Review: How to Rule an Empire and Get Away With It, by K. J. Parker

Review: How to Rule an Empire and Get Away With It, by K. J. Parker

by Rich Horton

K. J. Parker's stories are known for their romantic cynicism, their fascination with how things work (mechanically and politically), for depictions of war, for an abiding almost hopeless view of relations between men and women, and for their dark humor. Most of his stories are set in a vaguely Byzantine world, with no pretensions to consistency between stories, sometimes with magic and sometimes without. K. J. Parker, of course, is a pseudonym for Tom Holt, who also write rather lighter comic fantasies under that name, and brilliant historical fiction as by Thomas Holt. I will especially recommend, as I always try to, Thomas Holt's novel The Walled Orchard, first published under the Tom Holt name in two volumes as Goat Song (1989) and The Walled Orchard (1990) -- this is about the Sicilian Expedition, a drastically failed military campaign by Athens in the fifth century BCE. It is, I think, one of the very best historical novels of the past half century, blackly funny, ultimately tragic, and really moving -- about a Greek playwright, his horrible marriage to a woman he loves and hates, and his terrible experiences in Sicily.

A few years ago I read Parker's novel Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City (2019), in which the capitol city of an Empire is besieged by an army of what they think of as barbarians. The novel was in many ways one of Parker's stories about How Things Work, and it brilliantly depicted an engineer leading the effort to foil every effort of the besiegers to breach the walls of the city. All those details were fascinating. And the character story was effective is well, and nicely mordant.

How to Rule an Empire and Get Away With It, from 2020, is the sequel. The siege has settled into a stalemate. Notker, our narrator, is an actor, impressionist, and playwright. He's also the son of a gang enforcer -- the City has two primary gangs, or Themes, the Blue and the Green, bitter rivals. And the city's leader, Lysimachus, a man regarded as a hero for saving the city (though we all know the real hero was the engineer in Sixteen Ways) has been killed. Mention is made of some popular plays, with names like The Prisoner of Beloisia and The Man in the Bronze Mask. Not to mention that one of Notker's most popular impressions was of Lysimachus. Any reader can see where this is going. 

So, yes, Notker is maneuvered into assuming Lysimachus' position, and impersonating him. In the process he must get himself a mistress, to keep up appearances, especially as Lysimachus' sexuality was in doubt ... and he chooses Hodda, an actress and impresario with whom he is in love, though she is basically indifferent to him, despite them having a previous relationship. (There's an echo here of The Walled Orchard, with a playwright involved in an unsuccessful relationship.)

This sets up the situation for the rest of the novel -- Notker/Lysimachus takes control, and eventually truly takes the reins, leading several efforts to keep the invaders at bay, and in the process unifying the Blue and Green gangs, and making other improvements in the City's organization, as well as harrying the enemy. Plague threatens as well. Meanwhile Hodda desperately wants them to escape to safety, and Notker assures her that that's the plan, but only when it's feasible. There is some of Parker's beloved engineering, mostly involving attempts to stop the besiegers from breaking through a seam of granite and getting to the city walls to undermine them. It's clear Notker -- now crowned Emperor Lysimachus II -- is tempted by power, but he realizes that power leads to abuse of power and atrocities. And he comes up with a plan to sort of have his cake and eat it too ...

It's enjoyable enough, but nowhere near Parker at his best. The engineering bits are OK but not as absorbing as he can be. The relationship between Notker and Hodda just doesn't have the emotional heft some of the other doomed quasi-romances in Parker's novels attain. The darkly comic tone is well maintained, but it's not as funny as he can be. The ending falls just a tad flat, though as this is a middle novel of a trilogy that's not entirely unusual. (The third novel, A Practical Guide to Conquering the World, appeared in 2022.)

Review: Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters; and Seymour, an Introduction, by J. D. Salinger

Review: Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters; and Seymour, an Introduction, by J. D. Salinger

by Rich Horton

I read J. D. Salinger's most famous novel -- only novel, really -- The Catcher in the Rye, back in high school -- the right time. I liked it, and at more or less the same time, I read Nine Stories, and I thought that was pretty good too. But I didn't read his third book, Franny and Zooey, until just a few years ago. I thought that book was fine but not brilliant. I kind of knew I'd eventually read his only other book -- the one at hand -- though I'd gathered the impression that his fiction was somewhat linearly declining in quality. So when I found a copy of RH&S (as I'll abbreviate it) for a dollar at an estate sale, I figure, why not?

