watching and thoroughly enjoyable.

This can be a quick one. Don’t take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you’ve read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.

In the order which I thought them:
The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
The Dictionary of the Khazars by Milorad Pavic
The Planiverse by A.K. Dewdney
Primary Inversion by Catherine Asaro
The Book of Lost Tales by J.R.R. Tolkien
Perdido Street Station by China Miéville
Firebird by Kathy Tyers
The Conference of the Birds by Farid ud-Din Attar
The Bible
River of Gods by Ian McDonald
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
Cancer Ward by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

This wasn’t hard. For sure, these books have stuck with me for a while, and I don’t think they’re going anywhere!

I have also rejoined LibraryThing, as Vegalivia. Feel free to watch or add my library as a friend. I hope to add some of my reviews to that system, albeit greatly abbreviated.

I hope you’ve been reading well! What are you reading now? Are you on any challenges? Recommend something good you read recently — regardless whether it fits my taste or not. =)

“The robins have an advantage over the cats: they see the whole scene … all at once. For them, there is only the flock. The individual robin itself — the bird that sees — is the only point of absence in the world: it is the other robins that are present. This kind of Stalinist social organization drives the predatory cats wild, for they are obsessed with presence, with strong borders mapped between the self and everything else. They are the great, Romantic individualists.” (p. 19)

“Geese are the border guards between Hungary and Austria in 1973. Their heads are full of maps about who lives where, what stamp they need on their visas, the countries you’d rather they didn’t live in, the countries you’d rather you didn’t live in. … The geese come in like Flying Fortresses on a bombing run over Hamburg. One particularly persistent pair has chosen the north shore of our lake. These two are the kind of geese who wear matching leather jackets from his amateur bowling league: she sits close to him, in the centre seat of the pickup, and his driving is not exactly straight. They have been coming in for years now — a big gander and his more dimunitive goose. He takes a 44 chest. He played football in high school. She’s a size 6 petite. In all this time … they have never raised a gosling on the lake. That’s a pretty impressive record.” (p. 61-62)

“The whole reason for the kafuffle was that the otters had shown up. Otters are the RCMP [Royal Canadian Mounted Police]. They are not birds. They don’t have a sense of humour.” (p. 76)

“The cranes return in the fall, when the air vibrates like a glass of red wine, a rounded mouthful of music in tones of copper and wool died with onionskins, chrysanthemums, and black currants. After the first frosts, the yellow leaves are streaming off the poplars so rapidly it sems they will never stop — as if in their shifting, musical rustle the tree is generating leaves as quickly as it casts them off. A thin skin of ice lays up in the bay, along and among the reeds. … When I hear the cries of the sandhill cranes today I am no longer standing in space, with evanescent gusts of time blowing over me, but am standing in time. It is a solid country. It is space that is a thin veil of cobwebs blowing in a cold October wind now, a thousand little tents of frost in the morning grass, vanishing as the day rises.” (p. 187-188)

“Suddenly [the owl] was there, in a tall dead aspen above the bulrushes. The moon floated behind her shoulder, huge and cold, rimmed by tiny prisms of broken light. The owl watched me without blinking and all time vanished. She stared at me for a million years.” (p. 209)

…And I can keep quoting luminous, entrancing prose from this luminous, entrancing book by Harold Rhenisch. Winging Home has displaced — by a very large margin — The Time Traveler’s Wife as the best book I’ve read this year so far. And I hope the prose demonstrates why.

Winging Home is a memoir of Rhenisch’s life in the wilderness of British Columbia, Canada, a life framed by birds, animals, the wilds and the cycle of seasons. I believe Rhenisch also writes poetry, and it shows: his memoir is a radiant tapestry woven from words, a lyrical work of descriptive and nature writing. Every word is well-chosen and exquisitely placed, perfectly describing both the scene and also the ambience. There is so much depth of mood and emotion in each paragraph, each sentence. A comparable writer would be Mervyn Peake. Peake’s writing is grand, majestic, minutely detailed — entirely appropriate for the milieu of Gormenghast Castle. In the same fashion, Rhenisch’s writing is limpid, dreamlike, luminous and utterly befitting the wilderness setting.

Not only is he a master at describing the wilderness, Rhenisch is brilliant at describing characters. Here his characters are birds and animals — mostly the birds, as the novel is subtitled A Palette of Birds. Rhenisch demonstrates that he is not merely a keen observer of birds and beasts, but also of human beings. His creatures are all described anthropomorphically, with human characteristics and attitudes. Robins are beer-and-barbecue football fans; eagles are a gang of loitering skateboard teens; crows are the mafia; a pair of geese are redneck drifters whilst their loon counterparts are an elegant upper-class couple; blackbirds sing in barbershop quartets; otters lie around perfecting their tans… All cleverly and delightfully written, without any feeling of caricature or excessive anthropomorphism; in fact, the anthropomorphism makes the animals’ behaviour more accessible to humans, and gives them a life and vibrancy of their own. I daresay I could from these descriptions actually visualize the humans they’d be. It was fun to read what new characterization Rhenisch would come up with for the next star in his running cast of beasts and birds. Indeed, to be able to liken an individual animal to a type of human being with such accuracy is evidence that Rhenisch is acutely aware of human behaviour as he is of animal behaviour.

Winging Home is such a joy to read. It is light-hearted and witty, but it is also contemplative and serene. It is a palette of birds, but more than that, it is also a story of a man’s life. Rhenisch’s focus is on the nature writing, so the vignettes of his life are brief — scenes concerning his youth and past, his present life and daily activities with the seasons, his great love for the wilderness and equally great love for his family. Brief as they are, these memories are intensely personal, quietly contemplative, simultaneously tinged with melancholy, sadness and great fullness of life. In writing about nature and the birds, and how they impact on him, Rhenisch is ultimately demonstrating — intentionally or not — what it means to live as a human on Earth. These biographical vignettes were the most moving and beautiful sequences, and they gave Winging Home its power and grace.

That is all I can say about this sublime novel, to say more would just be belabouring the point. Read it! The novel is achingly beautiful, infinite beauty distilled into readable form; the above excerpts are but glimpses of its brilliance. This is a book I know I’ll keep returning to. I must thank John Howe for bringing it to my awareness in one of his newsletters (which are lovely tales in themselves), otherwise I would never have known about this rare and gorgeous gem of a novel.

I learnt of The Truth of the Cross when Christian blogger Bill Muehlenberg reviewed it favourably on his blog. This small book by theologian R.C. Sproul discusses the supreme significance of Jesus’ death on the Cross. As a Christian who is well-versed in the Bible but has little training in theology, I understand Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection on a personal level, but wanted a greater understanding of its theological implications. Indeed, the subject of the Cross is so important, that I decided to buy this book for keeps and lending to friends.

