Yellow Blue Tibia, a book review

Yellow Blue Tibia is the first novel by Adam Roberts I’ve read and I chose the novel because of Kim Stanley Robinson’s claim, reproduced on the novel’s cover, that it “Should have won the 2009 Booker Prize.” Robinson feels that science fiction novels are marginalized, and he may have a point, but to make a claim that a certain novel should win a prize is rather fatuous:  it would have been enough to state that he thinks it should have been considered for a Booker Prize (it wasn’t even long-listed), but to state that it should have won is provocative and invites undue criticism.

Although I began the novel with a certain prejudice, I was won-over by Robert’s writing, but I don’t think the book should have been considered for a major literary prize. The main character, Konstantin Andreiovich Skvorecky, is an enjoyable invention (sarcastic, and teeming with wry wit), and the story is quite engaging, but there wasn’t enough depth to fully immerse me as a reader, and Roberts has an annoying tendency to overdo some sections, as if readers are obtuse.

I enjoyed the novel, but it didn’t strike me as a particularly brilliant work of literature. As I mentioned, Kim Stanley Robinson believes (stated, in an article for the New Scientist) that Yellow Blue Tibia should have won the Booker Prize in 2009 (won by Hilary Mantel, for Wolf Hall). In the article, he complained that the novels that win tend to be ‘historical’ novels, which “…are not about now in the way science fiction is.” I disagree with his statement, but we all have our personal opinions.  Robinson lists a few other science fiction novels that he believes should have won the Booker Prize in previous years; again, I think to be taken seriously he should propose the novels as worthy choices for the prize, rather than stating that they should have won. I have only read one of the other books he mentioned (Air, by Geoff Ryman in 2005), and it is a novel that I think should have received more attention as a work of literature, but that is only my opinion, and — not surprisingly — I’ve never been asked to participate on the Booker Prize advisory committee, or as a judge. I don’t always agree with the winning book in prize selections; oftentimes, I think the Booker short-listed novels are superior to the winner; however, it is a subjective opinion, and the Booker Prize is not awarded by an individual.

I’m glad I read Yellow Blue Tibia; for the most part it was well written and I’ll probably try another of Adam Robert’s books. I was ill-disposed toward him ever since I read his review of Grass, by Sheri S. Tepper, in which he refers to her novel as “….an unusually literate piece of SF.” I think Grass is a decent book, but not particularly ‘literate.’ After reading the review I decided to steer clear of Adam Roberts’ novels; well, I have now read one, and I think he is a much better writer than Ms. Tepper, but that is only my opinion.

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All the Pretty Horses, a book review

All the Pretty Horses — the first book in The Border Trilogy — won the U.S. National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

The book is crafted with care, with awe-inspiring descriptive prose, authentic characters, and dialog that draws the reader into the story’s landscape. I first came across Cormac McCarthy’s writing in the novel The Road, which has a completely different mood, but a similar style.

All the Pretty Horses is written without conventional punctuation; there were many passages that reminded me of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, with ideas strung together with conjunctions (particularly and), which evokes a gentle cadence (the meditative rhythm of riding a horse through the prairies?) and possibly compensates for the lack of commas:

"When the truck finally pulled out and they saw him still standing they 
offered their bundles for him to sit on and he did so and he nodded and 
dozed to the hum of the tires on the blacktop and the rain stopped and 
the night cleared and the moon that was already risen raced among the 
high wires by the highway side like a single silver music note burning 
in the constant and lavish dark and the passing fields were rich from 
the rain with the smell of earth and grain and peppers and the sometime 
smell of horses." 
[Ch. IV, p. 219-220, The Border Trilogy, Everyman's Library edition]

I was curious, so I searched around and discovered a term for writing that uses several conjunctions in close succession:  polysyndetic syntax.  Further, The King James Version of the Bible uses similar syntax, and All the Pretty Horses is permeated with a biblical mood.

There are no quotation marks used, and I found that the dialog occasionally blended into the story, which had the effect of drawing me further into the novel. The dialog is sparse, but has a genuineness that enhances the mood and reveals layers naturally, where descriptive prose would sometimes falter.

