Time for a year in review. I am bound to say, though, that my reading once more has been disappointingly thin.
When I am working on a novel, time for leisure reading necessarily goes down. Reading for research goes up, but that rarely requires me to finish an entire book. I look at my reading list for the year and the only titles I ever include are those I’ve completed, so on such years I appear to be under-achieving.
That said, I completed 42 titles this year. (To be sure, I’ve probably read, by volume, closer to 90, but most of those I did not finish. For instance, I am still plodding my way through Thomas Piketty’s Capital in the 21st Century. I’ll likely have to start it over.)
There were several that were rereads for me. Unusual in that I seldom if ever reread a book. I don’t read fast enough to feel good about covering old ground when there’s so much new to be trod. But I started up a reading group at Left Bank Books—Great Novels of the 22nd Century—and I’ve been choosing classics to discuss, so among the rereads were: Dying of the Light by George R.R. Martin (I wanted to show people that he could write, write well, and write economically about something other than the War of the Roses, although to my surprise I found many of the same themes playing out in this, his first novel); Slow River by Nicola Griffith (her Nebula winner and still, I’m happy to say, a powerful, poignant novel); Downbelow Station by C.J. Cherryh, one of the best interstellar warfare novels ever penned and very much an inspiration in my own work (for one thing, one has seldom found such solid treatment of working class issues in such a novel); Burning Chrome by William Gibson, which just made me wish he still did short fiction; Timescape by Gregory Benford, one of the best time travel novels ever written, although I’m bound to say it felt socially dated, though not fatally so; Nova by Samuel R. Delany, a lyrical, multilayered congeries of mixed mythos in an exuberantly realized interstellar setting; A Case of Conscience by James Blish; Gateway by Frederik Pohl; and now Leviathan Wakes by James S.A. Corey.
While some of these provided me with revelatory experiences (I missed that the first time through! and I never thought about it this way before) the chief benefit of this exercise for me was in seeing how these books have informed what came after. Over the past three-plus decades since it’s original publication, Timescape reads like a novel which escaped much of social consciousness progress even of its own time. Not egregiously so, but there is only one female scientist in the story and she is very much in the supporting cast category. Certain political strands feel thin. None of this is a detraction from the primary story or from the fact that Benford is one of our better stylists (which really makes me wonder who was doing what in his recent collaboration with Larry Niven, which I found virtually unreadable because of simple clunkiness in the prose) and paid attention to character more than many of his contemporaries—or, I should say, realized such attention better. On the page, his people feel real, whole, fleshed out.
The time travel device in the novel leads directly into one of the best books I read this past year, Gibson’s new one, The Peripheral, just recently reviewed here. Along with H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine and a handful of others, this enters my personal canon as one of the finest time travel works ever written, even though the plot seems deceptively commercial.
The most telling revelation of my rereads has been in finding my own reactions to the texts so different. I remember my initial response to many of these as being quite different. True, I missed many very good things in retrospect, but also I forgave a lot more than I do now. There are books I come across today which I find off-putting which I know 20 or 30 or 40 years ago I would have raved about. Much of this comes down to simple artistry.
Or perhaps not so simple. I found it interesting that my more positive response to Delany’s Nova for its elegance and its precision left others a bit cold. One brings a history of reading to a book which largely determines how one’s expectations will be satisfied…or disappointed.
I did reread James Schmitz’s Demon Breed. Not for the reading group—it is sadly unavailable—but to refresh my memory for another project, and I still found it to be an exhilarating book, well ahead of it’s day in its basic assumptions about gender roles. This is one I have now read four times since first discovering it as an Ace Special way back in 1969 and each time I’ve found it holds up extremely well and attests to an underappreciated genius.
Knowing now more clearly that elegance of execution is vitally important to me, my patience for certain kinds of writing has diminished. I mentioned the Niven/Benford collaboration which I found impossible to get through, although it crackled with ideas. What I have learned (for myself) is that the entire argument over style versus substance is a straw man. It assumes they are not the same thing. Quite the contrary, they are inextricably entwined. Very simply, style emerges from a clear grasp of substance. A sentence works at several levels, revealing information of different kinds in the way it presents its contents to the reader. A lack of substance will show in a stylistic failure. Too often we erroneously hear “style” as code for “decorative.” Not at all. The style is all important to the conveying of mood, of character, of setting, of theme. But style cannot impose any of these things—the style is a result of the writer having a solid knowledge of what needs to be conveyed and an attention to how the sentence should be written in order to convey it.
Which is why I say style is an emergent property. Almost no one gets to this level without a lot of practice, over time. Which is also why most writers become clearer—“better”—as they go on. They’re learning what matters, paring their words down, and revealing more.
