[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]
Ngl, I picked up Double Mobius S[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]
Ngl, I picked up Double Mobius Sphere because it was on the shorter side; I was looking for an easy win.
I'm not sure why I thought a book titled Double Mobius Sphere would be easy. Mobius spheres are inherently Hard Math™. Double that and things get brain-melty.
But before we get there, the premise: Aliens as we know them, little greenish beings transported by flying saucers, are real, and everything you've seen on Ancient Aliens is true. Thus, aliens—known as Capacians throughout Double Mobius Sphere—must be an elder species of untold wisdom and knowledge.
The setting is several centuries from now, in a federation of most of the lesser sentient species, such as humans. Several years prior, they received direct communication from the Capacians in the form of a coded message. It's proven uncrackable, but it must mean, or signify, or catalyze, something. So this federation sends one of their finest starships, captained by Daniel Oberon and staffed by their very best and brightest, on a multi-year mission to reach the outer rim of the known universe. Here they hope to find the Capacians, and with them, answers to humanity's biggest questions like "why" and "what" and "who."
Finding the Capacians and documenting all he can is not Captain Oberon's most significant task, however. First and foremost, he must keep Elijah Brandon safe.
Elijah is seven years old. He cries when he misses his parents. He slacks off at his school work. He doodles and goes swimming, and loves to play pranks on his caretaker. He's also a genius on a scale impossible to register. The federation has big plans for him; what exactly they are is unknown. Not in a nefarious way, but more in a "he's seven, let's see how things go and find a place for him to shine" sort of way. And "seeing how things go" includes tagging along on this momentous occasion to soak up the knowledge of the unrivaled crew as well as the unique experience of charging into the unknown. Maybe his genius will even make sense of the Capacians.
This voyage to the outer rim takes years. Oberon doesn't seek to uncover that Elijah is far more than what he appears to be. It just comes out, piece by piece, as the doctor performs routine checkups, and crew members make passing comments, and Elijah prattles off stuff that, to him, feels innocuous. But as Oberon begins to understand all that he doesn't understand about Elijah, he has to wonder, is this extraordinary child to humanity's benefit or detriment?
First up, I liked Double Mobius Sphere, but it's a little bit difficult to talk about. This is because, in addition to its mathiness, there's very little ... fluff.
Fluff sounds bad, and sometimes it can be. It can also be those small moments and asides that give the reader time to feel connected to the story-telling or characters but technically don't need to exist for the plot. They are little pockets of fresh air that give you time to breathe.
They simply aren't done here, and that's fine. Double Mobius Sphere is dense, and I doubt P.S. Nim felt particularly strongly about immersion in the world. Ideas are the primary driving force, and these ideas are astronomical, mathematical, philosophical, and, to a lesser extent, anthropological and psychological. Authentic 1970s questions like "how do we know anything?" are trotted out and debated with sincerity alongside quick-ish summaries of how Einstein's work laid a path for subsequent scientists to discover lightspeed travel.
While ideas are the novel's primary goal, paired with Oberon's questions about Elijah, they roll up into a pretty decent mystery. It hit the right beats of questions being answered only to open up more questions, and small reveals stopping you dead in your tracks.
Adding a small human element to the philosophical and psychological is Oberon. His primary task is to keep Elijah safe and find the Capacians, in that order. But as new information comes to light, too far from command for contact, Oberon must make his own decisions, with consequences he can't begin to understand.
All of this works for me, and the characters are perfectly within reason. Elijah could be obnoxious; he's not. The captain feels well-rounded and his less-captain-y insides are drawn out by the ship’s doctor, a good friend of his and a respectable character in his own right. Elijah’s primary caretaker is incredibly sympathetic. There's even a mysterious, intelligent, badass woman that, for some reason, reminds me of The Melaklos from The Panorama Egg fame. The story-telling feels tidy and efficient. If you walk into this expecting an idea book—and a math/science/philosophy heavy one at that—there is so much to like here. It's the sort of book where I wanted to discuss it with someone as soon as I finished it. As it has ten ratings and no reviews here on Goodreads, that might not be easy to accomplish. Regardless, it's that good, even if it's far from what I was expecting.
I'm slightly torn about the ending but unsure if I'm being fair or not. I will not give away any significant spoilers, as I feel this book is worth reading, but I have some high-level comments to make after the jump that hint at the ending's theme / tone / etc. My rating wavers between a 4 and a five depending on how generous I feel about the ending at the moment, but I'm going to round up.
(view spoiler)[ Okay, so the ending is a little vague and several (many) questions are pointedly not answered.
On the one hand, I kinda get it. It plays into humanity's lesser role in the universe and the general theme of "how much can we know?"
On the other hand, as mentioned, much of this book reads like a mystery, and psychologically I'm primed to expect something concrete before I reach the back cover of a mystery. I don't need to know everything, but at least one big reveal helps a lot. We get small reveals along the way, leading to more questions, but there's nothing too big waiting for us when they run out of questions. There's a, imho, surprisingly touching denouement, and the scene cuts.
I want more. But at the same time, the fact that this hardcore scientific/philosophical book ends on such a human note seems deliberate. Like maybe the answer isn't in the knowing; it's in our relationships with each other. (hide spoiler)]
Cover art by unknown, but P.S. Nim is a cover artist, so maybe she worked on her own book?...more
Harry is a young woman sent to live on the desert frontier with her only living relative. She’s low-key discontent, insecure, and strangely drawn bothHarry is a young woman sent to live on the desert frontier with her only living relative. She’s low-key discontent, insecure, and strangely drawn both to the inhospitable landscape and its secretive, magical Hillfolk.