Like Franny and Zooey, this book comprises a shorter story plus a novella or short novel. In this instance, "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters" is the shorter one, at some 22,000 words; while "Seymour, an Introduction" is the longer, some 29,000 words. The stories appeared first in the New Yorker, in 1955 and 1959, respectively. (All of Salinger's work except for The Catcher in the Rye appeared there after "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" in 1948 -- the New Yorker gave him a contract in which they had right of first refusal for any fiction -- for a price, I assume.) Both these books, plus three of the stories in Nine Stories ("A Perfect Day for Bananafish", "Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut", and "Down at the Dinghy") concern the Glass family -- seven children (two of them dead) of two vaudevillians. Salinger's last published story, "Hapworth 16, 1924", which occupied nearly the entirety of the New Yorker for June 19, 1965, is also about the Glasses, and by repute, Salinger wrote additional stories and novels about them after he stopped publishing.

This is, I think it's fair to say, a problem. Salinger's obsession, the Glass family, is wearing. In particular, the eldest child, Seymour, becomes an improbable object of devotion -- an absurdly precocious boy, a saint, really. And the last two published stories are similarly long pieces curated (or written) by the second Glass child, Buddy, but wholly about Seymour. The thing is, Seymour committed suicide in the very first, and best, Glass story, "A Perfect Day for Bananafish". Salinger's development of the Glass mythos ended up requiring his stand-in, Buddy, to claim, in "Seymour, an Introduction", that in "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" (supposedly, in this context, written by Buddy) was not really about Seymour but about Buddy. 

(A couple words about the titles of these stories and the book -- the proper punctuation is not clear. I have rendered the titles in the form I think most sensible.)

So, the stories themselves. "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters", is about Seymour's wedding day, in 1942. It is told by Buddy, two years Seymour's junior. For reasons -- wartime reasons, mostly -- Buddy is the only Glass who can make it to the wedding, though he had to get leave from his army camp to do so. But the wedding doesn't come off -- Seymour has seemingly left Muriel, his fiancée, at the altar. Buddy ends up in a car with members of the bride's family, heading to what will be a gloomy quasi-reception. The story follows Buddy's endurance of the protests of the Matron of Honor and her husband, and a certain Mrs. Silsburn, about the caddish behavior of Seymour. His only ally is a dwarfish elderly deaf-mute. The drive is interrupted by a parade, and in the end Buddy invites them all to his and Seymour's nearby apartment (abandoned to their sister Boo-Boo when they join the military), and makes them drinks while finding Seymour's diary. It turns out that Seymour funked the wedding because he was "too happy" -- and that he and Muriel ended up eloping. 

This is actually a decent, if overlong, story. Salinger's eye (and ear) for amusing details is fully present. The story is more about Buddy than about Seymour, which is fine. It's a nice presentation of a fraught wedding at a difficult time -- the early months of America's entry into the Second World War. (Salinger served on the European front, was there on D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge, was present at Dachau shortly after its liberation, and was cleary and understandably severely affected by this.) The title, by the way, is from a fragment of Sappho: "Raise high the roof beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man."

"Seymour, an Introduction" is Buddy's attempt, in 1959, to describe his beloved elder brother to the world, on the occasion of the prospective publication of Seymour's poems. (Seymour, besides being remarkably talented at everything else except for some sports at which he is very bad but in a very special way, is supposed to be a great poet -- in Buddy's estimation, clearly the greatest poet of the 20th Century, working in a form called "double haiku" -- sometimes in Japanese, sometimes in English, presumably occasionally in Latin or Sanskrit or Proto-Indo-European.) This introduction is incredibly discursive, and is as much about Buddy as it is about Seymour. We learn a fair amount about their shared childhood, and a lot about Buddy's state of mind and health as he is writing this. (He is a teacher at a women's college in far upstate New York.) And we do learn about Seymour. Not much about his poems, which are never quoted, just described, but a lot about his physiognomy, and about his early life with Buddy. 

