The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin

This is a book of 'ism's: capitalism, socialism, sexism, anarchism, egoism and all of the inherent goods and bads that go along with each. There is apparent allegory between the stories settings and factions with real world powers, civil unrest, and global conflict at the time of the book’s writing, but the strengths of the work can be appreciated far removed from their possible inspirations.

To call the book a work of science fiction will turn some readers off right away, and to the reader who is that shallow and closed minded I say they wouldn't enjoy the subtext anyways. Shevek is a physicist and quiet possibly the brightest of his time. He is a man made by the world he grew up on, Anarres. He seeks a larger community of scientist to push his intellect and expand the development of his field, and such a community can only be found on Urras. What Shevek finds, and what the book develops, is a culture clash that opens eyes to different perspectives and exposes what Shevek thought to be a perfect world to be as marred and flawed as any other.

Anarres, Shevek's world, is one of sharing: everyone works for one another. That shared pain is humanities' bond is Shevek’s defining ideal. There is no such concept as ownership or profit. (Possessive pronouns are foreign to this world. Even when it comes to things as children or ideas; which in turn made me think of many a Bible verses though religious themes are never explicitly explored.) Even Shevek, who has the aforementioned unique knack for physic, spends regular rotations working odd jobs ranging from janitorial to day labor; all for the state.

The people of Anarres see Shevek as a deviant when he expresses a wish to visit and study with the ‘profiteers’ on Urras. He, and his family by association, are made outcast of both thought and reality and deemed ‘egoist’ of the highest degree; the most depraved of insults on Anarres. Anarres prefers isolation as to avoid outside influence on their socialist state and aberrant thinking stands out. Yet it is only in Shevek's leaving Anarres that we see oddities in the system: hierarchies where there previously were none, and people in positions of power when all should be equal.

In his time spent abroad he is shown capitalism, in addition to being introduced to deception and abuse of his naivety. Shevek sees capitalism as a 'prison' that people can afford. It is Le Guin's presentation that yields such great credibility to the multitude of concepts she explores. There is only explanation of a thought or cultural quark when necessary and 'back-story' as to how things came to be is minimal to non-existent. Since the characters simply act as they do, and all involved treat what may seems a peculiar incident to the reader as the way things are, the reader willingly accepts many a foreign concept. Writers on Le Guin's level don’t seem to need to work as hard as others to suspend disbelief.

I would go so far as to say that world building is Le Guin’s strongest achievement in The Dispossessed; even greater than her social commentary. The level of education on Anarres, or the sexual freedom are easy to digest as no character is ever taken to task over such issues and made to explain a history of how things came to pass or why they live as they do. It’s just the way things are. Le Guin has been a genre writer for so long that perhaps the definition of world building has changed since The Dispossessed publication. The modern overwrought, back-story and history that seems to define world building today is completely absent here and it is that absence that lends strength and believability to the prose. I think it is more of Le Guin’s ‘literary’ merits which lean towards concision and active thought on the reader’s behalf that may keep the majority of modern genre fans away more so than the complex social dynamic she constructs.

How the many social issues manifest themselves in the plot is amazing. Shevek’s meeting of Vea, a beautiful married woman of Urras, is the culmination of opposite views. Vea’s beauty—and all she does to enhance it—forces Shevek to reconsider a popular saying, on Anarres, “Excess is excrement.” Yet it is Vea’s people that consider Shevek amoral even when it is she who suggest a tryst. Vea, and her ideas can perhaps best be summed up with, “Morality is a superstition; like religion. True human nature is to be selfish and to be able to admit it. I don't care about other people and don't want to.” Her willingness to look the other way, and views on the role of the individual and what is their expected contribution to society make for a powerful attraction of opposites with Shevek. And lest you think all matters of conflict are philosophical it is a sexual encounter between the two that, for me, not only drove all points home but also exposed the weaknesses in both their ideals and comes close to a colossal loss of identity for one of the two.