The king of the Hillfolk, Corlath, is simultaneously drawn to Harry—there’s something about her that is not what it seems. Something important … even if she is an Outlander.
The Blue Sword, for all its trains and guns and desert frontier entirely devoid of dragons, is a classic fantasy novel, and thus it comes with all the classical fantasy baggage. It stands out from the pack, however, in the nuance with which Harry is painted and her unusual—for a fantasy heroine, anyway—demeanor. An enjoyment of languid storytelling is important, as is a willingness to excuse a weak plot. That’s not what matters here. Harry does.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See a full length review at forfemfan.com]...more
Frankly, I was on the lower-end of lukewarm about the predecessor to The Walls of Air—The Time of the Dark—for several reasons:
The Dark are too onFrankly, I was on the lower-end of lukewarm about the predecessor to The Walls of Air—The Time of the Dark—for several reasons:
The Dark are too one-dimensionally evil/powerful. There’s little intrigue to be had in watching humanity hopeless run for their lives.
Rudy’s sudden need to love and calling to magic felt hollow.
Gil’s stolid selflessness and willingness to sign away free-will to join the guard felt unrealistic and disingenuous to her character.
Still, I kept reading, mostly because I knew that Barbara Hambly was better than The Time of the Dark. There was potential for things to pick up.
And in some ways, the story did pick up. In others, though, it got so much worse.
Rudy and Ingold set off on a nigh-impossible quest to reach the wizards at Quo who have—for unknown reasons—completely isolated themselves. To accomplish this specious task, Ingold and Rudy must walk 1500 miles through the churning apocalypse which, I feel the need to remind you, includes the Dark, a much higher likelihood of bandits due to the ruin of civilization, climate change, and enemy tribes being displaced directly into their path because of all of the above. Also, at the end of their journey is a magical maze of illusion that could be deadly.
As much as Ingold carried The Time of the Dark, I largely disliked this quest for one reason: Rudy.
I still don’t buy him. He’s still too perfectly the aloof almost-bad-boy with a sensitive heart of gold just looking for meaning and love. And his lack of set-up continues to undermine my ability to take him seriously. You know what it is? He took on both magic and Alde so effortlessly and thoughtlessly that it feels like a fad. Any day now he’ll grow bored and wander off.
Also, he’s a coward. Him constantly hanging back and letting Ingold take on every single bad thing that came their way may be realistic, but it isn’t a good look. It also, imho, leads to subpar pacing. Fight sequences need to be quick. With Rudy standing off watching but not particularly getting involved, he has plenty of time to narrate blow-by-blow action. Sometimes a scuffle lasts pages. Especially when it’s mostly sword-play, it gets boring real quick.
Throughout the quest there are pops of excitement that had me eagerly turning pages. I liked everything about the White Raiders, for example, but most of it was them walking, getting lost, or Rudy watching Ingold fight something.
Back at the keep, Gil and Alde are exploring both the structure itself and countless old tomes on loan from the church. They seek some bit of knowledge to give them any hope against the Dark.
This is slightly more interesting, but also contains some of the most irksome incongruities The Walls of Air has to offer.
For example: More refugees arrive. They’re initially turned away because there’s no room, but then Alde throws her weight around to gain them admittance. To make room, they move all the food into hastily-constructed structures built outside the keep.
Outside, where no guard will patrol after twilight or before dawn because of fear of the Dark.
Outside, where a freak ice-storm, a falling tree, a mammoth, or any number of other accidents might jeopardize the structure and expose their meager food supplies to scavengers and the elements.
Outside, where starving people driven to desperation would absolutely take a crack at stealing some food despite the threat of the Dark.
Outside, where the Dark, who are said to have their own alien intelligence, gather at night and try to destroy the denizens of the keep. As it’s been said that they learn and grow more sophisticated in their behavior, is it that much of a stretch for them to realize the easiest way to destroy the people is to destroy the grain?
Seriously. The keep is running desperately low on food and Alwir and Alde fear they’ll face starvation come spring. Why are they gambling on where they store their food? Surely there’s some way to keep it inside.
I struggled on this for days. I eventually had to force myself to either move on or quit reading.
I moved on, and GIl and Alde pick up their exploration of the keep. Mapping the floors is slow and tedious because the rooms are built all slapdash and often empty or simply piled high with old, rotting furniture, making it hard to gauge—wait. Huge areas are empty? Then why the fuck was the food moved outside?
I wanted to quit almost as badly as I wanted to understand why or how this obvious incongruity made it into the book. I kept reading and eventually figured out the answer: two subplots that fill in for the lack of an engaging overarching plot involve folks sneaking outside before the gates are closed to get a whack at the food while it’s unguarded.
Which proves my point: banking on fear of the Dark to keep people away from the food stores at night is unbelievably naive and foolish. Considering how shrewd Alwir is about maintaining power, and how suspicious Gil is, and how intuitive Alde is … realistically someone would have realized this would be a problem.
While that is the least-spoilery and simultaneously most egregious example, The Walls of Air is filled with these contrived story-telling conveniences. It is frustrating.
So, if I barely finished The Time of the Dark, and only did so because of Ingold, and Ingold’s ability to shine is now hampered by Rudy’s blandness, then why did I finish The Walls of Air?
