Station Eleven (2011) by Emily St. John Mandel

There are a number of things to like in Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven.

The structure of the book is scattered, but not overly so. She manages it with admirable skill, always varying the experience for the reader and never feeling too disorganized or too jarring in her transitions. The variety in formats, settings, and time periods for any given chapter are quite compelling and serve to keep the experience fresh and engaging. I particularly enjoyed the bits of epistolary and loved how they changed up the narrative.

Additionally, St. John Mandel is subdued, effective writer of prose and a skilled writer of characters. Although I felt a bit tired of the the-way-it-used-to-be bits and thought she went back to the well a bit too often in that regard, I did very much enjoy her exploration of her characters' feelings. Character was the big winner for me in Station Eleven. I felt engaged and drawn to characters like Arthur and Miranda, particularly. By the end I grew to dislike Arthur, but he felt like a real human being to me, whereas he could have come off as a flimsy caricature of the typical Hollywood actor. Miranda, likewise, is fresh and entertaining as a career-oriented corporate type who manages, miraculously, not to be insufferable. Both characters feel well-rounded and both are stumbling through life, attempting to find contentment. I enjoyed their narratives.

However, Station Eleven falters in how cliched its post-apocalypse setting feels.

Initially the premise is unique and interesting: A traveling theater troupe in a ruined world! What an idea. The promise of existentialist themes drew me in immediately and it was, indeed, what got me to pick up this book in the first place. Survival is not enough is an idea I find compelling and worthy of exploration. Unfortunately the post-apocalypse narrative doesn't do very much with its unique premise or its stated themes. Instead it tends to rely on tried-and-true post apocalypse tropes that you've seen and heard a thousand times before. Scavenging in ruined locales, human beings falling prey to savagery, and, of course, the stale, overused meme that is religious-nutjobs-in-the-apocalypse. I found the character of the prophet to be so dry and uninteresting I couldn't even manage to bring myself to be repulsed by his cackling, boring evildoing.

I suppose it's possible that much of the past decade's post-apocalypse fiction has spoiled Station Eleven for me with the Seinfeld effect, but so much of it is so stale at this point that I couldn't bring myself to enjoy almost any of the post-apocalypse scenes. Fiction such as The Walking Dead and The Last of Us have already depicted these post-apocalyptic tropes so much more skillfully, more well-rounded, more engaging than Station Eleven does that I ended up feeling like this book including its post-apocalypse content as a selling point—"Nerds love post-apocalyptic shit!"—when St. John Mandel really wanted to tell a story about Arthur and his many failures, Miranda and her successes, and so on. For me, the latter is far more interesting and engaging than the former, and I wish this book had leaned more heavily on exploring these interesting characters and spent far less time in the post-apocalypse sandbox where so many others have already built and left superior sandcastles before.

⭐⭐

Neuromancer (1984) by William Gibson

So much of cyberpunk attempts to ape Gibson's style without realizing what makes it so special. Blade Runner is set in a broken world of dark grays and synthetic food. No sunlight, fake humans, broken society. The Matrix is a post-apocalyptic science fiction epic in which human life has been all but extinguished, taken over by humorless robots. Cyberpunk media nowadays often depicts human society on death's doorstep, hanging on by a thread. The world, and, by extension, its rulers—our human species—are already dead. We just don't know it yet.

William Gibson may be a cynical bastard, his bleak outlook sometimes bordering on dark humor, but his world is anything but dead. On the contrary, it's packed so full to the brim of living, writhing humanity that it jumps out at you on nearly every page.

He remembered the litter of the old man's chamber, the soiled humanity of it, the ragged spines of the old audio disks in their paper sleeves. One foot bare, the other in a velvet slipper.

