Reading Well: The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

Posted on June 11, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Published in 2016, Colson Whitehead‘s The Underground Railroad is a very hot property: best seller, Oprah Book Club selection, and extraordinarily topical. It’s not quite a work of historical fiction, but it’s not far off: the novel traces the story of an African in the Americas as she moves from state to state, experiencing quite different forms of slavery and oppression in each.

These range from the well-worn horrors of a cotton plantation to a seemingly integrated town that is using its population of ex-slaves in various medical experiments to a state hell-bent on eliminating all dark-skinned people from its population entirely to what seems like an oasis, a commune of farms owned and maintained by free folk (whether formerly slaves or not). While these are identified as states, and while they do follow the general arc of heading first north and then west towards better conditions for Africans, I would read the specific states in much the same way I read the railroad itself, as something that functions in the book as simultaneously real and ahistorical.

There are real trains and real tracks, but there is no claim for those to be historically real. Likewise, there is no claim that South Carolina (for example) was historically like this. Instead, Colson is working with the narratives of racism that plagued America’s early years (I’m not at all implying those narratives are done, but they are, while systemically and historically linked, different in the twenty-first century than they were in the eighteenth or nineteenth). Inextricably tied to that are considerations of early capitalism: what bodies and materials can be owned, what bodies produce capital, and at what cost.

These concerns are explored with skill, and with a deep historical awareness. The main character is well-drawn, and he succeeds at a very difficult task in humanizing her beyond her suffering. She is more than a target for whippings and degradations, and that makes those moments all the more powerful.

The Underground Railroad belongs in the pantheon of important novels that wrestle with the experience of Africans in the Americas: it may not reach the breadth of Roots, or even Some Sing, Some Cry, but that is part of what is striking about it: instead of following  a family of characters over several generations, it takes a single woman through successive slices of America as an illustration of how what is often seen as progress is just as much the same systemic failures in different clothing.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Tackle these topics head on. There is clear political bent to my writing, but it’s all displaced and transposed. Whitehead has a critique of American capitalism that is explicit in the novel, and yet it is never preachy or didactic. That’s impressive to me.

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Reading Well: A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter

Posted on June 2, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

When James Salter‘s A Sport and a Pastime was published in 1967, it was immediately subject to an ongoing debate about pornography (and it does have a series of fairly explicit scenes, even by today’s standards). That did not prevent it from being hailed as a minor classic, and, of course, may indeed have helped to send it on its way towards that status.

The story is pretty simple: the narrator is spending time in a small town in France, an American comes to stay with him, and the American embarks on an affair with a French woman. Salter’s technical skills are immense: the writing is at once expansive and direct, evocative without ever being fanciful.

There are two things of note for me about A Sport and a Pastime.  First, the novel–like many contemporary works–is overwhelmingly masculine. The two perspectives that matter are the narrator’s and the American’s; the woman, easily the most described object in the book. only exists as such, without any true agency other than her reactions towards and against the behavior of the American.

Second, and far more interesting, A Sport and a Pastime is far less a novel about romance or France or sex than it is a novel about narrative truth. We are told on several occasions that much of what is recounted is invented, created out of the narrator’s fantasies. Perhaps that is what saves the short novel in the end: instead of a fairly straightforward story of erotic conquest, it becomes a slightly oblique meditation on the nature of desire and its relation to reality.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Convey the nature of characters that are both deeply embedded in a place and foreign to it. Neither the narrator nor the American (obviously) are French, yet the French countryside is its own character in the novel, and while they never belong and never lose touch of their being alien to this world, they also exist and find their way. It’s a delicate balance, and one Salter holds without swinging too far towards either farce or a sense of desolation.

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Reading Well: Lud-in-the-Mist by Hope Mirrlees

Posted on May 24, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Helen Mirrlees‘ Lud-in-the-Mist (1926) is experiencing a bit of a renaissance, probably not unrelated to Neil Gaiman’s effusive praise for it. It was never truly lost, but was hailed as an “unappreciated classic” for decades, undergoing surges of popularity and “rediscovery” in the 1940s, 1970s, and 2000s.

It is a delightful book, if a minor one, detailing the relationship between a prosperous trading village and the realm of the fairies, with which it shares a border. There is a forbidden, yet ever-present, commerce between the fairy lands and the human realms, chiefly the traffic of fairy fruit, an addictive and vaguely mystical substance, and this illicit trade marks out the primary plot points of the book, which also include staples of fairy literature: the retrieval of a child lost to the fairies, a love affair gone wrong and another gone right, etc.

Mirrlees was, from a quick perusal of her Wikipedia page, quite a character, one of who knows how many strong and talented women of a certain era largely lost or, at least, under-appreciated. Lud-in-the-Mist deserves its revival, and is a very pleasant interlude. Recommended!

#WhatIWishICouldDo

The whole fable thing. There is a focus in fables, an ability to exclude any of the questions around the story in favor of the things directly related to the movements of the underlying plot itself. That allows Lud-in-theMist to shift its focus several times as you realize the true story here is about the interactions between the fairies and the humans, and that various characters that come and go are merely incidental to that.