About the time that I was railing against their storing food outside, Rudy and Ingold start to explore the concept of the Dark a little more. Likewise, Gil and Minalde are unearthing some of the keep’s secrets. While the villain of the piece is still several times too powerful, at least now my curiosity might get some satisfaction. Because I am curious. Why do the Dark slumber for millennia between terrorizing the earth? How was the keep built? Does any of this connect back to our earth?
I want to know.
It also helps that Gil and Minalde come into better focus. Gil is still strangely dedicated to risking life and limb in the guard, but she’s also not doing outlandish things like volunteering to carry heavy loads of food out of a Dark-infested basement the day after she gets sucked through the portal, so that helps. Her past life as a scholar comes back to her, as well, and this clearly central part of her character affecting how she behaves feels right.
Minalde also shines in her own way as a selfless queen whose biggest flaw is an inability to stand up for herself. It’s a personality pairing that makes a lot of sense and, honestly, it feels too real. Unlike bullshit like Wizenbeak where the evil queen keeps the throne at the expense of the kingdom, I feel like Minalde’s circumstance is much, much more common: a woman who could have all the power she wanted reduced due to her inability to stand up to those close to her.
And Ingold, though I wouldn’t say he shines on his quest, well, at least nothing ruins him for me.
So I have four characters I’m invested in and a handful of questions I’d like answers to. I’m actually in a better spot than I was at the end of The Time of the Dark. So long as I can forget about the stupid food storage.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]...more
I realized something the day I left for a weekend backpacking trip through the beautiful Laurel Highlands: I needed a book. My current book, A DoorI realized something the day I left for a weekend backpacking trip through the beautiful Laurel Highlands: I needed a book. My current book, A Door Into Ocean, was delightful and would feel right at home among nature, but at 400+ pages, I wasn't thrilled at piling it atop my other 20lbs of gear. On the trail, every gram counts.
I was also (socially distance-ly) backpacking with my dear sister-in-law, who I knew goes to bed much earlier than I do. I needed a book good enough to keep me busy for hours; randomly grabbing a small-ish book from the shelf was a gamble. What to do?
Marta Randall to the rescue. I adored Islands despite the weird metaphysical hocus-pocus-y ending and had been meaning to come back to her. Enter: A City In The North. At 222 pages, it's half the length—and half the weight—of A Door Into Ocean. Literally. I weighed them.
Based on Marta Randall's incredible skill, I knew A City In The North was going to be infinitely less hokey than the cover implied*, but damn. Novels from the 1970s knew how to get it done. At only 222 pages, with a font bigger than average, there is so much covered in this sweet little book.
The premise is simple: Toyon Sutak is low-key obsessed with a ruin he saw in primary school that filled his imagination and spurred him from his family's simple farming life to owning a shipping conglomerate.
Named Hoep Tashik, the ruin exists on a planet where the locals—called Hannin—are described as "ape-like" and "un-expressive." They're peaceful, but there's a problem: they've successfully petitioned the galactic government to make most of their world—including Hoep Tashik—restricted to outsiders. Toyon, however, isn't concerned. Along with his wife, Alin Kennerin, he arrives on Hoep-Hanninah, convinced he can persuade the Hannin to make an exception for him.
This is the premise, not the plot. The plot is rooted in Toyon's desire but is not as simple as "man overcomes obstacles to explore ruin." I'm reticent to tell you much more, though, as I adored not knowing which way things were shifting or what to expect. I felt a bit like Toyon myself, watching bewildered as unfamiliar people and aliens behave in ways I didn't understand, but wanted to, all while wondering how ... everything affected the plot.
In many ways, A City In The North reminds me of Nancy Kress's *amazing* In An Alien Light. The obvious comparison is the notion of a "premise" story. If you're not sure what I'm talking about, I explain it in detail in the In An Alien Light review, linked to above.
It's more than that, however. The interaction of Toyon, Alin, and other humans with the dramatically alien Hannin evokes a similar mesmerizing otherness to Kress's human-alien dynamics. Again I read, hungrily, to see if these strange creatures would live up to my hopes for them, and puzzled when the boundary between human and alien blurred.
It was also interesting to read A City In The North during/directly after A Door Into Ocean. Both stories display a previously independent world reacting to the presence of corporations/traders interested exclusively in the planet's resources. Both stories feature non-violent native populations displeased with the change but struggling with how to handle it.
What makes this comparison fascinating, however, is the differences. There's the topical: in 222 pages, I don't feel like I get to know the characters as intimately, despite them feeling like fully-fledged people. There's also less world-building; almost every world ties directly into the plot. The biggest and most thought-provoking difference, however, is between the Sharers of A Door Into Ocean and the Hannin. Despite all their purple skin, webbed digits, and the ability to procreate without men, the Sharers are human. The Hannin are not. And this anthropological—even ethnological—puzzle is what drives the novel.
Perhaps there are some questions left unanswered throughout the story, some ideas are explained in a rush, and the ending is a little more open-ended than I prefer (what can I say, I'm a sucker for a denouement), but I found A City In The North to be a fascinating, thought-provoking read with plenty of substance and even beauty despite its short length.
TW, there is a short depiction of an obviously sexually abusive relationship between an adult (male) villain and a boy. Nothing explicit happens, the depiction is very short, and it only comes up once to really demonize the villain, but it’s there. It’s, imo, the weakest part of the novel and entirely unnecessary, but it’s there. Fair warning.
*The cover is that sort of so-dreadful-it's-amazing. Apologies to Vincent DiFate, but it's true. He can be an incredible artist, mind you. Just not ... here.