This isn't the romantic life-begets-life, happy-go-lucky style of humanity, but the Dostoyevskian irrationality of the human animal on full display. Gibson's characters are hopeless drug addicts, violent malcontents, sexual deviants, empty shells filled with emotional scar tissue. But through all of this, they're intensely human. They're equal parts numbness and societal ennui as they are emotionally wild, angry, lustful. They make poor financial decisions on a whim, they get high before a big job with full knowledge that the comedown will affect their capabilities, they become emotional and, by extension, reckless; which puts them in great danger. Neuromancer bleeds humanity—a special sort of irony for a science fiction novel about the activities of an artificial intelligence, and one which was penned in the 1980s. And so much of what makes this novel special for me is an all-powerful artificial intelligence being faced with such irrationality. It's brilliant and impactful and caused a lengthy bout of introspection for me in which I identified certain episodes of my life in which I, myself, had acted so irrationally.

As unpredictable as the human animal is, the end tally of all of our actions often seem angled toward the same goal: Happiness. Fleeting as it is, impossible as our chase for sustained contentedness might be, we still reach for it. With hard drugs the night before a big job, with lustful, meaningless sex, with pointless consumerism.

Gibson's world is special in its richness, density, texture, and the layers present in each new locale our dirty, globe-hopping "protagonists" set foot: There's new tech on top of slightly out of date tech on top of corrugated iron, rust, broken pipes, and dirt which seem as if they're relics of the 19th century. Gibson's gift for layering his world is readily apparent and his scene-setting opening paragraphs are exquisite and unforgettable. His admirable quality as a writer of prose only enhances the impact of such stage-setting. It's a pleasure slipping into Gibson's world, and such is certainly why this novel continues to remain popular decades after its publishing.

The grungey hipsterism this book constantly displays is fully campy, almost corny, but somehow it all works. There's such an original feel represented by this world, its characters, and this plot. It's quite unlike anything else, science fiction or otherwise. Neuromancer deals with technology slipping its lead and running amok, and it deals with humanity's betrayal of itself through its own irrationality. The prescience of the former made it a noteworthy science fiction novel on its release; the latter makes a continually impactful work that is still widely read and enjoyed to this day.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

Abaddon's Gate (2013) (The Expanse, #3) by James S.A. Corey

There's a cardinal sin of fiction in which the writer (or in this case, writers) stop using their characters to work through questions and predicaments they find interesting, and begin using them to lecture their readers and pontificate instead on the solutions the writers believe to be correct. If I want to be instructed, I'll read non-fiction. When I pick up fiction, it's to exercise my empathy muscle and to gain valuable context to use via the lived experience of others, so that I may arrive at my own conclusions with as much information and emotional experience as possible. Fiction provides this in a way which non-fiction does not; it allows us to experience emotions that we'd never be in a position to experience in real life. I will likely never travel in a space ship. I will surely (hopefully?) never come into contact with alien technology. I will likely never be in a crew like the one in the Rocinante, nor will I experience a political conflict like the one between Earth and Mars. I read series like Expanse to try and sample how I might apply my own moral compass in reaction to such things. I don't read it to have the authors tell me how I should be solving the problems that arise within this world.

I bring this up because a strength of Corey's Expanse series is its characters. The crew of the Rocinante work really well together on the page. They have a really endearing dynamic, and each are memorable in their own way. They call forth a Kingesque vibe of the lovable losers; people who are altogether competent, but have suffered some downturn in their lives which have placed them on the path of the less fortunate. It's enjoyable riding along with them and watching them grow. They feel like friends.

Unfortunately there are notable instances in this book in which certain characters stop talking like themselves, and start speaking with the voice of the authors. You can feel the writers' hands on the scales as they artificially manipulate dialogue and character interaction to make a point, which is never good. Nobody wants to feel like they're reading propaganda, and at times that's what Expanse feels like. Of course, some great writers do this quite often, but James S.A. Corey—in my opinion—are not skilled enough writers to pull it off in a way which feels natural. Done wrong, it's crippling. And in Expanse, it's jarring and immersion-breaking, causing me to wonder where the characters I've known and grown to like have gone, and why the authors are choosing so obviously to insert their own voices in these characters' mouths. Characters will pull a complete one-eighty on a decision they've just made in less than a page, and suddenly say something like "wow, jeez, I am such an asshole! That was wrong of me!". This is clearly not a natural piece of character growth—it's the author appearing within the story, and letting the reader know they think their character is being an asshole and is wrong. True change in a deeply held opinion does not occur like this in human beings; people will often break before they bend. True change in opinion requires catastrophe, pain, tragedy, and James S.A. Corey do not seem to understand that. When things like this occur in the story, it breaks the characters completely, rendering them flimsy cardboard cut-outs of the human beings they used to be to us. And it's frequently glaringly obvious why the writers are doing it—They want to speak from on high to their readers by creating a contrived situation in which their character does something the writers find distasteful, and then continuing by lecturing their readers on how wrong it is through the mouth of said character. It's insulting and amateurish. Allow your characters to be human, and grant your readers the benefit of the doubt in that they might read the situation correctly. The best fiction presents complex, inspired problems and allows its characters to approach solving these problems from various different positions. If the writer is writing fiction to teach their readers a lesson, their fiction is probably shit.

