Review: The Female Man, by Joanna Russ

Review: The Female Man, by Joanna Russ

by Rich Horton

Joanna Russ finished The Female Man in 1971, and spent the next few years trying to sell it. According to Nicole Rudick, the editor of the Library of America edition in which I reread it (Joanna Russ: Novels and Stories), one reason was that Russ wished to place it with a "mainstream" publisher, instead of a science fiction imprint. Those publishers rejected it, says Rudick in her "Notes on the Texts", either because of Russ's established identity as a "science fiction writer", or because they had already bought their token feminist novel for that year. (I would add that Russ's identification with science fiction aside, The Female Man is pretty obviously science fiction in itself, no need to have the author's backlist confirm that.) Eventually she placed it with Frederik Pohl's line at Bantam, labeled "A Frederik Pohl Selection". This was, then, a definite concession for Russ -- it appeared from a science fiction imprint, and as a mass market paperback to boot. That said, the "Frederik Pohl Selection" label was an attempt at positioning the book as a sort of prestige imprint for SF, and indeed the month before The Female Man appeared in February 1975 the Frederik Pohl Selection was Samuel R. Delany's Dhalgren. (Having said that, the only "Frederik Pohl Selections" that seem to have lasted are The Female Man, Dhalgren, and another Delany novel, Triton.)

1975 was 50 years ago, and for that reason there have been some discussions of the major SF novels of that year, and in the process I have reread the top three such books: in terms of sales (I assume), notoriety (I am sure), and latter day reputation (I sense). These are The Forever War, which won both the Nebula and the Hugo; Dhalgren; and The Female Man. (The latter two did not appear on the Hugo shortlist, but were both on the (rather long) Nebula shortlist.) Back in 1976 I am pretty sure my Hugo vote went to The Forever War, though I did read both Dhalgren (the whole thing, honest!) and The Female Man. But here in 2025 I am pretty strongly of the opinion that the best SF novel of 1975 was The Female Man. All three novels are to a great extent, er, "products of their time" -- particularly in their treatment of sex and sexuality. But The Female Man remains much fresher today, certainly including that aspect.

I hinted at commercial success above. Frederik Pohl took a significant risk in publishing both Dhalgren and The Female Man -- but his risk definitely paid off. Dhalgren was a major seller, something of a sensation back then, and it still sells well now. The Female Man didn't make quite the commercial splash Dhalgren did, but it sold nicely, and it too has continued to sell consistently since then -- over 500,000 copies, according to Ludick. And on the face of it, The Female Man isn't a particularly "commercial" book. (Neither to be sure is Dhalgren.)

Part of the appeal -- and part of the difficulty -- of The Female Man lies in its structure. It's told from the points of view of three women ... or four ... or even five? Janet Evason was born on Whileaway, a world inhabited entirely by women, the men having died of a plague hundreds of years before. Jeannine Dadier lives on Earth, in 1969, in an alternate history in which a certain Herr Schickelgruber died in 1936. And Joanna ... who is Joanna? We see her first in Jeannine's timeline. She tells us she has turned into a man. We are invited to imagine that she is indeed the author, and she does seem to be from our timeline. Later we will meet Jael, who lives in another timeline in which men and women live separately and are engaged in a decades-long war -- in which Jael serves as a gleeful assassin. (And behind these women is a mysterious other -- the spirit of the author? The spirit of the book?)

Janet Evason has come to Jeannine's timeline, as the very advanced society of Whileaway has developed a means of interdimensional travel. Janet is acting as some sort of ambassador (though with what goals seems unclear.) Jeannine is in a long term unsatisfying relationship with a man named Cal. The plot -- and there is a plot though in no sense a conventional one -- follows Janet's time on Earth, during which she ends up collecting Jeannine and Joanna, and then the three of them go to Jael's timeline. That sounds a bit flat, but the novel isn't flat at all. 

