The Arrogance of (Fantasy) Authors [or, Why I Read Fantasy]

I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly attracts me to fantasy novels. The historical aspect is no small part of it; I began looking to fantasy as a replacement for the poor selection of historical-fiction that was available. But it was something more than just that.

Today I started reading ‘Assassin’s Apprentice’ by Robin Hobb, when one possible reason became rather obvious to me. Fantasy novels (and by extension, their authors) tend to inherently posses a certain amount of arrogance within them. This arrogance is justified because the author, in every sense of the word, is truly the ‘creator’ is such a setting. Freed from all the restrictions of reality, of physics, history or even evolution, the fantasy author is like some playful Yahweh, proclaiming the existence of the sun, a moon or two, all with a few shakes of his mighty pen. How can any fantasy author help but be arrogant?

Faced with such absolute power, the author lends himself a sense of importance, a belief that the events he describes are momentous, earth-shattering and entirely under his control. Other authors in comparison, subconsciously cower in the face of the immense limitations that bound them to the painful realities of this world. So much so, that they shrink themselves, reaching more timidly than would be normally allowed by the boundaries of our universe. They seem to ignore the absurdities and wonders that appear in our everyday lives. For these authors, there always remains the small trace of self-doubt, the small voice whispering in their heads telling them that they could not possibly have all the answers, have the complete picture.

For what mortal can assume to know what was going on in the mind of Julius Caesar as he chose to cross the Rubicon, or be fully aware of all the circumstances that surrounded the event some two thousand years in the past. The fantasy author, on the other hand, is comfortably secure in the knowledge that every motivation, every event, indeed every breath taken will only occur at his behest.

Neal Stephanson, the author of ‘Cryptonomicon’ and other sci-fi/cyber-punk classics, (as well as the historical-fictionesque ‘The Baroque Cycle’) talked briefly about this arrogance. He said that he had been scorned by ‘literary’ authors for the appearance of this very arrogance in his writing. These ‘literary’ authors are the ones cowering far within the limitations of this world that they write in, and for them assuming such omniscience is incomprehensible (my words, not his). The arrogance however, appears in abundance within the writings of fantasy/sci-fi authors, the best of whom make full use of this license and weave a story of such imagination and scope that we are left in awe of their creations. While I may be stretching his meanings a little (since he was talking about himself compared to the ‘literary’ authors, not fantasy or sci-fi authors) but I believe that he parallels my discussion closely.

Guy Gavriel Kay, nominally a fantasy writer, truly writes historical fiction (or you must, then historical fantasy). His insight is in openly acknowledging and embracing a truth that everybody already knows: that all historical fiction is truly fantastical in nature. In Kay’s case, by marginally changing the names of people and places he is writing about, he allows himself the freedom to assume the mantle of a world creator, rather than merely a chronicler of history, a figure that he even includes in one of his books. His historian is a bumbling yet sly figure, fully aware of the obscurative powers of history, knowing that even though he is part-villain in the present, history (under his control) will show him as an innocent bystander in the horrific events that he was forced record on page.

Examples of successful wielders of this arrogance I go on harping about are numerous, most recently (in my readings) by R. Scott Bakker in his “The Prince of Nothing” trilogy (a series I will soon talk about in far more depth). Outside the realm of novels, I believe Peter Jackson is a stellar example of someone with such capacity, in both The Lord of the Rings, as well as (more surprisingly) in King Kong. In the latter movie, I was struck by how uncompromising he was in his commitment to his vision of the movie, with a long introductory section based in a wonderfully recreated 1930’s New York. Here, in what many people felt was an unnecessary and somewhat cheesy sequence, Jackson unflinchingly throws us into the heart of the Depression period, and is so true to his vision, that I was swept up along with him, even as Naomi Watts plaintively cried to her surrogate father figure “But you’re all I’ve got!”.

The fact is, I tend to enjoy myself the most when the author/director fully embraces his mantle of ‘creator’ and show us a world where the differences are revealed in all their alien glory, rather than grudgingly explained away, as if to say “see, see, its not all that different after all!”. So it is the Scott Bakker’s of the world that truly transport us into their living worlds of inexplicable customs and races and powers, and with their sheer determination and conviction, sweep us away and allow us to truly experience a book.

