Book Review: Boys of Blur by N.D. Wilson
Admittedly, I don’t get a lot of opportunities to review literature for kids. The occasional YA novel? Sure. Most of what I read for review, however, falls firmly within the “not marketed to kids” category (since “adult” means something else here). This review may expose some of my weaknesses when it comes to this particular field, as N.D. Wilson’s Boys of Blur is certainly embedded in a tradition about which I am not as familiar as I should be. Regardless, I will tread honestly here in hopes that I can offer some insight into this particular novel. Boys of Blur takes place in my state of residence: Florida. Specifically, it is set in the fictional town of Taper (near “Muck City,” a.k.a. Belle Glade), deep in the everglades, where nature is often stranger than the people that live there. That’s certainly true of this novel. When Charlie and his family visit Taper for a funeral, his stepfather, Mack, is offered the head coaching job at the local high school, which at one time was known for its fair share of decent players. But Taper is a place of worry and concern for Natalie, Charlie’s mother, who left Taper after divorcing Charlie’s abusive father, Bobby; it also holds worry for Charlie, too: after befriending his cousin, Cotton, Charlie discovers something wicked living and growing in the swamps. Something evil. Something that wants to take Taper for itself. And it might just be up to Charlie to stop it before “it” and Taper’s residents tear themselves apart. Astute readers will recognize some clear parallels to Beowulf here (or, perhaps, its amusing Norse-style adaptation, The 13th Warrior (1999))[1]. Much of the novel’s supernatural elements are of the form commonly associated with the classic epic, which are less direct and more boiled down to a template: monster threatens town, boy seeks out monster, and boy defeats monster (I’m leaving out a few details to avoid spoiling things). In fact, one of the things I loved about Boys of Blur was the way it courted the supernatural in order to provide a semi-bildungsroman with Beowulf as its center. Indeed, from the almost zombie-like creatures that terrorize Charlie and Cotton to the deterioration of Taper as a community to the interesting commentaries on the nature of life and death, Boys of Blur seems like a perfect gateway for young readers who might be curious about the classic epics. I must also admit that I personally enjoy renditions of this story type that opt for a darker vision. Wilson certainly has an eye for the creep-factor. Though some younger readers may find the novel a little terrifying, many will surely be gripped by the macabre nature of the novel’s horror. When the novel is focused on its supernatural elements, it is at its strongest. Wilson doesn’t always offer the level of explanation I would want, but he does thrust his young protagonist into a bizarre and often confusing world of things that shouldn’t exist. Even the “good guys” are sometimes as creepy as the bad ones, which gives the supernatural a distinctly discomforting feel — there is no cutesy here. Wilson also does a fine job of presenting a narrative arc for Charlie that leads to modest, but largely positive changes. Charlie’s family thrusts the reader into an awkward situation (albeit, more so for younger readers than adults): his mother has remarried a supportive man who Charlie seems to accept, but doesn’t fully embrace at the start (a stepfather subplot bonus). They are a mended family rather than a traditional nuclear one. This gives the novel an endearing quality, as it tries to court both its fantastic major plot and its family-oriented subplots in different forms: the former directly and the latter in a more nuanced, deliberately withdrawn sense. Charlie, after all, is twelve, and so what he understands of adult relationships is less pronounced than his understanding of good and evil. Even Wilson’s handling of sports culture in small-town-America adds depth to the narrative — this coming from a reader who is bored stiff by sports-heavy sf. I half expected this book to be reduced to its major plot, discarding any complicated and sometimes difficult material entirely. But Wilson doesn’t do so. Much like Holes by Louis Sachar, which the cover blurb uses as a comparison, this is a novel with a deep underbelly that offers food for thought, even if Wilson does pull his punches in places. The epilogue, thus, serves as a positive conclusion to much of the novel’s subplots and gave me a sense that Charlie had not simply survived something horrifying, but had also come out of it with a renewed vigor. This is, I suspect, fairly normal in books for young people. That said, there is one main concern I had with Boys of Blur. While the narrative deals explicitly with domestic abuse from the perspective of a child, I think Wilson does so by limiting a deeper discussion of that issue. In particular, the book itself provides little in the way of a resolution for this element, almost as though Charlie should have been too young to understand what has already transpired between his father, Bobby, and his mother, Natalie. But Charlie is twelve and seems to understand what has happened in his family, even if he was too little to understand when his parents had divorced. In the end, no significant conversation is had about Bobby, who is undeniably a violent abuser who has shown no real reform, and his involvement in his son’s life, despite the fact that Bobby appears to threaten Natalie in the novel. Charlie does take a stand against Bobby, and the novel try to address the issue, but this is brief and largely forgotten. If Wilson intended the concluding moments to be one of “going to bed with one’s enemy to conquer a greater foe,” then he needed to do so with a more deft hand; likewise, if he intended these other mentions of