Whileawayan society is described through Joanna's life story: in some ways almost utopian, though with dark streaks: duelling is common, and there is a distinct authoritarian aspect to its organization, though it's a rather communal and apparently benevolent authoritarianism. Their technology is high, and they live lightly on the land (partly due to a fairly low population.) By law, every woman has one child of her body (the goal seems to be a static population but in reality such a rule would lead to a continually declining population, as some people die before they can bear children.) There is advanced genetic science, allowing for their parthenogenetic reproduction and also for enhancements such as elimination of most diseases, and increased intelligence.

Janet's mission to Earth gives us a view of Jeannine's society, which is broadly very similar to ours in 1970 or so. Jeannine herself is a critical character -- evidently intelligent, but unable to use her intelligence due to sexism; unable to have a satisfying relationship due to sexism; unable even to quite understand that she isn't happy. Another woman allows us another perspective -- Laur is shown attracted to Janet, and able to break free of heteronormative constraints. 

The eventual transition to Jael's world is the most satirical, and the harshest, part of the book. It's also queasily funny, and Jael is a fascinating if horrible character. The men of Manland have made themselves a dystopia, complete with men deemed unworthy of manhood who are changed into women -- the fully changed can become "wives", the half-changed take on other traditionally so-called feminine roles. All this is horrific but it lands too, as a cruel exaggeration of male-dominated society that hits home as a funhouse mirror of our world. 

Throughout the novel there are powerful lines, expressing the frustration the author, her characters, and many women feel at the positions they are forced into by men, at the justifications offered by men, at the lack of listening, the lack of imagination, the lack of perception by men. These hit home, they hit hard, and it's hard for me as a man to respond in any way -- inappropriate even. I could argue -- and I would -- that in the 50 years since The Female Man was published there has been significant progress; but then perhaps that's not an argument I have the right to make. Finally I should say that angry as the book is -- justifiably angry -- it is also very funny. (One of the abiding virtues of Russ's writing is her wit.)

The last chapter is the best -- it's unexpected, it's powerful, it's moving. It reiterates many of the arguments set forth earlier (implicitly or explicitly.) It provides a conclusion -- not a wrapping up but an impressionistic hint -- for each of the book's four -- no, five! -- J's. It makes its point, it says goodbye, and it introduces itself -- the book -- to the world. It was four years late, perhaps, to first publication -- but 50 years later, the book still speaks strongly. 

Review: The Small House at Allington, by Anthony Trollope

Review: The Small House at Allington, by Anthony Trollope

by Rich Horton

The Small House at Allington (serialized 1862-1863, in book form in 1864) is the fifth novel in Anthony Trollope's Barsetshire Chronicles. It is curiously disconnected from the other five novels -- not entirely so, by any means: the main character of The Warden appears in a very brief scene, and the de Courcys are a significant presence, as they were in Doctor Thorne. But for the most part, this is an isolated episode. And perhaps for that reason -- though perhaps on its own terms -- while I still very much enjoyed this book, I think I would rank it fifth of the five Barsetshire novels I've read so far.

The book revolves around Christopher Dale, the Squire of Allington, an aging bachelor, his widowed sister-in-law, Mary Dale, and her two daughters, Isabella (Bell) and Lillian (Lily). The Squire is an emotionally cold man, but loyal if a bit parsimonious. Mary and he have not really got along, as he disapproved of Mary marrying his brother. But he has let the dower house of his estate, the "Small House", to Mary and her daughters at no cost. The Squire has a notion that a marriage between Bell and his nephew and heir Bernard would be a great thing, but Bell thinks of Bernard as only a brother of sorts. 

The main action begins when a friend of Bernard's, Adolphus Crosbie, comes to visit. Crosbie is of no particular family, but he has a somewhat prestigious position in the civil service; and he has made a name as a man of fashion. His airs bowl over Lily, and her beauty and spirit make an impression on him, and they become engaged. A local boy, also in the civil service but at a lower level, John Eames, has been in love with Lily for some time, but she does not love him. After the engagement, Crosbie begins to have no doubt. He is by no means rich, and Lily is smeary the niece of a Squire, not aristocratic at all, and she has no fortune. He is acquainted with the Earl de Courcy. and on a visit he is seduced by the prospect of marrying an Earl's daughter -- and the eldest de Courcy daughter, Alexandrina, is rather desperate to be married -- and Crosbie jilts Lily Dale and marries Alexandrina.