The thing is, there is some good stuff here. But it's to a great extent buried in the endless, self-indulgent, divagations; and it's to a great extent weakened by the glorification and sanctification of Seymour. (Yes, I suppose his name is meaningful too!) The Seymour we saw in "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" is an affecting character -- clearly damaged by his experience in a terrible war, clearly unhappy in his marriage (though I think the portrayal of Muriel, in retrospect, seems unfair.) The later revisionist approach to his life and fate is, well -- self-indulgent. I understand that "Hapworth 16, 1924" is mostly a long letter from the seven year old Seymour, written at camp, in which we learn of his lust for a much older married woman, and of his admiration for the likes of Anna Karenina. Hmmmm. 

(I was intrigued to see references to Betsey Trotwood and the donkeys, and to Anna Karenina's being painted in Italy, in this story -- references that would have meant nothing to me had I not read both David Copperfield and Anna K in the past year or so.)

So -- a lesser story in this case. Still, I'm happy enough to have read this book. I don't know that I'll attempt "Hapworth 16, 1924", though I guess I'll get to it sooner or later, mostly later. And I must confess I have little optimism about the supposedly voluminous material Salinger left behind at his death -- surely it means something that his heirs have not seen fit to publish it.

Resurrected Review: The Cutting Edge, by Penelope Gilliatt

I decided for eccentric reasons -- and because the latest novel I read (The Ministry of Time, by Kaliane Bradley) deserves a more thoughtful treatment -- to post a very short review I did of a fairly obscure novel, that I read a couple decades ago. I chose this novel because Joachim Boaz just acquired Penelope Gilliatt's SF novel, One by One. (I had not known she'd written any SF!)

Resurrected Review: The Cutting Edge, by Penelope Gilliatt

by Rich Horton

Penelope Gilliatt was an English novelist, short story writer and screenwriter (Sunday Bloody Sunday) who was also well known at the film critic for the New Yorker whose columns alternated with those of Pauline Kael. She was married to the famous playwright John Osborne. I got her 1979 novel The Cutting Edge for a quarter when my local library deaccessioned it -- I bought it because I recalled her name from the New Yorker, and because it looked interesting, and because how wrong can you go for a quarter?

And in fact it is a pretty enjoyable novel. It's the story of two eccentric sons of an eccentric English professor. The elder son is eventually named Peregrine, the younger Benedick (I say eventually because the professor initially called them Brother A and Brother B). They grow up, and Benedick gets married, and for a while live together in the ancestral house, along with Benedick's wife, and the Professor, and his second wife, and the boy's half-brothers, and their nurse ... then Benedick's wife, Joanna, leaves him. Which precipitates the main action of the novel.

The two end up in Istanbul. Peregrine is a writer and a Benedick a musician, but neither makes much money. When Peregrine gets in trouble for an affair with a 14 year old, he's off to Italy and then Paris, meanwhile becoming somewhat famous in England for his criticisms of his country, which come apparently from an old-fashioned (as in Samuel Johnson old-fashioned) Tory sensibility. Meanwhile Benedick is writing music with some success, missing his wife, and missing his brother even more perhaps. A series of brittlely funny short chapters detail their, er, peregrinations, leading inevitably to Joanna showing up in Paris and shacking up with Peregrine.

And that's pretty much it. It's a short novel (perhaps 40,000 words) and a fast read, and funny in rather brittle fashion (as I said). It's populated by briefly and effectively sketched eccentrics who wander into and out of the brothers' life. The whole thing is nice if minor work.

Review: A Mourning Coat, by Alex Jeffers

Review: A Mourning Coat, by Alex Jeffers

by Rich Horton

Alex Jeffers first came to my attention wtih two stories in the Robert Silverberg/Karen Haber anthology Universe 2, from 1992: "(from) The Bridge", and "The Fire, The Fire". I didn't realize it then, but I had seen stories from him more than a decade earlier, beginning with "Mask", from New Dimensions 6, edited by Silverberg, through "The Celebrants", from Universe 12, edited by Silverberg with Marta Randall. There's a reason I didn't make that connection -- these stories were published as by Donnan Call Jeffers, Jr. (Alex's birth name) and Peter Santiago C. Indeed, Jeffers' first 8 SF stories were published in anthologies edited by Robert Silverberg, which ought to remind us that Silverberg's contribution to the field as editor, not just writer, has been profound. (Though to be sure Silverberg's co-editors, Randall and Haber, deserve credit too.) 

