This is one of those rare books that is exactly what the cover copy promises: “A lyrical, queer sci-fi retelling of Shakespeare's Hamlet as a locked-rThis is one of those rare books that is exactly what the cover copy promises: “A lyrical, queer sci-fi retelling of Shakespeare's Hamlet as a locked-room thriller.” The Death I Gave Him lives up to this hype, and I can easily see how some people would adore this book. I loved Em X. Liu’s obvious love for Shakespeare, and as far as Shakespearean retellings go, this one is pretty good. As far as thrillers go—well, we all know I’m not the biggest fan of thrillers to begin with. As far as murder mysteries go—well, it’s not much of a mystery, now is it? Thanks to NetGalley and publisher Solaris for the eARC.
Look, I won’t summarize Hamlet for you. Elsinore is a lab rather than a castle; Hayden and his murdered dad are scientists working on life-prolonging serums; Felicia (Ophelia) is an intern, and her dad, Paul (Polonius) is the head of Elsinore’s security. Liu casts Horatio as the lab’s disembodied artificial intelligence. The book opens on Horatio “regaining consciousness” and seeing Hayden next to his father’s body. From there, things quickly spiral out of control. It’s tense; it’s queer; it’s hot and heavy at points (not my thing).
I’m mostly interested in looking at this book and how it represents an evolution of Shakespeare. What I mean by this is that Shakespeare has been reinterpreted from the moment his plays started to be performed. Each era, each society, projects its own ideas on to Shakespeare’s stories and reifies them in different ways. Liu has taken Hamlet and reimagined it as a locked-room murder mystery set in the 2050s—yet it is still definitely Shakespeare. However, I also really like how Liu took liberties with the characters and plot—this is more reimagining than retelling, and that is for the better.
If Shakespeare were alive today, I have no doubt he would write science fiction (and also historical fiction, and let’s face it, he would probably make his living writing erotica or porn or something). The inclusion of an AI main character—Horatio, no less—and the subplot around developing a life-prolonging serum both feel true to ideas that show up time and again Shakespeare’s work. So much of what he talks about, in Hamlet but also in The Tempest and other plays, comes down to ruminating on how well we can really know others (or even ourselves). Horatio and Hayden’s relationship here, the use of a neural-mapping interface to allow them to communicate with each other and know each other far more intimately than would otherwise be possible, is an intriguing reading of Horatio and Hayden’s relationship in the original play. That Horatio is an AI and thus an “other” speaks to the ambivalence with which the play treats Horatio, the way that he always seems to be present yet seldom gets much acknowledgement from everyone else.
I don’t want to go into spoiler territory, but let’s just say that I think what happens with Horatio and Hayden in the end is a great change to the original story. The same goes for the fates of Felicia and even the way that Liu characterizes Hayden’s mother—I feel like Liu spent a lot of time thinking about the role of women in the original play. Felicia certainly receives much more depth and time than Ophelia does, and her fate is likewise both more hopeful and more palatable. She is arguably as much of a protagonist in this book as Hayden is, and the story is better for it.
The “lyrical” nature of the book is where The Death I Gave Him loses me. While I really liked Liu’s plot and character choices, I didn’t like their writing style as much. Both the description and the dialogue would occasionally grate on me, and the conceit that the book is a manuscript by a researcher looking back on the entire incident felt unnecessary. There’s a lot of layers here that I’m not sure the story needed.
The Death I Gave Him is creative and original (despite being based on Hamlet). It didn’t land all the way for me, but it came close enough that I know there’s an audience out there just waiting to fall in love with this tragedy. I can’t wait for that audience to find it, for I would like to see more of what Liu has to offer in the future.
Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter.
I was somewhat skeptical about this book going into it simply because of how it was marketed as a retelling of Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare retellingI was somewhat skeptical about this book going into it simply because of how it was marketed as a retelling of Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare retellings can be hit-and-miss. Thankfully, These Violent Delights is a hit! Chloe Gong takes the broad strokes of Romeo and Juliet but adapts the story quite heavily. There are some subtle nods (like a bar named Mantua) and some really nice set pieces (like the mistaken-for-dead moment) that Gong makes her own. All in all, I was able to sink into this story and not worry about comparing it to the material that inspired parts of it.
Juliette Cai is the heir to the Scarlet Gang, which runs one half of 1920s Shanghai. Their rivals are the White Flowers, and Juliette once had a forbidden romance with their heir, Roma Montagov. That was nipped in the bud, but Juliette is back after four years away in the United States—just in time for a madness to sweep through Shanghai, the people afflicted all tearing out their own throats. Juliette and Roma both become the investigators for their respective gangs, so they get thrown together under extreme circumstances: enemies turned lovers turned enemies again—can they put aside the betrayal of the past to prevent a betrayal in the present?
It took me a while to get into the story. I think this is because of how Gong throws us into the plot very quickly. I barely had time to get to know Juliette before Roma’s first appearance, and that apprehension in the back of my mind about how closely this story might hew to the play likely had a role as well. So it says something about Gong’s storytelling that, eventually, I got sucked in. I wanted Juliette and Roma to find the solution to this deadly mystery as much as they did.