The Truth of the Cross may be small and more of an introductory text, but I can tell it has a deep theological foundation. Sproul covers all areas regarding the significance of Jesus’ death: the significance of sin and why a sacrifice is required; the legal and judicial meaning of man’s sinfulness in relation to God; the “wrath of God” being his righteous judgement over sin; the meaning of expiation and propitiation; how Christ’s death — and crucifixion in particular — was itself a legal and judicial act that was sufficient atonement of judgement; and also touches on how Christ’s death is interpreted in the Calvinist vs. Arminist question of of predestination.

All heavy-duty theology, but Sproul distills it into a readable and accessible form, using many examples and analogies to illustrate the meanings. His explanation of expiation and propitiation was particularly timely: I’d heard of both theological terms but didn’t understand them until now. I definitely learnt a lot from this little book — whilst I’m familiar with the significance of the crucifixion to me as an individual, this book showed me how Jesus’ death has a larger “global” sigificance. Indeed, Jesus’ death is exceedingly important on so many levels both theological and practical.

My only complaint about this book is that it was very short, and didn’t have footnotes/references, even though Sproul often quoted Scripture and other theologians. I definitely want to read more comprehensively about the significance of Christ’s death and resurrection, and would’ve appreciated a guide to weightier works. However, I must thank Sproul for writing an accessible book that educated me in the first place. This book is an excellent starting point for Christians who have no theological background, to gain understanding of the most significant event in history, and learn about why the Cross is so fundamentally important to the faith. I urge all Christians to read The Truth of the Cross, and recommend it to any interested reader as a good starting point. We need to fully understand the foundations of what we believe! and this book is a good stepping stone to greater understanding.

I’ve come to the conclusion that Ursula Le Guin’s short stories (also her novels, but especially short stories) need to be read slowly, ruminated, pondered and mulled over. Reading A Fisherman of the Inland Sea at my usual speed — and thinking about it on the fly — nearly caused my brain to implode. Like munching on peppercorns. No-oo. Must take time, chew each paragraph thoroughly, taste all the implications, roll the ideas around in my mind prior to internalizing their consequences. That’s the best (safest?) way to read a Le Guin short story.

So I can only give you an overview of this collection of short stories right now, as I haven’t fully digested it yet. There are seven stories in A Fisherman of the Inland Sea, all fantastical and speculative. The first four are standalone, from the whimsical to the sombre — the latter well exemplified in Newton’s Sleep, which literally illustrates that we human beings still have our “earthly” origins rooted deep in our psyche, no matter the efforts taken to eradicate those terrestrial tendencies. The latter three stories are longer and revolve around “churten theory”, Le Guin’s version of faster-than-light travel in her Hainish cosmos.

These are interesting stories, the ones that rattled my brain the most. Churten enables instantaneous translocation through space between two points, without any intervening duration; teleportation in other words, which is what FTL travel essentially is. Convenient — but one character said, “To have event without interval… where is the dancing? Where is the way?” That statement haunted me throughout my reading, for it is the essence of these three stories, which examine the impact of churten upon the sentient mind. Successful churten-ing by sentients relies heavily on having a consistent, uncontradictory interpretation or perception of events. As demonstrated in The Shobies’ Story, disagreement between the sentient parties’ perception of events following the churten event causes a breakdown of their shared reality. More subtle consequences are explored in Dancing to Ganam, and Another Story addresses time travel via churten. This story sent my mind into another tailspin, since Le Guin didn’t plainly address the problem of paradox and inconsistent timelines. (But she is a clever author so probably did, and I’m the one not picking it up.) Furthermore, the discussion of the complex sexual mores and matrimonial traditions in that society thoroughly bemused me. What fun it was to think about that!

Churten theory is confounding — and thus, incredibly fascinating, for the stories present a problem I wasn’t able to resolve on first pass. I still haven’t figure out where and how sentience influences, and is influenced by, churten. Delightful brain food! But I read this collection altogether too fast, and was on my next book before I could process it completely.

Bad Vega. Didn’t you learn to chew your food before swallowing? Applies to books too. I’ll have to reread A Fisherman of the Inland Sea and properly digest everything and think well about it. I’m glad I bought this book, so I can keep coming back to it.

Le Guin’s short stories are always challenging. They really, really make me think, and that’s wonderful, for I enjoy the mental exercise they provide. Very few authors stimulate my mind more. And even whilst these stories make me think, they retain the aesthetically pleasing mood, the same timeless, elegant, low-key, melancholy and thoughtful ambience I’ve come to expect from Le Guin. Another great short story collection from this peerless author.

King Rat is a story about Saul Garamond, who, after being arrested for allegedly murdering his father, is visited by a mysterious figure who reveals to him his dark, otherworldly origins. Saul, having no choice or worldly attachments, leaves behind his known world of human beings and descends into the literal underground of London city to discover his heritage. At the sametime, several of Saul’s friends, including a drum ‘n bass DJ, are approached by a strange musician, who wants to collaborate with the DJ in her music-making. This collaboration takes a sinister turn, and it seems this stranger is seeking to destroy Saul and all that he represents…

King Rat is China Miéville’s first novel, and it shows. Many elements that are full-fledged and recognizably Miéville in Perdido Street Station and The Scar, are still being explored, developed and polished here. The setting already has a dark, gritty and ruthless ambience; the London underworld sufficiently labyrinthine and impersonal — I can already taste hints of New Crobuzon in the descriptions of London above and below ground. For example, the descriptions of Saul’s journeys into the sewers and the secondary character Fabian’s bicycle ride through the London suburbs already show Miéville’s prowess at describing the urban environment.

The narrative also has foretastes of the later novels, although at a smaller and less polished level. King Rat has the the first attempts at the big, sweeping gestures, the baroque and grandiose airs that become fully matured in PSS. But for now, the writing is less ‘big’ and moves faster as a result — King Rat is quite fast-paced and reads like an action story. Characters are always on the move, the camera is tightly focused on them, mirroring their movements or lack of, and only records the passing scenery as a blur, but enough to effectively capture the vibe in the scene. On the whole, the writing is raw, a little gauche; Miéville is still finding and experimenting with voices.

