Name of the Game

Summer is really the best time to sink your literary teeth into a new fantasy epic, in my opinion. Past years have seen me undertaking such new world's as Frank Herbert's Dune and Isaac Asimov's Foundation series, both epics in their own right (though, if you've read my past views on the matter, one was clearly superior). So, when the weather started heating up and Seattle hit its high point - temperature-wise - for the year, you can only guess what I grabbed off of the top of my ARC pile: something dense and immense, with some serious intensity, that would also allow me to soak up as much of the blissful air conditioning in the house as I possibly could.

Django Wexler's The Thousand Names follows the timely topic of a country in revolt, led by the people of the Khandarai, religious zealots attempting to drive out their usurping overlords - the Vordanai - back to their homeland. Their plan is primarily successful, until the arrival of a new Vordanai colonel changes the tide of war, and the history of the country, by using secretive and unusual powers, the likes of which no one has ever seen...

The set-up adheres pretty closely to the standard set by most contemporary science fiction: a land, foreign and strange, thrust into turmoil; warring factions of uncivilized natives versus the more organized and developed foreigners; new languages; mysterious artifacts; magic and myth; etc. However, even though the world's tropes were pretty standard to the genre, the construction was flawless. Science fiction doesn't come with an IKEA set of instructions; even with the standard gear and moving points, it is still a difficult genre to develop correctly, and Wexler managed that to perfection.

Furthermore, even though some elements to the novel were pretty standard, they were presented through an entirely new scope and scale: I've seen rebellion, revolution, and the unseating of monarchs, in too many epic fantasy/ sci-fi masterpieces to count (for example, the most often used, "depose the evil ruler(s) by returning the rightful heir to the throne" bit that I am too tired of and don't want to see ever again), but this time, it was done in a new, fresh way, through the scope of colonialism. The side was not with the natives, an aggressive and religiously-oriented group of "gray skins," but with the "pale-faced" usurpers.

The characters were pretty standard to the genre as well, with the focus of the narrative being extracted primarily from the ranks of the opposing war forces - both of them, though primarily the Vordanai military organizations - and hence, the majority were also men. There were a few standout female characters in the bunch, which I was immensely happy to see, but I was also a little bit disappointed in their treatment (most of them honestly might as well have been guys, too).

The fact that the book is approximately 75% descriptions of tactical army maneuvers was surprising to me, being that I'd never experienced that in a book before, and instead of being too monotonous or boring, it was actually pretty cool. After looking into the subject in more detail, I found that it was an entirely new sub-genre of science fiction to me: martial fiction, detailing the movements and lives of those in the armed forces (but for this example, think less of The Things They Carried, and more of Ender's Game). It was interesting to learn about a new kind of writing style, but after about 450 pages, I was pretty worn out from all the canons and guns and line formations. Still, it's always fun to learn new things, and maybe I'll learn more about the genre once the beating feet from all the marching has faded out of my head.

Overall, it was an interesting, fresh, yet classically constructed piece of epic science fiction, that is definitely worth notice by the fans of the genre. And it's so rare that I really get to read good sci-fi. :)

NOTE: My copy was uncorrected proofs, so this all could change. Distribution started a few days ago, in hard cover, from ROC (a division of Penguin).

Inc-read-ably Sorry

Dear Readers,

I'm terribly, terribly sorry for having neglected you for so long. I know I've already made these kinds of apologies before, but I'm hoping that the positively terrible pun in the title of this blog post will make you more receptive to my pleas for forgiveness.

The reason behind my absence is simple: I was kidnapped by the prolific 18th century Russian author, Leo Tolstoy. I unsuspectingly flipped open the cover of a paperback copy of Anna Karenina, and all of a sudden, I was carried off by his words, and held hostage until I reached the very last chapter. Through Dead Week, Finals, and even the holidays, I was held captive by the captivating prose, kept company only by the doomed socialite and her peers, and finally escaped from the prison on the third of this new year.