Book Review: Zero Sum Game by SL Huang
SL Huang has a Twitter account. One day, SL Huang talked about her new book, Zero Sum Game. I said, “Hey, why don’t I have that in my pile of books to read for review,” and she said, “Well, fine, I’ll put it in your inbox you complaining whiny person.” Thus began a glorious literary friendship. Of course, that story isn’t exactly what happened, but it’s the version I’m sticking with for now. In truth, I came to Zero Sum Game with a lot of expectations: I wanted a fun, adventurous book with crisp, commercial writing, exciting characters, and a larger-than-life crazy-face plot. And that’s exactly what I got. This is the kind of book I would turn to if I needed a break from life. It’s the kind of book I can get lost into, like an action thriller that doesn’t try to be artsy, but still has a lot of heart. This book is like Bourne Identity, but if Matt Damon were replaced by Michelle Yeoh (or JeeJa Yanin) and all of her extraordinary fighting skills were explained by her superhuman ability to almost instantaneously calculate the physics of the world.
Book Review: Tarnished by Rhiannon Held
(You can see my review of the previous novel, Silver, here. I’ve also conducted an interview with Rhiannon about Tarnished.) Back in 2012, I interviewed then-debut novelist Rhiannon Held about Silver, a new urban fantasy novel involving werewolves (oh noes). In truth, I was skeptical at the time; I didn’t think much of urban fantasy when I started conducting podcast interviews, and so I thought to myself that this book would confirm everything I thought about the genre. It didn’t. While it wasn’t the strongest novel of its kind, Silver provided enough compelling material to keep me riveted until the end. In particular, I loved Held’s anthropological view of the werewolves, taking what could have been another cliche and giving it the kind of rigor one might expect of a secondary world fantasy — a short one, of course. Tarnished continues the Held tradition, adding depth to an already compelling and complex world. If this trend continues, I expect Reflected, which is set to drop soon, will keep me riveted as much as this one. Set immediately after the events of Silver, Held’s second novel follows Dare and Silver as they decide the next course of action: keep control of the Seattle pack (werewolf alphas assume the name of their pack) or find a new home elsewhere. But being alphas means eventually having to face your past, and both Dare and Silver are haunted by where they’ve been and what it might mean for the future. Now, it’s Dare’s turn for his past to bubble up and make a mess of things: Sacramento still holds a grudge due to the death of his son, John, the former Seattle alpha, has sired a child with Susan, a human, and Roanoke, who Dare believes is unfit for leadership, may have dragged something else from Dare’s past into the mix, making a challenge for control of Roanoke more difficult indeed. Handling the complicated social politics of werewolves is no easy task, but together, Dare and Silver hope they’ll be able to pull it off… Overall, I enjoyed Tarnished, in no small part because I got a lot of more of the things I loved about Silver. Held’s characters remain compelling, especially Dare and Silver, who continue to grow into themselves and their relationship to one another — yes, I’m a sucker for a well-written romantic entanglement. Tarnished seems to put a great amount of attention on Silver here, though I’m not sure if that’s actually true, since I haven’t read Silver in quite some time (I’ll talk about this more below). Likewise, the novel is mostly paced well, with a simple, though efficient style that doesn’t get bogged down in description while losing none of the necessary characterization. Essentially, this is exactly what I want to see happen with a formerly-debut author: improvement, growth, and efficiency. Tarnished is, as such, strongest when it focuses on the complexity of werewolf society. This is particularly true in the last third of the novel, where Held presents us an event called the Convocation, in which werewolf packs meet to discuss and debate werewolf issues on neutral ground. These were by far my favorite points in the novel, primarily because it served as the perfect space for every major character to come to terms with their position in this “hidden” underworld. Susan, for example, struggles with what it means to be the only human in a sea of werewolves, and here must contend with