Just as well that King Rat moves briskly. Having read much of the author’s oeuvre, I find that he is prone to falling into movement without purpose, occasionally losing the forest for the trees, describing chars a tad excessively without adding to plot advancement or character development. (I’ll never get tired of Miéville’s descriptive writing, however.) The chars’ dialogue occasionally becomes florid — in particular, King Rat’s bouts of speechifying were a tad annoying, but that does reflect his character. Sometimes Miéville lingers on chars excessively, to the point where I think, “Okay, I understand the point, you’ve belaboured it plenty, can we move on?” I suppose that Miéville is still finding the balance in pacing; he manages well in PSS and The Scar, but Iron Council stumbled into this pitfall too many times. So it’s a good thing that King Rat was an action story which moved at a sufficient pace that the slightly excessive lingerings didn’t annoy me too much. It would’ve been more inferior had it been as heavy as PSS.

As King Rat is an experimental, ‘transitional’ novel, it actually had an element of warmth and humanity that PSS and The Scar did not. This was initially surprising, but it now makes sense. The main character in the Bas-Lag novels is the City, and whilst it can be described with varied mood and ambience, it’s not particularly personal, and I don’t know any way of describing the city intimately and “humanly”. Thus the Bas-Lag novels were cold and detached, kind of distant. On the other hand, King Rat is focused on Saul, and London city is only the canvas on which Saul’s life is played out. As a result, it actually feels warmer, more human and personable, and Saul does go through emotional swings and tumult that is actually believable. Having gotten a consistently impersonal vibe from all of Miéville’s writings so far, I was pleasantly surprised to find warmth here!

As for the story, it’s linearly straightforward with two converging storylines and no subplots. King Rat is actually an urban retelling of a familiar legend/myth — but I shan’t tell you what it is, for it was a wonderful “Aha!” moment when I recognized the chars as elements of the legend. Miéville’s retelling is clever. I liked how he depicted the legendary chars in the urban setting: not overtly magical (if at all?), somewhat human yet clearly otherworldly, well-adapted to the urban environment and all its shadows and forgotten spaces. (This story is reminiscent of American Gods and Charles de Lint’s urban myths.) I thought the human and inhuman qualities of King Rat and his peers were cleverly depicted, and Saul’s gradual metamorphosis was also well-illustrated. The villain wasn’t as colourful, but made up for it by being completely disturbing in his megalomania. Granted, there is little nuance or complexity in these characters, but the story didn’t suffer for that.

I can’t review King Rat without discussing an important element of the setting: Drum and Bass/Jungle music, and its attendant subculture and clubbing scene. (The Wikipedia article describes the music well.) Now I happen to be a huge fan of Drum ‘n Bass, so I was looking forward to discovering how Miéville (himself a fan) incorporated the music and subculture into the novel. I must say that I was a tad disappointed that he didn’t write more of it into the story — but I thought it was sufficient for the purpose of the story. Furthermore, King Rat is set in the early Jungle scene, which sounds a little different from the contemporary drum ‘n bass tunes that I listen to now, but I have heard enough of the genre to recognize the names of famous DJs dropped in the narrative, and could appreciate the descriptions of the musical form and atmosphere that the music (and dancing) generates — after all, the basic elements of the musical form are unchanged. To my chagrin, I couldn’t consistently ‘recreate’ the music in my head whilst reading, but Miéville’s descriptions of Natasha the DJ/producer making the music, the musical style, and the clubbing atmosphere, definitely made sense to me! Though it wasn’t the consistent backdrop I was hoping it to be, Drum ‘n Bass definitely permeates the this novel and contributed cleverly to the plot — if there was any subtext to King Rat, it definitely made too accurate a comentary on clubbing culture. So I was pleased by the presence of Drum ‘n Bass in this novel, though I still can’t quite imagine how a flute would work in Jungle beats… Now to put a soundtrack together…

My evaluation of King Rat after a couple of chapters was, “Wonderful, this is going to be a long haul of nothing great.” Thankfully the story was nowhere bad — but it definitely isn’t a great book either. Solidly average, I’d say. If you’re a Miéville and/or Drum ‘n Bass fan, it’s worth reading to see the author’s developing voice. Other readers would do better reading Perdido Street Station or maybe The City and The City, which is being released now. King Rat was interesting, an average read, and as a Miéville fan I appreciated the experience, but I doubt I’d ever read it again.

Speaking of Miéville, he’s on a signing tour for The City and The City, and coming to my town. I’m eagerly anticipating the chance to get the new book, meet the author, and get autographs!

I received the Firebird trilogy as a gift at the end of high school… and only now have I read it in its entirety, in one sitting. It definitely wins awards as being some of the oldest books in my library, but unread for the longest time. And the fault is wholly mine: ever since I read Firebird, the excellent first book, I was probably subconsciously afraid to read the others, for fear that they wouldn’t live up to the wonderful beginning. (I guess that’s why I take so long to get through the authors whom I love upon first reading, because I’m afraid the love may prove to be short-lived or a ‘passing madness’.)

Despite all these real and imagined expectations, I have finally read Fusion Fire and Crown of Fire — the entire trilogy all through. And what a relief! Kathy Tyers acquitted herself well, and the love I felt toward Firebird did not fade with the subsequent books. Indeed, I found myself returning to all of them, to flip through and read my favourite scenes. This is a good series. Well done, well done. *wipes brow with relief*

So what is the Firebird trilogy about, and why do I love it so much? The first novel begins in Netaia, Firebird’s isolationist, highly stratified homeworld within the otherwise united universe of the Whorl. Netaia attacks a Federacy world with the aim of extending its territory; the Federacy overwhelmingly defeats Netaia and imposes martial law. As Netaia rebuilds with aid from their conquerors — the Federacy ultimately hopes to eventually bring Netaia into alliance — its oligarchy of ruling nobles plot to throw off their conquerors by force. In the meantime, Firebird Angelo, of Netaian royalty, is captured during the war and eventually claims asylum in the Federacy in hopes of a new beginning. As she learns more about the Federacy and the dysfunctions of her own society, she also meets Brennen Caldwell, a genetically engineered telepath and follower of a religion called the Path. The subsequent novels track the sociopolitical changes within Netaia, the schemings of Netaia’s oligarchy, the threats of a powerful renegade sect called the Shuhr, all amidst the personal story of Firebird and Brennen, their family and the Thyrian telepaths and believers around them, and their faith and the hope it gives to them and all peoples of the Whorl.