Although I do enjoy the characters when they're themselves and not James S.A. Corey, Expanse's strength has always been in the fresh world Corey have created. It's nice reading a space opera which preserves the laws of physics, rather than handwaves them away with technology so advanced it may as well be magic (looking at you, Mass Effect). Expanse's political dynamic between Earth, Mars, and the belt is engrossing and intriguing, and it plays off of very human aspects such as prejudice, fear of the unknown, and greed. It all works really well and it's the single strongest aspect of this series that keeps me coming back.

In addition to their falling victim to speaking through their characters' mouths, Corey are not very skilled writers of prose. Maybe this is just me donning my book-snob hat for a go at the new and popular thing, but there are notable instances of clumsy prose that seem, to my ear, to require editing (and if anybody's an expert on shit prose, it's me, lemme tell ya).

It was the smart thing. The wise one. He was neither smart nor wise.

 

An hour or two with some structural steel and a couple welders and the place could be almost defensible. He hoped it wouldn’t need to be. Except that he hoped it would.

Egad.

I can excuse some shoddy sentences if the book is strongly plotted, and Expanse usually is. However I've noticed, particularly in Abaddon's Gate, that the authors have begun to press a thumb on the scale in their plotting in the same groan-inducing way they tend to speak through their characters' mouths in order to lecture their readers. There are multiple instances in Abaddon's Gate in which the plot is clearly manipulated by impossibly coincidental circumstances that challenge the reader's suspension of disbelief in order to get the plot to where the writers clearly want it to go. Characters will make unlikely jumps to conclusions in order to facilitate the decision the writers want them to make. Characters will show up just in the nick of time to save someone's life.

There's one particularly egregious instance at about the midway point of the book in which one of the key character's lives is at stake. At first I congratulated Corey, as killing this character would have taken admirable writing cojones, and the waves created from the character's death would have significantly impacted all of the characters in the story, thus changing several major characters and putting them on a darker turn and presenting them with new challenges that I'd have found fascinating, and further propelling them down the road of change.

But it doesn't happen. Instead of being a fantastic, growth-inducing moment, it's played for a cheap thrill, because ultimately, that's the kind of story Expanse is. When the chips are down, Corey make it clear that their story has no real aspirations of affecting its readers in a profound way. Instead, it becomes a schlocky, disposable network television soap opera. A character who has no reason to spare their victim suddenly hesitates for no reason, then another character shows up, coincidentally, just in the nick of time, and prevents the murder from occurring. It's really too bad, because such a turn would have been really intriguing.

This sort of thing happens regularly, and it's disappointing. This series was originally created as a world in which to set a roleplaying game, and it shows, because worldbuilding is the only thing it does truly well. Expanse could have been so much more. It could have been ambitious; the framework (its worldbuilding and character construction) is in place for it to become a space opera with literary aspirations, dedicated to exploring big ideas and challenging the humanity of its characters. Instead, it relies on flimsy and artificial character turns and clichéd, convenient plot turns. It leans too heavily on these ultimately disposable turns that serve only to get the reader's gander up for a dozen pages or so, before dissipating in a typically wimpy manner common to most low-effort fiction. Thus it ends up affecting nothing at all, and the entire series is relegated to an airport-read-for-nerds that will be forgotten just a few weeks after the reader has finished consuming it. 