(I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com)...more
I am a self-proclaimed Barbara Hambly fan-girl. Despite this fact, I have not even come close to reading all there is of Barbara Hambly. This is in paI am a self-proclaimed Barbara Hambly fan-girl. Despite this fact, I have not even come close to reading all there is of Barbara Hambly. This is in part because she’s prolific (and has a ton of books out there) and because I like to save her work for special occasions.
Recently I went on a trip to Japan and decided that it was the perfect time to pack a few books that I was saving for later. Naturally, I packed a Barbara Hambly book: The Time of the Dark.
Of all the Barbara Hambly books I own (but haven’t yet read), I was most excited about this one. The cover—a somber looking mage holding a beer and eating chips in a 1980s kitchen—is the perfect balance of kitsch and earnestness. Better yet, it is reminiscent of my favorite series of hers, The Windrose Chronicles, which also involves world-hopping magicians.
So it was with glee when I finally tucked into The Time of the Dark, late at night in the rooftop onsen of the impeccable Oniyama hotel in Beppu, Japan.
It starts hard. A woman is dreaming a horrible dream thick with impending doom. As the moments pass, she begins to feel like it’s not a dream at all—it’s a glimpse elsewhere.
By day this woman is Gil, a serious academic on the PhD track who has dedicated her entire life to her passion for scholarship and medieval history.
By night, well, she keeps dreaming, though the understanding that her dreams are real grows in certainty until Ingold—a man from her dreams—appears, flesh and blood, in her living room.
He confirms that her dreams were in fact quite real, and explains that in his world they’re under siege from a powerful primordial enemy: the Dark Ones. He asks her help, and I was thrilled that no one thought she was the chosen one or whatnot. Ingold merely asks where nearby he can hunker down for a few days while he bides his time. Gil points him in a direction and offers to deliver supplies.
Rudy is a biker and a drifter, though he doesn’t put much stock in the hard-assed persona of his peers. Deep down he’s an artist, hoping one day to make money from something other than painting flames on the sides of trucks. After a beer-run gone wrong he ends up at the hiding spot Gil suggests for Ingold.
Invariably something goes wrong, and Rudy, Gil, and Ingold all end up back in Ingold’s world. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if Ingold could merely shuttle Rudy and Gil back to Earth, but for reasons I don’t care to give away, he cannot. Our protagonists have to stick around as this surprising new world crumples under the onslaught of the Dark.
This is essentially the entirety of the over-arching plot. Rudy and Gil want to go home but (at least for the time being) cannot, and so they must adapt to their new world even as it’s destroyed. Ingold, in addition to trying to send Rudy and Gil home, has his own plot: he must keep the heir to the throne safe.
If I’m being honest—and I hope you realize that I’m always honest if I’m willing to say this about a book written by my favorite author—the plot is thin. The Dark Ones are an unknown evil. Though not invincible, they’re quite hard to kill, spray acid when they are killed, and exist in such high numbers that killing them doesn’t feel like a triumph. For the entirety of the story the characters are running for their lives and getting killed off every step of the way.
The lack of intrigue is a bummer from a story-telling perspective and the heaviness of the lack of apparent hope made The Time of the Dark a bit of a hard read.
Barbara Hambly is unbelievable with her characterization, though, so that is where I had hoped—expected, even—for things to turn around. She once made an entirely unrepentant vampire sympathetic! In The Time of the Dark we’ve got a badass yet kindly old wizard and two fishes out of water. I genuinely thought an emotional plot would fill in the gaps.
Sadly, I was wrong. Gil and Rudy do adapt, and we see them adapting, but it felt empty to me. We never really see Gil in her own world, so I don’t know if her volunteering for a difficult job on, like, her second day in this crazy new world is within her character, a coping mechanism, or a sure sign that something new has been shaken loose in her.
And, more than that, Gil is (dare I say it?) a little too strong. Not in the “I’m going to fight everyone all the time” way, but in the seriously, no one has a well that deep to give from way.
Seriously. She’s sucked from her world, her carefully honed life that she says is all she’s ever wanted, and is put somewhere else and told “eh, we might not be able to get you back.” If that place were on the Earth as we know it, it would still be a devastating blow, but this is so much worse. One person alone can send her home, and they’re in a world where the average life expectancy doesn’t stretch far into the future. To her it would seem very likely that she’s stuck, stranded forever in this post-apocalyptic hellscape of a world she doesn’t even understand—if she survives. And again, not many people are surviving.
On top of the mental burden of her accidental transportation, there’s the physical. Gil is an American woman, born and raised in California by a rich family. She’s a PhD student. She had probably never experienced true hunger, or, hell, even food insecurity. She’d probably never been cold for days on end. She’d probably never been denied even a modicum of privacy. She’d probably never been put in an ethical position where her actions would determine whether someone lives or dies. She’d probably never seen anyone killed or die. She’d almost certainly never had to walk past bloating, rotting corpses and bloody, sinuous tangles of bone.
Of course, in a dying medieval world, she experiences all of these things,but they don't seem to really affect her.
I’m not saying that no one would survive, but I sincerely doubt anyone would survive as well as Gil did. Because she just sort of ... rolls with the punches. She gets harder, colder, for sure, but I never get any sort of hint that she’s mentally strained. Physically, sure. She’s constantly exhausted, constantly hungry, constantly cold. But she never so much as flinches mentally. I get that simply existing without thought is a coping mechanism, but I would expect that coping mechanism to kick in after a few days when instinctively her body realizes that it’s either shut down emotionally or die.