The Firebird trilogy is primarily a journey of one woman from rejection and lostness into destiny and fulfillment. The numerous other plot developments — international (or inter-world) politics and intrigue, warfare and social upheaval, adventure, danger and character interaction — all form the backdrop to what is ultimately a personal story of Firebird and Brennen. Firebird begins as a wastling in her highly stratified and rigid homeworld of Netaia, her life expedient and ultimately destined for honourable suicide; soon she finds herself rescued from death, and given the choice for life and a new beginning. In the process she also discovers faith in a God who is real and very different from the state-ordained Powers who dictate her life and death. The novels are all about her growth and development into her new life, learning the tenets of her faith and leaving behind her old ways of thinking and living, discovering her destiny and purpose in God, even as Netaia and the Federacy are changing rapidly around her.

As a result, much of the char development is devoted to Firebird and (to a slightly lesser extent) Brennen. This makes them the most believable and realistic of the chars. The secondary chars surrounding them are all well-fleshed, but we don’t see their growth so much, since these chars are continuously cycling in and out of the spotlight that is trained so intently on Firebird and Brennen. There is some growth in Carradee Angelo and Tel Tellai, and perhaps in Ellet Kinsman and Terza Shirak, but the focus doesn’t stay on any secondary char long enough for us to examine their development in any meaningful way.In Firebird, she and Brennen stave off an insurgency by the Netaian nobility; in Fusion Fire they find themselves on the run

As for the villains, I found them a little one-dimensional. None of them seemed to have the same depth as the protagonists (even the secondary ones), without any redemptive qualities or complexity of character and motive. I was most disappointed with Phoena, Firebird’s sister and the “villain” (or sorely deluded princess) whom we see the most of, because I thought she was the weakest char compared to Firebird and Carradee in terms of development. The Shuhr, despite variations in character, are pure villains without redemptive qualities, although I found Terza the most fleshed out and developed, mostly because she starts to question the motives of her people. But I suppose it’s the nature and environment of the Shuhr that keep them invariably evil.

All that said, where character development occurs it is well executed and realistic. Firebird’s growth, especially in her faith, is believable and realistic to me (because I’m also growing in my faith!) and it was wonderful to follow her thoughts and her behavioural changes throughout the books. Brennen doesn’t go through as much growth — I guess we just don’t see his point of view as often — but we also see him struggle with doubts and work through challenges, and support Firebird in her journey. I would’ve liked to read more from his perspective, especially in Crown of Fire (which focused almost exclusively on Firebird) and his period of disability, to get a better idea of what enabled him to make it through the climax of that book. Even so, I was quite happy with how Firebird and Brennen turned out in the end. It was believable, realistic, and I could identify with them.

Although Firebird’s journey is the focus of the novels, Tyers has written a wonderful, believable cosmos to come with it. I was as eager to explore the Whorl as I was to read the story. There is some world-building appropriate for the novels, and these tantalizing tid-bits indicated that this world was larger than what Tyers has written, and she had carefully crafted her world and thought through many of its details. As a world-builder myself, I really wanted to learn more of the Whorl and its varied worlds! But I suppose that’s the delight of reading these books, because there is sufficient information to give my imagination a broad overview, but allows me to fill in the exciting details myself.

I also like the novels for the Christian context. This is Christian fiction in a SF setting, a thought experiment grounded in Biblical principles. Tyers asks the question: What if God had created many worlds instead of one, and what if these worlds had to wait 2+ millennia longer for the Messiah to come? What would the Biblical story of sin and redemption of humanity to God, and the prophecies about the Messiah’s coming, look like? What kind of issues would these believers have to face, how would they live a life of faith in their world?

This is not an allegory of the Bible, neither does it delve into the minutiae of doctrine and theology; it is a story — “a parable”, in Tyers’ words — of living a Christian life, applying Biblical principles in a hypothetical setting. It’s evident to a Christian reader (to me, at least) that the faith issues that the chars face are no different to the ones I face, despite the differences in setting and details. The issues are perhaps more simple, without the full spectrum of nuance and grey areas that in real life, but Tyers is telling a story, and straightforward stories definitely help illustrate the heart of the issue better.

And even though this is a story and not Bible teaching, my evaluation of these books as Christian fiction is that it is grounded in good, sound doctrine, nothing gave me cause for alarm or disagreement. Furthermore, Firebird’s faith journey is realistic and relevant, and that suggests that Tyers is writing it from personal experience. Because I don’t think anyone can write about faith and character growth in the context of belief, if one hasn’t experienced it already.

Such are the foundations that the Firebird trilogy is built upon. I adore these books because Tyers has managed to combined a host of my favourite elements in one story: a science fiction premise, a futuristic-yet-ancient cosmos (a la Star Wars Old Republic), anachronism in technologically advanced cultures, telepathy and psionic powers, and Christianity. Not only that, she has written solid books with believable and memorable characters. These books are good — not excellent, but I love them for reasons beyond authorial skill. What more can I ask?

So this is the Firebird series and why I love it so much. No, this may not be an entirely objective (or informative) review, because I am emotionally invested in these books. I love the story, the characters and what it all represents to me. Definitely Vega’s favourite novels so far this year!

Jeff VanderMeer is establishing himself as one of my favourite authors of short fiction. Secret Lives is a collection of “biographical” vignettes about real people that VanderMeer has met and knows relatively well. But instead of writing real biographies, he has imagined “secret lives” for all these people that are as varied as their real professions. And since VanderMeer is a writer of weird fiction, the secret lives are appropriately weird. They range from the merely off-beat to the completely fantastical.

Some randomly-selected examples of secret lives from the collection:

• one character learns how to arrange his attire and attitude such that he becomes invisible to the eye;
• another exploits hidden passages between our world and others, as shortcuts to and from his destinations;
• another discovers fragments of a mysterious nation, and becomes obsessive about finding it;
• yet another attempts to “dance the human genome” in hopes of being recognized for his originality.

There are 36 vignettes in total, and all very imaginative; I never found them contrived or “weird for weird’s sake.” I read Secret Lives in one sitting the day I got it, and enjoyed it thoroughly. VanderMeer not only has a fertile imagination, he is also a versatile writer who’s delved into various modes of storytelling and narration. (Case in point: the varied stories in City of Saints and Madmen.) I’ve been following VanderMeer’s writing for some time, especially his short fiction, and I’m looking forward to reading what he has in store next… as well as getting down to his novels Veniss Underground, Shriek: An Afterword and Finch.

I bought Secret Lives directly from VanderMeer himself (a worthwhile addition to my library!). At the time of writing, I believe he’s still selling copies via this page.

Shaun Tan is an Australian illustrator, primarily known for his depiction of the fantastical and quirky. I have been a fan of his art and writing ever since I first read The Rabbits. This is a combined Bookshelf post and review, because Tan’s books really can’t be reviewed without pictures. I had finally read Tales From Outer Suburbia from cover to cover, and also revisited all of Tan’s illustrated books in my library: The Rabbits, The Lost Thing, and The Arrival. (Apart from The Rabbits, which is written by John Marsden, Tan is author and illustrator.) So this is a overview of all of Tan’s books.