Expanse is a sugary treat, one which is enjoyable at the moment, but ultimately not satiating in the same way a hearty meal such as A Song of Ice and Fire aspires to, and is. Despite what Corey frequently say, it has no true aspirations to telling a human story and affecting its readers. It just likes to think that it does. And so Expanse is, to me, one of the few works of fiction that makes for a better television series than it does a novel series.

⭐

Fahrenheit 451 (1953) by Ray Bradbury

There's a special king of ire you can raise among fans of the Star Wars franchise by suggesting the whole damn thing isn't science fiction at all, but rather fantasy in space. Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 mines a similar vein of having all the trappings of science fiction present simply for genre appeal, but it features none of the intelligence that makes the subgenre compelling in the first place.

Fahrenheit has futuristic fireproof structures, robots who butter bread for their humans, and houses constructed entirely of television-screen-walls. This book has got a glossy coat of science fictiony paint, but peel off that outer layer and you'll find that what's underneath is a pretty bog standard, empty-headed dystopia with very little concern for the actual science (both soft and hard) portion of the science fiction moniker.

This might not seem very important given the book is a dystopia first and a science fiction novel second, but the real bone I have to pick with Bradbury is how flatly this book falls on its face when considering the soft sciences it relies on to build its world and thus make its point about where Western civilization was headed in the 1950s and 1960s with the advent of the television. Bradbury's book lacks both the intelligent foresight of Huxley's Brave New World and the strong narrative structure of Orwell's 1984 and replaces it with little else but his rampant insecurity and incapable worldbuilding, the latter of which is perhaps what was most offensive about Fahrenheit 451. Bradbury's creation is artificial, incoherent, and completely falls apart if you think about it for more than 5 minutes.

Bradbury would have us that government has replaced books and classic liberal thinking with television as a control device. He'd have us believe that liberal arts have been all but abolished. Classic subjects in the western canon such as literature and history are no longer taught, replaced with seemingly vapid and obedience-inducing classes on television and sports and various other opiates-of-the-people. A scary thought, especially to his core audience of folks who enjoy reading literature—myself included.

But, with the absence of these classes, which are fundamental to a child's ability to learn in the first place, how are these characters even literate? Why is there a need to burn books at all when such a civilization would presumably be incapable of producing an adult capable of reading one? Further, what kind of education provides the bedrock for a civilization with such advanced robotics and technology as are present in Fahrenheit 451? Who is designing these groundbreaking new pieces of technology when children are supposedly not even taught to think critically in any fashion whatsoever? How is this society still capable of urban planning and complex public transportation? Air flight? War? The extraordinary new technologies our modern society is populated with are far from a given, which is why they've never existed in the tens of thousands of years of human civilization until just the past century. Bradbury's poor worldbuilding betrays a lack of understanding of how a modern, developed society even functions. Ironically, this book doesn't seem to understand the importance of basic critical thinking and open-mindedness to a functioning, wealthy society, despite railing against its potential extinction and rallying Bradbury's readers behind the importance of these ideas. The flimsiness and logical incoherence of Bradbury's world — something that should be the foundation on which the rest of the story converts itself organically via its plot and characters into the points he seems to want to make — wrecks the entire thing. It's infuriating, and I refuse to keep reading it.

It's a popular notion that the best children's literature is also enjoyable for adults. Fahrenheit 451 is the opposite; it's literature for adults that's so stunted and poorly conceived that it could only be genuinely enjoyed and resonant to teenagers. This is straw fiction set up by a grumbling fan of the medium of the novel who views new technology as a perversion of everything he loves. It's a pontification about the evils of stuff he hates that other people are wrong to like. It's a book with a message that works only on the outermost surface and fails at every deeper level within.

Fahrenheit 451 is "old man yells at cloud" dressed up in fancy clothes. It's old folks in the '30s telling you that jazz is just noise, in the '50s telling you that television will rot your brain, in the '70s telling you that KISS are satanists, in the '90s telling you that video games will make you shoot up schools. If this book succeeds as a cautionary tale or a prompt towards open-mindedness, it does so accidentally, in showing the dangers of becoming so secure in your own bubble that you end up dismissing new forms of media outright, rather than considering the potential strengths of such new media. Look at what television has done in the decades since Bradbury penned this novel. Some of the most successful creations of artistry have been created in this new golden age of television.

