It looks like it’s been slower around here than it actually has been, in terms of books: I’ve just been reading some big ones, is all. I’ll put ’em beneath the cut, to save space.
But I’ll also say that, about two-thirds of the way through, gears shifted and it got a lot more interesting to me: suddenly things were paying off that had been set up much earlier, and it felt like there was some forward movement. (Right around the time Hawksquill starts to figure out who Eigenblick really is.) Maybe it all works better on the page than in the ear, but it felt like a long wait for things to really start paying off… and yet, that being the kind of game I play in fiction all the time–subverted expectations, delayed payoff, that kind of thing–I’m not sure why it bothers me.
I think it’s probably something to do with the proportion of payoff and how it’s paid out: it seemed to me it was about four or five hours from the end that serious payoff started to happen, and that, to me, seems somewhat lopsided. I appreciate the ending–there’s an audacity to it, especially if my reading of the ending is tenable in terms of time-reversal experienced by those who migrate one layer in, and the erasure of memory, and so on. There’s beautiful writing, too, of course. But the story, the structure of the story, bothered me, and it was only stubbornness to see why people love the book so much that carried me far enough to actually see the payoff begin.
The thing is, I’ve been hesitant to say that, less because so many people love the book so much, than because it sounds uncomfortably close to the stupider sorts of criticisms I’ve seen of the book. As with a lot of very popular books, one can find reams of really thoughtless praise, and really thoughtless criticism as well. The most common complaint is something along the lines of Crowley writing pretty, except “nothing happens.” I’m not mouthing that sort of stupidity: I can perfectly well read a book without explosions and gunfights, thank you very much, and no, rocket launchers don’t always make things better or more exciting.
Rather, I’m suggesting there’s something out of kilter with how the mechanics of the narrative play out; I suspect even Crowley intuited this, since it is arguably represented in the orrery in the attic of Edgewood, which seems built to be driven powerfully enough to turn the lights on, but only seems to actually switch on near the end of the book. And of course, if the orrery can be taken as a metaphor not only for what’s happening in the story, but for the forces driving the narrative as a text, well, then Crowley did it on purpose, and I’m not sure I can fault him so much just because that particular decision seems unbalanced to me. (Not, at least, given my own constant call for exploration beyond the generic narrative structures we’ve all come to take for granted.)
Maybe it’s something else altogether that I have’t picked out consciously. Maybe I’m just not crazy about Crowley’s reading. I don’t know. But having reached the end, I know my first response–that it was simply a bad book, recommended to me by people who had bad taste–is unfair. Not every book should appeal to me… that is, not every book should be written in a way that appeals to me. I can see lots of things in it that were interesting. I also wanted to punch several of the characters in the face (and, indeed, to punch the book in the face, at times) but even that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. (I’ve felt the same way about shorter books and praised them in the end.)
On a straightforward level, it’s about school shootings (completed and aborted), the life of the school loser, hopeless lust, substance abuse, the horror of school, violent revenge, and the idea of “just getting over it”: where an author like Neil Gaiman panders to the adult survivor of twee childhood nerdhood, Nick Mamatas beats you in the face with the ugly truth hidden inside it: just because you were a victim, doesn’t mean you didn’t suck back then too, in your own awful way. But you sucked in a system that sucked: over and over, it comes back to the prison-like setting of school. In some sense, Mamatas seems to be making a strong argument for the kind of things someone like Robert Epstein or John Taylor Gatto argues: that schools are profoundly screwed-up institutions, and we shouldn’t be surprised when they produce screwed-up people.
Still, great fiction is never so straightforwardly programmatic, nor is Bullettime driven by any agenda as simple as advocating unschooling. Rather, Mamatas seems to be playing a game of cat-and-mouse with reader sympathy, and how readers will assign culpability. We want to root for the protagonist, Dave Holbrook. But he’s also an obnoxious, Robotussin-abusing loser that is just as often nauseating as he is sympathetic. Erin, who is really Eris, the goddess of discord, is more interesting, but also pretty much a cynical, evil manipulator… who is at the same just acting within her nature. This is true of pretty much everyone in the book: Dave’s parents, the racist faculty at Dave’s school, the bullies who make his life a miserable hell, the grad schooler who appears near the end–they’re all is basically flawed, but also in the grip of some thing or system bigger than themselves, that brings out the worst in them.
Oh, and while Mamatas doesn’t seem to be advancing any sort of moral argument against schooling, the crapsack world of an American public high school as depicted in his novel surely resonates with the kinds of things discussed in the next book on my list. Anyway, I recommend Bullettime highly.
Still, I have a lot of sympathy for Epstein’s argument. I’ve long been struck by how arbitrary the age of majority is — ever since I noticed it was a year older in my home province than it was in the next province over, and especially after I noticed just how stupidly irresponsible people over that age are on a daily basis. Epstein’s argument, if you boil it down to its simplest form, is that we need to rethink the idea of the age of majority, instead demanding individuals demonstrate competency to be enfranchised to various freedoms in society. (In other words, a fifteen year old might actually be better equipped to drive safely than a fifty-year-old, and probably is better-equipped to drive than most 70-year-olds.) Some people are more intelligent than others, some more gifted than others, and arbitrary age markers are a stupid solution to sorting who deserves freedoms and responsibilities… especially given the kind of laughable double-standards we have.