But this isn't about Robert Silverberg! It's about Alex Jeffers. I loved those stories in Universe, and his name stuck with me, and I was delighted when I saw more stories from him some 15 years later: "Firooz and his Brother" in F&SF in 2008 (and reprinted in my Best of the Year anthology) and "Jannicke's Cat" in M-Brane in 2009. Christopher Fletcher, editor and publisher of M-Brane (and a fellow St. Louisan) also published a short novel by Jeffers in 2011, The New People. (Which I reviewed here.) Jeffers has also published two non-fantastical novels, Safe as Houses (1995) and Do You Remember Tulum (2009), as well as a couple more novels, Deprivation; or, Benedetto furioso: An Oneiromancy (2013) and That Door is a Mischief (2014), as well as a Lambda Award winning erotic novella, The Padisah's Son and the Fox (1996, expanded 2013). And as to the name -- yes, Alex is the grandson of the great American poet Robinson Jeffers.

Jeffers has continued to publish delightful stories, including some set in a fantastical world called Kandadal's World. I reprinted one of these ("The Tale of the Ive-Ojan-Akhar’s Death") in my Best of the Year volume. A Mourning Coat is likewise set in that world. (It's a world about which you can say "in" not "on".)

Therre, the narrator, is mourning his father's death. He had been his caretaker for five years, as his father descended into a cranky senility. And so his feelings are complicated -- this made his life terribly difficult (for one thing he broke up with his long time lover to devote his full attention to his Dada.) And his family history was tricky too -- his father, a famous actor, moved from the mainland, Kyrland, to the large island Yf for his career, taking Therre with him, but abandoning Therre's mother and older sister, who wished to stay home. Therre has grown up to be a highly respected costume designer for the movies, and that career, too, has been put on hold as he cares for his Dada. But for all that, Therre truly loved his father.

There are to be two ceremonies -- a private one for Therre and close friends, and a more public one for his father's industry connections. Therre makes a special, rather flamboyant, mourning coat for these ceremonies. And, somewhat unexpectedly, this creates a sensation -- his career as a designer is definitely back on. But is this what he wants?

There are significant personal elements -- his ex-lover, now married, accompanies him to the private ceremony, and though their sexual relationship is not on anymore, they can still be friends -- and she, a lawyer, will represent him in a case brought by his father's former lover, contesting the will. Add to that a mild rekindling of Therre's relationship with his sister, and most importantly, the prospect of a new lover -- an actor he had worked with on an eventually abortive film project before his father's illness. 

In many ways, recounting this plot, it seems like the stakes here are small. And perhaps they are -- but then how small are the stakes when we are mourning a parent? or starting a new relationship? No, Therre's choices aren't going to change the world -- but they will change his life in ways that matter. And recovering from grief is also emotionally vital to anyone -- and Jeffers' depiction of Therre's grief is beautiful and convincing. 

I haven't discussed the prose, which is graceful and beautiful. Nor have I discussed the context -- this world, and the magic, the gods, which are de-emphasized here because Yf has no gods -- but magic still plays a significant role here. And we see too the history -- recounted in part by describing movie projects for Therre and his father. There is a real sense of reality, of deep time, of history as it is remembered. This is truly a lovely story, and I hope it gets the attention it deserves.

I'll add, quickly, details of the publication. This edition is from dave ring's imprint Neon Hemlock. It's a pretty book, with nice cover (by Jeff Kristian) and interior illustrations (by Matthew Spencer.) It's available at www.neonhemlock.com. 

Review: Cold Welcome, by Elizabeth Moon

Review: Cold Welcome, by Elizabeth Moon

by Rich Horton

I really enjoyed Elizabeth Moon's Aunts in Space*, er, Familias Regnant Space Opera series, 7 books published between 1993 and 2000; and I also loved her Vatta's War books, five more Mil SF/Space Opera stories published from 2003 to 2008. (Ky Vatta's universe is not the same as that of Heris Serrano and Esmay Suiza, but it does feature one formidable (Great) Aunt.) So I was quite glad, back in 2017, to see that she was publishing sequels to the Vatta's War books -- Cold Welcome in 2017 and Into the Fire in 2018. I didn't read the books right away -- too much other stuff on my plate -- but my wife (not an SF reader) did tackle Cold Welcome. And now I finally have gotten around to it.