On top of the mystery, there is a lot happening regarding the power relations in Shanghai. Partly historical, partly science fictional, this book plays fast and loose with the political situation in Shanghai in the 1920s. Nevertheless, as someone who isn’t familiar at all with Shanghai and its history, I found it fascinating. The cast are diverse in terms of race as well as gender—I was pleasantly surprised to see a trans character among Juliette’s allies—and Gong explores how this Chinese city has been encroached upon by foreign powers (i.e., white people). Indeed, the mystery itself is a kind of commentary on the fight for the very heart of Shanghai and its people.
My one criticism? The cliffhanger ending. This appears to be a duology, and I am so glad that the second book is out (and also available from my library), because I was incensed. Yes, the primary mystery gets solved—but enough of the plot is left unresolved that it almost ruined my enjoyment of the rest of the book! Again, this says a lot about how much faith I’m putting in Gong that I will read the sequel after such a betrayal. I need to find out if Juliette Cai is truly the ruthless killer she has told herself that she must be.
Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter.
I haven’t been doing a great job keeping up on writing book reviews for a few weeks, so this one is very overdue! But I received an eARC of Foul is FaI haven’t been doing a great job keeping up on writing book reviews for a few weeks, so this one is very overdue! But I received an eARC of Foul is Fair by Hannah Capin from Wednesday Books and NetGalley. Why am I not surprised that the publishers of Courtney Summers have given us another kickass girl-centred revenge plot? This time it’s loosely based on Macbeth, but even if you aren’t aware of or don’t care for the Shakespearean allusions, it’s still a captivating story of violence and revenge. For the first chapter or so, I was nervous I would end up hating it—Capin’s style is definitely distinctive here—but eventually I surrendered myself to the prose.
Content warnings for the book/discussion in this review: rape/sexual assault, violence/murder, scene that depicts transphobic bullying.
Elle and her friends crash a prep school party, and several of the popular boys at that school target Elle for rape. She responds to this by transforming into Jade, an avenging queen of a coven of witches—Mads, Summer, and Jenny—who together will bring down this group of boys in the bloodiest fashion possible. Jade transfers to the prep school and rises through the popularity ranks, courting an up-and-coming golden boy—Mack—and plotting murder.
One’s enjoyment of this book will depend greatly, as I intimated above, on how one feels about the prose style. Capin’s description and dialogue are lyrical in a way that probably is a nod to the story’s dramatic origins. Narration itself is sparse, exposition even more so. Although nominally told from Jade’s point of view, the only real glimpses into her mind we are allowed involve her thoughts on her revenge plot. We learn remarkably little about Jade as a person, because for the duration we’re entangled with her, she is a creature consumed by her need for revenge. Other exposition is delivered almost like an afterthought.
Honestly, though? In any other book I probably would have ripped this choice apart. I love novels because I love straightforward prose. That might make me boring, but it’s a subjective aesthetic! So take this for the high praise coming from me that it is when I say Capin makes this style work for me. Similarly, I reserve the label “cinematic” for very few books, because I don’t visualize when I read. Foul is Fair is undeniably cinematic. The pacing and expository style make me think of those movies where you start off having no idea what the hell is going on, but there’s a lot of flashy and glittery costumes and perfect white teeth and teens drinking, and eventually you grasp the plot. Again, I don’t normally enjoy those movies, but something tells me I could enjoy that kind of movie if it were Foul is Fair.
This really is a horror story, when you get right down to it. It’s a horror story where we’re on the side of the monster. It’s so interesting, because almost certainly that wasn’t Shakespeare’s intent when he wrote Macbeth, yet Capin has managed to take that kernel of an idea and turn it into this sympathetic murder plot, and I really like it! Morality is really ancillary here to Jade’s need to punish the boys for what they did. She doesn’t just kill them: she nefariously manipulates another person into doing the work for her in brutal and fantastic fashion. And it’s very hard to look away—yet I kept finding myself taking breaks because I was just so exhausted by the intensity!
Also, given my newly out status, it behoves me to mention: trans character! I appreciate how Capin almost casually drops in the fact that Mads is trans without making too big of a deal. There is a flashback that depicts some bullying Mads experiences after coming out in middle school, which I assume is meant to demonstrate Jade’s fierce and violent loyalty to her coven. However, I really do like that Capin doesn’t reveal Mads’ deadname even though Jade certainly knows it—there is no reason for Jade to share that with us. She just says “Mads’ deadname” wherever necessary, and it works very well.
I don’t want to spoil the ending, but I will say that Foul is Fair maintains its pace and adrenaline throughout the book. I was not disappointed.
I heard about this book ages ago, then promptly forgot it existed, and rediscovered it at my library. (Libraries are awesome thatGuys, Pocket is back!
I heard about this book ages ago, then promptly forgot it existed, and rediscovered it at my library. (Libraries are awesome that way.) My first reaction was, “Ooh, a Christopher Moore novel I haven’t read.” My second reaction was, “Bloody hell, it’s a semi-sequel to Fool!” (No English accent though. Two years in England and I still can’t do a decent English accent. *sigh*)
Fool was the first Christopher Moore book I read and in many ways one I consider the funniest. That’s probably because I love metafiction. If you don’t, then neither Fool nor The Serpent of Venice are for you. Moore once more takes a metafictional approach to the stage; this time he combines Othello and The Merchant of Venice with an Edgar Allan Poe story I haven’t read. With a Chorus as the narrator whom everyone seems to overhear, we plunge into fourteenth-century Venice, where Pocket is killed, rescued by the eponymous serpent, and gets to serve up some sweet, sweet revenge.