worries not only for herself, but also her child and the man she loves, John. Held uses Susan as a vehicle to show how complicated werewolf social politics can become, particularly if you don’t have the enhanced senses of a werewolf — the senses, in effect, play a crucial role in the werewolf hierarchy. Though this novel isn’t really about Susan, I appreciated the attempts to give her agency in a situation where she might not have had it because she’s human. Likewise, the Convocation serves as a developmental tool for Silver, who is the only other character beyond Susan who is disadvantaged because of her body — in this case, because Silver’s wild self has been lost due to silver poisoning. To read about Silver using her cunning and facial expressions to manipulate those who underestimate her was a thrill, particularly since she is the one character in this whole series who remains at the greatest disadvantage. And it’s that last point that I think is worth exploring further here. In the first novel, Silver is portrayed as potentially mad, and most certainly unstable. That her madness is justified by what happened to her is beside the point: what matters is the fact that Silver’s mental state and her physical limitations are a major source of Silver’s frustration and conflict throughout both novels because other werewolves routinely mistake her limited physical abilities and mental quirks as weakness. Held continues this theme in Tarnished, giving a fuller sense of Silver’s formidable qualities and establishing her as the one person you really don’t want to cross, even if you have the physical advantage — even Dare realizes this. It’s not that she’s ruthless, but rather that her physical limitations and perceived mental state make her a target for ridicule and dismissal, which invariably ends up being a mistake, as Silver knows (or learns) how to use her strengths and her disadvantages to benefit herself and the people she cares about. She’s not always successful, of course, but she is smart. I applaud Held for including this aspect of Silver’s story in her novels, as it would be too easy to leave behind these developmental elements, but also strangely expected. Instead, Silver’s character grows — and all for the better. It feels like Silver is a more secure character — in the sense that Held, as a writer, seems more comfortable writing as Silver. In fact, this novel seems like a more character driven one than the book that precedes it, giving depth to
Book Review: Breach Zone by Myke Cole
(Note: There are some minor details about the previous books in this review. I don’t honestly think they’re that spoiler-y, but you’ve been warned.) I am deeply ashamed that I have not yet written a proper review of Myke Cole’s various works. He’s been on my podcast three times, and I have yet to review a single thing. Today, I am rectifying that mistake by discussing what I’d argue is his strongest novel to date — Shadow Ops: Breach Zone (Ace: January 2014). Breach Zone opens with an invasion: Scylla, now free from her prison in FOB Frontier (a now-destroyed illegal military facility in a magical plane known as the Source)[1], has used her negramantic abilities to rip a massive hole between the Source and New York City. Behind her: an army of goblins, Gahe, and other monsters. Her mission: carve out a place for Latent people (magic wielders) within the United States and end the tyranny of humanity…at all costs. In comes down to Harlequin, a veteran member of the Supernatural Operations Corps and an aeromancer, who must keep Scylla’s forces at bay while reconciling his past and his conflict with the current state of affairs in the United States, in which magic is heavily restricted and abused. The third in Cole’s Shadow Ops series, Breach Zone concludes the overarching narrative which has guided the previous books, Control Point (2011) and Fortress Frontier (2012): the rising tension between those who have magic and a government which seeks to control it. In the previous novels, Cole focused on characters in similar positions: Oscar Britton’s magical awakening in Control Point and Alan Bookbinder’s similar awakening in Fortress Frontier. Both novels revealed varying levels of abuse on the part of the U.S. government in service of (or in illegal contradiction with) the McGauer-Linden Act, which determines how magic may be used within the States. In Breach Zone, however, Cole takes us into the mind of Harlequin (a.k.a. Jan Thorsson), who has, in the previous books, taken the position of a soft antagonist to Britton and Bookbinder. Instead of maintaining that antagonism, Cole gives us an in-depth look into his motivations: notably, his belief in the rule of law and the democratic process for change. In many respects, Breach Zone is a far more complex work than the previous books because the relationship between “the law” and “what is right” becomes increasingly more divisive, particularly for Harlequin, who struggles with his need to uphold his oaths of office (serving the country), his desire to protect the people, and the very real possibility that he will have to violate (again) some of his core codes in order to save