Monday, August 22, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
when reading is like a journey
Reading a book can be like embarking on a journey. Sometimes there are ups and sometimes there are downs, and sometimes things don't go the way you want them to. That's why reading a highly anticipated book by an author you hold in very high regard can be dangerous. Will he meet or fall below expectations?
Terminal World, unfortunately started out slow, meandering, unfocused and, I felt, awkward. Steampunk even futuristic isn't quite my cup of tea, and that was probably what left such a stale taste in my mouth. But, hang on, he is THE Alastair Reynolds, master extraordinaire of dark, slightly disturbing, dramatic, mind boggling, hard sci fi, space opera, once dubbed "the high priest of gothic miserablism".
Yet, as much as I was desperate for it to be, Terminal World started out not feeling like the voice of Alastair Reynolds I'd come to know from his absolutely brilliant Revelation Space novels. Everything was in place, the mysterious half-glimpses of this particular world, slightly disturbing races, the strong, believable characters, the detail, and yet, it all felt like awkward writing.. like trying to fit a square into a round hole.
It took over two hundred pages for me to really get into the book when suddenly, like a flick of a switch, everything started to flow. The writing smoothed out, the sensation that various threads were starting to come together, the rich, believable detail that allows true immersion into a world was back. I recognised his voice again. I was elated and pumped with the tingling excitement and anticipation that master storytelling elicits. I grinned. I laughed in joy. And boy, when he gets going, does he get going. I was sucked in and lost for the last half of the novel.
Frustratingly, Alastair Reynolds often ends his novels raising more questions than providing answers. What are the Mad Machines? (Why did he only introduce them right at the end?!) Who made Spearpoint? What happened that caused the Mire and Zones? How did the angels evolve? There's a gateway/wormhole/portal at the center of the planet? How did the humans end up on Mars? And why do they call it Earth? Was the race that built Spearpoint human? So, the Chinese dominated space travel (in the far future), really? Will Quillian survive? Who knows? The answers weren't there.
Without a conclusive ending, the door remains open for future sequels and revisits to that world. I'm not complaining, but I do hope answers will be eventually given not just for Terminal World, but more importantly the Revelation Space world (Who's going to stop the greenflies? Will the Pattern Jugglers make a difference? Will humanity be wiped out? What really happened to the Inhibitors? Exactly what sort of technology did the Nestbuilders/Slugs provide humanity that actually managed to stop the Inhibitors? Who are the Shadows really?).
Yes, reading is like a journey. You never know what will happen and sometimes you'll have to stick to it even if it starts out rough, but if you do, you just might get taken for a ride you'll never forget. And that's how all good fiction should be - unforgettable.
Terminal World, unfortunately started out slow, meandering, unfocused and, I felt, awkward. Steampunk even futuristic isn't quite my cup of tea, and that was probably what left such a stale taste in my mouth. But, hang on, he is THE Alastair Reynolds, master extraordinaire of dark, slightly disturbing, dramatic, mind boggling, hard sci fi, space opera, once dubbed "the high priest of gothic miserablism".
Yet, as much as I was desperate for it to be, Terminal World started out not feeling like the voice of Alastair Reynolds I'd come to know from his absolutely brilliant Revelation Space novels. Everything was in place, the mysterious half-glimpses of this particular world, slightly disturbing races, the strong, believable characters, the detail, and yet, it all felt like awkward writing.. like trying to fit a square into a round hole.
It took over two hundred pages for me to really get into the book when suddenly, like a flick of a switch, everything started to flow. The writing smoothed out, the sensation that various threads were starting to come together, the rich, believable detail that allows true immersion into a world was back. I recognised his voice again. I was elated and pumped with the tingling excitement and anticipation that master storytelling elicits. I grinned. I laughed in joy. And boy, when he gets going, does he get going. I was sucked in and lost for the last half of the novel.
Frustratingly, Alastair Reynolds often ends his novels raising more questions than providing answers. What are the Mad Machines? (Why did he only introduce them right at the end?!) Who made Spearpoint? What happened that caused the Mire and Zones? How did the angels evolve? There's a gateway/wormhole/portal at the center of the planet? How did the humans end up on Mars? And why do they call it Earth? Was the race that built Spearpoint human? So, the Chinese dominated space travel (in the far future), really? Will Quillian survive? Who knows? The answers weren't there.
Without a conclusive ending, the door remains open for future sequels and revisits to that world. I'm not complaining, but I do hope answers will be eventually given not just for Terminal World, but more importantly the Revelation Space world (Who's going to stop the greenflies? Will the Pattern Jugglers make a difference? Will humanity be wiped out? What really happened to the Inhibitors? Exactly what sort of technology did the Nestbuilders/Slugs provide humanity that actually managed to stop the Inhibitors? Who are the Shadows really?).
Yes, reading is like a journey. You never know what will happen and sometimes you'll have to stick to it even if it starts out rough, but if you do, you just might get taken for a ride you'll never forget. And that's how all good fiction should be - unforgettable.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
home is where you make it
I remember the moment when the realisation struck me. I can't remember exactly when it happened, but I do remember where. It was probably still early on in that first year; I'd come home from work, happy and still excited about being in a different country and living on my own for the first time. I'm lying on my bed on newly bought sheets, staring up at the ceiling ready to go to bed when I realise, I'm home.
It makes me smile.
It makes me smile.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
on a day off...
"Lin ayi." Goes the refrain. To my ears though, it sounds closer to "Lin hao yi".
She's a young girl, probably late primary or early secondary school age, and without fail in the afternoon, we'll hear her call to be let in. Her voice is always patient, never changing in modulation, tone or emotion. I've never heard it raised in impatience for Lin aiyi is never prompt in letting her in, and have only once heard it quicken in tempo, a verbal oh oh, after calling for almost five minutes without a response.
We never hear an answering call or a returned greeting. The only sign that her calls have been heard is the click of a closing gate and the return of silence.
I've never seen her; she calls from the other side of the opposite block but her voice is unmistakable and it's endearing, this little call from an unknown little girl. We'd grown so familiar with it such that when she didn't call one afternoon, we remarked on it. School holidays, of course.
We're usually sat on the couch in the living room, surfing the web, watching DVDs, enjoying a late lunch, when she starts calling.
"There she goes again," I say, and we both laugh and smile.
The things you hear when you're home on a day off during the week.
She's a young girl, probably late primary or early secondary school age, and without fail in the afternoon, we'll hear her call to be let in. Her voice is always patient, never changing in modulation, tone or emotion. I've never heard it raised in impatience for Lin aiyi is never prompt in letting her in, and have only once heard it quicken in tempo, a verbal oh oh, after calling for almost five minutes without a response.
We never hear an answering call or a returned greeting. The only sign that her calls have been heard is the click of a closing gate and the return of silence.
I've never seen her; she calls from the other side of the opposite block but her voice is unmistakable and it's endearing, this little call from an unknown little girl. We'd grown so familiar with it such that when she didn't call one afternoon, we remarked on it. School holidays, of course.
We're usually sat on the couch in the living room, surfing the web, watching DVDs, enjoying a late lunch, when she starts calling.
"There she goes again," I say, and we both laugh and smile.
The things you hear when you're home on a day off during the week.
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