Of course, as exciting as a sequel to Fool might be, I was also a little worried. What if it wasn’t as good? What if it ruins Pocket? These might be silly worries, but I think most fans of a novel that gets a sequel much later down the line can understand it. It’s akin to the worries fans of the original Star Wars had about the prequels, though in their case, they unfortunately turned out to be right.
To be honest, The Serpent of Venice isn’t quite as bright a spark as Fool. It’s difficult to bottle lightning once, let alone twice. But Moore takes a fair stab at it, and the result is still a very good book. Not every Shakespeare play is a King Lear, and even Shakespeare’s good plays are still, in some ways, great.
My favourite thing about this book is just the richness of the language. And by language, I mean the profanity. Moore uses words such as “bonkilation” and “fuckstockings”—and of course, don’t forget “holy ripened fuckcheese!”—without any hint of shame or irony. Moore doesn’t pass up the chance—ever—to shoehorn in a joke as an aside. When Pocket is posing as a young Jew seeking employment from Shylock, the merchant asks him if what languages he speaks:
“Latin, Greek, and English, plus a smattering of Italian and fucking French.”
“Fucking French, you say? Well …”
“Oui,” said I, in perfect fucking French.
Or, a little later:
Shylock repointed his twitching, accusatory digit at his daughter.
“You do not say such things in my house. You—you—you—you—”
“Run along, love, it appears that Papa’s been stricken with an apoplexy of the second person.”
This is where Moore truly establishes himself as a skilled writer. Anyone, really, can rip off jokes and rip off plots (Moore points out that Shakespeare did this himself all the time). But it takes cleverness to come up with a turn of phrase like “an apoplexy of the second person”—and even if Moore happened to lift that from somewhere else, it takes skill to then embed that phrase in an appropriate context. It wouldn’t work just anywhere. For a book like this, the author needs a sense of comedic timing down to the paragraph.
This is a book that is unrepentantly trying to be funny to the point of absurdity, and I love that. Iago is still a cunning bastard, but he’s also a raging misogynist who accuses everyone of having slept with his wife. (She is, practically, but that’s beside the point.) Pocket, once again, is a frustrating combination of annoying yet perceptive, somehow managing to win over tough customers like Shylock and his daughter, Jessica, who don’t really like him but seem to grow dependent upon him. I love the evolution of Jessica from a love-struck, fairly small-minded woman into a pirate. I mean, that’s just awesome.
And the plot of The Serpent of Venice?
The setting of The Serpent of Venice is fascinating because…
… no, I’m not avoiding talking about the plot.
Fine.
The plot is probably the weakest part of this book. I think the best way I can describe it is as a “romp”. It’s supposed to be Pocket’s tale of revenge, but Moore has to juggle subplots like spinning plates. Everything culminates in a drawn-out and very unsatisfactory court scene that should have been far funnier than it was. The resolution is nominally satisfactory, but at the end of the day it feels like Pocket didn’t really “win”. I suppose part of the theme to this book, as well as the first one, is that Pocket doesn’t fit the standard protagonist pattern: as his job and his nickname of Fortunato suggest, he survives on luck and trickery and jest. The essence of Pocket’s success as a hero is that he isn’t heroic, and indeed, I suspect that he finds all this heroism he ends up doing by accident quite exhausting and bad for his health.
Unlike Fool, which had the benefit of being able to ride along the rails of King Lear, even if Moore took … liberties, The Serpent of Venice is a mash-up. Consequently, Moore has to figure out how to resolve the book on his own—and although he tries to allude to the endings of the original stories in some ways, the tricky part is really combining them together to make a satisfying ending to this story. I don’t know if he succeeds fully, but I did like how this ends for Pocket and Jessica, if that makes sense.
As with many of Moore’s books, this one made me laugh out loud. It’s a perfect read if you need something hilarious and very irreverent, especially if you’ve just come off a Shakespearean Lit course and your brains are still crammed full of Shakespearean insults and plot points. You will feel right at home with Moore. You definitely don’t have to read Fool first—but you should read Fool, at some point, because it’s awesome. As much as I would like this book to be it, it’s not—but it’s certainly no Phantom Menace, know what I’m saying?
This is such an amazing concept, and when I first heard about it, I was taken aback by how unbelievably awesome it might be. Some of Shakespeare’s mosThis is such an amazing concept, and when I first heard about it, I was taken aback by how unbelievably awesome it might be. Some of Shakespeare’s most memorable characters face off against each other in a desperate race to find a wizard named William Shakespeare. Othello, Juliet, Falstaff, and others believe that “Will” will deliver them from the tyranny of King Richard III. Richard, along with the Macbeths and Iago, plot to kill Shakespeare and obtain his quill—and with it, his magic. Thrust into the middle of this conflict is Hamlet, initially rescued by Richard and dubbed “the Shadow King”, prophesied, according to Richard, to kill Shakespeare and free England from the wizard’s tyranny. Later, Hamlet escapes from Richard’s grasp and learns that not all is what it seems with the King of England. But the question remains: whose side is he on, and who is this elusive Shakespeare?
Would that I could give this book the rating it deserves for its concept alone! Alas, in execution Kill Shakespeare leaves me feeling somewhat unsatisfied. There’s plenty to like about this book: witty dialogue, crafty villains, humorous situations, and allusions to many of Shakespeare’s plays. Yet beneath all these myriad elements of farce, the central element of story suffers.