I did it again…

I grew reluctant. Reluctant to post, though I had a lot to say. I’ve written a lot over these past few weeks, but without exception, all of it awaits in the shadowed wings of the ‘Drafts’ section, or saved in some obscure corner on my computer.

I need to remember to post what I write. If I continue to wait until I feel a particular piece has satisfied all my various demands of coherence, elegance and brevity, then I shall post nothing.

I must also start writing about the books I read while I’m reading them, rather than wait till after I’m finished. Otherwise I always forget or get caught up in some other book, until it is too late and I begin to feel that it has been too long, and my recollections have become blurred by the passage of time and consumption of other novels.

So over the next few days I am going to attempt to fix up my drafts and post them here, as well as complete some reviews of a few novels I recently read, including R. Scott Bakker’s intriguing “The Darkness That Comes Before”, and a few others.

Here’s to many more (frequent) posts!

An Ode to Book Lovers

I think at heart, book lovers are lonely people. Not lonely literally, but rather lonely for lack of similar minded people around them, for lack of similar readers. Readers come in all shapes and sizes, and this diversity tends to isolate them in insular pockets of monologesque discussion with themselves. Today there are the “women” readers, the bestseller readers, the murder-mystery readers, the non-fiction readers and of course ‘those sci-fi/fantasy types’. Each of them seem to occupy their own little niches, surrounded in a world overtaken by the frantic pace of television, movies and hit-of-the-week pop songs. Not that these readers don’t inhabit this world; they form a significant part of it… no-one is free from the addictive forces of TV. But within this fast-shrinking world of book readers, and the even smaller subset of book lovers, there has appeared a startling lack of a forum for book discussion.

The reading of books in general is viewed as far too indulgent a luxury; taking time off on a weekend to watch a two hour long movie is one thing but a book is a long term commitment. Its like getting into a new relationship, and the wife already takes up enough of your time. And once you actually commit to the damn thing, it seems almost excessive to actually spend time talking about it. Ever notice that book clubs are only shown as the pass time of bored housewives? Where is the neighborhood book-club for the guys? Indeed where are the books for all the male readers? It seems to be a growing trend that the popular books and the critical favorites are usually meant for women. Not explicitly, but on a more subtle level… the tag line of one goes: “the sensitive story about the black slave that helped out his recently widowed white owner to run her farm”. Another boldly displays its intentions in its title: “The History of Love”.

And what are we poor men supposed to read? The DaVinci Code? Or probably some new Robert Ludlum novel. Please. Today men are divided into two categories: either he reads the latest and hottest “business” book that tells you how to get rich fast, or its the weird sci-fi nerd who plays alone with his lightsaber. I guess I hadn’t really thought about this until I read on some random Amazon review about how a particular book was a real “guys” book, rather than something probably marketed to some lonely 30-something female with relationship issues. And that is true. Those are the books I scour the net for, going through hundreds of reviews to find that perfect gem of a fiction novel which will fit with my current mood. And those are the type of books that I have the hardest time finding. Not that reading “The Time-traveler’s Wife” wasn’t enjoyable… its just that sometimes…. throw a dog a bone, willya?

But I have gone somewhat off-track (though not totally). What I started by saying was that book lovers are lonely for similar minded book readers. I have been a voracious reader since I ever learned how, and through out these years only rarely have I come across someone I can actually talk to about books, and almost never have I met one who truly shares my tastes. Well there was this time in third grade… but I guess that doesn’t count. When I first came to university I joined a book club. My first meeting was a revelation; never had I experienced so many people sharing so much about reading. But ultimately it turned out to be a failed experiment. While a true eye-opener, the club was mostly a bunch of girls (dowdy ones at that) who insisted on reading some archaic novel about the trials of small town life and the importance of family. I just couldn’t get around to forcing myself to read a novel that sounded like the most boring piece of work ever put to paper.