In summary, The Rabbits is a children’s picture book narrating about the British colonization of Australia and the displacement of the native Aboriginal people. The Lost Thing is about a boy who discovers a misplaced, misfit object and tries to find where it belongs. The Arrival is a story about immigration and living in a foreign land. Tales From Outer Suburbia is exactly its title: stories about Tan’s childhood in the suburbs.

The stories may seem ordinary fare, but Tan’s fantastical artwork turns them into extraordinary, fantastic visual tales. For example, The Rabbits tells the history symbolically, using anthropomorphized animals. (Rabbits were an introduced species, and are now destructive pests in the Australian ecology.) The other stories can’t be described without showing some pictures…

I am most taken by Tan’s extraordinary art. His imagination is one-of-a-kind: quirky, innocent, light-hearted, childlike, and “everyday”, in that he takes ordinary things and transforms them such that they become fantastic. The transformation often takes the form of critters or anthropomorphism — a television becomes a beast with static-teeth; a long scaly appendage grows from a flower-pot (is it a plant, or is it a tail/appendage of a critter? Tan loves tails extending from receptacles, it’s a recurring motif in his all works). At other times, ordinary scenes are made fantastic with the addition/change of a single element — a manatee appears in someone’s backyard, creating a neighbourhood incident; a depressed girl walks down the road, shadowed by a giant, realistic-looking fish; a family eats dinner around a table, using devices like blowtorches to grill their food prior to eating. And all the people in the scene react normally, as if it was perfectly natural to be followed by a huge floating fish.

This imagery is gently disorienting, for it is not normal, yet it is. It’s the kind of thing that you can even see in your everyday world — when you look out of the corner of your eye. At least that’s true to me, so I find an odd but warm comfort in Tan’s imagination. Yes it’s fantastic, but at the same time, it’s familiar and normal and I accept (or attribute secondary belief, to put it another way) his visions without a second thought. As if, perhaps, I have had the same ones before.

Tan is a versatile illustrator and works in different media for all his books. The pictures in The Rabbits are primarily paintings; mixed media in The Lost Thing (he paints the images on a canvas of printouts/pages from engineering textbooks); graphite pencil in The Arrival; a variety of media in Tales. His illustrations are bold and overt, they do speak louder than words; indeed, one can understand the stories without the need of words, and The Arrival has no text at all. (Literally a graphic novel!) Even in Tales, which is a collection of vignette-like short stories and is the most “book-like” of these four works (it contains about ten times more words than the other three books combined), the images are very evocative and reinforce the message in the stories. What’s more, Tan’s illustrations are visually engaging and incredibly dense. There is so much to look at in each image; even the endpages and title pages are cleverly illustrated. I have pored over all the books at length, and with every pass I keep discovering new things in those pictures: exquisite details, visual gags, the artist’s concealed signature that is also an integral part of the image. I will never get tired of looking at a Shaun Tan illustration.

The Rabbits and The Lost Thing are delightful children’s books that are worth revisiting at all ages to savour the brilliant artwork. The Arrival and Tales are slightly more mature (but still appropriate for children). A few words about them…

The graphic novel genre can be divided into The Arrival and everything else. It’s peerless, nonpareil, in a league of its own, and not just because it’s 64 pages of pure art. Most importantly, it triumphs as a visual story of immigration. It captures all the myriad elements of living in a foreign land: travelling to the new land, immigration and entry, finding home and employment, struggling with language barriers, communication and transport, making friends, finding community and sharing lives and stories, and keeping in touch with family members left behind. What’s more, it captures the personal story of the immigrant and all the emotions he’d experience whilst struggling to make a living in a foreign and unfamiliar land. Of course, this entirely rendered fantastical, but the fantastic nature of the images only serves to define and highlight the experiences and challenges faced by the immigrant.

The Arrival is an extraordinary book, I simply can’t emphasize that enough! This is Tan’s magnum opus (so far), and has garnered the attention and accolades it and its author deserves. And this is a book that everyone ought to read and own, and I’m confident that it’ll become a classic graphic novel, most defining of this genre.

Whilst Tan was working on The Arrival he was also writing stories that were eventually collected into Tales From Outer Suburbia. This is a lovely, whimsical collection of what I believe are biographical events in Tan’s life, but told from a fantastical point of view. A buffalo in an empty house lot shows children the right way to go, a foreign exchange student comes to live with the Tan family, a neighbour’s long-lost relative shows up on their doorstep, Shaun and his brother go to investigate the boundary of their road maps, a family discovers a hidden courtyard in their house, and many more. Each short vignette either asks “what if this is the otherworldly truth behind the reality?”, or depicts the fantastic in an otherwise ordinary situation. All the tales are luminous and imagination-stimulating, and I thoroughly enjoyed all of them.

So these are Shaun Tan’s illustrated books, they are some of my most treasured books in my library. He also wrote The Red Tree, a story about overcoming depression, which has won several awards too. That is the only Tan-authored book I don’t have, I hope to obtain it someday.

Living in Australia gave me a chance to meet and hear Tan in person several times — as well as obtain his books long before they appear in the United States. At the end of 2006 I went to the book launch of The Arrival to buy the book and hear Tan give a short seminar on the creative development and process of bringing that book into being. (I was astounded to find that the USA didn’t get it until 2008!) I also saw an exhibit of the original works from The Lost Thing, where Tan also gave an interactive workshop with children. He concluded with an autograph session, and I got to say hello and have my three books signed. That was very special.

And I once saw him riding public transport (he sat across from me), but didn’t have the nerve to greet him…

On the Road is Jack Kerouac’s semi-autobiographical saga of road travels across continental America with various friends, the seminal novel defining the Beat Generation of the 1950s. I’d put it on my Author A-Z reading challenge, as I’d wanted to find out more about this book that has been hailed a modern American classic.

All the characters in On the Road were real people in Kerouac’s life, and the story is his autobiography, albeit with names and places slightly changed. The story is told from the perspective of the writer Sal (ie. Kerouac), about his group of friends, all rag-tag, footloose, rebellious, hedonistic and intellectual. The star of this show is the ragamuffin and devil-may-care Dean Moriarty. Dean is irresponsible, aimless, unreliable and reckless, filled with a lust for life and this present existence, and a strange bubbling love for everyone and everything he sees. Dean is also the catalyst who sparks Sal’s hunger for travel. On the Road chronicles Sal’s four journeys across continental United States with Dean, and his many varied experiences and encounters with friends in New York City, Denver, San Francisco, and everything in between.