Hamlet’s indecision is probably the most compelling conflict in this first volume. Exiled from Denmark for the murder of Polonius, Hamlet ends up in England, essentially a “guest” of Richard III. To both Hamlet and us (except, if you know who Richard III is, you know better), Richard seems like the good guy: a philosopher-king desperate to save his kingdom from the oppressive magic of this mysterious wizard. Only Hamlet, the shadow king, can save them by killing Shakespeare! Hamlet, still understandably traumatized, is not enamoured with the idea of becoming a contract killer. Still, he begins to form a friendship with Iago as they ride across the countryside in the company of Richard’s men.
Once Hamlet hears the other side of the story from Falstaff and Juliet, he—surprise, surprise—becomes indecisive! He’s a stranger to this land; he has no quarrel with either side, or with William Shakespeare. That being said, I feel like my background knowledge of these characters (and it’s rather obvious even if you aren’t familiar with Shakespeare’s plays) upset the dynamic in this moral ambiguity. It seems so obvious that Juliet and the Protagonists (as they are called, hah) are the “good guys” and that Richard and Lady Macbeth are Evil. In fact, when I think about it, there’s nothing all that original or unique about the overall plot here—one might as well have used some different, generic characters and still arrived at the same ending. What do the Shakespearean characters add to this story?
Not much. However, the opposite is true. I quite liked seeing Othello having to confront Iago, Juliet giving a speech about how much she has lost and how she needs to believe in this “Will”, Hamlet struggling with his guilt over the death of Polonius and his father’s death and in general being quite useless. Kill Shakespeare gives these characters a brand new environment in which they can continue to explore their motivations and grow from their experiences in their respective plays. (Of course, since most of Shakespeare’s tragic figures end up driving a dagger betwixt their breasts, they need a miracle exemption.) Not every character fares so well in this type of adaptation: I’m not a fan of Lady Macbeth’s recasting as some kind of evil sorceress. Yeah, in the Scottish Play she coveted power—perhaps more so even than her husband—but her role in Kill Shakespeare seems rather forced. The same might be said for Juliet: exactly how she went from weeping maiden to warrior maiden (TVTropes) isn’t clear. I’m willing to cut the authors some slack here, because Shakespeare is much like The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: versatile and mutable, changing to fit its medium and its audience.
I’m completing my final year of my undergraduate degree, at the end of which I’ll be certified to teach high school math and English. So while I read Kill Shakespeare, I evaluated it not only as a book but with the eye of possibly using it to engage students with the world of Shakespeare. Let’s face it: the Bard is difficult, because he’s writing in a language (and meter) 400 years removed from us, for a style and form that has evolved well beyond the Elizabethan playhouse. So reimaginings, adaptations, and mashups of Shakespearean works are valuable tools for conveying Shakespeare’s plays to modern day audiences. I’m not certain Kill Shakespeare retains enough of the flavour and content of Shakespeare’s plays to be worth teaching on its own, but it would definitely make an interesting supplementary aid.
I suspect that ultimately my feelings about this story will be swayed by the final volume. Do they actually kill Shakespeare? (Probably not.) Will we get to see characters from some of his other works, such as King Lear or The Tempest? (A short comic included at the end implies that the dagger Richard gives to Hamlet to use on Shakespeare is the same dagger that Brutus used to stab Caesar.) I’m sure that half the fun the writers had was trying to come up with ways to include various characters—and there are so many of them—so I’m looking forward to seeing more of that in Volume 2. Kill Shakespeare didn’t blow my mind like I was hoping it would, but it this first volume is still a decent enough example of how, 400 years on, William Shakespeare is still rocking my world.
Few books have managed to disappoint me as much as this one has. The captivating premise of History Play--that Marlowe faked his death and wrote all tFew books have managed to disappoint me as much as this one has. The captivating premise of History Play--that Marlowe faked his death and wrote all the plays attributed to Shakespeare--belies its overly-pedantic treatment of Marlovian theory (an actual literary theory supported by several leading Elizabethan scholars).
The most interesting part of the book is its foreword, which wasn't even written by Bolt, but instead by Mark Twain! It lists the facts we know definitively about the life of William Shakespeare, emphasizing how little we actually know about one considered the greatest playwright of English literature. Academics who favour the mainstream view say this is to be expected; Shakespeare was a commoner, after all, so his life isn't documented as well as the nobility of Elizabethan England. Others take this as a sign that the William Shakespeare of Stratford couldn't have written all those plays we know as his--and that's where Bolt takes up the narrative and presents a fictitious biography of Christopher Marlowe.
I have to admit I was skimming by the time I reached the halfway point of History Play. Its stultifying writing made me want to put it down, but the rational part of me wanted to see how it ended. It probably wasn't worth it, in retrospect. Bolt spends too much time mentioning how he acquired this information ("this was in a letter...") and uses far too many quotations from Marlowe's plays (both those indisputably attributed to him and those we attribute to Shakespeare). His tone is dry, academic, and bored.
If this were a paper in a scholarly journal, I can see how that might work. However, biographies need to be somewhat exciting. I'm not asking Bolt to fictionalize his scenes (any more than they already are...), but as it is History Play is lifeless, limp prose. I was hoping to recommend this book to a couple of other people I know who would enjoy seeing this premise explored, but now I shall forbear--I don't want to inflict this on them!