The protagonist, John Grady Cole, is a fully realized character, and he is perhaps the coolest sixteen year-old I’ve come across in fiction. It is 1949, and John Grady’s world has been irrevocably altered: his grandfather died, his parents are divorced, his father is fading, his girlfriend has dumped him, and his mother is selling the family ranch (excellent material for a country song; some band should experiment with his words as lyrics). Rather than move into the city, John Grady decides to run away to Mexico with his best friend, Lacey Rawlins. John Grady has a special relationship with horses and the expanse of an open landscape. He expects Mexico to be more like the ‘old world’, before the advent of cars, high-rises, and the claustrophobic concept of subdivided land. John Grady and Rawlins have a few adventures before they find work on a ranch, and John Grady inevitably faces disillusionment, but endeavors to unearth the inherent beauty and quality in the world.

In Mexico, John Grady’s expertise with horses is appreciated by the ranch owner — the hacendado, Don Héctor— and he is promoted to a high level of responsibility. John Grady begins a dangerous liaison with Don Hector’s daughter, Alejandra, but I found the romance less convincing than the bromance between John Grady and Rawlins. Alejandra’s character, and the result of the affair, felt like a plot device, though a device that was worked into the story quite smoothly. John Grady’s conversations with Alejandra’s grand-aunt, señorita Alfonsa, were more poignant. But I’m quibbling…

All the Pretty Horses is not a long novel, but Cormac McCarthy is a marvelous writer, and he has infused the story with surprising depth. I’m looking forward to the other two books in The Border Trilogy (The Crossing and Cities of the Plain), but I have many books to read before I continue the journey (including Blood Meridian, by McCarthy) .

Highly recommended.

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Ashoka the Great

Ashoka Maurya (304–232 BCE), also known as Ashoka the Great, is considered to be one of the greatest rulers in history, but his benign governance began with violence and was only transformed to a peaceful, Buddhism view after a particularly gruesome battle, the Kalinga War, in 260 BCE.

Ashoka was, by accounts, an audacious, cruel young man; his older brothers were understandably afraid of him, and persuaded their father to send Ashoka to a distant land, Taxshila, as a general in charge of quelling a rebellion. To the dismay of his siblings, Ashoka proved to be a capable leader and succeeded beyond expectations.  In a second successful encounter, Ashoka was wounded, and tended, in secret, by Buddhist monks. It was during his convalescence that Ashoka first became aware of the basic tenets of Buddhism. He was drawn to the Buddhist faith, but retained his violent nature.  

After the death of his father (Bindusara, 275 BCE), Ashoka waged war with his brothers, and eventually became the third ruler of the Mauryan Empire, which, under Ashoka’s rule, expanded to encompass the majority of the Indian sub-continent within the present-day borders of Iran, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, and Burma. It was only Sri Lanka, the southern tip of India, and the kingdom of Kalinga along the northeast coast of India, that continued to elude his rule.

Although Kalinga was the birthplace of his wife, and the king of Kalinga had protected him during his rise to the throne, Emperor Ashoka assembled a great army and led an assault against the kingdom in an epic, bloody battle. Ashoka’s army prevailed, but the carnage he witnessed transformed him and he devoted himself to Buddhism, and the practice of non-violence (ahinsa).

As a ruler, Ashoka published edicts, proclamations that expounded his newfound ambitions for the empire he had created. The Edicts of King Ashoka were engraved on stone pillars, which were not only placed in the cultural center of his kingdom, but erected at the boundaries of the Mauryan Empire.

He promised peace to the realms that surrounded the Empire; he would use influence and wisdom, rather than violence, to persuade his neighbours. 

He vowed to tend to his subjects like a loving father, referring to the people as his children. He met with people personally whenever possible, travelled throughout his empire often to insure face-to-face communication, and insisted that he be consulted immediately if a matter of importance arose, even if he was sleeping or eating. He provided universal medical care for people and animals, and ensured that plentiful fruit trees were planted for food and shade.  

In order to protect wild species he banned live sacrifices, sport hunting, and the burning of forests and agricultural wastelands. He also encouraged a vegetarian diet and established a protected species list.

He became closely involved with legal issues; and, as a merciful leader, he prohibited torture and the death penalty, and recommended pardons for both the elderly, and petty criminals who had family to support.

Ashoka cultivated tolerance and respect in society; he was a Buddhist, but had reverence for all religions, and he openly encouraged respect for all holy peoples, as well as toward parents, teachers, relatives, friends and servants.

Ashoka’s wise, compassionate rule lasted until his death in 232 BCE. After his death, the Mauryan Empire persisted for another fifty years, but slowly declined. His spiritually enhanced years of rule were well documented in ancient Vedic literature, and he is still acknowledged as one of the finest rulers of human history; a paragon that should inspire heads of state around the world.