I've had one run-in with Mr. Bradbury in the past and found him so reliant on simile and purple-prose as to be unreadable. I suppose the best thing I could say about Fahrenheit 451 is that it's far more readable than Something Wicked This Way Comes, but instead of trying hard to be literary with its prose, it tries hard to be literary with its themes. Unfortunately, it fails in this manner just as badly.

Sorry Ray, but I think I hate your work.

⭐

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (1985) by Haruki Murakami

As part of Murakami's early oeuvre, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World stumbles a bit in its execution. He was clearly still perfecting his ability to blend these ideas into a meaningful narrative. Hard-Boiled takes a long time to get going, and it's the most exposition-loaded Murakami novel I've ever read (and I've read quite a few at this point), but there's a reason for that. This is a book with an exceptionally big brain: Murakami has long been inventive and imaginative, but Hard-Boiled sees him dipping into science fiction for the first time, exploring notions of transhumanism, biocryptography (is that a thing? it is now), and altering levels of consciousness.

Unfortunately, to make room for such a large brain, it seems to lack a heart. While Murakami's protagonists are usually steeped in malaise and postmodern ennui, I've always related to them on some level. But I found little reason to care about the protagonist in Hard-Boiled, or any other character within its pages. I found myself wishing for a genuine antagonist, as well—I felt Murakami didn't go far enough with the potential mad scientist angle. So while this book tickled my brain, it seldom made me feel any emotion or root for or against any of its characters—something rare, considering Murakami has remained affecting to me despite reading quite a few of his works. It's got a lot of big ideas, but it's light on narrative, and thus reads more like a cloud of neat stuff to think about than an actual story.

That's not to say it isn't a worthwhile read, though. I've never seen Murakami this direct with his weirdness. He's more focused on exploring these themes and ideas than I've yet seen and he manages to remain topical throughout the novel, whereas in other books I feel he dithers about in too ambiguous a manner and often throws stuff at the wall to see what sticks rather than proceeding with a specific idea in mind to explore.

If you're a fan of science fiction and you like reading about big ideas then you'll probably love this. But if you're interested in reading a story and relating to the struggles and changes of human characters, this will leave you wanting in the same way it did me.

It's not a bad book. It's just not to my taste. I've always preferred Murakami's more concrete work (rare among his readers, I know), but I still enjoyed the places he took my brain with Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. I just had trouble finding a reason to care about all of the mind-bending window dressing beyond thinking "oh, that's interesting".

⭐⭐

I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream (1967) by Harlan Ellison

I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream has an intriguing premise, but that's about all. That and torture porn, I guess.

There's not really any science fiction here beyond the premise of an artificial intelligence hating and torturing the final few remnants of humanity in ways that are viscerally horrifying to a human reader. There's no attempt at an explanation as to how it can do the things it does; materializing various objects, mending injuries through mid-air, and altering the humans genetically. Nothing really happens for any reason because there aren't any rules explained to the reader, which causes the climactic action to have little payoff. The characters are shallow and the unreliable narrator never really amounts to anything, but as I read I found I had most problems with the lack of worldbuilding and wanted some basic framework to what was happening and why.

There are quite a few holes, even for a short story. These people have been stuck in here for a hundred years, yet none have thought to commit suicide? The computer can wirelessly and instantly alter their DNA, can keep them from death... Except it can't at the climax of the story? 

Why? Because Ellison decided so?

I'm pretty disappointed with this read as I expected much more. Is it horrifying? Sure, but it lacks any real impact. It reads more like Ellison came up with an interesting premise but didn't know how to explore it, and resorted to shocking tortureporn in place of an actual, impactful narrative—horrifying or otherwise.

It must have been a unique premise back in 1967, and it certainly features some inventive ways of shocking the audience, but its lack of depth renders its attempt at a shocking conclusion ultimately unsatisfying.