It's my own fault for having such high hopes, of course, so I won't blame History Play for disappointing me. Unfortunately, I cannot really give it praise....more
I had to add a new shelf for this book: "deliciously quotable." That admirably summarizes Fool, a bawdy comedic interpretation of Shakespeare's King LI had to add a new shelf for this book: "deliciously quotable." That admirably summarizes Fool, a bawdy comedic interpretation of Shakespeare's King Lear. Not for the faint of heart, Fool puts the reader through a whirlwind tour of Shakespearean clichés mixed with a healthy dose of anachronisms and sexual innuendo.
I love any sort of irreverent Shakespearean fun. It's all well and good to call the Bard one of the greatest writers of the English language, but I've never agreed with scholars who treat Shakespeare's writing as sacred. After all, I'm sure good ol' Will wasn't looking to become the most lauded British playwright--he just wanted to make some money and have a good time. And we all know that Shakespeare, although a master wordsmith, was far from original--almost all of his plays are based on earlier works anyway. So it's more homage than heresy to reinterpret the Bard's own work.
King Lear is my favourite of Shakespeare's plays; however, even if it isn't your favourite, or even if you've never read it, you'll still enjoy Fool (just maybe not as much as I did). Christopher Moore draws on inspiration and quotations from several of Shakespeare's plays "largely to throw off reviewers, who will be reluctant to cite and criticize passages of my writing, lest they were penned by the Bard hisownself." It's King Lear sprinkled with Macbeth and Hamlet and a happy ending. I'm not suggesting that a happy ending is better for King Lear—I'm looking at you, Nathan Tate—but it's better for the King Lear reimagining that is Fool.
Take Fool with a grain of salt and suspend your disbelief and you'll be rewarded with a funny and entertaining story. I laughed out loud at several parts of the book, something I very rarely do, and was ready to grant the book five stars when I was less than halfway through (contingent on the book remaining awesome, which it did). Not only is Fool fun and easy to read, but it makes Shakespeare accessible to people who might otherwise never find time for the Bard—I'm looking at you, vapid Twilight-enslaved teenage populace. Fool isn't a replacement for King Lear, and maybe I'm just being too idealistic here, but I hope it'll stir up more interest in Shakespeare, who could be every bit as bawdy as Christopher Moore.
Yes, I loved hearing Regan described as "sadistic (but erotic-fantasy-grade-hot)" and several independent discussions of her "shaggacity." My taste in comedy runs more toward the cerebral, so I hope my enjoyment of Moore's wordplay is all the more convincing a testimonial. It's simply brilliant: "We've been rehearsing a classic from antiquity, Green Eggs and Hamlet, the story of a young prince of Denmark who goes mad, drowns his girlfriend, and in his remorse, forces spoiled breakfast on all whom he meets." As that quotation indicates, Moore peppers Fool with anachronisms. He doesn't go out of his way to describe the mythical medieval Britain he's conjured into existence; Fool is very light on description and heavy on dialogue. Moore sets the stage prior to the beginning of the book: "generally, if not otherwise explained, conditions may be considered damp" and then rarely goes on to describe the environment except when required by the plot. And I don't mind the scant description; it fits the quick-paced, witty tone of Pocket's narration and his banter with enemies and allies alike.
In keeping with the wit and dialogue, another reason Fool appealed so much to me is that it's very meta. The characters occasionally break the fourth wall—usually when Pocket criticizes their behaviour as a stock character:
"So," said Oswald, "you lived through the night?"
"Of course, why wouldn't I?" I asked.
"Well, because I told Cornwall of your rendezvous with Regan and I expected him to slay you."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Oswald, show a little guile, would you? The state of villainy in this castle is rubbish, what with Edmund being pleasant and you being straightforward. What's next, Cornwall starts feeding orphans while bloody bluebirds fly out of his bum? Now, let's try it again, see if you can at least keep up the pretense of evil. Go."
"So, you lived through the night?" said Oswald.
"Of course, why wouldn't I?" I asked.
This sort of meta-repartee can only work in a certain type of book—it would be out of place in a deeply serious piece of literature, for instance, but is fine for something like Fool or The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Moore goes further and interposes a page-length "intermission" scene consisting of fourth-wall-breaking dialogue between Pocket and Edmund at the end of Act IV:
"Bloody ghost is foreshadowing, innit?"
"But all the gratuitous shagging and tossing?"
"Brilliant misdirection."
"You're having me on."
"Sorry, no, it's pikeman's surprise for you in the next scene."
"I'm slain then?"
"To the great satisfaction of the audience."
"Oh bugger!"
Lest you think Fool is only vapid innuendo, I'd argue that there is a more profound level to this novel. Although it transforms King Lear from tragedy to black comedy, in the course of doing so it makes some very touching observations (this was particularly the case with Pocket's recount of his relationship with the anchoress). My favourite, hands down, is this dialogue between the banished Kent and Pocket:
"I'm beginning to wonder," said Kent, sitting down now on an overturned wooden tub. "Who do I serve? Why am I here?"
"You are here, because, in the expanding ethical ambiguity of our situation, you are steadfast in your righteousness. It is to you, our banished friend, that we all turn—a light amid the dark dealings of family and politics. You are the moral backbone on which the rest of us hang our bloody bits. Without you we are merely wiggly masses of desire writhing in our own devious bile."
