Share this:

Eight Skilled Gentlemen (1991), Barry Hughart, 255 pp.

I’m sorry, but I must begin with a nod and a tip of the hat to the lifeboat sketch from Monty Python (which, btw, segues very nicely into the undertaker sketch). The reason for this, and for the post’s title, is the cannibalism motif that runs through Hughart’s third novel in the Master Li and Number Ten Ox series.

When we last saw these two, they were hot on the trail of a gang of murderous, laughing monks bent on destroying a fertile valley. Now the two are in search of the evil offspring of a couple of minor deities who are hoping to destroy the world.

A pivotal scene involves Master Li disposing of an inconvenient body by cooking it up for a many-course feast for his enemies. It’s better than any Greek myth, because Master Li gives a running commentary on each dish, with all ingredients. Poor Number Ten Ox finds it hard to write the full description, but he manages. There are several other instances of cannibalism, including the most disgusting one, which happens off-stage. We hear only the slurping, and the screams.

As Number Ten Ox would say, Gllgghh!

A minor character who pops up occasionally is a mass murderer and cannibal who can’t stop talking about his favorite recipes, and he knows hundreds. But don’t let the Hannibal Lecter-ish flavor keep you away. Hughart combines humor and mystery, Chinese history and mythology, puzzles and misdirection in a wonderful concoction. There’s a neck-and-neck boat race, puppetry, gymnastics, and a shamanka (female shaman) who would love Number Ten Ox if she could.

Hughart had originally planned 5 Master Li novels, but stopped after this one. A shame. I haven’t had my fill yet.

Share this:

Neverwhere (1996), Neil Gaiman, 370 pp.

There’s a point on the 1 train in Manhattan, between the 86th and 96th street stations, when you pass through a ghost station, the remains of the 91st street stop. Actually, there’s a logical explanation: when the platforms at the nearest stations were extended, for the lengthier trains, there was no point in keeping this station. Yet it’s so much more thrilling to think of it as a ghost as you pass its grimy walls and empty platforms. You can almost picture squatters taking it over.

Courtesy Underground-History.co.uk

If the idea of ghost stations gives you an appealingly creepy feeling, then you need to read Neverwhere, a good portion of which takes place in the hidden stairs and ghost stations of the London Tube. The hero, Richard Mayhew, is thrown into this world by an act of charity for which he’s punished rather than rewarded. Unless you take the long view.

Courtesy Underground-History.co.uk

Gaiman has created two of the most relentlessly evil and bloody-minded villains in Messrs. Croup and Vandemar, and populated London Below with tribes of people who can speak to rats, or open solid walls, or suck your life from you as if you were an orange. Mayhew, like Dante, Ulysses, Aeneas, and Orpheus, must find his way through this Underworld, with help coming from unexpected quarters.

Best secondary character: the Marquis de Carabas. See “Puss in Boots” from Perrault (English translation here) to get the reference and appreciate the character even more.

Share this:

Stardust (1999), Neil Gaiman, 248 pp.

This is my month to focus on fantasy, catching up on stuff I should have read long ago but am only just now getting around to.

So, catching up with Gaiman. Stardust reminded me of Lord Dunsany’s classic, The King of Elfland’s Daughter, which is not a bad thing. Gaiman even uses the line, “beyond the fields we know” as direct (although only for those in the know) homage to Lord Dunsany’s classic. I love old-style fantasy, with its lofty language and references to Faerie, a land just beyond a wall, or through a forest — a place any fool can visit, but few fools can survive.

In a nutshell, Tristan chases a fallen star he’s promised to give to his beloved Victoria (not worthy of him, but no surprise). The fallen star turns out to be the snooty Yvaine, who needs (but hates needing) Tristan’s help. She’s in mortal danger (of course), and not just because Tristan wants to take her out of Faerie. There’s also a Faerie Kingdom looking for the rightful heir to its throne, a vicious Witch-Queen, a cryptic prophecy, and all kinds of aid coming from unexpected places. Deliciously complex, with suitable retribution for those who’ve earned it.

Gaiman earns his place next to other classic tales of Faerie.