Meanwhile John Eames is slowly but steadily making progress in his job, and is beginning to grow out of what Trollope call is "hobbledehoy" stage. Alas, he has foolishly gotten into a bit of mess with the daughter of his landlady. And the Squire's desire that Bernard marry Bell as encounters Bell's absolute refusal. While Lily is devastated by her rejection by Adolphus Crosbie, but refuses to confront his absolute lack of character. The novel then follows John Eames' growth -- helped by a fortuitous friendship with another Earl, the Earl de Guest; and also Crosbie's unhappy marriage and some struggles in his social life, not helped at all by a confrontation with Eames. Christopher Dale's relationship with his sister-in-law and her daughters reaches a breaking point. And John must find a way to disentangle himself from the vulgar woman he's gotten involved with. 

The novel -- intelligently, I think -- frustrates the reader with some of its developments -- certain plot expectations do not eventuate. Financial issues are certainly important, but not quite to the extent as in most of the other Barsetshire novels. 

There is an odd subplot, almost completely unrelated to the rest of the novel, in which Plantagenet Palliser is introduced. Planty Pall is basically the most important character in Trollope's other major series, the Parliamentary or Palliser books. His part of this novel concerns a dalliance with Griselda, Lady Dumbello, the very beautiful but essentially empty daughter of Archdeacon Grantly, whose marriage had been an important subplot in Framley Parsonage. The resolution of this subplot sets up a key thread of the first Parliamentary novel, Can You Forgive Her?, but seems out of place here. As Can You Forgiver Her? was the next novel published after A Small House at Allington, I wonder if Trollope was purposefully setting up a sort of transition between the two series.

Is this a good novel? Yes it is, and I enjoyed it greatly, But I don't quite love it the way I love the other Barsetshire novels I've read, nor the two Palliser novels I've read. There's a sense of manipulation to some of it -- Crosbie's punishment, for example, while satisfying to the reader seems perhaps a bit too pat. But no matter -- it's worth your time if you get into Trollope at all.

Review: Treacle Walker, by Alan Garner

Review: Treacle Walker, by Alan Garner

by Rich Horton

Alan Garner, born in 1934, established his reputation with a few fantasies generally marketed for young adults, though Garner rejects such a label, and his books are certainly read with enjoyment and often awe by adults. The best known are The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (1960), its first sequel, The Moon of Gomrath (1963), The Owl Service (1967), and Red Shift (1973). I read them 20 or more years ago and found them challenging, quite different from most supposedly YA fantasies. Most of his later work was more overtly aimed at adults, and often not fantastical at all. Treacle Walker is his latest "novel", published in 2021, and shortlisted for the 2022 Booker Prize. I say "novel" but it is perhaps 18,000 words long -- those who complained about the brevity of Orbital should take note!

I am going to confess that while I enjoyed reading this book, and found several passages remarkable, I struggled to get a grip on what it really meant, indeed on what was really going on. I proceeded to read some reviews, and most of those were either blithely confident in an ill-described and unconvincing explanation (as in "It's about quantum physics"), or simply gave a brief synopsis and said they liked the book. Fortunately, I happened across a review by the late Maureen Kincaid Speller, one of the best critics to arise on our field over the past few decades, and clearly someone who had read Garner's work deeply and respects it greatly. Her reading of the book is better informed and deeper than mine, and both illuminating but confessing some of the same difficulties I had in understanding it fully. (Though undoubtedly she understood it better than I!) Her review, from Strange Horizons, is here.

I'll content myself, then, with the briefest of synopses. Joseph Coppock is a boy who has been ill. He has a bad eye over which he wears a patch, and he loves comic books, notably one about Stonehenge Kit the Ancient Brit and his antagonists, Whizzy the Wicked Wizard and the Brit Brothers. One day a man comes to his door, a rag and bone man, desiring to take a rag and bone from Joe in exchange for a pot and a stone. Joe gives him and old bit of his pyjamas, and a lamb bone, and chooses a stone and a pot of medicine -- the latter a cure-all seemingly from a past century. The rag-and-bone man is named Treacle Walker.