"Really?" asked the old knight.
"Aye," said I.
"I'm not sure I want to keep company with you lot, then."
Not only is this funny, but it actually provides a great look at the character of Kent from the original King Lear. The most anomalous aspect of the original play is the fact that Lear's kind of a jerk, so it's curious that Kent stays loyal to him even after banishment. Here Pocket attempts to give an answer to that question, with his usual graphically disturbing diction. The characters in Fool are slightly thinner than cardboard, with very little development. Yet it's easy to forget that most of Shakespeare's characters are like that too. Fool is, at some level, an allegory with a paper-thin cast.
Fool is my first, but definitely not my last, Christopher Moore book. Friends of mine who like Moore, and many of the reviewers on this site, seem to concur that Fool is not one of his best novels. If that's the case, then I'm in for a treat; since I loved Fool, I can't wait to get my hands on Moore novels that don't suck!
There's a certain subset of people who will pan this book because their sense of humour isn't compatible with it—they'll find it childish, or perhaps even repugnant. I respect their differing opinion, but if you don't share that opinion, then you must read this book. It is awesome....more
While I haven't read a lot of serious scholarship about Shakespeare, my fascination with him has always been a little more than casual since first disWhile I haven't read a lot of serious scholarship about Shakespeare, my fascination with him has always been a little more than casual since first discovering his plays. In high school, I was part of a group of students, led by one fantastic English teacher, called the "Shakespeare Seven." We met at lunch and read King Lear, then the next year we read The Merchant of Venice on our own time outside of school. So when I found out that Bill Bryson, whose A Short History of Nearly Everythingblew me away, had written a book about Shakespeare's life, there was really no question. I would read it.
Bryson brings his clear style to Shakespeare's life, although this book is drier than A Short History. This may be a result of the narrower subject matter—and as Bryson points out, we know much less about Shakespeare's life than most scholars are content to admit. Part of the allure of Shakespeare is as a cautionary tale for literary historians and critics, and a reminder to readers to always read with a critical eye—information is not credible just because an author insists it is so.
When it comes to what we do know about Shakespeare, it's fascinating to learn how we know it. Bryson takes us into the National Archive, the Folgers Shakespeare Library, and many other institutions, showing us exactly how we discovered Shakespeare's whereabouts and activities at certain points in his life. The sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries weren't known for their fastidious record-keeping, but the sheepskin they used for records is durable enough that what records they made have mostly survived, thankfully. Unfortunately, searching through box upon box of sheepskins filled with nearly-illegible Elizabethan handwriting is a daunting task.
Much about Shakespeare's life, or supposed life, is daunting, and so many scholars—and non-scholars—have tried to identify alternative authors for the works we attribute to the Bard. I'm firmly Stratfordian in my views, but it's always an interesting academic discussion. Bryson is outright dismissive of any question of authorship, going through some of the more popular alternative authors and explaining why they couldn't possibly have written Shakespeare's plays. For those for whom the authorship question is of great interest, this book won't satisfy.
There's more on offer here than just Shakespearean scholarship though. Bryson gives us a glimpse into the zeitgeist of Elizabethan/Jacobean England. It's easy to telegraph the details of Shakespeare's life while robbing them of context. Without Bryson's book, for instance, I wouldn't know that "the second-best bed was often the marital bed—the first being reserved for important visitors—and therefore replete with tender associations." This puts the oft-tantalizing anecdote that Shakespeare gave his wife his second-best bed, and not his first, into a slightly different context. Granted, Bryson warns us against drawing conclusions that amount to speculation—the truth is, we don't know what Shakespeare's state of mind was when he composed his will or his feelings toward his wife. Still, without Bryson's attention to detail, this biography would have been a very different book. He's careful to explain when a term or action would have a different significance in the sixteenth century than it does today, a distinction that's the difference between reading a Shakespeare play and actually comprehending at least parts of it.
For the serious budding Shakespeare scholar, I'm afraid that this book is too brief an introduction to the Bard—but then, it's meant to be. For fans of Bill Bryson, or indeed anyone looking for a brief biography of Shakespeare, this book provides a sketch of sixteenth century life with the myth and speculation stripped away. Neither adventurous nor overly-didactic, Shakespeare hits just the right note for a brief biography of the Bard....more
Whereas delaying reading A Case of Exploding Mangoes for four years didn’t improve the experience, I am glad that I waited until now to read Muse Whereas delaying reading A Case of Exploding Mangoes for four years didn’t improve the experience, I am glad that I waited until now to read Muse of Fire. I recently read Much Ado About Nothing for the first time, in order to teach it to a Year 9 class, and being familiar with that play’s plot and characters definitely improved my comprehension of this Shakespeare-infused novella.
Dan Simmons banks on the continued popularity of the Bard in this book, which is set in a future where humanity has regressed under the baleful influence of a hierarchy of alien species. The vast majority of humans are labourers, eking out an existence on any number of planets. After dying, their alien overseers transport their corpses back to Earth to be entombed until the day of reckoning. Muse of Fire follows a group of humans who have escaped this dull life for one slightly more adventurous. Told from the perspective of Wilbr, a minor player, the story follows the crew of a ship of the same name as they travel from world to world and put on Shakespeare plays.