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For more information:

http://www.cs.colostate.edu/~malaiya/ashoka.html

http://www.porchlight.ca/~blackdog/ashoka.htm

http://www.icrc.org/eng/resources/documents/misc/57jmf2.htm

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Supermarket produce can tell time

The vegetables at your local market or grocery store are still alive and can tell time.

A new study (Janet Braam in Current Biology), indicates that the way produce is stored has a significant effect on its nutritional value and health benefits. Fruits and vegetables, like animals, respond to circadian rhythms, and their biology is modified in response to different lighting conditions, a reaction that is programmed to defend against insects. These responses to lighting conditions affect the health value of the produce.  

For example, cruciferous vegetables (e.g.: cabbage), contain glucosinolates, which initiate the secretion of detoxifying enzymes that eliminate carcinogens from an organism (i.e.: cabbage fights cancer). The researchers put cabbage heads into light-dark circadian cycles and found that glucosinolate concentrations were almost twice as high during the day, reaching a peak in the hours just before dusk. The research indicates that it might be beneficial to store produce (at the market, or at home) in light-dark cycles, and consume the produce in daylight (and, preferably, just before dusk). It might also be best to harvest crops, freeze, and preserve them at the appropriate time.

I heard a rumour that the research was initiated because of a random remark by Janet Braam’s son. She was explaining to him that the food value in plants was known to change depending on the time of day. Her son mentioned that perhaps he should time his meals to coincide with the peaks of nutrition. Apparently, nobody had thought to check whether picked produce retained the circadian rhythm of the parent plant, hence the research. I also heard that Janet Braam wasn’t expecting the results that were found, and was pleasantly surprised. Sometimes it helps to think outside the box… 

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Suprise: reading is good for you

Chemistry/Getty Images/Digital Vision

Escapist, pleasurable reading may make readers better able to handle the life they’re living; for me, this is like news that junk-food is good for your health.

According to research (by Maja Djikic, and co-authors Keith Oatley and Mihnea C. Moldoveaunu), reading literary fiction — even a short story — can enhance empathy and decision-making, and allow people to be more at ease with ambiguity.

Two studies were completed; the first study confirmed earlier findings that cognitive empathy is higher among regular readers of fiction, and the second study found that even reading a short piece of fiction resulted in a lower necessity for cognitive closure (psychologist-speak for a lower discomfort with uncertainty and disorder).

Unfortunately, reading seems to be an activity that declines as children grow into adulthood. In another study, forty-eight percent of children between six and eight read on a regular basis, but in the fifteen to seventeen year-old range, the percentage of regular readers drops to twenty-four percent, and seventy percent of these teenagers watch TV or DVDs on a regular basis. I’m not a great lover of eBooks (I enjoy the tactile feel of paper), but I hope it is the invention that turns more young adults into readers.

Well, I’ve got to go now, my book is calling me…

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The Wasp Factory, a book review

Sadly, Iain Banks passed away earlier this month, but his fiction lives on. I’ve read (and enjoyed) quite a few of his science fiction novels, but have never read any of his mainstream fiction books. I’d heard a lot about The Wasp Factory, and decided to give it a try. As he explains in his introduction, it was his first attempt at mainstream fiction: he’d written a few science fiction books, but couldn’t get them published. The Wasp Factory  gained him instant notoriety; he garnered critical praise, but there was also some disgusted furor.

The novel’s narrator, Frank Cauldhame, is an intriguing, but seriously warped, individual. He is an intelligent, obsessive-compulsive teenager with a personality that displays a strangely innocent morbidity; he performs truly despicable acts, yet he can be accepted as a sympathetic character. His dysfunctional family is intriguing, but not fully explored: this is Frank’s story, and the other characters are satellites who orbit about him.

I can’t say I ‘enjoyed’ the book; it is too macabre to consider it an enjoyable reading experience, but I found it interesting and well-structured. As usual, Iain Banks was able to wedge in examples of his dark humour, and I particularly enjoyed Frank’s re-telling of his uncle’s successful, yet bungled, suicide.

A warning: animal rights activists and feminists should probably be tranquilized before reading the book.

The plot is well thought-out, but I thought the twist was over-telegraphed; perhaps I knew the twist and had forgotten I knew it (i.e.: a subconscious knowledge), but once I’d caught on, it seemed rather obvious.