However, along the way, I'm afraid I developed a little bit of Stockholm Syndrome, because I loved every second of my confinement.

While the book was incredibly long, and a little slow in some parts, the plot was engaging and enthralling. The descriptions were beautiful, and entirely different from what I'm used to in British Literature: instead of focusing simply on forming a complete image of a setting or a character, Tolstoy spoke of movement and action, choosing to describe a dog in pursuit on a hunt, or the hushed whispering in a society ballroom. The characters were realistic and relatable, which only added to the inner turmoil when the rigidity of Russian society refused to bend for a woman in love.

I've never had to deal with a book that is purely translation before, and I must say, that made it a little more difficult to reach the end, because I am not sure if my edition was exactly the most descriptive or explanatory in its efforts to transcribe a great Russian drama into simple English. However, on the whole, emotional turbulence on this kind of a scale is relatively easy to translate, and the most important aspects of the novel came through with incredible clarity The sound of a gun misfired, a horse falling, and, most importantly, a heart breaking, need no translation.

But I'm afraid I'm about to break your hearts, again, my dear readers. Anna Karenina is a novel about the adulterous affair between the titular character, and the debonair military man, Count Vronsky, and in reading it, I soon found myself involved with another, as well. I've been cheating on you, with another blog, and I haven't a single regret for any of it.

It started out on November 14th, when, on the day before the final deadline, I submitted my application for a contributing editor position, for the nationally-written and recognized lifestyle website, College Fashion. It had been a dream of mine, for quite some time, to merge my mutual passions of fashion and reading, and in applying for this position, I submitted the idea of a column demonstrating a fashionable literacy, detailing the confluence of the two areas of my expertise: fashion inspired by literature.

Shortly thereafter, I heard back from the Editor-in-Chief, Zephyr Basine, that I had been accepted into the position. She wanted me to start elaborating on this concept immediately, and before I knew it, on January 2nd, my first post went up. Instead of revolving around character depictions and relatively easy reads, such as past "Looks From Books" posts have done, I delved deeper into the novel, choosing to interpret thematic elements within the writing instead, and centering the article around the very novel displayed at the top of this post.

Out of over 300 highly-qualified applicants, I was one of about sixteen college women selected to write for College Fashion for the next six months. I had been overjoyed simply at the idea of being handed such an honor, but after the introduction of my first post, I soon found myself flattered beyond compare. To date, my article has been "Liked" on Facebook more than 113 times, has been "Retweeted" 40 times - once, by Focus Films (they who made the 2012 Anna Karenina movie) themselves - and garnered "Comments Section" praise, like this:

"I gotta say, not only am I in love with a lot of these outfits, but I am SO freaking impressed with this. It’s not just straight inspiration from illustrations, the movie, and the like- it’s outfits based off of overreaching themes?! Seriously, this is incredible, moving, and what true fashion should be about."

 Color me bashful. But not bashful enough not to brag when I'm proud of something. Check the article out in its entirety right here: http://www.collegefashion.net/inspiration/looks-from-books-fashion-inspired-by-anna-karenina/

At any rate, though it may result in a little less attention to the needs of THIS blog, my job at College Fashion is just as much of an effort for the love of literature as my posts on here are, and I am incredibly honored and blessed to be writing for them. I can only hope that you might all be happy for me, and, hey, we  can still be friends. I'll continue to update this blog as much as possible, and link to College Fashion whenever a new post goes up, but it may just take a little more time than that to which you may have become accustomed.

Sincerely, with much love and excitement,
Savannah. 

On Edge

I beg your pardon for the unjust emptiness I'm sure you've all felt dwelling in the pits of your souls, during what I'm sure has been a very tumultuous time, in my extended absence from this blog. The lack of my constant wit - all but bedazzling and enlightening in an instant - and my well-crafted prose - cobbling the odds and ends of the Universe into a pure pantheon of distinguished ingenuity - must have felt a tremendous burden for these past few weeks. One might only hope, that my exceptionally crafted apologies must alleviate your deep misery, assuage the heart that has grown tender and raw after being subjected to the cruel, slicing pages of books not yet read and recounted by me, and renew the blushing joy you feel in accompaniment with the accelerating swells of your chest, when you see that yes, I have returned, and I have a new blog post.