Shakespeare’s wild popularity despite the fact that his language becomes more archaic with every passing decade is a testament to his skill as a writer, and to the skill of the people who perform his plays. I suppose it’s similar to how people can enjoy an opera even if they don’t speak the opera’s language; the actions and tone of the players are a language all on their own. In the future, human civilization has fallen apart to the point that, as Wilbr explains, they no longer have their own arts; they barely have their own culture. Hence, Shakespeare is even less accessible to their audiences than it is to the audience of today.
Indeed, one has to wonder if Shakespeare would make much sense at all. Do these people know what a thane or a king even is? How much of an oral tradition preserves the past? Simmons doesn’t quite let on, which makes it difficult to judge the extent to which Shakespeare might be understood by these people. In discussing the role of Shakespeare in Brave New World with my AS Level literature class, we talked about how the people of the World State didn’t have the emotional training needed to appreciate Shakespeare, let alone the cultural baggage necessary to understand him. I can’t help but wonder if the same is true here. People’s lives seem so curtailed; can they comprehend the richness of fantasy and circumstance that Shakespeare unleashes with every line?
Our intrepid (and youthful) narrator, Wilbr, certainly does. He is our only window into this watered-down version of humanity, and as the plot thickens he recounts how he went from being a rather undeveloped human being to a Shakespearean actor and afficionado. His commentary on Much Ado About Nothing, King Lear, Hamlet, and Macbeth all evoke the passion for and sense of wonder about Shakespeare’s plays that demonstrate why they are so timeless. If all Simmons set out to do was write a story that celebrated Shakespeare’s work, he has succeeded.
The plot itself, unfortunately, is much less exciting. Wilbr’s troupe has attracted the attention of the aliens who lord it over humanity (the “overlords”, if you will). They get ordered to perform, again and again, for increasingly alien species who are higher up in the pecking order. At last, only Wilbr and his shallow, poorly-characterized love interest are left to perform an ad hoc version of Romeo and Juliet for “God”. And it’s all a test (of course).
Echoes of Simmons’ other work, particularly Hyperion, are evident here. There’s the humanoid manifestations of god and the questions of whether such beings are worthy of worship. There’s the transcendent or otherwise sacrificed human beings, such as the mysterious woman called the Muse who embodies the ship’s cognitive functions. And there is a sense of inevitable, eschatological doom hanging over the collective souls of the human species. It is rather heavy stuff.
But all this takes place on a very flimsy canvas of a setting. Simmons doesn’t see fit to explain much about how humanity got this way. He leaves a lot about the story’s background mysterious, such as why human corpses are always returned to Earth. Aside from the repetitive plot structure and frequent praise for Shakespeare, there is not much going on here. Similarly, the characters are nothing to write home about. Wilbr is well developed as our narrator, but the others are flat and two-dimensional, remaining loyal to the one-line descriptions Wilbr tags them with near the beginning of the story.
Plenty of interesting ideas. Excellent use of mood, atmosphere, and tone. And, of course, it’s all about how Shakespeare is the bomb (and you know he is). In these respects, Muse of Fire is an excellent novella—but as a story, it failed to capture, sustain, or really even stir my interest. Once again, I remain ambivalent about Simmons—this was not the book that could push me to one particular side of the fence.
So this appears to be the last book, at least for now, of Elizabeth Bear’s Promethean Age series. The series is actually two loose duologies: Blood anSo this appears to be the last book, at least for now, of Elizabeth Bear’s Promethean Age series. The series is actually two loose duologies: Blood and Iron and Whiskey and Water are set in the modern day; Ink and Steel and this book are part of the Stratford Man duology, set in a Faerie-infested Elizabethan England. As my previous reviews of books in this series make clear, I am incredibly ambivalent. Bear’s commitment to detail is obvious, but the sheer intricacy and convoluted nature of her plots make these novels somewhat of a chore. Ink and Steel alleviated that by way of setting: I was just utterly fascinated by the way Bear took familiar historical figures, like Shakespeare and Marlowe, and weaved them into her complex tapestry of war and intrigue among Faerie, England, and Hell.
Hell and Earth concludes the story of Kit Marlowe, dead poet and spy now living in Faerie, and William Shakespeare, master playwright and sorcerer loyal to England and to Elizabeth. Marlowe and Shakespeare square off against members of their own Promethean Club, which has fractured into various factions who are all vying for power and prestige. Bear mixes fact with fantasy quite liberally—the end of the book includes an Author’s Note outlining where she altered the historical record or embellished it, which was quite a bit. Marlowe, of course, is very much alive, albeit somewhat worse for wear. The King James Bible becomes a poetic masterpiece of magic. And Shakespeare becomes instrumental in defeating the Gunpowder Plot. (From my own reading on the subject—i.e., an intense ten-second session of Googling—it seems like Shakespeare was connected to many of the conspirators, which makes sense, but did not play so large a role in defusing the conspiracy.)