Over the next little while Joe encounters a strange man, Thin Amren, who came out of a bog at the bottom of the meadow; and visits the eye doctor, learning that his "good" eye and his "bad" eye see very different things -- including the comic he's reading seeming to come to life. At one time there are two Joes. There is ever a sense of weirdness, and indeed a sense of things happening at different times simultaneously -- Joe himself living at different time. It's interesting that there is no hint of his parents, nor indeed of anyone besides Joe, Thin Amren, Treacle Walker, and I suppose the eye doctor. Questions remain, like:  is Joe alive? Is Joe really Treacle Walker in some sense? Which eye shows truth, or do they both? And so on.

I was intrigued, but didn't really love the book. I do think I need to return to The Owl Service and Red Shift at some time. 

Review: The Case of the Late Pig, by Margery Allingham

Review: The Case of the Late Pig, by Margery Allingham

by Rich Horton

Margery Allingham (1904-1966) was one of the "big four" women writers during the so-called "Golden Age of Detective Fiction", the others being Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and Ngaio Marsh. Her best known character was Albert Campion, an aristocrat using an assumed name who acts as a detective sometimes, sometimes a spy. She wrote 18 novels and many short stories about him, though in several of the novels he is a relatively minor characters. Her husband Philip Youngman Carter completed an unfinished novel after her death, and wrote two more; and some time after his death a novel he had left unfinished was complete by Mike Ripley, and Ripley has continued to produce about 10 more Albert Campion novels, the latest appearing as recently as 2023. There was a BBC series called Campion in the late '80s (shown on PBS in the US) which adapted a few of the books.

I believe I read one or two Campion novels back in my teens but I have no memory of them. Several years ago I reads one of Allingham's non-Campion mysteries, Black Plumes (1940), which I quite enjoyed. So when I ran across a 1989 reprint of the 1937 novel The Case of the Late Pig, which Avon published about the time it was adapted into an episode of the BBC series, I picked it up, and I read it this past weekend, mostly while on an airplane to Boston to attend Readercon.

The Case of the Late Pig is a rather short novel, around 40,000 words. In fact, it was originally published in a collection of Campion short stories, but soon reprinted in a standalone book. It's told in first person by Campion -- apparently the only book to feature him as narrator. As the book opens, he is in bed, reading an anonymous letter, which announces the funeral of one R. I. Peters. Peters -- called Pig -- was a bully at the school Campion attended, and went on to a criminal career. Campion hardly regrets his passing, but attends the funeral anyway, and is surprised to recognize another schoolmate, Gilbert Whippet, who, he learns, received a similar anonymous letter. But there was nothing suspicious about Peters' death, and Campion forgets about it until a few months later a friend of his, Leo Pursuivant calls him down to his estate to investigate a murder. And the victim is unmistakably Pig Peters, though the man is known to Leo as Oswald Harris.

What follows is a fast-moving evolution of multiple motives (Oswald Harris made enemies easily, and particularly in this little place, where he proposed to buy up a popular property and develop it vulgar ways), multiple identities, many suspects, and some real danger for Albert and some of his friends. There's a bit of oddly undeveloped sexual intrigue between Albert and Leo's pretty daughter Janet. (The book is written in a way that seems to suggest that Janet and Albert may have met in a previous story.) There is more than one criminal, and Gilbert Whippet reappears in a surprising way. The crime itself is resolved in a pleasurably enough way. 

As a mystery, it's fine but minor. The best parts of the book are the ironical portrayals of the characters. There are a number of fine comic bits, and as I said some suggestinon of real peril. Campion is an engaging narrator. His somewhat brutish servant, the ex-burglar Lugg, is a nice sidekick. The narration is rapid and easy, never particularly deep. I am told that Campion's character deepens in later novels -- this story is fine but no more than that. 