Two of my friends who had read On the Road did not enjoy it because they couldn’t understand the point of the story. By the time I started on Sal’s second road trip, I knew what they meant. There is no story in On the Road, no narrative, no goal or ‘point’ to Sal’s journeys, and no fulfillment or enlightenment at the end. Sal and Dean hustle frantically from city to city, take life as it comes without any care for the future, party and debauch without any thought of responsibility or consequences. The novel is full of the what of their activities, but no why. Indeed, what moments of contemplation exist are literally momentary and quite callow. Sal draws no conclusions at the end of his journeys, and I suspect that he doesn’t even know why he did the things he did, and to what end.

It was quickly apparent that On the Road is a story of the journey here and now. Contemplation of past and future (even within an hour each way) is of no consequence, all that matters is life in this very present, in this very moment. This was this spontaneous spirit that birthed Sal and Dean’s journeys, so this should be the attitude by which I ought to approach the novel. Thus I abandoned all thought of analysis and finding the whys and wherefores, and just contented myself for the ride.

That worked: On the Road blossomed and came into its own, and in no small part due to the author’s writing style. Kerouac writes fluidly, using run-on sentences and adjective-heavy phrases, describing whole scenes with sweeping descriptions, pinpointing details with rapid breathlessness and excitement. Setences meld freely into each other, even the full stops and paragraph breaks don’t seem to stop the flow of the narrative. All this served to depict that carefree, careless, live-only-for-present euphoria of the novel, evoking the sense of moments streaming past without cease, each moment absorbed and instantly lost and forgotten, for the next moment is at hand. Kerouac’s writing was akin to a swift river, and reading On the Road like surrendering myself to the waters and being borne away in the torrent of words. This reading experience is best described as euphoric.

I must say that Kerouac’s writing redeemed his book. I would’ve expected myself to become bored or frustrated with On the Road, given that it was so aimless and had nothing to offer me by way of literary analysis and meaning. At various stages I contemplated stopping, because I had understood all there was to understand from it (the same reason why I ceased reading Catch-22 and Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker series). Yet the writing was so irresistible; it possessed a kind of enchantment such that when I resumed reading I couldn’t stop, I had to keep going, for the exhilaration of perpetual travel and sojourning.

But for what end was this sojourn? Kerouac is honest in depicting the futility of Sal’s pursuits, for amidst the haze of euphoria and thrill were moments of lucid clarity, where Sal’s confusion and emptiness shone clear, where he reveals frustration with his futile pursuits. There were several scenes of such stark lucidity, but a statement made during his relationship with a Mexican woman confessed it so poignantly: roughly paraphrased, she came to him for comfort and assurance, but he had nothing to offer her save his confusion. This confusion and emptiness persists throughout On the Road, in all of Sal’s journeys. In the end he has many experiences but none of them are fulfilling — if he indeed knows what in his life he wants fulfilled.

In this way, On the Road is also a melancholy novel, for it depicts the confusion and uncertainty of Sal (and also Kerouac and his generation), his futile quests for fulfillment and happiness, and the frustration and doleful sorrow when he becomes jaded with his life and his friends. Indeed, his friend Dean is an unreliable and aimless (but harmless) character, just as confused as Sal, if not more; neither do Sal’s other friends have much to offer. Even so, Sal never becomes cynical, instead remaining open and expectant, as if the next journey would finally meet of all his desires. He becomes disillusioned and frustrated with Dean, but he still looks up to this ragamuffin character and wishes him well. Despite its melancholy, On the Road is always hopeful and uplifting, its sadness quickly dissipated by the expectation of the next adventure.

And that is how I think On the Road was a landmark novel, for it embodies that age of transition in the early 1950s, where America was regaining its bearings after world war, modernism was giving way to post-modernism, and the ideals and values of society were beginning to change. On the Road was said to have defined the Beat Generation; this theme of Beat recurs throughout the novel and accurately reflects the confusion and aimlessness, melancholy and optimism, amidst the upheaval of that era. Although I don’t exalt Dean like Sal does, I think he’s right in ascribing to Dean everything that “beat” stands for — ragged and flawed and poor (both physically and spiritually), yet optimistic, expectant and filled with a lust for life and doing; Beat as in ‘beat-up’, and Beat as in ‘beatific’. I think Kerouac successfully captured the spirit of his age in Dean Moriarty and On the Road, and I now understand the meaning and spirit of the Beat Generation.

Apart from Beat, Kerouac successfully captured another spirit of that era: Jazz music. Sal and Dean listen to much jazz and bebop during their travels, and hear musicians play live during their sojourns in Chicago. Kerouac’s flowing, exuberant narrative is very well-suited to describing jazz music and the attitudes of the musicians as they play. Since jazz is my favourite genre of music to listen to, I greatly appreciated the numerous descriptions of the music and musicians, and was so taken by one passage that I saved it here. (This is also a good sample of Kerouac’s writing style.)

In conclusion, On the Road was worth the effort to read. Kerouac’s novel indeed captured the Beat Generation and the spirit of the 1950s, a landmark novel of that era in history. Yes, this is definitely a modern American classic.

From Stage and Canvas–

1) What author do you own the most books by?
J.R.R. Tolkien wins for most number of books (ten), but China Miéville wins for completeness of bibliography - I own all his books (six) except The City and The City which has just been published.

2) What book do you own the most copies of?
I own both male and female versions of The Dictionary of the Khazars (Milorad Pavic). They’re not strictly copies, since they differ in one paragraph… but it’s close enough.

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?
Nope, I make them myself. Although I often wonder if mine are grammatically correct since they look and read strange…

4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with?
Hmm… I’m sure I’ve fallen in love with a fictional char, but I don’t recall anyone (so it wasn’t really love, clearly). I do adore many individuals and relationships. But I’m now reading the Firebird trilogy (Kathy Tyers) and I’d sure like to hook up with a man like Brennen Caldwell… ;)

5) What book have you read the most times in your life (excluding picture books read to children)?
It’s a toss-up between The Lord of the Rings (J.R.R. Tolkien) and Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury) — I’ve definitely read each at least twice, but I may have read Bradbury a third time.

6) What was your favourite book when you were ten years old?
Oh man, I don’t remember that far back. Probably The Chronicles of Narnia (C.S. Lewis), I know I loved that series as a child (and still do).

7) What is the worst book you’ve read in the past year?
Mainspring (Jay Lake) was the worst book I read in 2008.