There were quite a few grizzly sections in the book; and, to balance things out, the next novel of his I’m planning on reading is The Crow Road, which is supposed to be a more light-hearted read (but, if I know Iain Banks, there are some grizzly events within it).

 The Wasp Factory is too twisted for a recommendation, but it was an interesting novel.

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On having no bucket list

At coffee break the other day I was asked about my bucket list; the things I want to do before I die. My answer — that I don’t have a bucket list, and had no plans to create one — was met with disapproval from everyone around. I tried to explain myself, but I was hopelessly outnumbered; fortunately, nobody can talk over me while I’m writing my blog posts…

I don’t understand the need to formulate a bucket list to ensure I accomplish a catalog of items ‘before I pass away.’ I’m quite certain that after I’m dead it won’t really matter to me what activities I’ve completed. The important thing, for me, is to enjoy life as I’m living it and make it as pleasant for others as I can (there are undoubtedly people who would question that, but I insist it’s true); some days are easier than others, but that’s what makes life interesting. I understand the obsession with thrill-seeking and stimulation of the senses, but I find that slowing down to appreciate each moment yields greater satisfaction. To me, slowing down and being conscious of this moment, right now, is living a full life; life is not about how many activities I am able to chalk up before the end.

If you enjoy travelling to Paris, or if bungee-jumping turns you on, all the power to you; have fun, and enjoy the moment. And yes, there are things that I’d like to do too (the Paris trip sounds good; bungee-jumping isn’t my cup o’ tea), but I don’t feel a compulsion. I think that a ‘bucket list’ is another way of avoiding the here and now. It focuses the mind on the future, to the next ‘event of importance.’ I enjoy experiences as much as the next person, but I enjoy them in the moment, I don’t believe that creating a list that must be ticked off one-by-one will make my life any better: for me, a bucket list would be an unhealthy craving list. But my thoughts seem to be in the minority, so I searched my mind, questioning why: perhaps my ‘oddness’ has its roots in childhood…

For months, when I was five or six years old, I remember looking forward to Christmas with a fervent, youthful zeal; Christmas day was such a magical time, filled with family togetherness, presents, unique scents, and bubbling joy. The build-up to the day was almost excruciatingly exciting. And then the day came; I was filled with a peak of stimulation, and then it was suddenly over, and I felt an odd sense of emptiness. Something was wrong with me. That feeling stuck in my mind and I struggled for a long, long time before I recognized the futility of looking forward to things with such an intensity of will: it wasn’t healthy for my state of being.

Maybe everyone is not like me; perhaps a bucket list provides structure and enjoyment to other people’s lives; but please, don’t expect me to create a list…

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Riddley Walker, a book review

Following is a short review of Riddley Walker, by Russell Hoban; for a slightly more in-depth look, check out my post at Retrospeculative…

Riddley Walker is a struggle to read; some people might find that reading sections out loud helps, and it was designed that way, written in phonetic vernacular, with a British accent in mind (and, to be specific, an accent from the county of Kent). Punctuation is ignored, with the exception of periods. There is a limited vocabulary; so, as the reader progresses through the novel, it becomes easier to decipher the text, a first-person narrative by the protagonist, Riddley Walker, who is considered a literate man in his world although he is only twelve years old.

The book is written in a manner that forces the reader to slow down in order to demystify the story; just as Riddley Walker must slowly puzzle things out for himself (by the way, the names of characters in the book are representations of their personalities: Riddley Walker, Fister Crunchman, Abel Goodparley, etcetera). I assume that the book was purposely written so that the reader is forced to sound some sections aloud in order to comprehend the meaning; in Riddley’s world, information is shared orally, and Riddley’s writings form the possibility of a re-invented media.

The reader soon realizes that the events take place in England (‘Inland’) sometime after an apocalyptic, nuclear event (it is stated in the novel that over 2,400 years have passed since the apocalypse, but that seems too long a time for the slight degradation in language; after all, it is still recognizable. There are many misguided ‘facts’ within the novel and I suspect that less time has passed than what is stated). Riddley’s world is slowly revealed through the mists of confusion: there are struggles between agricultural groups and hunter-gatherers, wild dog-packs terrorize the countryside, and the government distributes its politico-mythic messages using portable puppet theatres (politically revamped Punch and Judy shows).