Recent Short SF/F Fiction Reviews

Recent Short SF/F Fiction Reviews

by Rich Horton

Here I'm taking a look at some recent SF or Fantasy short stories I read recently. I'll begin by helping celebrate the 50th outing of Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet -- this remarkable magazine, started in 1996, is still in print, in the traditional "zine" format -- saddle-stapled and all; the issues are very attractive to boot. The editors are Gavin Grant and Kelly Link, and the contents are an eclectic mix of fiction, articles (often about cooking!) and poetry, with the fiction loosely in the SF/Fantasy zone but with no boundaries. 

Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet celebrates its 50th issue with a strong issue, including S. Woodson's "Dog in the Garden", about a woman in a near future highly repressive corporatized environment who follows a mysterious dog into a new world, full of magic. It's sweet -- the nearly but not quite utopian other world is lovingly portrayed. I did feel that things were a good bit too easy for its main character. Jessy Randall's "Remedial Kissing Class" is also sweet, with the narrator finding love by more or less flouting the title lessons. "White Band", by Guan Un, is a nicely written vignette, with the main character a bit upset that their friend is marrying the moon, and "Graceless Creatures", by Shaun Cammack, is pure horror, about an exhibit of what seem sirens, which can be visited by people with headphones so they won't hear the song. Dark and effectively ugly. And Marie Vibbert's "The Summer Kids and the Gemini" has Hannah ready to go to college making one last trip to the amusement park (Cedar Point, in Sandusky, Ohio), only to meet some intriguing young people who spirit her away, to what turns out to be life of endless literal "amusement", and the rides can trasnport one through time to different parks in different eras. Vibbert sharply interrogates the real consequences of such an existence, and Hannah is smart enough to resist it -- even realizing that her mother had once met the same kids and regretted not going off with them.

Those are all fine stories -- Vibbert's being the best, I think -- but the prize story is "The Path to Pembroke", by L. H. Adams. It's set in North Carolina in a climate-ruined future, with serial outbreaks of different plagues a prime risk. Quint is a young man living among a small group of people trying to survive in the woods -- but always facing the risk of wanderers who might carry a new disease. When one such group comes by, Quint is delegated to walk to the Pembroke Biological Research Station, to warn them of a potential new disease and perhaps get some medicine. Quint's trip is terrifying -- he has gotten sick himself, and he is chased by a group of what seem a sort of zombies, and the weather is harsh. The narrative is a powerfully tense story, basically a chase. That's nice enough but nothing special, but the story is elevated to another level by the narrator itself -- at first seeming just an authorial device, allowing us to follow Quint and also learning something of his and his family's past -- but there is a kicker of a sting in the story's tail, combined with some neat and scary revelations of the nature of one of the diseases threatening people in this future.

The next two stories were recommended to me by Will Waller, and I thank him for the pointer. The first is from the May-June issue of Uncanny, the multiple Hugo-winning online magazine edited by Lynne and Michael Damian Thomas. 

One common trick of fantasy stories is to use the fantastical element as a very literal, reified, metaphor for the real life problems of the characters. I sometimes find this too artificial, too much a mere trick, and even unnecessary. But done well it can be very effective, and I though this strategy worked brilliantly in Anjali Sachdeva's "Vivisection". Eleanor has learned to hide vulnerable parts of her body from her partner Severine. Her heart is in the kitchen, her liver in a closet, and so on. We quickly realize that Severine is a pretty awful woman -- powerful, attractive, and also abusive and a cheater. And Eleanor copes -- by hiding parts of herself. And by nurturing a deer -- a hart -- from a fawn to adulthood -- not a pet, but a sort of a near friend by now. 

The story sets up the situation and lets it play out -- Eleanor's increasing desperation in trying both to please her lover and not to be hurt by her, Severine's inevitable discovery of Eleanor's hidden body parts, the eventual crisis. This is a story that could have been told straight, with no fantastical elements -- but the literalized metaphor in this case elevates it, makes every step more powerful. I really enjoyed this.