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Reading Well: Shadow & Claw by Gene Wolfe

Posted on May 12, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Shadow & Claw (1983) by Gene Wolfe is a little complicated in form: it contains two novels–The Shadow of the Torturer (1980) and The Claw of the Conciliator (1981)–which themselves comprise the first half of a series known as The Book of the New Sun.

It could be described in terms that are quite familiar: a student at a specialized (at least mystical, if not magical) institution undergoes a trauma that forces them to leave and wander, in search of their destiny.

And while true, that would also grossly undersell the book. The institution is compelling: the protagonist is raised in a guild devoted to the art of torture, and their place within society is never quite clear. This ambiguity extends to other parts of the society as well: the ruler may be a savior, or he may be a despot; the existence of magic is undeniable, but inexplicable; etc.

There are hints throughout Shadow & Claw of a grand destiny, of a kingship yet to be discovered. In some ways, I hope that proves untrue: Wolfe’s writing is strongest in the smaller moments, in the cast of characters encountered, and in the slow discovery of the world he has created. There is a “play within a play” element that may seem unfulfilling, but the rest of the writing more than makes up for it.

The narrative is more meandering than sweeping, and that may not be everyone’s cup of tea. It is a reminder that, perhaps as an antidote to the formulaic demands of contemporary publishing, sometimes the best thing is to wander with an author, seeing a new world through their eyes.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Wolfe is shockingly, expansively literate, to the point of creating an entirely new lexicon of invented, yet highly believable terms. Fuligin, the color darker than black; thalamegii, a boat powered by magic; metamynodon, a domesticated beast of burden. And that ignores the words that are obscure or entirely out of circulation that he revives: carnifex, anagnost, nidorous, quaesitor.

The intelligence sparkles throughout the text, yet somehow without being either overly obtuse or off-putting. That’s quite an accomplishment.

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Reading Well: Horns by Joe Hill

Posted on April 30, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Horns is a taut novel that, while strongly supernatural, stops short of being a work of horror. The premise is relatively simple: one day, the protagonist wakes up having grown horns which, among other effects, make others reveal their darkest desires to him (they also lead to him eventually being followed around by hundreds of snakes, so there’s that).

It’s an interesting premise, even if the warping effect where everyone’s secrets arc towards hate, spite, and deviancy is never really probed. Layered on top of this is a truly amoral character, someone who, it turns out, is far more evil and dangerous than the demonic impact of the horns.

It’s a contemporary page-turner, well written, creepy in all the right spots, and with just enough character development to make you care about how the various storylines all end up.

The use of set and setting is notable: there are a few distinct locations that are introduced, become iconic, and are present both in the current story line and in various memories and flashbacks. It works well to ground a supernatural story in some solid realism. It also contributes to my sense that I can’t imagine there aren’t discussions of a movie in the works …

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I’ve written this before, but, plot. The pace is good, there are surprising twists and turns, and it all comes together in a satisfying climax and denouement.

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Reading Well: Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver

Posted on April 18, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Barbara Kingsolver‘s Prodigal Summer (2000) is a lovely book. But it’s Kingsolver: we expect no less. There are three adjacent plot lines throughout the book: each chapter, save one, is titled Predators, Old Chestnuts, or Moth Love, and while the characters are either related or known to each other, the storylines never truly overlap.

The characters are compelling, and the depth of emotional insight that Kingsolver displays is remarkable; again, we expect no less. This is also very much a novel of place: the single mountain and valley in Tennessee that holds the action is as much a character as any of the humans, as are the animals, especially the moths and a wayward pack of coyotes.

The strength of the novel is its exploration of relationship–of a love that is lost, of one that may be gained, and of one that surprises; and it is there–in the emotions and the reactions of its characters, especially the women–that Kingsolver’s skill shines through brightest. If that sounds interesting, Prodigal Summer is very highly recommended. It’s not The Poisonwood Bible, but it’s damn fine fiction.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Capture a place with the elegance and evocative skill that Kingsolver demonstrates. It’s not just that nature is highly present, but that a specific location is made so real. That adds a level of world-building that deepens the environment around the characters significantly.

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Reading Well: Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

Posted on April 2, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Binti (2015) is the second science fiction book by Nnedi Okorafor to hit Reading Well (The Book of Phoenix was the first; Lagoon will be the third sometime over the next few months). Book may be an overstatement: Binti is a novella at most, a slim volume that details a young girl’s decision to leave her homeland to study higher mathematics at the most prestigious university in the known galaxies. And, the tragedy that befalls her on the way.

It is a work of great invention, and marvelously done. The protagonist–a young girl named Binti–is drawn with clear strokes, in terms of both her motivations and her fears, as well as the struggle to make the choice to leave her family, her village, her tribe, and her home planet, a choice that carries with it a high degree of social stigma. There are three main cultural groups in the story: Binti’s own (an extreme ethnic minority on the planet), the dominant majority on the planet (which carries an extremely paternalistic view of Binti’s people), and a vaguely jellyfish-like alien life form, who are embroiled in endless conflict with that dominant majority and largely ignorant of the existence of Binti’s people.