For me, I’d rather just have a couple of friends who share my taste in books, who I can recommend an amazing book I just read to, and have one recommended to me in turn. But alas, those few of my friends who do make a semi-regular habit of reading, tend to have vastly different tastes in books. A book lover who finds someone who shares his love for a particular book (and for books in general) is a pitiful creature. I say pitiful because of the almost grateful and eager note in their enthusiasm, as they discuss this sole book that has brought them together. They get this somewhat crazed glint in their eyes as they bob their heads in agreement, knowing that they will never meet this kindred soul again, for surely they are stuck in a twilight zone of some kind. Or they feverishly hope against hope, even though they know that it is inevitable, that this is not some one-off chance, that this is not the only book that the two share a passion for, or indeed the only book in the known universe that both of them have read. In all probability however, it will turn out that one almost exclusively reads sappy love stories the print equivalent of “Must Love Dogs”, while the other is obsessed with the non-fictional accounts of the greatest military commanders in history. They shall inevitably have to await the much anticipated mash-up of Sun-Tzu and a Jackie Collins novel that is in the offing.

And so the forlorn book lovers retreat into their solitary worlds, enduring as their friends patronize them with a customary “So what did you think of the DaVinci Code” (sorry Dan Brown!). This trend however, has recently led to some very interesting developments occurring in the internet. Developments like Library Thing, which is a personal library cataloging service with Web 2.0 sensibilities (I know, groan, but seriously if you haven’t checked this out, do so now). These services, along with others like MetaxuCafe, are all efforts to overcome the inherent solitary confinement of the book lover, and create a forum for public discussion in a virtual scale where a real one doesn’t suffice (or even exist). This is a good development, not only because of its inherent value but because it is leading the way for a true platform for discussion of nearly any topic on the internet. So to book lovers I say, look forward with joy; ignore the cries that herald the death of book publishing… that may happen for the model as we know it. But for book readers, a new golden age is coming… welcome it with open arms.

This Blog is about Books… somewhat.

Books form an important, no… a vital part of my life. I have always been a voracious reader, and so writing here in this blog, I feel compelled to make books a central part of my posts. I need to analyze the books I read, not only to fully appreciate them, but also to record my thoughts and remember the ideas that they awoke in me. Each book I read needs to be reviewed, perhaps not explicitly as in a summary of the novel itself, but at the very least in reference to the impression it made on me. Each book awakes in me certain ideas that stick around for as long as I am reading it, but soon enough, when some time has past and another book commands my attention, I forget. I forget so completely it is as if I had never had those thoughts at all.

Perhaps the most important book I read this past year was Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. It awoke in me revolutionary ideas and an entirely new way of thinking and looking at the world. But I squandered all that the book had done for me, as I twiddled my toes wasting time before I would put down my thoughts to paper, though I had every intention to.

It never happened.

So now I must do so. From now on, every book must be accompanied by a post, be it good or bad, long or short, frustrating or enlightening. I of course could have committed this blog to be entirely of books, bestowing it with an appropriate literary name which would easily identify it as such, and so make subsequent efforts to join in the blogrolls of similar authors. But this blog is not so narrow in scope. This blog is about me; and while the books that I encounter are a part of that, they do not represent the whole. I am attempting here to create a new me. To forge with the limited tools at my disposal, a refined and more complete version of myself, and so this blog will not be limited to literature and science fiction and fantasy.

This blog will be be about books… only somewhat.

Dog vs Ball

Dear God… are you there? I need help finding a good book

Dear God (or Eminent Head of Publishing Company, whatever title you prefer)

I go through periods of extreme frustration on a regular basis. They occur whenever I am attempting to find a new book to read, and I end up spending the obligatory hours at Amazon.com, sifting through reviews, Listmania lists, and recommendations. And I find nothing.

Really.

Nothing.

Days go by. I sleep, wake up, watch TV to pass the time. I don’t read. Do everything but read. And then one fine day, I will stumble on some book, a review, a memory of an author, and ‘Disaster’ will be averted. I cling to the book like a lifeline, and at its inevitable end I cowardly jump straight to another by the same author, or even better, its sequel.

But finding new authors, new books with exciting new ideas in them, is a very hard process. And critics and booksellers don’t make my job any easier. I was told repeatedly and unendingly to read Saturday by Ian McEwan, Extremely Loud… by Safran Foer (which I tried and abandoned) or even the singular fantasy recommendation, Jonathan Strange… by Susanna Clarke. Later in the year it was The Historian, or A History of Love. Certainly the sheer wealth of positive reviews should urge me into reading (or completing) these books. But I only venture into such waters of “acceptable” reads tentatively, wanting to be part of their phenomenal admiration and love, but unsure if I fit into it. Sadly my approaches have only served to burn me, to turn me away from the bestseller lists, and caused me to return to my futile and frustrating search.