The reader is given a very limited view of the overall story as the chapters alternate between events on Anarres and Urras in addition to not flowing in sequential order. While it is temporarily jarring this approach makes the reader focus on what is given at the moment and any ‘gaps’ in the narrative are resolved in forthcoming pages, or a chapter previously read. The Dispossessed is the only book I can think of that makes a case for breaking strict chronological order.

While the people of Anarres and Urras are exposed to many things, little is learned. What the characters miss is perhaps to the readers gain. We are treated to an amazing story and a critical examination of the social differences that will remain pertinent as long as there is structure in the world we live in.

Quin's Shanghai Circus By Edward Whittemore

There could no more appropriate word in the title than 'circus.' In this nearly forgotten novel we are given a parade of colorful (to say the least) characters, acts of wonder and horror, and ultimately enough confusion to be entertaining; even if we are left scratching our heads at the conclusion.

Quin is having a drink when he is approached by someone claiming to know the story of his parents lives. The plot is a straight forward 'fantasy/quest;' outside of this, very few things are clear.

Quin is, perhaps, not the novel's main character, but it is his shoes that the reader is placed. An odd accomplishment is that there are no secondary characters; some are integral to a higher degree than others, but all are imperative to the story. Through Quin's travels, we are introduced to a mystical clown with a nasal horseradish addition that helps him block out the world's stench; a possibly pederastic Noh actor/priest who feels he has been the Emperor of Japan for the past seven-hundred years; a whore who not only has slept with ten-thousand men before she was thirty, but also found the time to have her whole body tattooed, and Forrest Gump, who likes to inflict pain upon himself in an effort to block out past bad memories; these are the most tame of the large cast. The novel is told with the story within a story mechanic. We meet characters, learn of their life, make small connections (you may wanna take notes; seriously) and hope to retain what we are shown as to piece together one tangible story.

Whittemore was a writer who definitely believed in making his readers work; getting through this book with even minimal enjoyment--to say nothing of comprehension--will take active involvement on the reader's part. It's a not a bad thing by any stretch, but as many clues and pieces as we are given I was left feeling like it never amounted to a whole: until the end. I couldn't help but feel cheated; that things were intentionally difficult in hypocritical fashion as we are outright 'told' exactly what happened at the books end in a nice ten-page recapitulation of prior three-hundred pages. So why bother teasing out the mystery? Yeah, that made me angry…

The story didn't resonate as strongly with me as I felt it could have as none of the characters felt real. No one seemed grounded. It's not because they all have unbelievable lives, or that there is no one to sympathize with, rather I blame Quin. He is taking the reader on a journey to discover his lineage. What we know of him up to this point is nothing, therefore it is hard to make his past--which is what's uncovered in the story--have the impact it could've had as we are never given a starting point of reference.

Whittemore deemed himself too cool for punctuation. You won't find anything other than a period, a comma, and an occasional question mark. It's not as infuriating as Cormac McCarthy or ee cummings, but I don't find it stylistic or endearing. Added to which the author has a penchant for two-page paragraphs. All of which equals massive blocks of text with no punctuation and an occasional eye sore. It gets old very fast, but to his credit I never got confused as to who was speaking and the material is just as clear as if he were using standard punctuation.

It is a very complex narrative, made more difficult by the having to tease out the what-the-hell-is-going-on nature of the story within a story framework. It's not the intentional confusion some first time novelist cast in an effort that they think heightens suspense, rather there is just a whole lot going on. The wandering character digressions that always comprise of the past events make for an very disjunct narrative and hard to figure out current events. The reader tries to uncover the unifying thread for the host of characters and in doing so the plot, but until this happens we are left with substantial confusion, and yes--I'll say it--intrigue. Piecing the puzzle together is as highly infuriating as the character anecdotes are interesting; only I can't kick the feeling that I wasn't given all the pieces...