Ky Vatta, after the events of the Vatta's War books, has been named the Admiral of the Space Defense Force, a multi-planet peacekeeping organization. And now she is returning to her home planet, Slotter Key, for some ceremonial reasons, and also to clean up the ownership status of the Vatta family business. Her redoubtable great aunt Grace is the Rector of Defense for Slotter Key, her cousin Stella is the primary leader of the Vatta businesses, though she's now based on another planet (Cascadia), her sometime lover Rafe, a criminal who has gone more or less straight as the head of ISC, is also off planet. And pretty much as soon as she enters Slotter Key's atmosphere, her shuttle is shot down over the far southern seas of the planet, as winter approaches.

Ky and the 20 or so survivors manage to survive ditching into the ocean, and to get into a couple of rafts. Ky, with the able help of a veteran Master Sergeant Marek, and with the less able presence of her Cascadian personal assistant Jen Bentik, organizes things to eventually bring them to shore on the deserted continent of Miksland, abandoned as a terraforming failure. Her job is to find a way to survive for a few months until the weather makes it possible for a rescue mission to get to them; and at the same time chivvy the other survivors into becoming a disciplined team, and dealing with the malcontents and a potential traitor.

Meanwhile Grace Vatta and Stella and Rafe and other mobilize to deal with making sure a rescue effort is mounted, to find out who is responsible for the attack on the shuttle, and to give what help is possible to Ky, which is precious little except for one bit of magic secret tech that Ky and Rafe share. (This tech was introduced in the previous series.) There are bad guys on Slotter Key, and on other planets. There is political maneuvering, such as people who want Ky declared dead so they can assume her powerful position. And there are some mysteries -- the continent of Miksland isn't quite what it seems, and there are unexamined secrets about the history of Slotter Key, such as who terraformed it and why and where are they, that only now start to come to light. 

The novel is just lots of fun. Elizabeth Moon is a first rate adventure writer, and I found it gripping throughout. She also makes the political intrigues, well, intriguing. The bad guys, mind you, are really evil, to the extent we see them. And Ky has some superpowers (or it comes off that way) and a lot of luck. But that comes with the territory for this sort of book. I also found the ending just a bit disappointing, though I think this is largely because room was being made for the sequel. In particular, some of the new questions the books raises -- particularly the mystery of the terraformers -- are dangled in front of us but never addressed. That will come later in the series, I trust! 

*Full credit should be given to James Davis Nicoll for coining the term "Aunts in Space".

Impressions of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Impressions of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

an essay by Rich Horton

I can't call this a "review" -- reviews are pointless for a classic a century and a half old. Calling it an essay is probably overblown, but there you are. Just think of this as my impressions. I'll be rambling a bit -- a lot! -- and I'll repeat myself. Apologies! 

Anna Karenina was serialized between 1875 and 1877, and first published in book form in 1878. Tolstoy considered it his first true novel -- note that War and Peace appeared in 1869! Those two novels, of course, are considered among the two greatest novels of all time. William Faulkner famously answered, when asked to name the three best novels, "Anna Karenina, Anna Karenina, Anna Karenina". Tolstoy (1828-1910) wrote many other stories, and works like The Death of Ivan Ilyich, The Kreutzer Sonata, and Hadji Murat are also very highly regarded. He was also a profoundly influential thinker -- a radical Christian, a pacifist, a vegetarian (nearly a vegan). He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in both Literature and Peace multiple times, and it seems a crime he never received it, though to be fair it was early days for the award. For all that, I had not read him, at all, and I knew I ought to. And it became clear that Anna Karenina was likely a novel I would have great sympathy with.