I search for a long lost brethren of my mind, a voice that echoes my needs of a compelling novel, compellingly written. I can only take so much abuse from an author (Rushdie for example tries my patience, and then breaks it completely), and the second criteria is nearly as important as the first. A case in point is Greg Bear, whose ideas on the future of human evolution drew me to his “Darwin” books like a fly to a pile of shit. My nose being a tad more sensitive, I endured through both books only with much painful wrinkling of the face in effort to disgorge the stink of a badly written novel, wasting an eminently great idea.

This is one my more rambling posts, but still what I am trying to (ineffectively) say is that finding a new book to read is perhaps one of the most discouraging cycles that figure in my life. I need to find a particular critic, a single blogger who shares my taste, who I can turn to during my frequent times of need and will be comfortable in the knowledge that I will find a good book waiting.

Till then, I shall frequently return to the well trodden pages of Ayn Rand, Robert Jordan, and James Clavell. For they have proven to be, time and again, welcome companions that never fail to amaze and entertain me, unlike the sour and often fickle tales of whatever passing fancy that currently dominates the bestseller lists.

I hate the way I write

I hate the way I write.

I mean i really, really hate the way I write. It takes so much for me just to get out a coherent sentence, and when I do manage that, it usually sounds as if some retarded kid from Sabi-Sabi wrote it while high on crack. I have to constantly think of how I want to sound, and match it with what i am writing; the process is slow and extremely tedious, and the results tend to be mixed.

And so when i decided to write a blog (I mean really write, not just create a blog that is never to be seen again by the face of mankind), I promised myself I would write without over-thinking it, otherwise I would never end up posting anything at all. Even now, I have recorded only a tiny share of the posts that I have wanted to write, just because I didn’t want to put anything down before I had an absolutely complete entry fixed within my mind, with detailed, insightful analysis and careful composition.

So when I do look back at my previous posts, I literally cringe; the writing seems so unpolished, awkward and simply so bad that all i want to do is just delete the whole damned thing. But after much inner turmoil, I manage to stop myself. Who knows, maybe in a few months I will be able to look back at my early, clumsy attempts at writing, and be confident that I have moved on, to a more assured voice, and controlled structure.

But until then, all I can do is write. And hide my head in shame. Of course since I have taken great care to make this blog anonymous, one can assume that I have already done so, just by protecting my identity from my huge flocks of readers. (That was sarcasm at the end, by the way. See how bad I am?)

Reunion

It is a cold December night, with a chill in the air and dense fog all around. My vision is clouded, the shapes around me indistinct, as if my brain is reluctant to bring the world into focus. A door looms up ahead, defiant of the blur that surrounds me; I stand frozen before it, unable to push my way in. A furtive glance through a curtained window reveals little: like the current contents of my mind, I see a vast emptiness in a cramped corridor.

I have not known what to expect from the upcoming evening, of friends long forgotten, companions not seen or heard from. “Has it really been five years?” my brain screams at me. It just doesn’t seem possible. I retreat into my more comfortable denial, of mischief done a half-decade back, seemingly only yesterday. Yet here I stand outside, in a foggy driveway, before a stubbornly clear door that beckons me in, five years hence. I am frozen between the contradictions of the vast amount of time it represents to my short life, and the immediacy of my memories that defies that gap. I submit to the reality, that five full years have past since that fateful day in 2001, when I walked out beyond those imposing gates that had sheltered me for over seven years, and had enclosed my home.

I have vague expectations, of people to be met, of occasions to reminisce overdue, and of a hundred broken promises of ‘keeping in touch’ to be renewed. Yet as I lay my hand on the doorknob, cold as it is to my tentative touch, my mind abandons all preconceptions, and I have no idea of what lays ahead for the next few minutes of greetings.

Reluctantly I close the door behind me, which had, only a few short seconds before, served as my sole bulwark against the unknown, now acts to cut short any thoughts of retreat. I peer forward, nervous of the first encounter. The unmistakable sounds of Dosco’s reveling in joyful reunion filter around the blind corner, down the corridor, and into my fast warming heart. A solitary figure stands at the far corner, under the illumination of a single light, intent on a conversation with his phone. He turns… his eyes flare up; I see the quick reconciliation, the merging of the figure of a boy, etched five years ago into his mind’s eye, with the image of (I hope) the young man that stands before him.