8) What is the best book you’ve read in the past year?
2008 was a bumper year for excellent books - too many to choose from! Of all those, River Of Gods (Ian McDonald) stands out the most.

9) If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be?
Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card.

10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature?
No one immediately comes to mind, but Mish suggested Ursula K. Le Guin, and I’d second that.

11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie?
Ilium by Dan Simmons.

12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie?
The Etched City (K.J. Bishop), as well as The Orphan’s Tales: In the Night Garden (Catherynne M. Valente), are simply not amenable for film, as that medium is unable capture the mood and style of their writing.

13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.
The only one I recall - and have documented - was shortly after I read Feersum Endjinn (Iain M. Banks). I dreamt that I was in the cryptosphere on some quest, and the character Bascule was guiding me towards my goal. Something of that sort.
More recently (as of last week) I had a dream about Firebird and Brennen from the Firebird trilogy, but I don’t remember anything about it, save that it was decidedly strange.

14) What is the most lowbrow book you’ve read as an adult?
Heh, “lowbrow” isn’t in my literary oeuvre, though I suppose Twilight (Stephenie Meyer) comes close.

15) What is the most difficult book you’ve ever read?
The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri, but I did appreciate the process. The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner) was a bit less hard and much less enjoyable.

16) What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you’ve seen?
I can count on one hand all the Shakespare plays I’ve seen. Probably Julius Caesar - it’s not obscure, but the others were Much Ado About Nothing and King Lear.

17) Do you prefer the French or the Russians?
Russians, but I haven’t read many French. (Why these two? What about, say, Germans or South Americans?)

18) Roth or Updike?
Haven’t read either.

19) David Sedaris or Dave Eggers?
I don’t know who they are.

20) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer?
I’ll get back to you when I’ve read more of them.

21) Austen or Eliot?
Ditto. (Aye, my reading education is woefully incomplete…)

22) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?
See above! I’m skewed extremely 20th-century and contemporary. Definitely need to get more classics under my belt.

23) What is your favourite novel?
Yes, make me choose… I really can’t given an answer. That’s why I don’t have a favourites list on this blog. A more perceptive question would be, ‘Which novel has influenced you most?’
But if I had to give just one… The Dictionary of the Khazars by Milorad Pavic.

24) Play?
Wow, been ages since I last saw or read one! I liked Copenhagen (by Michael Frayn), a short but powerful and thought-provoking modernist play about Werner Heisenberg, Niels Bohr and his wife, quantum physics and philosophy.

25) Poem?
‘The Happy Mariners’ by J.R.R. Tolkien. Non-Tolkien one: ‘Petra’ by John William Burgon.

26) Essay?
‘On Fairy-Stories’ by J.R.R. Tolkien. I also enjoy essays by Jorge Luis Borges and Primo Levi.

27) Short story?
The Morphology of the Kirkham Wreck by Hilbert Schenck.

28) Work of nonfiction?
Under Cover by John Bevere.

29) Who is your favourite writer?
On some days it’s Jorge Luis Borges, on others it’s J.R.R. Tolkien.

30) Who is the most overrated writer alive today?
I don’t follow ratings, let alone read those books… Probably Stephenie Meyer.

31) What is your desert island book?
The Bible. Or the Histories of Middle-earth, if I’m allowed a series.

32) And… what are you reading right now?
Crown of Fire by Kathy Tyers. Finally, I’ll be finishing the Firebird trilogy. The 10 Books From My Library reading challenge is definitely helping!

From wanderlight and Liquid Essence–

1. Do you snack while you read? If so, favourite reading snack?
Given that lunch and dinner tend to be dedicated reading times, snacking doesn’t really occur… It doesn’t really make a difference when I’m devouring brain food; physically eating or not eating is incidental. =)

2. Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you?
I’m deeply reluctant to mark books. Highlighting is permitted in my Bible and textbooks; I have written notes in either, but I try not to do it. If I had to mark a book at all, it’d be with post-its — but I prefer to jot things down separately.
But, given that I’m always writing on research papers… if I had a spare copy of a novel lying around, maybe I would mark it, knowing I also have a clean reading copy.

3. How do you keep your place while reading a book? Bookmark? Dog-ears? Laying the book flat open?
Always a bookmark, since I’m often reading on the go, but I’ve got a knack for losing them. I had a magnetic bookmark for many years, lost it, and really want to get/make another.

4. Fiction, Non-fiction, or both?
Both, although I read fiction full-time these days.

5. Hardcopy or audiobooks?
Hardcopy; I’ve never been interested in audiobooks. Why listen to someone narrate when I can hear everything more vividly in my own mind? And reading enables me to listen to music at the same time.

6. Are you a person who tends to read to the end of chapters, or are you able to put a book down at any point?
I definitely prefer to read to a logical break; breaking mid-stride is somewhat disorienting, and also difficult to pick up. This also makes me a “just another chapter” person…

7. If you come across an unfamiliar word, do you stop to look it up right away? Write it down to look it up later?
I usually don’t have instant access to a dictionary, so I try to note it - provided (a) I do notice that unfamiliar word, (b) I have a mechanism for recording it, (c) I actually can pause my reading long enough to do so. Most of the time I’m able to infer meaning from context, at worst a vague understanding, but if I can’t AND it bothers me, I’ll put it down for future reference. Case in point: Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast trilogy was littered with obscure words, and I often needed to understand the word before I could grasp his meaning. The thing was, I was reluctant to break my flow of reading to write down the words, and my forementioned aversion for marking a book made me reluctant to mark or dog-ear the pages, so I made a mental note of the words and/or locations for later. I think I did recall most of the words, but definitely lost a few!

8. What are you currently reading?
Crown of Fire by Kathy Tyers.

9. What is the last book you bought?
I bought Secret Lives by (and from) Jeff VanderMeer a couple weeks back and it just arrived. And over the last weekend I bought the folio The Prisons (Le Carceri): the Complete First and Second States by Giovanni Battista Piranesi at Alibris. I would’ve sat on this for a bit, but I was literally paying for hesitating just a bit too long - so I hesitated no more.
This is the last of my book-buying spree this month, I PROMISE. (I need money for other things. Like bills and rent. *sigh*)

10. Are you the type of person that only reads one book at a time or can read more than one at a time?
Always one. In the rare times I’ve read more, most time was spent on one book, and I couldn’t focus on the others so I ended up restarting them anyway.

11. Do you like re-reading books?
Life is too short to be re-reading books, given there are so many good ones out there. But I do like re-reading my favourite snippets and scenes.

