WHAT

Just...what.




No, I have no comment to make on these products. Except that they appear not to be for sale at the moment, which almost makes me think there might be a god.

(Via Bookshelves of Doom)

Books what I

I've been reading stuff. Here's some of what I have been reading.

Leviathan – Scott Westerfeld

Official review will be out in the New Indian Express at some point in the near future, but I loved this. I'm rather wishing I'd managed to get the edition with all the gears and suchlike on the cover, but the artwork really is phenomenally good, and Westerfeld is an amazing writer. I like his main characters (even more so on a reread) and from the hints given about the second book in this series, Behemoth, I suspect that it has been written entirely for my delectation. I cannot wait. Here's the trailer, anyway. It's rather amazing.





Unseen Academicals – Terry Pratchett

In recent years there has always been a new Terry Pratchett book on my birthday. This year's seemed like it would be a good one: a return to the Discworld (after the rather awesome detour into Nation, his alternate history Victorian YA that came out last year), a return to the Wizards, who haven't been heard of in a while, and some football. The Wizards are required for reasons of economy to field a football team – a task for which they are spectacularly unsuited, though the Librarian is an excellent goalkeeper. Luckily, Trevor Likely, son of legendary Dimwell captain Dave Likely, works at the University and is able to initiate them into the world of the Shove, where who you support (and how you show it) matters far more than the game itself, which most of them have never seen. Meanwhile, Trevor must also look after his friend Mr. Nutt who says he's a goblin but is possibly Something Else altogether and looks suspiciously like Wayne Rooney on the cover. The Nutt plot is something of a return to the earlier Discworld books; Pratchett uses the character to take on an element of a classic work of fantasy (I'm trying very hard not to give the plot away). Unfortunately, while I agree entirely with the conclusions he seems to come to, it comes across as rather too earnest. Then there's Glenda, who I ought to have all sorts of problems with – she's fat and competent and has a secret weakness for romance novels, and when she gets her romance it's with a character who no one else particularly wants. I love her anyway.



The Reef – Mark Charan Newton.

I'd been wanting to read this for a while, particularly since reading Newton's second book, Nights of Villjamur (which I really liked) this summer. I finally found it a couple of weeks ago in the secondhand section of Chapters and was unreasonably excited. The Reef is a coral reef that becomes the focus of a number of interconnecting plots involving scientists, terrorists and various forms of aquatic life including sirens, ichthyocentaurs, and (it's not a spoiler if the cover illustration gives it away, is it?) a giant squid/kraken-monster. It's obvious that Newton's writing (and, I think, his gender politics but that's another matter entirely) have matured considerably since he wrote this, the prose occasionally shifts from brilliant (luckily there's plenty of that) to a bit awkward and it could have used more editing. However, in terms of ideas I found it richer and more ambitious than NOV. I'm not sure how far it's supposed to be set in the same universe as his Legends of the Red Sun; elements (the Rumel, the random bits of old machinery lying around) from one seem to have made their way into the other. I'm hoping he returns to this setting at some point in the future (after the current series is finished with) – there's a lot in it that is fascinating and that I'd love to see developed. In any case, I feel that the Legends of the Red Sun books would be vastly improved by the addition of a Squidbeast.



I am Scrooge: A Zombie Story for Christmas – Adam Roberts

Like most people, I'm a bit sick of zombies at this point. Adam Roberts' Zombie infested version of Dickens' Christmas Carol sounded like a good idea had I not been suffering from zombie overkill. But the preface (in which Roberts hopes that the idea behind the book will “thump upon the boarded-up windows of [the readers'] houses pleasantly, and no one wish to remake it as a major motion picture starring Will Smith”) sold me, and with such gems as “the churchman's nose was bulbous and red, a fleshy appendage, but Marley bit into it as eagerly as if it had been a ripe strawberry” on the first page, I assumed this would be entertaining. And it really is, but I don't think you could read it all at once. In small doses, well spaced out, the zombie jokes are funny and the illustrations (credited to one Zom Leech) are hilarious. Read at a stretch, though, Queen Victoria saying “we are not Zom-used” might drive anyone to commit violence.