⭐

Revelation Space (2000) by Alastair Reynolds

Woeful storytelling, glacial pacing, and absent characterization plague a novel otherwise full of intriguing, fresh science fiction ideas.

There were a number of out-of-the-blue character developments that left me scratching my head to the point of wondering if I'd actually skipped a chapter. Sylveste somehow falls in love with and marries his captor, yet we never hear a single smitten thought in his head or see a sole romantic action expressed. It just sort of... Happens. Similarly, Khouri is coerced into a course of action with the potential reward of being reunited with her long lost husband, and throughout the entire rest of the book she thinks about their history, her feelings for him, and how rewarding it will be to be reunited precisely zero times.

These characters almost wholly lack depth, and thus they lack any agency with which to impact the story. They are shuttled along from event to event by Reynolds as if they're cardboard cutouts being placed on stage by his hands. Because of this I found the book dreadfully bland despite some legitimately interesting worldbuilding such as the melding plague, strong transhumanist themes (of which I've been a fan for as long as I can remember), and the simple, satisfying, enticing solution Reynolds provides for the Fermi Paradox.

Suitable for hard science fiction fans, but passable for those interested in even a basic standard of storytelling or mildly interesting characters.

⭐⭐

The Gap into Conflict: The Real Story (1990) (The Gap Cycle, #1) by Stephen R. Donaldson

I came into this one pretty free of any prior expectations, going only off of a set of solid recommendations from Redditors who praised the series as a well-written space opera. I was pleasantly surprised with a relatively straightforward story, propelled forward by Donaldson's strong prose and excellent characterization. After a few of the early chapters I peeked at the top reviews on Goodreads and was surprised to see that several reviewers indicated shock and disgust at where Donaldson went with the story.

I continued. It's true that Donaldson doesn't hold much back in his characterization of a sociopathic, sadistic protagonist whose qualities as a survivor don't come so much from innate intelligence as they do from instincts honed by years of survival via selfish cowardice. Angus is a weakling who happens to be good at surviving and when handed power he uses it without conscience. This is certainly not a book for children. Or teenagers. Or even adults with sensitive stomachs. I was glad to have steeled myself beforehand.

I've seen some claims of misogyny targeted at the character of Angus Thermopyle but I tend not to agree with them. Angus strikes me as more of a sadist; an insecure, weak man who assures himself of his own superiority by hurting and humiliating his adversaries... And anyone else unfortunate enough to find themselves in his way. That the particular person this barrage of misery happens to fall upon is female seems inconsequential. Angus doesn't hate her because of her gender, he simply uses her gender as an opportunity to inflict more pain upon her. In this case it seems the severe physical and sexual abuse depicted in the novel is more about the offender than the victim. Angus, though obviously a reprehensible human being, is not less interesting to read for all his despicable actions in The Real Story. I imagine my fascination with his character is not unlike those who can't get enough of the numerous works written examining the psychology of a Manson or a Dahmer, or a Hitler or Pol Pot.

This could be a difficult read for those not well-briefed on what type of book they're about to read. There are no bright lights at the end of this tunnel, but there is excellent writing and a superbly interesting character study if that's your type of thing.

I found it well worth the read, if a bit lacking in meat. At just over 200 pages this felt more like a novella (which I later learned it actually is), and though I enjoyed it, I felt a bit disappointed that there wasn't more to chew on. I came into this expecting a space opera but was pleasantly surprised at the limited scope and more narrow focus. I look forward to continuing the series just to see where Donaldson takes these characters. There's real potential for some great growth and development.

Further note: I've since learned that there exist editions of this novella that are combined with the second book to form a single novel. If you can find it, go for that one.

⭐⭐⭐

Use of Weapons (1990) (The Culture, #3) by Iain M. Banks

Banks' books don't always hit on all cylinders for me, but his sheer creativity and brainpower make this series so enticing. I get the sense, whenever reading him, that he's a dude who's way smarter than me. And his mind is capable of going into spaces so dark I couldn't possibly come up with them myself. Yet, even so, what's so appealing about this series is it's one of the first true utopias I've read that actually manages to still feature compelling conflict.