Ultimately, the story is hopeful: Binti is placed in a difficult and potentially deadly situation and has to find within herself the fortitude and the courage to triumph. A slim volume that sparkles with intelligence and vision, it delivers far more than the time required to read it.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Publish a story of roughly this length. Because, you know, I have one. Also, I love Okorafor’s choices about what to explain, what to imply, and what to refer to in passing without further detail–that is the trick of wold-building. It’s not in endless histories and mind-numbing lineages; it’s in the small things, the details that add richness and thickness to the cultures being created.

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Reading Well: Gardens of the Moon by Steven Erikson

Posted on March 22, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

With Gardens of the Moon (1999), Steven Erikson kicks off a ten novel series, called The Malazan Book of the Fallen. The book introduces a complex world, rife with magic and political intrigue, and poised on the edge of a continent-spanning war.

The book moves between several storylines that eventually come together, but not before blurring the idea of exactly who the protagonist of the tale may be: several are offered, and a few are revealed to be less than savory in the end (not that that alone prohibits them being a novel’s protagonist).

The world-building is impressive, spanning hundreds of thousands of years and including the presentation of a varied and intriguing system of magic, separated into various flavors each with its own strengths and weaknesses. The characters are well drawn: if largely taken from stock portraits, they are fleshed out in interesting and engaging ways.

The plots are creative and convoluted, and often hinge on the kind of twist common to the genre, where history often turns on a single dramatic action and the characters, varied as they are, represent large swaths of the world’s populations.

My suspicion is that the world only grows in richness throughout the series, and if that sounds appealing, the series may indeed be for you!

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Just go with it. Erikson’s magical system of warrens is interesting, and provides some of the most compelling moments of the novel. It is also less than fully-fleshed out, and the relationship of the mage to their chosen flavor of magic is not always evident (although, of course, this may be addressed in later books in the series). I find myself unable to plunge ahead with that sort of thing without figuring out all of the implications of its internal logic first, something that can certainly hold me back in my writing.

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Reading Well: Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee

Posted on March 11, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

J.M. Coetzee is one of the great writers of the second half of the twentieth century, so the raw skill and sophistication of Disgrace (1999) are no surprise.

The novel–like much of Coetzee’s writing–can be read as a struggle to make sense of the human cost of South African society, and the context matters quite a bit as the initial themes–middle aged men using their power to have affairs, the search for connection and meaning in bland lives–are more universal than local. But, what comes next, which involves an incident of startling brutality that is shared by father and daughter, can only be understood within the local context.

There is a tension in the novel that remains unresolved to the end: on the one hand, it is the father’s book, told from his perspective and through his eyes; on the other, it is his daughter’s reaction to her rape and his beating which attempts to articulate a different stance towards violence and power in a country caught in the final throes of official apartheid (this is not mentioned directly in the text as much as inferred from the era in which it is set).

Regardless, it’s a moving, poignant book. It does not proffer any answers, easy or otherwise, but it does allow us to stare without flinching at several manifestations of the human condition. That’s pretty strong.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

It would be false to say Coetzee never users metaphors, but it’s pretty close. I rely on evocative descriptions all over the place: to write this directly, this cleanly, yet to do so without sacrificing an iota of emotional impact or sensation just amazes me.

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Reading Well: The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps by Kai Ashante Wilson

Posted on March 1, 2017 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Kai Ashante Wilson‘s The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps (2015) is a book in grave danger of being overly and overtly pigeon-holed, which makes it hard to write about. On the one hand, it’s easy to focus on it’s Afrocentric focus, especially the dialog, as his juxtaposition of a variety of African-American patter (contemporary urban, southern, even a Francophone patois) in a fantasy setting is striking, and highly successful. But that would obscure the larger brilliance of this short book, which lies along two axes.

First, there is the language, and the way Ashante Wilson’s sentences fracture and reform. This is sparkling, effervescent writing, full of surprising moments of linguistic creativity. It doesn’t work one hundred percent of the time, but when it does, it manages to dance that fine line between a page-turning romp set at the boundaries of magic and science and a work focused on literary creativity and innovation.

Second, and even more importantly, the two central characters are sketched with such compassion that their interactions are delightful, and their love affair compelling. Each are demigods, much-removed descendants from families of deities. Their affection for each other, as well as their supernatural powers, must be concealed in public throughout the novel, which is handled deftly and realistically: their surreptitious embraces are all the more sweet, which is well conveyed.

This book left me wanting more: more of Ashante Wilson’s voice, more diversity in the genres in general, and more of this specific world–the history is tantalizing, and the setting could easily hold further adventures.

Again, it is a genre novel, but if the genre appeals, it is highly recommended.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

The creativity of the language sparkles. I am often struck by how grammar-bound I am: some freedom and creativity along those dimensions could serve me well.

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