It has been over two years since I read the previous book in this series, so I am somewhat foggy on the details! That didn’t work to my advantage as I read Hell and Earth, which is intimately connected to Ink and Steel—they are very close to being a single book. Of course, this didn’t do much for my opinion of the story or the plot, both of which are hard to follow. In particular, Bear’s idea of exposition is somewhat loquacious but unhelpful: the characters say a lot, but I don’t comprehend much of it. This did not become problematic until the climax, where understanding the actions of Lucifer is central to understanding the events. (I still don’t know what was really going on there, and if you feel you can explain it to me, please comment!) So there were parts of this book that I didn’t skim but I felt as if I had skimmed. I think this is how I felt like much of the first two Promethean Age books (except I distinctly remember disliking those books as well, which isn’t quite the case here). I hope that I have established enough “street cred” as a reviewer to make these complaints meaningful and more than just idle whining. There is a plot to Hell and Earth, but its complexities escape me.
In fact, reading this book was kind of like dunking my head underwater and holding my breath while I travelled back in time four hundred years. Bear portrays the setting in a very interesting way: her visual descriptions are sparse, but her use of language and description of the relationships between characters more than make up for this. In the end, what we get is a very conceptual and emotional grasp of England at the beginning of the seventeenth century: Elizabeth’s power is waning, and after she dies, a Scottish king assumes the throne. There’s a great deal of uncertainty, particularly when it comes to religious freedom and the growing influence of the Puritans. Oh, and don’t forget the plague. Nasty stuff, that.
If, like me, you are partial to this period of English history, and especially interested in fantastic portrayals of Shakespeare and his literary contemporaries, then these two books hold something for you. Bear has done her research, even though she often deviates from history for her own purposes. Whatever background knowledge one brings to the book will only serve to augment the experience; for those with little knowledge, it might seem heavy on the name soup, but it will still be an interesting glimpse into a history that never was.
I wish I could provide a more pertinent review of Hell and Earth. It deserves one. There are some great themes here: Marlowe’s love for and loyalty to Will are tested; Will himself must choose between Elizabeth or England; and we glimpse the burdens of ruling Faerie or Hell. There are some deep moments to this book, the kind of weighty moments that only happen when there is an extensive, enchanting mythology to rely upon. All these details are excellent, but they also create a lot of noise, and that’s where my memories of this book begin and end.
Why, why did Blood and Iron and Whiskey and Water precede this book?! Ink and Steel possesses the best qualities of its predecessors and few of their Why, why did Blood and Iron and Whiskey and Water precede this book?! Ink and Steel possesses the best qualities of its predecessors and few of their flaws. Elizabeth Bear's skill flourishes in an alternate Elizabethan England where Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare are agents for the Queen and have dealings with Fae.
By far, my reviews of the previous books singled out an overly-complicated mythology as the Promethean Age's major flaw. Ink and Steel retains much of the mythological basis present in the first two books, but it seems much less preoccupied about dancing around complicated rules. Only the teind, Faerie's seven-year tithe to Hell, plays a large role in this book, and that situation is easy enough to follow. There is no mention of the Dragon (yay) or Dragon Prince, and the concept of a Merlin appears only in passing.
Indeed, Ink and Steel benefits from a narrower focus and tighter, crisper storytelling. Now with fewer annoying human characters! Yes, I can actually like our two human protagonists, Marlowe and Shakespeare, something I had trouble doing with the human characters in the first two books. I credit much of this to the juxtaposition of Bear's fictitious Marlowe and Shakespeare with my own expectations for the characters based on what I know of their historical versions. Similarly, I quite enjoyed seeing Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford (and the true author of Shakespeare's plays according to some) and Ben Jonson.
The conflicts in Ink and Steel are superior to the first two books in this series. As mentioned above, they are easier to understand, and on a level, far more personal. On one level, Ink and Steel is a love story; on another level, it's a political drama where words and songs, poetry and plays, are the weapons of choice. In leveraging the poignant verse of Shakespeare and Marlowe, Bear skilfully reinforces the latter theme.
Ink and Steel makes an important distinction between mortals and the creatures of Faerie and Hell, beyond the obvious differences in strengths and weaknesses. Marlowe and Shakespeare--who are as much legend to us as Morgan and Arthur are to them--are portrayed as brilliant, passionated, and flawed human beings. Yet at the same time, they possess qualities that the Fae envy. I feel like Bear was attempting to draw these conclusions in the first books, particularly with changeling characters, like Elaine the Seeker. However, it took her three tries to perfect the message.
So far I've only compared Ink and Steel to its two predecessors. How does it stand on its own merits?
As noted, Bear makes masterful use of the Elizabethan setting and characters. While your mileage may vary, I personally I have a weakness for historical fiction set in the Elizabethan era--particularly historical fiction done well. There are too many epistolary sections for my taste.
The narrative perspective of Ink and Steel is somewhat more detached than I'd like. That's not to say that we're devoid of glimpses into the hearts of our characters. But each "scene" is related in a very cursory way, with emphasis placed more on dialogue than description. However, I suppose it's necessary in order to preserve the pacing of the story, which takes place over several mortal years, and I wouldn't be surprised if Bear chose to do this to further emulate the structure of a play. Not that such reasons make it any better....
But I mean ... come on. William Shakespeare. Christopher Marlowe. Faerie. Hell. What's not to like? It's 400 pages of quality fantasy, none of which is set in New York, and none of which involves an amoral Dragon manipulating matters behind the scenes. Ink and Steel, owing to its setting, was the book that attracted me to the Promethean Age series; I chose to start at book 1 because I worried I'd like back story. Hopefully, this review will convince anyone similarly interested solely in The Stratford Man duology (this book and Hell and Earth) to skip right to Ink and Steel. You won't miss anything....more
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