Unless, of course, you didn't experience such pain? Unless the only pain you're feeling at the moment, is an abject embarrassment in regards to my use of such an obnoxiously effusive and flowery writing, and assumption of deeper emotional connections to trivialities, as is demonstrated above? 

If that's the case, then good. Move on from my temporary struggles in reading and writing, by eliminating the cause of such struggles from this very dialogue. I have finally finished W. Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge. 

The novel revolves around a group of friends hobnobbing around Chicago and Europe (and for one of them, India), and takes place, in total, over about forty years. It is one of the new genre that my friend Maggie and I, over a mutual bowl of pomegranate seeds, have dubbed, "the Marathon novel." It's the kind of novel where, upon turning the last page, you are able to salvage some semblances of accomplishment and self-pride, while still feeling numb and exhausted, murmuring to yourself "I can't believe I just did that." (Examples of the "Marathon": The Grapes of Wrath, The Fellowship of the Ring. ) "Marathon" novels typically gain their heftiness from heavy subject matter, nigh-indomitable writing style, and sheer bluntness of force, whether it's the emotional impact of content, or your head smacking against the table once you've fallen asleep. Such is The Razor's Edge. 

First off, the title itself refers to the path to salvation - religion itself being almost a tell-tales sign of a marathon novel - as one of the main characters forsakes all luxuries of life to pursue deeper meaning. Then, upon immediately immersing myself in murky wording, the likes of which I have previously displayed, I should have checked the second red flag. However, it is not until I fully reached the end, that I finally realized the extent to which this book has the capacity to bore someone into a headache.

Ironically enough, the contributing factors to my discontent with the plot line were what I initially appreciated about the novel itself: it's conversational nature and religious pseudo-monologues. 

When I say "conversational nature," I mean it. Not only does the book bank on conversational writing style, flowing in the way only a winding story from a friend can be told - frequently peppered with self-interruptions and mild-mannered observations about the narrator's surroundings - but it is built mainly of the conversations had, or recounted, by others. Initially it was a novel concept to me; however, after coming to the quick realization that no normal person talks like this, not even an well-culture Englishman from the '20s, and to be honest, I don't think anyone should. Ever. 

And when I say "religious pseudo-monologues," I mean it. I understand that the novel focuses primarily on the inner journeys and real travelings of a man seeking the meaning of life in the form of a question he doesn't fully understand, but come ON. It's one guy. And it's not the narrator. So do I really have to sit through ten pages of him borderline-soliloquizing about the nature of faith? (I'm saying "soliloquizing" here because I'm guessing that even after one minute of this guy spilling his heart out, everyone would have stopped paying attention, and it would be almost as if no one else was even there. He's rather self-infatuated for someone who strives to be selfless.) 

However, with that last semi-comment, I do find myself having to make a distinction: it wasn't the greatest book, in my estimation (obviously I'm disagreed with by most critics), but if there was any shadow of greatness within it, it shone forth in the expert crafting of the characters. Well-made, multi-faceted, realistic and all-at-once sympathetic and worthy of hate, I loved how each of the players that walked this stage could have just as easily walked down the street. Maybe it did owe a little something to the conversational presentation, but this book could have easily been a gossip-fest rather than a sermon if fit into a different format. Not an archetype was present, not a stock character in sight. I loved every last detail that went into the ultimate ruin of an almost-martyr and the self-made salvation of a snob. These people were grand, even if the plot was not such, and the styling was too much so. 

Anyways, those are my feelings on a book that has been sitting on my desk, accompanied by class readings and Scantrons, for the past two weeks. How about this time, I pick something a little lighter... :)