Now to GigaNotoSaurus, a webzine that has been publishing roughly a story a month since late 2010, when Ann Leckie founded it. The current editor is LaShawn M. Wanak. GigaNotoSaurus tries to publish longer stories -- their stated length is between 5000 and 25000 words. Sage Tyrtle's story "The Starter Family", from June, is about 10,000 words long. It really excited me, as it presents a powerfully affecting (and scary, and creepy) idea that I don't think I've ever seen before. It did remind me vaguely of Ian R. MacLeod's excellent 1992 story "Grownups". 

Charles narrates the story, beginning as he is eleven years old. His school is all boys, and they don't know anything about girls, except for their mothers. At turning eleven, they take the oath never to reveal the truths they will learn about boys and girls, men and women, and Starter Families. Charles becomes an adult, and is allowed to choose his Starter Wife, and they are happy together. Soon they choose a Starter Baby, whom they love. But some ominous currents are churning. Charles knows what awaits them in the future -- and he finds he can't deal with it.

This story is both really wrenching in presenting its central dilemma, and intriguing in the way it satirizes '50s-style families, conformity in general, the tendency to juvenilize women and straitjacket men. It really packs a punch, and it does not pull that punch at the conclusion.

Review: Black Swan Green, by David Mitchell

Review: Black Swan Green, by David Mitchell

by Rich Horton

David Mitchell is a personal favorite writer of mine, particularly for Cloud Atlas (2004) and The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet (2010). I've been working through the rest of his novels with great enjoyment, and now I've come to the book that came between those two books, Black Swan Green (2006). 

Most of Mitchell's books are to some extent genre-adjacent -- Cloud Atlas, for example, incorporates historical sections, a thriller, and sections set far in the future (all intriguingly and metafictionally entwined.) The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet is an historical novel set in Nagasaki at the turn of the 19th Century, and including an extended episode that reads like a pure pulp story in some ways. Slade House is straight horror, and The Bone Clocks extends from the present day into a climate-change-wracked future. Black Swan Green, however, seems quite straightforward: the first person narrative of a boy growing up in Worcestershire in 1982, with noticeable semi-autobiographical elements. Having said that, the novel does, as with all of Mitchell's novels, feature characters from other Mitchell novels, most obviously the main character's cousin Hugh Lamb, who is one of the central characters in The Bone Clocks.

There are 13 chapters, each covering a month, from January 1982 through January 1983. Jason Taylor turns 13 at the start of the novel. He lives in the village of Black Swan Green in Worcestershire, in the west of England near the Malvern Hills. His father is an executive at the Greenlands grocery story concern, and his mother is (for now) a housewife. Jason attends the local comprehensive school. He is -- like most 13 year olds -- intensely concerned with social status at school, himself maintaining a precarious position somewhere in the middle, complicated by him being a pretty good student and an aspiring poet (who has published poems in the parish newsletter, naturally under a (pretentious) pseudonym, Eliot Bolivar; and furthered by the fact that his family are outsiders, living in a nice suburban sort of house in a new development outside the village.

The chapters organize themselves around central episodes during that year -- Jason breaking his treasured watch; the Falklands War and its effect on the locals, particularly the elder brother of a classmate; a fight between two of the school bullies; Jason's crush on a girl who ends up with one of the bullies; Jason's getting a chance to join a gang; a dinner party in which Jason's parents host his mother's sister and her husband and their children (including Hugh Lamb, who is a bit older and a lot bolder than Jason); an encounter with some nearby gypsies (following a city meeting about the proposed establishment of a compound for the gypsies); Jason finding a lost wallet at a carnival/fair, with tragic consequences; a school dance with much happier results for Jason, etc.

Those are episodes, but the linking themes follow primarily the fundamental changes in Jason's life, and his family's fortunes. It's clear from the start that Jason's parents' marriage is in trouble. Jason himself is pretty normal -- liking the sort of music I remember from 1982 (though I'm a decade older than he and Mitchell), having crushes on a couple of girls, dealing with bullies and finally holding his own (I do have to say I found his school much fuller of sadists (including some teachers) than I remember from any of my schools.) Jason's sister Julia is presented as fairly idealized -- a good student and future lawyer, much desired by boys her age and pretty sensible about dealing with them, and clearly adored by her brother who would never admit that. And in the end Jason's life will undergo a significant -- though not exactly earth-shattering -- change.