Things We Are Not – (ed) Christopher Fletcher

I'm no good at reviewing anthologies of short stories by different authors. But this is a really good collection of queer short fiction. The title story, by Brandon Bell, is probably the best thing about the collection; working within a whole set of popcultural references that delighted me, Bell still manages a story that is not about these references. Eden Robins' “Switch” was another story that stood out for me, with the sort of nonchalant weirdness that I actually associate more with the beginnings of speculative fiction novels. Perhaps this is why I was so annoyed when it ended. Then there's “Reila's Machine” by Therese Arkenberg and “The World in His Throat” by Lisa Shapter; good, classic science fiction – and “Pos-psi-bilities” by Jay Kozzi that is a sort of coming-of-age story with a comparatively slight Sfnal element. It's a fantastic collection, it's available here or on Amazon, and I think you ought to read it.


The Ask and the Answer – Patrick Ness

When I read Patrick Ness' The Knife of Never Letting Go in January I was rushing between continents (it was something I bought in an airport and read on a plane) and as a result I don't think I ever officially gushed about it here. But I did thrust it at a lot of people I met – as dystopian, science fictional, gender-aware (it won a Tiptree award earlier this year) YA literature it was exactly the sort of thing I was likely to love. The Ask and the Answer takes off from the rather cliffhanger-ish moment that ended the previous book. Todd and Viola, Ness' protagonists, are separated, and set to work in different parts of the town. While Todd's work lies among the Spackle, the original inhabitants of the planet, Viola becomes entangled with a terrorist group of sorts, that wishes to remove the truly sinister Mayor Prentiss from power. As Martin Lewis says in this review, this is not an adventure story, but a war novel. I'd forgotten just how relentless Ness is sometimes; I don't know when I'm going to read this again because it is emotionally so exhausting. I don't know where the third book (which I expect will be every bit as brilliant as the first two) will take the story, but I can't imagine it'll be anywhere pleasant.

What have you been reading?

Mother tongues

By now it feels like about half of the people in this city have congratulated me on how well I speak English, and I have gotten very good at smiling through gritted teeth. So really, I can do nothing better that quote from this mad/awesome/explosive interview with Ashok Banker at the World SF News blog.

I’ve met this particular cultural bogey before and it remains as unfunny as ever! My mother tongue was English, not Hindi, and in fact, there are more English-speaking people in India than in the US [...] I grew up speaking only English, learned Hindi only later in school because it was a compulsory subject (as were either Marathi or French – I took French), and English remains the only language I’m completely fluent in even today.

(I picked French too, after a year of Sanskrit established that I was completely useless at it).

In which I tell you what to read

Mostly though, what the other boys called him -- what everyone in the village called him -- was Parish Fool. Cause his mum didn't have no money to dress him in aught but a suit of rags, stitched up from scraps of handmedowns and castoffs what had been worn to nothing and chucked away. A right motley it was, in every sodding shade under the sun. Every shade what's been faded and filthed to a shade of dirt and dust, that is. So they calls him the Parish Fool for it, shouts, Where's yer bells? and, Tell us a joke! Fucking cunts.

•

But we don't call him Poor Dear or Parish Fool, us Scruffians. Don't call him none of those names the groanhuffs use in their stories about him neither. Cause what do groanhuffs know? All's they've done is heard our tales and passed em along in a game of Chinese Whispers, getting em all mixed up, like. Peer-a-Door and Pierce-a- Veil, they calls him! Dozy twats. Still, we gots to call him summat. Hero needs a name, don't he? So we Scruffians calls him Jack, cause that were a word for any Scruffian-to-be in those days.

If you wish to read what I have been reading (and you should) go here and here. I am a big fan of Hal Duncan's work in general, but now that he's playing around with playground games and children's rhymes (as well as myth and politics and storytelling and the like) I think my head is likely to explode with the happy. I wanted to quote massive chunks of "Jack Scallywag", because it's really good, but I don't want to give too much away. I hope you'll buy it, though, (it is entirely in my interest that writers I like not starve) and I really hope there will be more of these Scruffians stories.

And once you've gone over and read those (and you will, won't you?) maybe you should read Vellum and Ink and Escape from Hell! (the last of which really needs to be moviefied). And then this series, and perhaps this. It's all worth it.

High expectations

One of the more memorable moments in the new Dorian Gray film (of which I did not approve*) is a scene where Dorian is partaking of tea and scones. As he sips his tea and slathers jam onto a scone, we are treated to flashbacks of his recent debauched activities. There is whipping and screaming and blood that is visually very like the strawberry jam that plays a central role in his seemingly innocent high tea.