NYC. Cole teases out this narrative with deliberate slowness, marinating the conflict and tying the various threads together so what occurs in the end is a product of necessity rather than a simple “soldier defies orders and goes rogue” narrative. This depth is also apparent in the book’s structure, which moves back and forth between Harlequin’s desperation to save NYC and his former relationship with Scylla, the primary antagonist, who has remained in the sidelines throughout the series. These chapters are perfectly placed to provide not only the psychological tension necessary to fully empathize with Harlequin and his ethical quandaries, but also to set the groundwork for the conclusion and its horrific qualities. The interaction between these flashback chapters and the general narrative are perhaps the most fascinating part of the book, not least of all because it tempers the high-intensity action which controls most of the novel’s narration. Without that counterbalance, I think Breach Zone would be a weaker novel, but with them, it becomes a work which turns the landscape gray rather than playing the easy route of good vs. evil. Everyone in this book has a reason to do what they do, whether it is Harlequin, Scylla, the Selfer street gangs (magic users who have run from the law), and so on. Rather than give us villains, we’re given a sea of people who have to balance what is objectively right against what is ethically sound; they are also people who are complex without being overbearing. In a novel with this much action, that’s quite a feat. Breach Zone also includes chapters about Bookbinder, though I think these are there primarily as a gateway between Fortress Frontier, in which Bookbinder was the main character, and this final volume. This is not dissimilar from the shift between Control Point and Fortress Frontier, so I think I’m justified and thinking this is a deliberate inclusion. Though Bookbinder plays second fiddle to Harlequin here, I think it’s worth noting that his chapters demonstrate more fully the sort of man he has become after the events of the previous book; no longer the paper-pushing career military man, Bookbinder is clearly a veteran, capable and determined even in the face of overwhelming odds — an aspect of his character which had not truly been present when he first appeared in Fortress Frontier. There are also, for the action-enthusiasts, plenty of Bookbinder vs. goblins moments, which Cole handles with a deft hand. I also appreciated Cole’s attempts to address the political landscape that would undoubtedly arise in a world suddenly beset with magic. I particularly liked the wrangling Harlequin has to do and the way the novel positions politics and the military as two different worlds with their own rules. From Harlequin’s perspective, the need for support is not a matter of debate; rather, it is an honest, military assessment of a violent situation. For those in the political sphere, however, the need is one which, if met, comes with additional consequences, particularly given the climate in which this novel is set — FOB Frontier was an illegal facility, so it’s discovery at the end of Fortress Frontier meant huge ramifications for U.S. global policy. As a military man, Cole certainly understands the frustration this conflict produces; its representation in this novel, as such, gives Breach Zone not only a
On Richard Phillips’ A Captain’s Duty (a Book Review)
Most of you know the story. In 2009, the merchant vessel Maersk Alabama was hijacked by four Somali pirates off the coast of Somalia. Her captain, Richard Phillips, was taken hostage and was not freed until several days later when a Navy SEALs team shot and killed the pirates. It became a national story almost immediately: the first American vessel hijacked by Somali pirates, a miraculous and brave rescue by the U.S. military (always a hit with the news), and a new-found hero in the figure of Captain Phillips, who, we’re told, risked his own life to keep his crew safe. A Captain’s Duty: Somali Pirates, Navy SEALs, and Dangerous Days at Sea is Captain Phillip’s personal account of the events. Beginning days before the hijacking, Phillips lays out a populist account of the politics of coastal Somalia, life on merchant vessels, the history of the merchant mariners, and the personal struggles he and his wife endured during and, to a lesser extent, after the hijacking. As a work meant to educate and entertain, it is at times quite dull, and at other times quite fascinating, though not necessarily for the reasons you’d expect. What I found most compelling about this book were its sections on life in pirate-heavy seas. Many of the chapters are preceded by quotes highlighting previously successful hijackings, and the chapters themselves provide a fair amount of detail about the procedures for dealing with piracy and the knowledge sea captains like Phillips must acquire before and after they traverse the seas. These sections were the most interesting in the book, as they highlighted the real problem piracy poses and provided Phillips’ personal perspective on the issue. If anything, these sections do far more to describe who Phillips