It's a very enjoyable and moving novel. Parts of it are very funny -- the early dinner party is a highlight in that sense. Parts are quite dark. Parts are sweet, others are exciting. I really loved the chapter in which Jason gets advice about poetry, about reading, and about music, from an old, eccentric, and fascinating Belgian woman. The depictions of life in the village, of the local geography, of the main characters all truly land. The portrayal of a disintegrating marriage is convincing and affecting. Perhaps a couple of the episodes seem to work about a bit conveniently, though. Still a really nice book. I can't rank it at the top of Mitchell's output, but it's very much worth reading. 

Review: Espedair Street, by Iain Banks

Review: Espedair Street, by Iain Banks

by Rich Horton

I really enjoy Iain M. Banks' SF novels, particularly Use of Weapons, one of his Culture novels. I have also generally enjoyed those of his mainstream books I've read. This is a short look at one of those. Espedair Street is held in fairly high regard by Banks fans. It is also usually called one of his happier novels.

I must admit I was a bit taken aback, then, when the book opened with the narrator declaring that he had decided to kill himself. To be sure, he quickly assures us that he has decided to live after all.

It being a Banks book, it's told on two timelines. Fairly traditionally: one timeline recounts the last few days in the life of Danny Weir, while the other tells the story of his life from his late teens to the present (age 31). Danny Weir, we soon gather, was the bass player and songwriter for a huge 70s/80s progressive rock band, Frozen Gold. His nickname was Weird (for Weir, D., obviously enough). The band seems to have ended under rather distressing circumstances, which don't become clear for a long time.

In the present day thread, we learn that Danny is living a pointless existence in a mock cathedral in Glasgow, drinking his life away with Communist liquor, spending time with three not-quite-friends -- a young man, a rather older man, and a prostitute. He still writes music, but not very seriously -- film scores and commercial jingles. He gets drunk enough to have no idea what crazy things he might have done. He also doesn't tell any of his friends who he really is -- letting them think he is just the caretaker for Danny Weir's property.

The other thread tells the story of Frozen Gold: how Danny more or less forced himself on the band as a songwriter (they were talented players of cover tunes), his resentment of the middle-class origins of the other members, the meteoric success of the band. Danny is extremely tall (6'6") and he describes himself as ugly. The leaders of the band are Davey Balfour, a supremely talented guitarist, and Christine Brice, a wonderful singer. We soon gather that Davey's risk-taking may have something to do with the band's collapse, though Danny blames himself. There is also some sexual dynamics -- Davey cheating with Danny's girlfriend, and Danny responding with an affair with Christine (she and Davey having been a couple). 

It all comes to a head when Davey is pushed to resume his career (it seems that his solo album is unexpectedly a success), but then learns some more devastating news. He feels that there is simply no point to his life -- but then he -- well, leave it to the novel to reveal. Yes, though, it is at least a hopeful ending, if not unambiguously happy.

I rather enjoyed the book, but with reservations. Mostly they turn on a feeling that it's all too easy. Above all, Espedair Street seems facile. It's hard to believe in Frozen Gold -- in their success, in Danny's brilliance as a songwriter. It's hard to believe the tragedy that precipitates the action of the book. (The tragedy that ruined the band, on the other hand, though absurd, is believable in a weird way.) Danny's redemption also comes too easy. The more I think about this book, and about Banks's other books, I suspect that he is perhaps a supremely talented writer but not a great writer -- that his instinct leads him too readily to facile, constructed, ultimately shallow resolutions. It may be that at his best he can transcend this -- a reread of Use of Weapons may be in order -- but I suspect that in the long run this facility, this tendency to neatness and to easy solutions (even the sad endings, on reflection, are "easy" in a sense) is a limit to his range. (One illustration -- the nature of the human character in his Utopian Culture. The Culture is a wonderful place to live, but Banks has shied away from presenting a place inhabited by actual humans. Instead, they have been genetically engineered to be more tractable.)