The ending of this book is phenomenal, and its main character turned out to be a poignant and sympathetic anti-hero for me even after the reveal contained in its conclusion. But its strange structure made it a chore to read when compared to other Culture novels.

Still a worthwhile read. I love being made to feel dumb by Banks.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

Notable Highlights:

“He lay, often, looking at her sleeping face in the new light that fell in through the open walls of the strange house, and he stared at her skin and hair with his mouth open, transfixed by the quick stillness of her, struck dumb with the physical fact of her existence as though she was some careless star-thing that slept on quite unaware of its incandescent power; the casualness and ease with which she slept there amazed him; he couldn't believe that such beauty could survive without some superhumanly intense conscious effort.”

—

"In all human societies we have ever reviewed, in every age and every state, there has seldom if ever been a shortage of eager young males prepared to kill and die to preserve the security, comfort and prejudices of their elders, and what you call heroism is just an expression of this simple fact; there is never a scarcity of idiots.”

—

“The bomb lives only as it is falling.”

Dark Matter by Blake Crouch

I really don't read too much stuff like this so I'm not sure how great I'm going to be at reviewing it.

'Twist' books like this are always highly recommendable before they're too talked about and the twist is inevitably ruined by its presence in pop culture, which spoils it for people by sheer existential osmosis (looking at you, A Game of Thrones). I feel like I could recommend Dark Matter to my mom, a teenager, a hooker, a priest; you name it. It might be a little bit too mind-bending for idiots, I suppose. But it's pretty consumable, which is a testament to Crouch's talent as a writer.

I consider myself a pretty adept truffle pig when it comes to sniffing out twists and curveballs, and I thought I had this book totally figured out very early on. From the first scene in the car, in fact. I want to try really hard not to spoil anything, so I'll just say that this book did not at all go where I thought it was going. Crouch turns it up to eleven and he completely blew me away. It finishes spectacularly and I found it incredibly satisfying to carve through its climax.

Reading this is like reading Murakami if he were a humorless theoretical physicist rather than a hopeless romantic dreamer. Dark Matter is very concrete and it lacks any poetry or ambiguity. There's nothing too profound going on here. When you whittle away the bells and whistles it's basically just a mind-bending thriller. But sometimes that's enough. It's so tightly plotted and it surprises you so effectively that I'd feel comfortable recommending it to just about anybody.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

READING PROGRESS

September 18, 2016 – Started Reading

September 18, 2016 – 

page 312

  

  91.23%

September 18, 2016 – Finished Reading

Dune by Frank Herbert

Dune fits pretty standardly into the realm of modern day science fiction despite being crafted more than fifty years ago. I suppose that's an achievement in and of itself.

It's impressive that Herbert created this world in an absolute vacuum. That is, there was simply nothing like it when it was written, and it's inspired almost all of the genre media that's come after it. Star Wars, of course, is the obvious one. But there are others, too; perhaps even some you wouldn't consider. George R.R. Martin's fiercely popular A Song of Ice and Fire series shares a lot of its root DNA with Dune. It's a fantastic accomplishment in the history of literature because it's one of the rare examples of the creation of something so completely unique that it shifts the entire paradigm of everything that comes afterwards.

But I can't say I really enjoyed reading it all that much. I'm not a huge fan of genre fiction to begin with, so take this review with a grain of salt. I know plenty of fantasy and science fiction fans who have gobbled up Herbert's stuff and loved it. But to me, it features much of the same drawbacks to other genre fiction I've consumed and felt so-so about. Awkward, droning exposition and shallow characterization—specifically regarding Paul Atreides—are my chief complaints. However, just like other genre fiction that keeps drawing me back in, it features spectacular worldbuilding and an immersive factor that's hard to find outside of good historical fiction, science fiction, and fantasy.

My suspicion is that there's a real "Seinfeld is Unfunny" trope going on with this book for me. Perhaps I'm not equipped to recognize its value since I didn't first experience it in its contemporary atmosphere; the one in which nothing quite like this was produced. But reading it in the 21st century, in my personal opinion, leaves a lot to be desired. In my judgment it fits squarely into the pack of other genre fiction being produced.

Sacrilege, I know.

⭐⭐