Rudy isn’t as strong as Gil. At least, he doesn’t give endlessly and selflessly past the point of reason. He is more prone to cracking under the strain of the world, but, again, only physically. When he’s too cold, too hungry, too tired, he flounders. Otherwise, he’s almost ... jovial? It’s like he’s on another road-trip rather than thrust into the death throws of a civilization incomprehensibly removed from his life.
They’re not awful characters by any means. If the plot had intrigue that drew me on, they’d probably be entirely serviceable. But the plot didn’t draw me on, so I needed characters that I loved, that I felt invested in, that seemed so real I yearned for their success and feared for their failure. Largely in part to their blase reaction to world-swapping, though, Gil and Rudy didn’t scratch that itch.
In the end, I think Barbara Hambly realized her mistake and tried to give Gil and Rudy each an emotional arc, but I don’t think there was nearly enough setup for their closure to feel authentic.
So neither the plot not the protagonists really intrigued me, yet I finished the book. As my Globalization & Development professor used to say “Why dat?”
The simple answer is that beautiful bastard on the cover: Ingold. In many ways he’s a trope—the kindhearted but hard-as-nails misunderstood outcast wizard who will throw everything he has away to save the people who disparage him—but, well, who doesn’t love that trope? And though Ingold is very trope-y, I’d argue that he’s the most developed character in the book. I won’t spoil the details, because, in my opinion, good characterization is all in the details, but there are delightful hints that Ingold is more than what we see.
Oddly, some tertiary characters that don’t even get much screen time grabbed my attention, as well. The arch-bishop Govannin is one badass yet awful lady. Much like an old Disney villain (think Ursula or Maleficent), she intrigued me. I wanted to see more of her; learn her angle. That’s the funny thing—Govannin definitely has a personal plot, because all she wants is power. With civilization collapsing, it might even give her room to grab more power—so long as she doesn’t overreach and cause gross instability that’ll get her killed. We rarely saw her, but damn, I was left wanting more.
So in the end, I liked, but didn’t love, The Time of the Dark. At the same time, though, it was Barbara Hambly’s first novel. A lot of these issues feel like first-book issues. It also has a decent amount of similarities to The Windrose Chronicles in terms of magic and world. Without it, would The Windrose Chronicles would be half as perfect?
Probably not.
Hm, maybe I do love The Time of the Dark after all.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]...more
As I try to do these days, I went into Far Edge of Darkness more-or-less blind. The front cover of a woman in an old car holding a pistol while what lAs I try to do these days, I went into Far Edge of Darkness more-or-less blind. The front cover of a woman in an old car holding a pistol while what looks like Roman centurions gawk gave me the impression of a slightly goofy time-travel novel.
Far Edge of Darkness is a time-travel novel. It is not goofy. Also, the scene depicted by the cover art never happens in the book itself. Sadness.
The book opens well—you get to meet some characters and spend time in their very credible worlds before shit hits the fan. There’s a low, creeping sense of dread surrounding the time travel itself—who is pulling the strings, and why? What exactly is the motive? How on earth can the wronged characters fight back when they’re trapped in ancient Rome with slave collars around their throats?
So long as this creeping sense of dread stood, I was hooked. Though never particularly beautiful or clever, the writing is technically good, and in an action story like this, that’s all you want. The characters, though never particularly charming, were fleshed out and acted in line with their personal ideals. And while the world was brutal, it was displayed with such realism that it didn’t feel gratuitous.
(This is a good time to say that Far Edge of Darkness comes with serious trigger warnings for sexualized violence against men, women, and children. There are also depictions of domestic abuse. These moments are, of course, brutal, but they’re not written like torture porn. If you are like me and just squeamish and sensitive, they might not bother you too much. If you find depictions of these sorts of things to be legit triggers, I’d suggest staying away.)
Eventually, though, the villain must be made known. And while I continued to enjoy Far Edge of Darkness, I must admit that once the baddie stepped out of the shadows, my interest waned slightly. This is in part because I didn’t find the villain particularly interesting and in part, because the question of “Oh my cod, what’s the nefarious cause of all of this?”, at least in my mind, wasn’t replaced with a new, deeper question. It was just like ‘Oh, okay. Now we know who’s behind all this, and that’s that.’
After that, the focus of the book fell solely on survival, revenge, and getting back to the proper time/place. It was all well written with a solid pace and characters that made sense.
I dunno. I find Far Edge of Darkness to be especially hard to review because to me it’s good, but not amazing. There’s nothing specific for me to gush or gripe about. It’s just a solid action novel. I’m not an action novel expert, but this one reads much, much better than the others I’ve read, so if you are really into action novels, it might make you squeal with delight.
Fair warning, this is the first book in a series that never ended up happening. I was really worried the book would end without any sort of resolution, but thankfully Linda Evans did us a solid. Though the overarching plot continues, the emotional plots of this story feel pretty well wrapped up. Even if it literally ends with characters hanging off a cliff.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]...more
While I quit reading only a few pages into Joshua Son of None, it’s not going onto the shelf of books I've given up on. I can’t bring myself to write While I quit reading only a few pages into Joshua Son of None, it’s not going onto the shelf of books I've given up on. I can’t bring myself to write it off, but neither, at least right now, can I bring myself to read it. It’s going back onto the to-read pile.
It started off compelling enough, and Nancy Freedman has a strong voice and a deft command of the English language. But things got confusing in a way where I couldn’t tell if I was simply being dense or if the writing had spiraled out of control.The premise is somewhat simple. An unnamed president, who is definitely John F Kennedy, is assassinated. Thor Bitterbaum is a doctor. He steals a bit of the president’s DNA and stores it so that he might clone the president. Despite being a Jewish atheist, Thor also has some sort of weird affinity for the Norse god of the same name. I couldn’t entirely tell if he merely likens himself to the god or if he’s somehow the modern embodiment of Thor.