In the three weeks or so since we watched the film, my friend T has consumed vast quantities of scones, with increasing desperation and disappointment. Why, he asks, when the scones themselves, weighted down with jam, are so decadent, are no orgies forthcoming?


I myself expect nothing of scones. Baked goods are fundamentally wholesome in any case, however hard they try. But I do sympathise.

I first encountered fondue as a child through Asterix in Switzerland. This was a mistake.I grew up under the impression that this

(click for larger image)

would lead inevitably to this

and maybe some of this.

It looked exciting.

Years later, when I finally encountered fondue in real life, it was something of an anticlimax. It was delicious, of course, and cheese is capable of a decadence that baked goods can only dream of. Still, it was bread and cheese. Where were my feisty Roman matrons? My nine year old self was severely displeased.


And this is why, I think, the frequent association of food and sex is not necessarily a great thing. Think of that nine year old. Think of T, sitting at home with a plate of scones, looking around him hopefully. It's harsh.


* I did approve of the kiss between Ben Chaplin and Ben Barnes, though. More Ben Chaplin, please.

See also

From the index of A Social History of Education in England by John Lawson and Harold Silver:

Women: education of (later medieval), 65; forbidden to read the Bible (1543), 85; teach petty schools, 113; literacy of, 193, 259; entitled to vote and stand for election for school boards, 318; percentage of, among elementary school teachers, 388; degrees for, 343, 403; votes for, 404; see also nunneries

Via various people, I love this ad.

cfs and a bit of useful information

So, Crossed Genres has an upcoming LGBTQ themed edition, and they're currently calling for submissions. This is the ad:

Unfortunately, Flash Fiction Online have chosen not to run this ad because it is "sexually themed" (because, the editor clarifies, "GLBTQ issues are inextricably linked to sex"). I mention this because it's useful to writers of queer fiction to know where they are and are not likely to be accepted.

In the meantime, Crossed Genres are still calling for submissions. And they clearly are queer-fiction-friendly.

EDIT: Submissions are closed.

Pride/ The Crowded Shadows

September the first is Outer Alliance pride day.

As a member of the Outer Alliance, I advocate for queer speculative fiction and those who create, publish and support it, whatever their sexual orientation and gender identity. I make sure this is reflected in my actions and my work.

Since I haven't written any fiction (queer or otherwise) in a while, I'm going to to talk about someone else's work instead. Some of you will remember this post a few months ago when I talked about being disappointed in the lack of gay men (or indeed women though men seemed more likely) in Celine Kiernan's The Poison Throne. What I couldn't discuss at the time was the rather important relationship between two male characters in the next book in the series. But The Crowded Shadows is finally out and I'm free to talk about it as much as I like. I should add that I asked Celine if I could write something about her book for today and she went out of her way (and she was away on holiday)to get it to me on time.


The first time I read The Poison Throne I stayed up all night and just gulped it down. It's an incredibly fast-paced fantasy, there's tons of political intrigue, and it's utterly uncompromising when it comes to killing people off. I was expecting more of the same from The Crowded Shadows.

The second book in the series is a complete change of pace from the first, however. It helped that The Poison Throne was set in a relatively confined space, if you can call a castle confined. At the end of that book all three main characters leave to go out into a world that the reader knows very little about. Which is why, I suppose, so much of The Crowded Shadows is about world-building. It's rather skilfully done, seeing that the entire action of the book takes place in the wilderness. But it does mean that the plot moves slowly - a large chunk of the book has the main characters travelling by themselves and by the end of it they still haven't reached their destination. But then there are the sections involving the Loups-Garous where the text seems to pick up some of Christopher's frenzy and rushes breathlessly through them.

The world-building itself is interesting. Partly because Kiernan bases the geography (and aspects of the culture) of her world so heavily on our own, making the minor differences particularly worth noticing. I'm not sure yet (and I can't be until the final book of the trilogy) how uncritically or otherwise she's doing this, but I have hopes. And as the book progresses we do finally find out more about these characters; about Razi and Christopher's friendship, about Wynter's family and why she has that awful name.