is than any of the chapters about the hijacking of the Maersk Alabama. They likewise provide a somewhat populist view of the issues in the Somali region, which do certainly add sympathy to an already sympathetic figure. However, these chapters are sometimes overloaded by excessive description. The book was clearly written for a general audience, yet some sections of the book obsess over the minute details of ship life, most of which have no direct bearing on the events yet to unfold. One section on the captain’s duty to inspect the ship could easily have been left as a short paragraph explaining what the inspection is for. I’m sure someone who finds ship life idyllic — or, perhaps, romantic — will find value in these sections, but I personally felt they drew away from the more pressing concern: piracy. Truthfully, I was far more interested in how an actual ship captain views life in dangerous waters than in everyday ship life, as it is difficult to form an objective opinion on such matters from the safety of my computer chair. Regardless, though there are some rather dull sections in the book, the overall thrust of the first few chapters is worth reading, if only for the reasons I have already stated. Unfortunately, Phillips’ account of the actual hijacking strains credulity. While one can forgive him for making assumptions about his attackers, mis-remembering details, or even conjuring some up in an apparent dream-like daze, his assessment of his own behavior from the beginning of the hijacking makes one wonder why the U.S. Navy was all that concerned about Somali pirates in the first place. For example, Phillips reminds us more than once that the Somalis have been enormously successful at hijacking ships and earning ransom as a result. At no point are we to believe these pirates are completely inept at what they do, even if they are poorly armed, trained, and supplied. Phillips spends considerable time, as I’ve noted above, describing how Somalis perform hijackings, their success rate, the politics, and so on, painting a fairly clear picture of just who we’re about to deal with; that picture offers credence to the threat of hijacking. But once the hijacking occurs, the Somalis are presented as dimwitted to the extreme, completely inept at just about everything; they are described like children who only just figured out how to turn on the boat. They seem utterly perplexed by the boat’s machinery, despite clearly having at least a basic understanding of radar equipment. Worse, throughout the ordeal, Phillips claims to have been in continuous contact with hidden members of the crew via a handheld radio he “snuck away.” Only he repeatedly uses this radio right in front of the Somalis, or at least within sight, such that it’s really quite impossible to believe that they haven’t noticed. This is made more unbelievable when we’re reminded that the Somalis are rather annoyed that Phillips doesn’t know where the rest of his crew is. One problem: clearly he does, and even if he didn’t, he’s clearly in contact with them. This particular issue doesn’t get better over time. Frequently, Phillips is shown giving away tactical information to the crew — numbers, weapons, positions, etc. — while looking straight in the eye of the hijackers. It’s as if we’re supposed to believe these Somalis are not only really bad at what they do, but completely disinterested in the fact that their captive is sharing sensitive information with the very people they wish to find (or, in some cases, with the military itself, as Phillips communicates with the U.S.S. Bainbridge while trapped in the cramped lifeboat). All of this is dropped from the film adaptation — probably for the exact reason that bothered me: it just doesn’t make sense. The book’s other flaws are in its contradictions. For example, Phillips tells us that the Somalis let him swim in the ocean to cool off after kidnapping him and fleeing in the lifeboat. But several chapters later, Phillips tells us the Somalis never let him out. One of these two statements is true; they both can’t be. These details draw into question other aspects of the narrative, such as Phillips’ claim that a Somali boat came to
Book Review: Birds and Birthdays by Christopher Barzak
(Note: This will be a long review. If you want the short version, it’s this — go buy the book, because it’s bloody good.) In 2007, Christopher Barzak released One For Sorrow, a supernatural YA novel that so successfully encapsulated the terrifying experience of adolescence that it became one of my favorite novels of the 2000s. While a drastically different work, Birds and Birthdays continues Barzak’s exploration of the multitudinous factors that form the basis of identity. Birds and Birthdays is, first, a conceptual collection. The fourth chapter of the book offers a detailed account of Barzak’s research in the Surrealist movement (existing roughly in the space between the two world wars) and the women who were almost forgotten there. As an experiment in feeding female artistic expression (painting) through literary interpretation (fiction), the collection draws parallels between the worlds of metaphor (the paintings) and