I'm not going to worry too much about spoilers -- I knew the (very minimal) basics when I started and I imagine most readers do. And it's not a plotty novel, though there is a plot, and a resolution, probably guessable from about 100 pages in. But I also won't go into details. The novel opens with the famous line "All happy families are alike, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." That's from the en vogue contemporary translation, by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, which is the one I (mostly) read. The first American translation, from 1887, by Nathan Haskell Dole, reads "All happy families resemble each other, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Constance Garnett's long standard translation renders the first line: "Happy families are all alike, every unhappy fmaily is unhappy in its own way." Rosemary Bartlett's long popular translation of the line is the same as P&V's. I'm not sure the point I'm making -- there isn't that much difference here, and there seems to have been a fairly reasonable convergence. I think the line is a nice aphorism, and profoundly wrong, as is even illustrated in the novel. Most assuredly the Karenin family (Anna and her husband Alexei and their son Seryozha) is unhappy; and differently so than the Oblonskys -- Stiva and Dolly and their several children; and differently so than the arrangement Anna and her lover Vronsky and their all but ignored young daughter Annie end up in. But the happy families portrayed (Levin and Kitty and their daughter, and that of Kitty's parents, the Shcherbatskys, and the glimpses we see of one or two muzhik families) are also differently happy.

Well, no matter. What is the novel about? Well, it's a long novel -- some 800 pages, about 350,000 words -- so it's about a lot of things. Of course it's about marriage and adultery, but it's also about farming, and about war, and about religion (and philosophy in general), and about economics, and about the difference between life in Russia and life in Europe; and, in a large way, about how to live a life, and whether the life we live is the result of our choices, or of fate. There are a great many characters: some important: Anna Arkadyevna Karenina, her husband Alexei Alexandrovich Karenin, her brother Stepan Arkadyich "Stiva" Oblonsky, his wife Dolly (Darya Alexandrovna), her sister Kitty (Katernina Alexandrovna) Scherbatsky, Kitty's eventual husband Konstantin Dmitrich Levin, and Anna's lover Alexei Vronsky. And there is a host of lesser characters, some critical, such as Levin's brothers Nikolai and Sergei, or Anna's son, and some minor but beautifully portrayed, such as the lawyer Karenin approaches about a divorce. 

The plot is arranged basically in two threads. One concerns Anna Karenina, unhappily married but a loving mother and an admired society wife, who meets Alexei Vronsky, who had been courting Anna's sister-in-law Kitty Shcherbatsky, and falls head over heels for Anna. Vronsky at first sees her as yet another diversion -- much as Kitty was, though Kitty thought he was serious and on those grounds refused Konstantin Levin when he proposed. (Some people suggest that Anna "stole" Vronsky from Kitty, but it's clear that Vronsky had no intention of marrying Kitty, and that he would have made her a dreadful husband (he's a cad, for one thing, though a charming and superficially accomplished one.)) Anna and Vronsky's affair becomes quite serious -- very much to Vronsky's discomfort -- and a child results, leading to separation from Karenin (but no divorce, a critical point) and to social exile, and for a time real exile to Italy. I won't say how this ends though I suppose most know -- certainly not happily. The second thread concerns Levin, who retreats to his farm after Kitty's rejection, and works on his book about farming, and tries to make the farm a success while treating his workers fairly (who are, after the freeing of the serfs which occurred about a decade earlier, tenant farmers.) But he doesn't forget Kitty, and after a time, and a bit of a crisis in Kitty's life, they realize they should be together -- and they get married and have a child, and all the while Levin -- a happy man, wholly in love -- continues to philosophize about the meaming of life, and about why he, an unbeliever, was brought to prayer during Kitty's labor, and so on.

The bald elements of this plot are pretty basic, but there is so much more to this novel -- the devil is in the details. The characterization is remarkable (with, as I suggest, the exception of that of Anna.) There are wonderful brief bits -- Levin at a friend's house, convinced that the friend's wife wishes him to marry her sister, and thus convinced that this pretty sister is wearing a particularly low cut dress just to ensnare him, and yet unable to keep his eyes from her bosom, for just one example. Levin's inner life throughout is utterly convincing to me, and really interesting despite (or because of) the digressions into farming techniques, or agonizing about suicide despite his happiness. (To be sure, Levin is a pretty obvious stand in for Tolstoy, which perhaps made Tolstoy's job easier.)