The plot is interesting, but much of the enjoyment comes from untangling the language; it immerses the reader, who must ‘riddle’ things out as s/he ‘walks’ through the story.

There is a short glossary at the end of the book, but if you’d like some further help while reading, the sites listed below are useful (I found that reading a chapter and then perusing the annotations, while flipping through the pages of the chapter again, solidified the story).

Recommended; but be forewarned, it is probably not a novel to take for a casual read on the beach this summer.

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A couple of resources (that also contain links to other resources):

Riddley Walker Annotations: with chapter-by-chapter notes and much more.

Russell Hoban’s official website

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Iain Banks: R.I.P.

In the realm of sad news, I just found out that Iain Banks (a.k.a. Iain M. Banks) passed away on June 9^th.  Earlier this year, in April, he revealed that he had been diagnosed with terminal gall bladder cancer and had less than a year to live.

He was well-known, and admired, for both his mainstream and science fiction novels. As Iain Banks, he was probably best known for his novels The Wasp Factory (1984), The Crow Road (1992), Complicity (1993), and his most challenging novel, The Bridge (1986). As Iain M. Banks, he was best known for a series of stand-alone science fiction novels depicting an interstellar, utopian society called the Culture (e.g.: Player of Games (1988), Use of Weapons (1990), and Surface Detail (2010)). His works were overflowing with imagination and dark, gothic humour.

His final Culture book, The Hydrogen Sonata, was published in 2012.

His final mainstream novel, The Quarry, is due to arrive on bookshelves on June 20. Ironically, the novel depicts the final weeks of a man who has terminal cancer: Iain Banks had almost completed the novel before receiving his own cancer diagnosis in April. His publisher, Little, Brown, had apparently presented him with completed hardback copies of The Quarry just three weeks ago.    

Since announcing his illness, Iain Banks had been “hugely moved” by the show of affection by his contemporary authors and the general public through his website.

He will be missed.

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Norman

It was a beautiful day yesterday, and I had a couple of hours to myself.

I was waiting for my wife and daughter (Cathy and Brynne) by the Strawberry Hills movie theatre (they were watching Iron Man III, which didn’t appeal to me). I spent about a half-hour at Chapters, discovered a few books I might like to read but didn’t buy anything, and then I went outside and walked until I found a bench in the shade where I could sit and peacefully puzzle through a few pages of Riddley Walker.

I was making some real headway through the novel (either I was beginning to catch on to the language, or it becomes easier as the book progresses) and was reading with a studious intensity, but I eventually realized that a pair of legs was stopped in front of me, and I looked up from the book and into a smiling face.

© Craig Hitchens, artist

A man stood in front of me, waiting patiently for my attention. He was dressed in apricot kurta and shalwar, and wore sandals on his feet. His white hair and beard were close-cut. I think he was a bit older than me, possibly in his mid-sixties (although when I look in the mirror I think I look older than me too).

“Hello,” he said. “I saw you sitting here, and came over to meet you.” His accent was thick, and it was difficult to understand him over the roar of traffic that was only a few dozen meters away.

I stood to shake his hand, but he waved me back down: “Relax,” he said with a smile.

We chatted for a few moments, communicating somewhat effectively. He did most of the talking; he was sharing his philosophy, his approach to living the right sort of existence.

“You’re a nice person,” he told me, which made me feel pretty good. “What is your name?”

I told him, and asked for his in return. His name was long, and although he had me pronounce it one syllable at a time along with him, I was hopelessly lost by the time he had finished. He flashed a wide smile and said, “I have many friends who cannot pronounce it. They call me Norman.”

The name seemed anomalous, but oddly fitting: “Okay,” I said, “it’s nice to meet you, Norman.” We shook hands again (he liked to shake hands; we must have performed this ritual a half-dozen times during our conversation).

We talked some more; well, he did most of the talking, and I did a lot of nodding, but managed to toss enough thoughts into the air to prove that I was listening, understanding, and that we were, for the most part, of one mind with his philosophy. We certainly agreed that God isn’t a single, separate entity; God is everything.

Norman spoke with a quiet passion; I didn’t get everything he said, but he talked about positive and negative forces (whether he meant right and wrong, or something similar to yin and yang was unclear, but I nodded), being in accord with God, and many other things.

Soon, it was almost time for the movie to end, and I said my farewells to Norman.

He shook my hand and said, “Think, and you will be rich. We will meet again, okay?”

I said, “Do you want to make plans to meet?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “We will meet again.”

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