Clare Bell is a little-known author who writes stories about sentient felines, and is best known for the Named series (Ratha’s Creature is the first book). Tomorrow’s Sphinx is a standalone pre-teen/YA novel about Kichebo, a cheetah living in a distant future. Kichebo has a completely black pelt, which makes her not only unique and outcast amongst cheetahs, but also gives her especial challenges in hunting and surviving. As Kichebo struggles to eke out a living in the wilderness, she encounters two other chars — a human child called Menk, and Asu-Kheknemt, a black cheetah from the distant past — who together transform her existence and gradually reveal the links between her black pelt, her unnatural connection with Menk, mysterious flying creatures who hunt her, and ultimately her true identity.

Tomorrow’s Sphinx was a book that made a profound impact upon me when I read a library copy in middle school. However, I cannot remember how and why it was so moving at the time, save that I found it an extraordinary story, loved it (or the memory of it?) very much, and have been searching for a copy ever since. Tomorrow’s Sphinx is out of print, as are most of Bell’s other books. I finally found a paperback copy on eBay (everything eventually shows up there!) and read it straightaway.

Speaking about Tomorrow’s Sphinx as an adult, I’d say that it’s a pre-teen/YA story with the not uncommon theme of finding identity. Kichebo is a misfit, who fights for life, acceptance and dignity whilst struggling with loneliness, ridicule and self-doubt. She eventually discovers that the black pelt that makes her unique — and therefore outcast and singled out for persecution (both by fellow cheetahs and sinister flying creatures) — is not a curse but a blessing that has a purpose, and her traits actually exist for significant reasons. Kichebo struggles with that, often desiring to return to familiarity and acceptance, but she comes to accept her purpose and courageously steps out into a new, unknown and higher realm of influence.

Not an uncommon theme, but I thought it was strongly illustrated throughout the whole story. The story itself is simple but well-executed, all the initially separate threads of the ‘mystery’ of Kichebo’s existence eventually came together both in plot and in Kichebo’s character growth. And I think this is how Tomorrow’s Sphinx made such an impact on me in my teenage years, struggling both with acceptance/fitting in, and my identity. Every aspect of Kichebo’s story resounded with my own journey of discovering my identity: I could identify with her on all levels of inward self-discovery, outward desire for connection with other people, and realization that I am unique and individual, and that isn’t wrong but actually special. Even now, reading this book more than 10 years later, I can still identify with Kichebo’s struggles.

Another aspect of the novel that touched me was Kichebo’s connection with Asu-Kheknemt across time. As Kichebo learnt more of Kheknemt’s story of his past, she became aware that her black pelt actually had a special purpose and she is the descendant and heir to things greater than her simple cheetah life. Again, this touched me as a teenager, because who doesn’t have a secret desire that her uniqueness makes her the Hero, the Chosen, Special One? This is an affirming and encouraging word that one’s unique traits aren’t weaknesses, but the reason for one’s individuality — uniqueness is to be praised, not condemned.

On a less profound level, Asu-Kheknemt’s link to Kichebo and his own singular relationship with a human fascinated me. This may (though I can’t be certain) have been the first story I read that used telepathic powers across time and space to such effect, and I won’t be surprised if this was the nascent spark of my ongoing fascination with psionic abilities and time travel. And it was definitely the book that also got me interested in cheetahs!

Thus Tomorrow’s Sphinx made such a profound impact on me, apart from being a lovely YA story in itself. Of course, I’m only giving the reasons via hindsight, but if this story is touching me now, I’m sure that I was touched in the same ways as a teenager. I’m quite glad that I managed to get a copy for my library. It seems that Bell’s stories are being noticed again, especially since she recently published the latest story in the Named series, so perhaps all her older books will come back into print eventually.

Sophie’s World (Sofies verden) is a novel about the history of philosophy, and I thank Jostein Gaarder, himself a Norwegian philosophy teacher, for writing a very accessible book on such a subject. I attempted to read it when I was in middle school, but philosophy didn’t interest me so much then. This time I had sufficient interest and intellectual maturity to complete it. This is a didactic book, its purpose is to give an ‘entry-level’ lesson about philosophy through a fictional framework, so the reader must be prepared and willing to learn about it. If that is your aim, there’s no better book than Sophie’s World to introduce the people and ideas that shaped the philosophy of Western civilization, from ancient creation-mythology to the Big Bang today.

The tale involves teenager Sophie taking a ‘remote’ philosophy lesson through letters put in her mailbox. Eventually she learns that her teacher is a man called Alberto, and soon begins to meet him and discourse in person. In the meantime, fragments from the life of an apparently nonexistent girl called Hilde begin to appear in Sophie’s existence, and it becomes evident that both her lessons from Alberto and the mystery of Hilde are intimately linked, and reality is not what she thinks it is…

Sophie’s World definitely fills the niche for people who want to learn the basics of Western philosophy, but not through textbooks or lectures. The novel covers comprehensive ground, moving chronologically through antiquity, the Middle Ages, Renaissance, Enlightenment, Romanticism and Modernism. Many individual philosophers and movements associated with them are discussed — the cast includes Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, Descartes, Spinoza, Kant, Hegel and Kierkegaard, then to Marx, Darwin, Freud and Nietzsche before ending with the sciences of our era. Since I’m learning from Sophie’s World, I can’t comment on Gaarder’s thoroughness, but he more-or-less covers all the great philosophical names ad movements that I’m aware of.

Regardless of how comprehensive the novel is, Gaarder is a good teacher and uses the character of Alberto to full pedagogical effect. Teaching methods include question/discussion prompts, setting (Alberto often wears period costume and uses historical objects to demonstrate a point), and countless examples both verbal and demonstrative. The lesson is often driven home to Sophie (and us) through “coincidences” that occur in her own life. Even though I had a little trouble keeping track of which thinker made which point, I think I have a good grasp on the philosophies and movements, both in thought and history, that have been made throughout Western civilization.

This is not just a textbook on philosophy; there is a story, albeit very skeletal and not a priority. In fact, the mystery about Sophie and Alberto, Hilde and Hilde’s father, and how they are all related, is a fascinating metaphysical illustration in itself, questioning the nature and truth of our very existence. The story also makes an interesting comment about the nature of myths and legends in relation to fictional chars… but I should stop here before I reveal too much!

Sophie’s World definitely succeeded in giving me a comprehensive but accessible overview of the history of philosophy. I won’t deny that the reading was tedious at times, but only because my mind was at a sustained level of concentration and learning. Maybe I should’ve read this book gradually over weeks instead of days. Nevertheless, I’m very grateful to Gaarder for writing this book, and would recommend it to anyone who enjoys or wants to learn philosophy.