On the other hand, we see Vronsky's dilettantish approach to practically everything -- his early career in the military, his later stab at painting, his attempt to set up as a country landowner, his horses. He is intelligent and educated, but not truly dedicated, and it's clear that he can be pretty good at things but never really good. And, honestly, that's more or less true of his relationship with Anna. (We presume he's at least good in bed (or on the couch!), though to be honest, after Karenin, maybe anyone would suffice.) I see some readers viewing him as a romantic figure, or even a victim of Anna's, which is absurd. He's a cad -- his purposeful dallying with Kitty with no attention of marriage is the early indication, but we see it throughout -- his hard ways with his workers, his impatience with Anna, his need for her to have a child even after she nearly died bearing their daughter, and his basic mediocrity (in Nabokov's term.) 

As for the question of the place of women, and of wives, in this society -- of course Anna is herself a key figure, but Dolly Oblonsky is maybe the less dramatic but more convincing example. The novel opens with her threatening to leave her husband because he's having an affair with the governess, and (ironically) it is Anna who convinces her to stay. But Dolly is much put upon -- despite his vow to reform, Stiva continues dalliances with dancers and actresses and such (while spending money that puts the household finances in serious jeopardy) while Dolly keeps having children, takes the lead in raising them of course, worries about her declining looks, worries about money ... And then there's a remarkable long passage when she wishes she could have done what Anna did, wishes she had never had children, rages against the place of women in this world -- and ends up realizing she doesn't have an alternative. 

I could go on -- Kitty too is nicely captured, Karenin is a truly pathetic figure, almost one we sympathize with but a mean and  small-minded man, Levin's brothers, especially the academic Sergei, are precisely depicted, Kitty's almost holy friend Varenka, in a small somewhat sad role is believable, Stiva's bonhomie and charm along with his sheer fecklessness is just spot on. 

And then Anna. I've said I don't believe Tolstoy got her inner life. For me, it was easy to believe that her life with Karenin was miserable, and that her love for her son was real. But I was never wholly convinced by her seemingly obsessive love for Vronsky. And what we see -- a fair amount -- of her thought, of her inner turmoil, just didn't ring quite true. She is shown to be a brilliant woman -- at least the intellectual equal and, really, the superior, of both the men in her life. She writes a book! She is ready to help with Karenin with his government duties, but he (20 years her elder) shuts her out -- and later she studies to learn the things Vronsky is interested in -- and he too, without seeming to realize it, shuts her out. Hey, she reads English novels -- early in the book we see her reading a novel that is obviously, if not actually, meant to be by Anthony Trollope. All this I am happy to believe, but it never translates into understanding her disastrous affair. You could say she had bad taste in men, but it's clear that her scheming mother forced Karenin to propose, without any thought of Anna's personal happiness; and once in a loveless marriage her options were limited. 

It's not fair to criticize other's takes on the book too much, but I will say I read one blogger who read the novel in 1000 word chunks, one per day, so the book took a year. Which is fine, mind you. Her take on the novel was basically that she hated it, and that she advocated that you should just read what you like, don't beat yourself up if you haven't read a classic novel like Anna Karenina. Well, that's fine too, even if I think her reading was way off. But if you're going to say "read what you like", and then turn around and make it clear that if what you like is SF or Fantasy, well, you're a worthless stupid reader (perhaps I exaggerate her take, but it sure seemed like that's what she thought) then maybe I won't take you too seriously.

Anyway -- bottom line -- Anna Karenina is a beautiful novel, an absorbing novel. It's worth reading, it's worth understanding, it's worth arguing with. Tolstoy was an intriguing thinker -- but that doesn't mean he was always right! Ranking great novels is a silly endeavor -- all middle range novels are pleasant in a similar way, but all great novels are great in their own way, one might say. Still -- this is close to the top! Does it top, say, Middlemarch in my mind? Maybe not. But it's in the conversation!