Plot-wise, as I've said, not a great deal happens in this part of the trilogy. Relationship-wise, it is fascinating. I was not particularly invested in the relationship between Ashkr and Sol on a first reading - on a second, knowing what is to come, it can be gutwrenching. And setting it among the Merron, where it is accepted with as little question as any heterosexual relationship works for me as well. It saddens me that that relationship is unlikely to play a role in the next book - the events of this one would make it seem impossible.

However, for me the most interesting relationship in this series is still the one between Chris and Razi. This is in part because Wynter's relationships with the two men are relatively uncomplicated; and Wynter herself has so far not been particularly interesting to me. I don't know if this is because she's the narrator - we haven't really had the chance to see her and what makes her interesting through the eyes of her companions. I'm hoping she will show some amazing diplomatic skills in the next book and I will be made to love her. The main male characters are both fascinating in their own right (Razi particularly so) and Wyn deserves a chance to be more awesome.

But my interest in Razi and Christopher is also because I still believe that in only slightly different circumstances that relationship could have been physical as well. I know the author doesn't mean it that way, that it's supposed to be "just" a very deep, intense friendship. But if either of these men were a woman I couldn't not see it as an incredibly strong romance. If the author hadn't made it clear in the first book that this was not the case, I'd think this was probably what it was.

So I guess even if it were not for Sol and Ashkr that this would be a queer review based on my reading of the text? I don't know, and I suspect the author and I are never really going to agree on this, and that's fine. But I like the book and if it didn't make me lose sleep as its predecessor did, it did make me cry a bit.

Toilet humour

Samuel Beckett estate, you have made me sad.

I came to Beckett in the most unliterary of ways. I was fifteen, there was a boy, he was older than me and probably very, very pretentious. And I wanted to know what had excited him so much and I read Company, then some of the shorter plays, and it went on from there. At seventeen I thought the fart-counting in Molloy was hilarious and got raised eyebrows from friends. In college I writhed in a back bench when gloomy classmates whined about the depressingness of Waiting for Godot which I had finally read, a few years after I'd started reading the man's work.

There's a wonderful introduction by Salman Rushdie (who I love most when he's talking about other writers he loves) in one of the Grove Centenary Beckett collections that expresses a lot of what I feel for this writer. Here's a bit:

Death was as you might say still a word in a book to me. I had not at that time washed my father's short, heavy corpse or murmured a farewell to the open-mouthed body of the first woman I ever loved or wept tears of rage when I was denied by circumstance the right to stand beside my mother's grave. Consequently, I still felt immortal, and immortals deal differently with the subject of mortality, knowing themselves to be immune from that strange, incurable affliction. Thus, when as a young man I first faced these texts that deal so intensely with the matter of our common ending, which Henry James had called the Distinguished Thing but which, in Beckett, is always grubbily undistinguished, a bleak prat-falling business made up of flatulence, impotence and humiliation, I experienced the books, their ferocious hurling at death of immense slabs of undifferentiated prose, as essentially fabulous, fantastic tales told by the voices of antic ghosts. I experienced them, in sum, as comedies, and so they are, they are comedies, but not of the sort I then imagined them to be, darker, and, yes, even heroic, for all that comedy scoffs at heroes, pulls down their drawers and pushes custard pie into their faces, still there remains, in the comedy of these broken, scrabbling personages, a stale whiff of odorous heroism. Some of this I when green in judgement only half perceived or neglected entirely to grasp. However, in failing to respond glumly to an oeuvre that wears glumness like a favourite unwashed shirt, I got something half right, at least.

I'm 23, and I suspect that over the next howeversomany decades my way of reading Beckett is going to change too. And that's fine. Because I've always felt welcomed by his work; it has never situated itself above me. And that is at least partly because it's never been on its dignity with me. The slapstick, the toilet humour, the banana peels; they're important .

I know that the technical aspects of the plays are vital as well, and that Beckett himself did not like even minor deviations from his directions in productions with which he was involved. And I don't blame him. But I can't imagine that the man who wrote Murphy (whose main character wants his ashes flushed down a toilet - the novel ends instead with them scattered on a pub floor "with the sand, the beer, the butts, the glass, the matches, the spits, the vomit") would be particularly bothered by this version of his play.



[Fun fact: On the evening I first heard about this story I discovered "wait for me Godot!" scrawled on the inside of a pub toilet wall. Positively copasetic.]