For example, two novels I read this year which could not be more different serve to show how that experience and growing clarity result in unique styles. Jim Harrison’s Brown Dog (which is a collection of linked novellas about the title character) and Richard Powers’ Orfeo. On the page, the writing could not be more different. Brown Dog is a semi-literate, often-itinerant aging naif who tells his story in what appears to be simple-minded affectlessness. Things happen, he’s bounced around by events, lands (inexplicably) on his feet (wobbling often) and while clever is so guileless that one begins to believe in guardian angels. The style reflects this. Read carefully, though, and a world is revealed in each passing sentence. Powers, on the other hand, reads like a musician scoring a great symphonic cycle. The language is rich, evocative, challenging—and yet absolutely transparent, consistent with the story. It can only be what it is in the telling of this particular tale of a failed composer who at the end of his life finds himself on the run and becoming an icon of his own life, with one more song to write and perform. Each sentence reveals a different world, just as clearly, just as uniquely.
Style comes largely, therefore, from perspective. Perspective informed a pair of books I read about the genre in which I labor, science fiction. I finally read Brian Aldiss’s Billion Year Spree, which is an excellent history-qua-analysis of science fiction. Because I had it to hand, I then read Margaret Atwood’s collection of essays about her experience of SF, In Other Worlds. I wrote a longish examination of my gleanings from these two very different-yet-similar works, but let me just say that in them is revealed the font and consequence of perspective. Atwood, for all her professed appreciation of science fiction, does not “get it” while Aldiss, who breathed it in like air in his youth, does, leading them both to unique understandings.
Another “paired reading” I did this year was Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsy novels, Gaudy Night and Whose Body? It was fascinating because the latter is the first Wimsy novel and the former is late in the cycle. What I found fascinating was the growth of the character. The late Wimsy is very different from the early and yet are clearly the same man. (Another instance where style is essential to the content, the revelation of such growth.)
One of the most interestingly-written novels I found was Wives of Los Alamos by Tarashea Nesbit, which can be said to be all about style, and yet nothing about style. It is written in first-person plural, an ever-present “we” as the story is told from a collective point of view which nevertheless reveals individual character. The “wives” form an amalgam of experience in opposition to, judgment of, and distance from the events that formed the core of their subsequent lives as they followed their scientist and engineer husbands to Los Alamos to work on the atomic bomb. A stunningly gutsy thing to do for a first novel, marvelously successful.
I finished the immense Heinlein biography with volume 2 of the late William Patterson’s work on one of the major figures in science fiction.
There was also Thomas Pynchon’s newest, The Bleeding Edge, which exhibits many of Pynchon’s trademark stylistic acrobatics in what may be one of his most accessible convolutions on the American obsession with conspiracy. Often one encounters a Pynchon novel rather than reads it and you come away with a sense of having toured a vast foreign country, appreciating many things, but knowing you haven’t grasped it, possibly not even its most salient features, but glad you made the trip. Not this one. It felt whole, penetrable, complete, and possessed a satisfying conclusion.
One of the most pleasant pair of readings this year was Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice and its sequel, Ancillary Sword. Ambitious and superbly realized, set in an interstellar milieu with fascinating aspects and a unique approach to empire, both books tell their tales from the viewpoint of an ancillary—basically a human-made-robot extension of a much larger AI, a ship mind (borrowing a bit perhaps from Iain M. Banks) that is destroyed in the first book with a single ancillary survivor. Breq remembers being a ship, being one facet among hundreds, having access to vast data resources, but now much function as a single consciousness in a lone body. Leckie is indulging an examination of the nature of empire, of morality, of political expedience, and what it means to be a part of something and also what it means to be outside of that something. What I found most gratifying was that the second volume, while picking up the story a heartbeat after the first book, was a very different kind of book, about…well, not about something completely different, but about a completely different aspect of this enormous subject she’s chosen to tackle. Serendipitously, a timely book as well, dealing as it does (effectively) with social justice and minority oppression. I find myself looking very much forward to the third book.
One of the biggest surprises of the year was Meg Wolitzer’s The Interestings. I reviewed this as well and have nothing to add to that.
I don’t think I read, cover to cover, a bad book. I’ve largely gotten over the compulsion to finish any book I start. If it’s bad, it isn’t worth the time. I readily admit I may and probably am wrong about many books that strike me this way. I’ll talk about them if I find something instructive in my negative reaction, but otherwise I’ll just put it down to taste.
A good number of the nonfiction books I read this year concern the Napoleonic Era because of one of the novels I’m working on. One I can recommend whole-heartedly is Tom Reiss’s The Black Count, a biography of Alexandre Dumas’s father, a creole who became general under Napoleon.
I am hoping to read more next year. I have a to-be-read pile on the verge of daunting. Working in a bookstore as I now do is also a problem because every day I see another book or two I want to read. When? I ask myself. It’s not always sufficient to dissuade me. As I said, I read slowly these days. It’s been a long time since I’ve read a book in one sitting. That said, though, I think I’m getting more out of them now than I used to. An illusion, maybe, but…
Have a safe, bookfilled 2015.