And That’s all the set up I had walking into these next paragraphs.
The strength and daring of Thor stood off and kept at bay the talmudic scholar grandfather, Jacob Bitterbaum, and the learned rabbi, Solomon Bitterbaum. They shook long unscissored beads and consulted Yekuthiel Bitterbaum, patriarch of the family. But he had never heard of anyone called Thor, who daily waded rivers to sit in judgement under Yggdrasil, the world tree, defending both Midgard and Asgasrd, men and gods, from the chaos of the giants. His belt doubled his strength. He had gloves of iron and could toss a thunderbolt. The red-bearded one swung his club, and goats and wild boar ran to his side. In the Ragnarok, in the forest of Thorsmorsk he would fight the serpent and it was recounted that both would die.
No wonder the old Jews shook their covered heads. Thor brandished the swastika, symbol of Mjellnir, his hammer, which the dwarfs, out of spite, had made too short. They drew back, these pious Jews, murmured ancient prayers and swayed in the face of the assertion that this hero could shrive and hallow the dead. And yet the dead was so shriven that he would rise up in strength and life.
There I was, reclining by the pool, utterly baffled. Just a moment before Thor had been surreptitiously slipping the recovered DNA into a test tube, then wham. I re-read it, but that’s dense and awfully metaphorical and allegorical and I kinda wanted to look up more about Norse mythology to see if maybe then I could understand what was going on but I had intentionally left my phone in the car so I’d just read and swim and nap and not get sucked into wasting time on my phone.
So I pushed forward, and soon we were back in the real world, with Thor sneaking the DNA sample out of the hospital and thinking about his plans for human cloning. This last part gets technical, fast. Lots of scientists and their attempts at cloning are mentioned in rapid successful and I just wasn’t in the mood. It’s summer, it’s a billion degrees, and even if this is a short little thing I’m not sure I have the mental fortitude to be neck-deep in metaphors and scientific quotations from fictional scientists.
In terms of old dating cliches, though, I realize that this is my fault, not Joshua Son of None’s. I’m just not looking to get into anything too serious right now, but maybe later once I’ve read around a little bit and the weather is cooler and all I really want to do is settle down with a book for a few hours—then Joshua Son of None might end up back in my hands.
I hope we can remain friends.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]...more
Riding high on the unexpected success of Suffer a Witch to Die, I decided to dive right back into mid-century-ish pulp-horror with House of IllusiRiding high on the unexpected success of Suffer a Witch to Die, I decided to dive right back into mid-century-ish pulp-horror with House of Illusion. At first, it seemed like a good decision.
Jackie, an intrepid young librarian desperate to get away from her mother’s meddling, decides to spend the week with her eccentric and reclusive aunt. This, naturally, only horrifies her mother more. Uncle Merlin was a stage magician and frittered away his life on strange passions and pursuits. And Aunt Elma hasn’t been right since Merlin was killed by Cameron—his own assistant!—right in their home. Worse, Cameron and his wife vanished as if into thin air. Even if that was 21 years ago, Aunt Elma has turned the estate into a guest house for indigent actors. No reputable person would ever go to The Retreat!
Though The Retreat is definitely the sort of name given to an insane asylum in a horror movie, Jackie is undisturbed. When she arrives in the small town closest to The Retreat, she finds no proper taxi-service and must call on the good-natured and good-looking auto-mechanic—David Stanmore—for a ride.
While he finishes up work on the engine of his truck he, strongly but without theatrics, tries to dissuade Jackie from going to The Retreat.
Naturally, Jackie is still determined.
With a shrug, he finishes up the engine.
“This is the most beautiful thing on earth, a perfectly functioning engine. It’s clean, quiet, efficient, and faultless.”
Jackie could almost understand him, but felt irritated at his smugness. “Most beautiful! You exaggerate, Mr. Stanmore. Even among man-made things,. What about paintings, poetry, sculture?”
He screwed the engine cover on, reached for some waste and wiped his hands. “Next in order comes a windy hill on a sunny day, then a cheetah, then a symphony.”
At this point, I wanted Jackie to forget about The Retreat and run off with David Stanmore. She doesn’t, and he soon drops her off at the gates of The Retreat where a female servant is waiting to show her through the maze to the house.
“The dark, mannish face with its high, prominent cheekbones—Slav peasant, beast of burden?—turned toward her, almost expressionless.”
Jackie, up until now, has seemed a kind, generous woman. This dehumanizing aside seemed so strange I had to pause and consider if I’d somehow misread her. Up until this point, though, she’d only encountered other British folk’, and I was suddenly reminded that bigotry presents itself very differently across countries and decades.
With that bad taste lingering in my mouth, Jackie enters The Retreat and the whole damn book falls apart.
The actors are bland and boring, and most of them don’t matter in the slightest.
The attempts at horror and suspense—the parts of the book trying to make the house feel “haunted”—are so ham-fisted, so pointed, that even I found them laughable. Like, at one point something ‘scary’ happened and I literally laughed out loud.