A smile splits his face.

“Dude!”

The phone forgotten, the quick calculations of the brain complete, a long hug is exchanged. Ever so macho, but unashamedly glad.

It has been too long.

Walking into the living room, my step light, my eyes eager, I stand for a moment gathering in the faces, duplicating the calculations I had so recently observed in another. Each one reminds me of a moment, of anger, of laughter. I am late. Some would have remembered to expect that, in tribute to the days when such things were known of all those you lived with, you ate with, you played with. A chasm exists in the long history of our knowledge of each other. There was a time we were aware of all of the annoying idiosyncrasies of our roommates. Now we remain wary, unsure of the breadth of that void, of the depth of change the short years would have wrought on us.

Each memory has a person attached, and is thus rekindled in this coming together of its members. We are united into a brotherhood with bonds far greater than those of steel; our memories tie us together even when names and details remain forgotten. An absent participant will chance upon some fragment of the story, from some forgotten recess of his mind, while innocuously working at his desk, or buying clothes at a store. A smile will break free, or an unexplained laugh, confusing those around him. A rueful shake of the head and he moves on, providing a mildly apologetic look to the bewildered passers-by.

The memory remains, revived and alive.

Yet here, we now stand sharing in our past, and a present still being forged. Everyone describes a beginning, a new job, a move to a new city, country, continent. “I’m going to begin working in a Bank” seems to be a popular reply. Rejoice you fine institutions of finance and money, while you still remain free of this group of louts that I once knew. They shall infest you shortly.

I jest. Fine futures have been forged. Some promising ones, lost. Advice, a mainstay of young professionals everywhere, seems here to flourish unnaturally. It is given, received and cheerfully regurgitated (with careful additions, of course) in subsequent conversations. The weighty wisdom of some twenty-two years backs this deluge of opinions, and is treated accordingly.

The evening fast approaches the enjoyable stage of the ‘three-drink-minimum’. Everyone seems to have complied, some more so than others. Warm, fuzzy, fraternal feelings seem thick in the air, a nearly palpable sensation of joy as the discomfort of early meetings dissolves into the relief of our discovery that while we are all changed, we remain the same. Yet the gathering remains incomplete; too many are missing, the current of their lives carrying them to places beyond our reach. We miss them, from the moment of short disappointment when we walk in and note their absence, to the bitter-sweet farewell at the end when we remember them with regret. Regret that they did not enjoy in this night of reunion, this vital renewal of commitment to all things Dosco. But there will be other reunions, other opportunities and occasions for catching-up with lost friends, and dissapearing acquaintances.

Till then all I can say is farewell. And keep in touch.

I smile too much

I smile too much. My friends know I joke too much as well. Not the funny, ha-ha kind of joking, but in (I would like to think) a more witty, acerbic kind of way. I seem at times amused by the most mundane things, by the way people say things, by an advertisement on television.

Yet when I sit down to write, I always find that my writing takes on a more serious, darker tone. I want to be able to write in the way I speak, break out the same jokes and point out the same absurdities in my amused manner. But all that comes out is this.

What does that say about me?

We have the Power!

Continuing with my Web 2.0 contemplation, Wired News compares the accuracy of Wikipedia to Encyclopedia Britannica. The results are not what you would expect. It turns out that a Wikipedia article which receives enough viewers (and so has enough “fact-checkers”) is nearly as accurate as Britannica, long thought to be the bastion of human knowledge. This just once again shows the power of the many over the few, and how the Social tools of the internet become more efficient and useful simply as a result of the sheer number of participants. Thus we can only expect Wikipedia to become more accurate and comprehensive, while Britannica and its like will be left behind in the dust.

This reminds me of how the TV companies (NBC and the rest) kept on insisting that it would cost too much, and would be too complicated to put all their TV shows online for subscription/pay-per-view download. And at the same time thousands and thousands of people were managing to do just that with no official help, minimal funding, with only the support of ardent tv fans that helped create the now-gargantuan Bittorrent community.

The recent controversy over the existence of certain inaccurate articles in Wikipedia, and its somewhat misguided coverage in the mainstream media (specifically by CNN’s Kyra Phillips), shows the strength of the website, rather than expose a crippling flaw in its premise, which is what some would like us to believe.