(When a teenager crashes his car, he’s an asshole teenager; when an adult does, he’s just an asshole.)
The closer you look at it, the more this double-standard is apparent everywhere. It’s something I have felt was in play most of my life: I remember being bewildered when adults talked about “adult role models” for teenagers, because I had none. (And no, I’m not misremembering. I did imitate specific musicians, and I thought Miles Davis was amazingly cool, that Coltrane was an incredible genius… but I had no desire to go out and shoot heroin or snort coke because they’d done so.) My sense is that teenagers use the “role model” narrative as a handy excuse when they get in trouble for breaking rules: “well, Tupac does it…” That, or else the individuals who have role models are just the same people who’ll pay attention to (and imitate) media stars as adults… we’ve all met those people, too.
Anyway, the deeper point of Epstein’s book is essentially a more radical version of the unschooling mainline, where schooling is held up as a mechanism which enforces the extended infantilization and suppression of children’s natural curiosity and, essentially, “dumbs us down” (as John Taylor Gatto famously put it in the title essay/speech of his most famous book). For Gatto, schooling is an extension of the replacement of community (natural, organic, forced to work through its internal conflicts) with networks (formal, superficial, and lacking the depth to nourish a human need), and in that context, school is the primary ending of pointlessness and meaninglessness in the lives of young people. For Epstein, schooling is more just one mechanism (albeit a major one) in a culture-wide, pervasive assault on young people. As an academic friend of mine put it after perusing the Epstein book, “This guy’s a real True Believer, huh?” The book does come off a little wide-eyed and over-eager at times–and also eager to assume that schooling is the root cause of a lot of problems, rather than just human stupidity in an industrialized setting–and Epstein’s willingness to cite people like Dubya and Newt Gingrich as examples or commentators that support his cause (strange bedfellows, really), ought to give any reader pause: I cannot help but suspect Gingrich really would want nothing to do with Epstein’s program… unless it was sure to produce uneducated voters are more easily hoodwinked, not to mention more easily railroaded in to precariat positions in the workforce.
Epstein writes of how, “A century ago, we rescued young people from the factories and the streets; now we need to rescue them from the schools.” Mamatas doesn’t self-present as being on that kind of mission at all–he critiques, he satirizes, he attacks, and he paints vividly the horror of high school in America; Epstein, true believer that he might be, definitely is on a mission, and if his idealism might sometimes be more than I think is reasonable, it’s still interesting to check out the books side by side.
While I haven’t seen any interviews, I’d be surprised if Meloy wasn’t consciously influenced by Lovecraft: his approach to the fantastical is seems to run at a similar angle, though this is far from “Lovecraftian”; or, rather, it’s far from the kind of thing usually passed off as Lovecraftian. (Most authors that the critters and places and gods and specific characters and write stories using them; Meloy’s stories look more like what happens if you strip off the meat and just use the bones of the Lovecraftian fantastical mode, piling on new synthetic, vat-grown meat and flooding the veins with some solution that’s half blood and half pure diesel fuel. He has his own sort of Dreamlands-like setting, though it’s not like Lovecraft’s at all, and there’s a bizarre juxtaposition of magic, science, and interdimensional alien horror gnawing away at the tethers of reality and encroaching on our world. (I’ll ignore his stuffing “God” into the title novella because I took that as a flawed explanation of what’s going on offered by a character, rather than a definitive explanation: the world of these stories is just too bizarrely alien for anything so pedestrian as the Judeo-Christian deity to have a place in it.)
What I really liked about this book is that there’s a great, pressing, urgent epic unfolding in the background, which Meloy uses to infuse the stories of these individual characters with conflict and drive, but often the stories themselves very personal: it’s about people trying to understand what the hell is going on, or survive, or get things done in the immediate sense, rather than necessarily always being caught up in the grand epic battles. A sort of sciento-magical bizarre cosmology underlying the whole thing: laughter and comedy and hope play an important role in the fight against entropy, and the post-apocalyptic English landscape of the world in which these stories take place is littered with “bombsites” and crapsack ghetto-like cityscapes. (RPGers take note: this world would make a prime setting for a killer New Weird-esque RPG, whether you used it as a homebrew setting for some version of the White Wolf Mage franchise (the RPG setting that came to mind immediately for me: Ascension or Awakening, I imagine both would work) or else invented your own whole new rulesystem. The conflict-as-backdrop approach that Meloy uses is particularly RPG-friendly: it’s terribly easy to imagine any number of stories playing out in the world of Islington Crocodiles.)
I originally ordered the book in 2009 or 2010 on the strength of the title story, which I originally read in Interzone 208, and honestly I was not at all disappointed: in fact, the other stories in the collection are even more compelling and bizarre than the title novella, in my opinion. I tore through this collection in a mere couple of days. I rarely feel the urge to do that, but the stories here are all linked–were Meloy not an English-language writer, Islington Crocodiles might well have been termed (and marketed as) a “mosaic novel” actually, and most of it is indeed more of a mosaic–different fragments of the same world, shattered and affixed to a wall, edges still sharp–than it is a collection of individual short stories. It’s a great, mean, long-fanged, blood-hungry, muscular beast of a book. Highly recommended. Meloy’s apparently published a follow-up, which I’ll be tracking down when I get the chance, because this first one was an enormously impressive, odd, and troubling book.