And the plot, dear cod, the plot. I desperately wish I could somehow convey its sheer stupidity, but in addition to being predictable and unnecessarily convoluted, it’s surprisingly large. Especially since most of it comes to life in the last 50 pages. It goes from “Spooky, I hear unaccounted-for music” to “Well, you see, Aunt Elma is trying to murder everyone and burn down the house because she was jilted by Merlin’s assistant Cameron and desperately wanted to have a baby—which she couldn’t—and Merlin knocked up Cameron’s wife creating an heir that Elma didn’t want to compete with and oh my god Cameron and his family live in the walls as fugitives, that’s why the house feels haunted! Btw, Cameron only killed Merlin in self-defense but he did kidnap a boy who snuck into The Retreat so his daughter could eventually carry on the family line because … sure.”
That’s all stupid, sure. But my brain had a completely different issue at this point. Elma has been—for years—a horrible, obsessive, punitive, murderous old bat singularly focused on retribution. Yet she remembered to write her distant niece who she’s not seen for over a decade to wish her a happy birthday? And in that cordial gesture she went so far as to invite Jackie to visit?
Sure. That checks out.
Okay, but when Jackie replies and says “I’d love to!” why did Aunt Elma go along with it? She’s clearly busy planning murder—it’s not a great time for visits from largely-unknown distant relatives. She could easily put it off.
The answer? Well, Aunt Elma initially does try to put off Jackie’s visit, but when Jackie mentions that she’s a librarian, Aunt Elma warms up suddenly. Within a few days of arriving, Jackie is put to work cataloging the expansive library and, the second she’s done, Elma shops the list around and sells off the books.
Literally listing books requires no special training, and Elma has five indigent actors relying on her goodwill. Just being like “Hey guys, you pay no rent, can you please catalog the books?” should do the trick.
To be clear: Elma didn’t invite Jackie over because she knew Jackie was a librarian and she knew she needed the library cataloged. She invited Jackie over … just because? And then it happened to work out that Jackie could do a thing that Elma knew needed doing.
Just fucking awful plotting. If it weren’t for that line about wind on a mountain, a cheetah, and a symphony, this would have been a 1-star book.
Anyway, my take away from House of Illusion is that when people you don’t really know or haven’t seen or talked to in ages invite you to come visit, don’t. Which, luckily for me, is my automatic response anyway.
P.S. Apparently House of Illusion is FauxFemFan and actually written by a man named Rex Dolphin. Nicola Devon was a pen-name of his. Interestingly enough, Jackie is rather convincingly written. She’s not dull or over-done. If I hadn’t stumbled across the fact that Nicola Devon is a pen-name, I’d have easily believed that this were a work written by a woman.
[I read old fantasy novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]...more
Suffer a Witch to Die is, so far, the most obscure book I’ve read for ForFemFan. Goodreads only shows two ratings—and no reviews—and Amazon shows but Suffer a Witch to Die is, so far, the most obscure book I’ve read for ForFemFan. Goodreads only shows two ratings—and no reviews—and Amazon shows but one particularly unhelpful review about how the reader didn’t enjoy the book as much on her second read-through as much she did on her prior reading some 30-years earlier.
For this obscurity alone, I had to nerd into this.
*Book Nerd Start*
The most cursory investigation into Suffer a Witch to Die will tell you that it’s part of the Rædselskabinettet series. Book four, to be exact.
As Suffer a Witch to Die revolves around the Salem witch trials and in no way reads like it’s part of a series, I had serious questions about this supposed Scandinavian heritage. That most of the books in this series were penned by different authors, and one of them appears to be exclusively in Danish while the rest are in English, seemed to corroborate my skepticism.
A fellow book nerd with a greater knowledge of Danish helped me do more digging, and we’ve come to our best guess: A Danish publisher bought the rights to a bunch of old horror-y pulp novels and published them in a collection. According to her, Rædselskabinettet roughly translates to “Chamber of Horrors” or even plain “Horrors.” So that seems to fit.
Also, the author—Elizabeth Davis—is actually a pen name for Lou Ellen Davis. Between her two (known) names, it appears only a few pieces were ever published. A cursory glance at Amazon might make you think otherwise. There’s a series title Coven of the North Star authored by an Elizabeth Davis—but as the bio picture of this woman makes her appear much younger than, say, 70, and Suffer a Witch to Die was published in 1969—I have to assume they’re different people.
Unless she’s a witch?
Dun dun.
*Book Nerd End*
Suffer a Witch to Die is a bit of pulpy-almost-horror. Jeanne Graham, a recently widowed young woman, is trying to come to terms with the loss of her liked-but-not-really-loved husband and the affections of a new fellow she’s rather smitten with. She’s also been having strange dreams, and moments of blanking out. Part of her assures her this is normal: she’s been through something traumatic. The other part of her fears it’s something more sinister.
Convinced a weekend in her and her husband’s old summer cabin will help her get square with her feelings—and settle the unusual experiences around her that have to be caused by nerves—she sets off. As events ramp up, though, the unusual around her seems to grow. By the time she reaches the cabin, the narrative is deeply eerie.
At this point, I feel the need to disclose that I am not a horror aficionado. Anything legitimately labeled as ‘horror’ is so far out of my purview I can’t even comment on it. Even lighter things—riffs on horror, you might say—freak me out. Sean of the Dead was way too much for me, The Chilling tale of Sabrina occasionally freaked me out, and one episode of Russian Doll had me staring slack-jawed, my fingers frantically clutching my comforter.
I’m not made of strong stock.
So if you chase horror, you might consider this kiddy-town frolics. Even if it’s no Silent Hill (do hard-core horror people think that’s scary? The trailer alone nearly did me in), I will assert that the eerie uncertainty of these moments has both weight and value.