Review: Across a Billion Years, by Robert Silverberg

Review: Across a Billion Years, by Robert Silverberg

a review by Rich Horton

I am making my way through Robert Silverberg's early ouevre, and I've realized that in a way this stretches all the way to about 1970. What I mean is, Silverberg to some extent abandoned the SF field in the early 1960s, partly because of a collapse in the magazine markets, and he turned to popular science, and to some pseudonymous work in other genres. Some of his earlier work kept appearing in book form until about 1965, but more ambitious short fiction started showing up in 1963 with stuff like "To See the Invisible Man" and "The Pain Peddlers". His first novels that I would called "middle period" came out in 1967. But a few outliers showed up as well -- I think all really YA (perhaps excepting Regan's Planet.) These are The Gate of Worlds (1967), Across a Billion Years (1969) and the diptych Regan's Planet (1964) and World's Fair 1992 (1970). One might also add Time of the Great Freeze (1964) and Conquerors From the Darkness (1965). For my own reasons I think of these as more akin to his early work, largely because, though very professionally executed, these novels just don't seem to have the ambition of his middle period work. But perhaps that's unfair -- perhaps the only real difference is market -- YA versus adult. (And I will say that I greatly enjoyed Time of the Great Freeze and The Gate of Worlds when I read them at age 11 or so, from my junior high library.)  

I believe I also read Across a Billion Years at the same time, but I really hardly remembered it. So I bought a copy, and read it anew. The first thing I'll say is that I call it YA, but it's possible it wasn't really marketed as such. There is a fair amount of reference to sex in the book (including a near rape scene) if nothing explicit. But it features a young protagonist who acts his age, and needs to grow throughout the novel. And it was published by The Dial Press, not Silverberg's usual publisher. And, I have to say, though I thought it a decent read, it clearly doesn't stand with the great work Silverberg did in this period -- work like Thorns, Dying Inside, Downward to the Earth, A Time of Changes, Nightwings, and more.

The novel is narrated by Tom Rice, a newly hatched extraterrestrial archaeologist, who is recording his experiences on a new expedition in order to send them to his sister Lorie. We quickly realize that Lorie is severely disabled -- confined to a hospital bed. But she is also a telepath, and part of the network of "TPs" that allow faster than light communication in this future. For, in 2375 A. D., Earth and a few alien races form a loosely united polity, and in joint expeditions, they explore relics on other planets. They are mostly interested in the High Ones, a very powerful alien civilization that left traces on numerous planets, roughly a billion years ago. But the High Ones seem to have been gone for 800,000,000 years or so.

Tom's group includes three professors, and eight junior members, mostly humans but with a few aliens mixed in, and one pulchritudinous android (depicted with Tom on the paperback cover above, as they make their great discovery.) They are exploring High Ones deposits on Higby V. Much of the early part of the book includes a bit of background on the High Ones, and what they've left behind, and a lot of description of the odd natures of the alien members, and of Tom's obsession with sex. (As well as his exceedingly uncharitable evaluations of the non-human members of the expedition, all of whom, he is at first convinced, are there just to check diversity boxes.) Tom is aware, of course, that the beautiful android is not programmed to be interested in sex, but soon he's intrigued by the one human woman in their group, Jan, who is about his age. But Jan seems more interested in an older man on the team; and there is another man who is very creepily interested in Jan as well. Which leads to an attempted rape -- with Tom showing little concern about it (he even trots out the old "you can't be raped if you aren't at some level willing" canard.) To be somewhat fair, this is all presented as Tom being an insensitive and rather juvenile jerk, and he does do some growing up. But it's all quite awkward -- I don't know how it played in 1970 but it's kind of disgusting now.

As for the SFnal aspects -- they make a great discovery (with Tom at the center, though really more for random reasons) -- a High Ones artifact that shows detail views of life in ancient High Ones cities, and of a robot left on an asteroid. The team decides to find the robot, which leads to more discoveries, and another trip across the galaxy ... with an ending hinting at transcendence ...

None of this is really original, or, truth be told, all that fascinating. But it is well told, so I read it with interest throughout. But a lot of it is four finger exercises -- enjoyable but never new, with perhaps one exception. The depiction of Tom's relationship with his sister, and his slow understanding of her inner life, is effective and quite moving. 

As to what we learn about the High Ones -- similar ideas are very common in SF. (Andre Norton's Forerunners, for just one example of very many.) And to be honest they work OK as a mystery -- but the mystery revealed almost never works. Silverberg's solution here is -- not bad. It's not amazing, but it's believable and not a cheat. 

In summary -- a minor work by a major writer. Readable, but not really important.