The novel also features telepathic whales who are also vaguely exotic, and vaguely Japanese-ish in their thinking, and… well, that’s the first third of the book. We follow a Japanese-American who emigrates back to Japan, struggles to adapt to the culture, but we also follow a Japanese princess who is struggling with both personal issues, and with all hell breaking loose in Japan. There are elements in this book of things I’d played with integrating into a novel I was working on a few years ago, and it was fun to see them play out in a different setting. (I was doing it in an autocratic Southeast Asian setting, while Sucharitkul set his neo-feudal throwback nutballs in Japan instead.)
Sucharitkul somehow manages to mix a very literary approach with a brazenly pulp sensibility: there are things that Japanese characters say about Japan that sound like something, say, Tarantino might have a Japanese character say, and yet there’s also some very striking prose in the book. I would quote some, but I finished the book and tucked it into a box being shipped to Korea (so I wouldn’t have to carry it in my luggage), so you’ll just have to take my word for it.
A few of the stories definitely read as documents of the time they were written, especially “Pretty Boy Crossover,” but then, that’s how a lot of the SFF from the 80s and 90s reads these days. But even in those stories, Pat gets so much done with so little: the economy of these stories is rather breathtaking, as is their addictiveness: I tore through the whole collection with 24 hours of picking it up, something I almost never do with collections of short stories even when they’re all by the same author or even when they’re linked. I rarely read a whole book–of any size–in a single sitting, and the ones that are the exceptions are remarkable to me. I also liked the variety of the protagonists: I can’t think of any two protagonists who are particularly similar, and the range across which they fall is quite broad.
Probably the best story in the book, in my opinion, was the one new to the collection, “The Power and the Passion,” which is basically a vampire hunt story–the kind of thing I actually usually expect to hate, and usually do hate–except this one was written with the kind of protagonist who actually would end up hunting vampires. (I imagine Michael C. Hall being typecast in the role, though he’s too normal-looking for the part.) “Roadside Rescue” was wonderfully mean-spirited, and I got a kick out of “Heal,” even though it’s one of those stories that hangs on whether the final line makes you snicker black-heartedly. “Two” was a great story as well, basically a takedown of the powerchords fantasy of comic-book superherodom featuring a teenaged girl with superpowers you probably think you’d kill for, but which you’re probably much better off without. I also liked “Angel” a lot, and it weirdly had a lot in common with another aliens-on-Earth story I read a few months back, Jonathan Lethem’s “Light and the Sufferer” (in The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye) though Cadigan’s “Angel” was more convincing and more affecting to me. Or maybe it came to mind because Cadigan also had a story about junkies, “My Brother’s Keeper” which, like the crack addicts in Lethem’s “Light and the Sufferer,” are a hopeless mess. Oh, and “Another One Hits the Road” is brilliant and, I imagine, would be considered “Weird” fiction today.
There were a couple of stories which, while well-written, weren’t exactly my thing–the main one that comes to mind was “It Was the Heat,” though maybe that’s in part because it’s depressing to read a book about the prodigious sensuality of New Orleans in a post-Katrina world; “Vengeance Is Yours” and “The Day the Martels Got the Cable,” likewise, were fine but not my thing–but the collection overall is pretty impressive. And hey, I’m only twenty-five years late to the party. Which means I was fifteen when this book came out. Geez. It’s a first collection, and Cadigan’s craft is on fine display here.
And I won’t get into the kids’ books, though I will say I get a kick out of the Winnie the Witch books. They’re fun, neat little dilemma-driven scenarios that don’t try to be more than they are, and manage to be cute, clever, and funny all at once. I mean, if you’re reading kids’ books. Which I won’t be anymore for a while, but while I had reason to be reading them, these were some of the more interesting ones available, complete with problem, consideration, experimentation, and solution. Clever and amusing, and, well, the kid I was reading them with never once turned to me baffled, the way she was when we read The Giving Tree. (Which I’d say is basically a glorification of screwed-up condependent relationships.)
I’m also partway through two other anthologies at the moment, worth mentioning now: one is Haikasoru’s Phantasm Japan (edited by Nick Mamatas and Masumi Washington, and which I’m reviewing for Kyoto Journal) and the other is Fish Eats Lion, the Singaporean SFF anthology edited by Jason Erik Lundberg. Mostly it’s just been the rigmarole of packing and moving and unpacking and job-hunting that has slowed me down. (I’ve only finished one book this month, and it’s one that I was most of the way through at year’s end… a book mostly of interviews of Igor Stravinsky conducted by Robert Kraft titled Memories and Commentaries, incidentally.)
Is it too late to publish a year-end list? I keep lists going in draft posts, all year long, so I think I’ll publish it anyway, tomorrow, but in an excerpted post so only those interested will see the contents.