For me, there was an undeniable spark that ensured I wasn't putting this book down. The stories that comprise the narrative are highly entertaining on their own in addition to trying to work the pieces into a whole. The novel's presentation felt like a Guy Ritchie movie, only directed by someone who is all around better. Whittemore's not a substantial prose stylist nor a writer whose plot machinations are so intense as to have you turning pages at a record pace. I would liken the book to a circus (Surely you saw that coming, right?). It's bizarre; full of things you would never see in an ordinary day: actors that can't seemingly exist in the real word, and circumstances don't always make a great deal of sense, but nonetheless hold your interest until the show is over. This book will stay with you, and you'll be giving it great thought long after putting it down.

A phenomenal accomplishment that Whittemore achieves is to progresses the plot by way of character description. As I said before, you gotta think on your feet to get all of what he's offering. Pick a genre and Quin's Shanghai Circus will fit: mystery, suspense, espionage, fantasy, the catch all, 'literary fiction.' There are occasional moments of inspired prose, but this is not a book whose words you will fall in love with; it's about the characters and the way their lives interact. It's not for everyone. It's dark, appallingly graphic in places, and as far from an easy book to read on the beach as you can get, but as always with my longer, grumbling, rambling commentaries this is a book I thoroughly enjoyed, and one I plan to revisit. Whittemore eludes to the difference in perception of a circus with the passing of time; I'm gonna hold him to that whenever I get around to reading this one again.

Words I don't Like

This is a sensitive matter. I think my taste in fiction has changed. Perhaps in my seemingly vain attempts at publication my writing skills have helped to make me a more discerning reader, or I’ve matured in what I call ‘quality writing’ as I’ve exposed myself to more literature. I’d like to think it is a combination of the two.

My quandary at the moment is Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn. A few years after the final book’s entry and I’m just now making it around to reading the series. I loved Elantris when I read it a few years back and sang Sanderson’s praises. That’s why with Mistborn I was hoping for something… not necessarily different, but more substantial and not quiet so genre fantasy.

In addition to Sanderson’s writing, I’m heavily inclined to liking him as a person. I passed up on meeting him in person at some convention that had to deal with Robert Jordan, but I have written the guy; he wrote back. Not an in depth correspondence but honest communication on multiple occasions. He encouraged me in my writing efforts, was very humble about my praise of his, and as best I could tell seemed like a regular guy who has a great gig going for him. Someone that I admire.

We are a good ways away from being family, in truth not even ‘friends’ outside of a couple of causal emails, but I still find it hard to say anything negative about him.

I’ll be finished with Mistborn ,The FInal Empire book one by this Friday. (While I don’t intend to start doing reviews in a traditional sense I will write more on this book upon completion, as I plan to do for the other two entries.) In every possible way I feel this book is a step back for Sanderson’s writing when compared to his previous work in Elantris. If I didn't know otherwise, I would guess that Elantris was written after Mistborn.

The dialogue is regularly cringe inducing: characters talk about things that are common knowledge to the people they are talking to. The repetition--both repetition of words, and ideas--is either offensive or I'm supersensitive to it. The subtleties that made me wonder about events in Elantris are all explicitly spelled out for me in Mistborn. The general intrigue and uncertainty that drove event’s forward in Elantris seems to be missing in Mistborn.

I understand that all of my gripes are personal and that others may disagree. I encourage everyone to read the books and make up your own mind. I don’t want to be the gospel for anyone concerning what is good or bad to read.

I’ve said my piece on books in a series many times. Mistborn is not helping me feel good about starting other fantasy trilogies like Joe Abercrombie First Law or Patrick Rothfuss’ Name of the Wind. The latter of which has been heralded as the greatest thing since rum.

I guess my predisposition to liking fantasy, Elantris, and Sanderson makes it harder than it should be, but I was really expecting something more ‘literary’ from Mistborn. (There. I said it.) Perhaps it kicks in later...

Anyone have suggestions on literary fantasy?