The flickering uncertainty of Jeanne’s life comes to a head when, in what seems almost like a fever-dream, she walks through time and ends up back in 1692 where she stumbles across a young woman who could be her twin. When they touch hands, she collapses. And when she gets up again, she no longer resides in her own body, but that of her doppelganger, Elizabeth.
I would argue that anything eerie or horror falls by the wayside when she comes-to as Elizabeth. After that point things shift intellectual: how did she go back in time, and why? What’s the connection between her and her doppelganger? Can and should she affect the events around her? You get the picture. There are still eerie moments, but they’re much less intense. The idea of the scary thing happening is the scariest thing about scary things. Once it’s happened, figuring out how to undo it is significantly less frightening.
At this point, the storytelling almost by necessity becomes rather heady. Jeanne and Elizabeth now share a body. We only ever get Jeanne’s point of view, and she cannot communicate with Elizabeth. Elizabeth seems mostly or completely unaware of Jeanne. Jeanne cannot reliably or even predictably control the body she and Elizabeth now share, so much of her time is spent, essentially, being an observer. She’s a narrator who is tremendously invested in the outcome of the story she’s telling and who can, sometimes and only with a great deal of effort, nudge the plot.
I found it an interesting storytelling device though it does, of course, have its pitfalls. There were a few pages here or there where I wanted more than Jeanne’s thoughts—but what else could she do but think and plot? It wasn’t enough to put me off, though. I think I read this book in four sittings—and one of those was quick bus ride.
As is often the case with pulp novels, I found the wrap up far too quick and just a little bit loose for my taste. It makes sense. The set-up for the plot takes some work—and some pages—and is done, in my opinion, well. Suffer a Witch to Die is only 205 pages long, and that’s with what the front-cover claims is “EASY TO SEE LARGE TYPE.” Something’s gotta give, and it was inevitably going to be the conclusion.
I liked the substance of the book enough, though, that I found myself fantasizing about ways to tease apart the plot and make room for a full-length, modern, fantasy novel. It could easily be done. There are some theological points tucked away that I’m dying to explore, and in many ways Suffer a Witch to Die felt liked it touched on themes/style/tone of The Chilling Tales of Sabrina—only, you know, without a modern cast, with a lot less humor, and with a 30-something protagonist. The next time I get writer's block, I just might use this as a writing exercise. Don’t worry, if I crush a best-selling-worthy manuscript I’ll look real hard for Elizabeth or Lou Ellen Davis before I start shopping it around.
If you enjoy tales of witches and demons and folks selling their soul to the devil, this could be a fun, quick read.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]...more
There’s a specific type of action movie that I feel is quintessential to the 1990s. Rated PG-13, this movie includes a splash of bad language and a daThere’s a specific type of action movie that I feel is quintessential to the 1990s. Rated PG-13, this movie includes a splash of bad language and a dash of violence but carefully controls the intensity to garner the viewership of families. What violence does occur happens to bad people or people who are introduced exclusively to die—and thus don’t elicit too much anguish. Intrigue there’s a plenty, even if it doesn’t always make sense, and sometimes it takes leaps that seem more convenient than realistic. Then the climax comes crashing in at the last possible second, bringing a startling conclusion to the slowly-built momentum. Invariably it leaves a ton of open questions (which leaves the viewer going ‘is that bad writing or is that merely life?’), and some characters limp off together while discussing a vague but heart-warming future.
Phoenix Fire, copy written in 1992, could be one of those movies. Honestly, I’m tempted to just end it here. The review is pretty self-evident. If you ever look back on those sorts of movies with fondness, I’ve got 364 pages of nostalgia lined up and ready for you. If you’re the sort to get bogged down in unanswered plot-points, or question the value of dedicating so much screen-time to a character who didn’t intrinsically matter, or feel flustered when you realize you’re 86% done with the novel and the main characters are just now figuring out that there’s a problem … then maybe skip over this baby.
I think I exist somewhere in the middle. I didn’t love Phoenix Fire, which, despite the name, spent way more time focusing on the very human character’s very human problems. While they were (mostly) fleshed-out and realistic, I don’t think I could describe any of them as particularly interesting, funny, or charismatic. Still, the intrigue running around in the background hooked me. It felt like any second the supernatural element promised would t-bone our protagonists' worlds.
The mythical element of Phoenix Fire is hit-or-miss. We do get asides of the demon on the prowl, and at times it was downright creepy.
As time went on, though, the demon started to get too powerful, too detached, too something. His segments became a bore to me. It was obvious when a section was about him, and it was obvious how it was going to end: him surviving and getting stronger. Occasionally there were flecks of intrigue thrown into his sections, but nothing big enough to keep me hooked. When we switched over to demon sections, I inevitably decided to take a break.
The phoenix, on the other hand, felt entirely like a miss. It was integral to the conclusion, yet wasn’t even discussed until, literally, the night of the final showdown. I had spent chapters wondering if Phoenix Fire were merely the first book in a series because the protagonists were still mostly faffing about their feelings and entirely un-supernatural problems.
I don’t regret reading Phoenix Fire. I didn’t know that I’d enjoy the nostalgia of the 1990s, but I did. And while the characters won’t stick with me the way some do, I enjoyed following kind-hearted people who, more than anything, wanted to love and help the world be a better place.
At the same time, though, this isn’t the sort of book I’d endorse unless the idea of a 1990s-styled action-book / light urban fantasy with Chinese elements geeks you out.
[I read old fantasy and sci-fi novels written by women authors in search of forgotten gems. See more at forfemfan.com]...more
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