the very real discourse of female identities in the wake of a patriarchal culture — this is part of the mission of the “Conversation Pieces” series at Aqueduct Press (to explore the “grand conversation”). “Birthday,” for example, expands upon Dorothea Tanning’s painting of the same name by turning the unknown woman into Emma, who has spent her formative years taking on the identities required of her by her parents and the culture around her (53-54). Thus, when Emma inherits her parents’ apartment complex, marries Joe at 21, and soon has a child (Jenna), she embarks on a quest to find an identify that more appropriately fits her inner self. What begins as a series of cruel gestures on Emma’s part (leaving her family and her various lovers, one by one, by changing apartments within the same complex) quickly become the sympathetic acts of deliberate personal interrogation through others. Perhaps the most disturbing of the three stories, “Birthday” is also perhaps the most profound in the collection as a work of neo-surrealist magical realism that draws into question the ways humans have been conditioned to accept identities for convenience. The other stories are equally compelling, but for drastically different reasons. “The Creation of Birds,” — drawing upon Remedios Varo’s paintings, “Creation of the Birds” and “Star Catcher” — presents a modernized fairy tale involving the romantic opposition of the Bird Woman, who has the remarkable and beautiful ability to build and bring to life real and mythical birds, and the Star Catcher, whose namesake gives away his game (the Bird Woman remarks that catching stars and other things are a reminder that “[the Star Catcher] didn’t know how to love something he couldn’t own” (4)). As a somewhat whimsical tale, “The Creation of Birds” is replete with period references to psychoanalysis (a field which is still practiced today, surprisingly) and stunning descriptions of the Bird Woman’s abilities — I particularly enjoyed the scenes involving the bird designs, if only because birds are, I believe, elegant creatures that would require painstaking detail to create from nothing. But the heart of the story is her relationship to herself and to the Star Catcher, who seeks to “reclaim” her. In this sense, it shares a relationship to “Birthday.” The middle story, “The Guardian of the Egg,” also questions our relationships and what they mean, but with a much more epic narrative. Based on Leonora Carrington’s “The Giantess,” the story focuses on a what happens to the family of those who answer a “higher calling” — in this case, a mythical calling that draws parallels to the familiar “chosen one” narratives. In particular, the story benefits from switching perspectives from “the chosen one” to an immediate family member. The shift offers a fresh — though not wholly original — perspective on the now-traditional epic form. Identity, of course, remains central to the narrative, but so too do the mythic forms upon which the narrative draws (similarly, I think, to “Birds”). As a story, it effectively rides between an interrogation of those forms and of the roles others play within them. But it is also a humorous tale, with dark references to our ability to turn people into “others” and a clever moment in which the main character must communicate with guardian geese. Collected together, the three stories have the effect of providing a range of perspectives/narratives that are each unique in and of themselves and each rendered with care and depth — a sense I draw from Barzak’s clean, minimalist prose, which he uses in service of a rather complex and specific narrative agenda. Birds and Birthdays, however, is certainly not a perfect work. While I found a great deal of thematic material to draw on, the types of stories found in this collection are, I think, geared to a particular kind of reader. With the exception of “The Guardian of the Egg,” none of the stories have “clean” resolutions (“Birthday” in particular), and all of the stories are heavily focused on the visual thematics of the original source material, thus producing works which are, in a sense, almost surrealist themselves — certainly a goal of Barzak’s. For some readers, this might be too much, as surrealist works are, in my experience, frequently just that — too much. Just like the surrealist films of the early 1900s (see examples at the bottom of this post), the stories in Birds and Birthdays are visually intense and cognitively detached. “Birthday,” for example, relies more on its character’s peculiarities than it does on an ordered universe in which the containment of an individual’s many relationships in one apartment complex could not happen. But those same peculiarities are what make the story a brilliant medium for exploring the “skins” we wear as social creatures. Plot and pure resolution would, I think, detract from the message, just as removing the incomplete resolutions and estranging (read: not cognitive estrangement) effects would do so for the other stories. In that sense, what I see as an at times compelling work of art, and at others a somewhat overwhelming vision, rests on the spectrum of work that you either love