Share this:

The Story of the Stone (1988), Barry Hughart, 249 pp.

Somehow, Master Li and Number Ten Ox seem to find themselves at the center of the most despicable doings. This time around, it’s a rampaging Prince who’s been dead for 3000 years. The Prince is the prime suspect in a murder and the theft of a manuscript, as well as the growing areas of dead land in an otherwise beautiful and fertile valley.

And then there’s the lure of the Prince’s missing fortune, a treasure buried somewhere in the valley.

Number Ten Ox carries Master Li through caves, over cliffs, and even to Hell in search of the solution, with only Master Li’s phenomenal memory and respect for the deities (and Taoism) as their guide.

Share this:

A Christmas Carol (1843), Charles Dickens

Unbelievable, that I could reach my age without ever having read Dickens’ classic. I’ve seen movie versions (Alistair Sim’s 1951 Scrooge is my favorite, followed closely by Bill Murray’s 1988 Scrooged), heard radio versions, and seen TV specials. But I’ve never actually picked up the book.

So, before Christmas is upon me again, I’ve decided to read it. But I don’t have a copy, and the library is closed! Never fear, the internet sends a version straight to my computer. A cup of tea, a slice of fruitcake, and a background of holiday music sets the mood.

Surely I don’t need to recount the plot: clanking chains, ghosts, cute kid suffering from mysterious ailment in his leg, a changed life. Dickens gives us London before Christmas became a hugely commercial enterprise (cue Stan Freberg’s Green Christmas). No garish light displays, no holiday greeting cards, no corner lot devoted to neon colored aluminum trees. Not even a brightly wrapped package anywhere to be seen. Just family gatherings and food.

Sounds good to me.

Share this:

Paradise News (1991), David Lodge, 294 pp.

I love library book sales. I’ve found gems (and fool’s gold) in bins next to the check-out desk. It’s always worth sorting through at least the top layer, just to see if there’s something worth grabbing for a buck. This was.

Bernard Walsh, a lonely loner recovering from a failed relationship, finds true love on the beaches of paradise. BUT. Walsh’s failed relationship was with the Catholic Church; he arrives in Hawaii with his father to visit the father’s estranged sister; and the love he finds is the woman (Yolande Miller) who puts his father in the hospital the day after they arrive by hitting him with her car.

Walsh’s journey, from the moment he talks his father into flying from England to Hawaii, is fraught with whiny old folks, whiny tourists, and his own almost-whiny lack of sex-exteem. Mostly because he’s never had any. He doesn’t set out to lose his virginity in Hawaii, but I had to cheer when it happened.

Is it possible for a middle-aged man to be the hero of a coming-of-age novel? If so, Walsh is that hero.

Share this:

Montmorency’s Revenge (2006), Eleanor Updale, 289 pp.

You may recall from my post about the wickedly complex Montmorency (is he good? is he bad? is he a clever combination of the two?), in this series the good guys don’t always win.

What I didn’t say was that Updale left us at the end of the third book with the death of a major character and the murderer’s escape to join his anarchist buddies in America.

This last chapter of the series begins with Queen Victoria on her deathbed and those same anarchists planning an explosive gesture for the funeral cortege. It’s looking bad for world leaders, but Montmorency and his team of anarchy fighters are on the case.

Although not as satisfying as the previous three books, Updale whips us through London and New York at the start of the 20th century, revealing the nasty parts as well as the nice. And at the end of this one, Montmorency’s future is looking somewhat brighter.

Share this:

The Magicians (2009) and The Magician King (2011), Lev Grossman (402 and 400 pp. respectively)

Hands up, anyone, if you ever wished you could live in the world created by your favorite writer/s. Top on my list is Anne Shirley’s PEI of the late 1800s, despite the mosquitoes that LM Montgomery never writes about. But second would be Earthsea, Ursula LeGuin’s mysterious archipelago. The combinations of sea and magic, islands and dragons, are irresistible.

Grossman has created a fictional world — Fillory (very similar to Narnia) — for his character, Quentin Clearwater, in The Magicians and its sequel. What I mean to say is, Quentin has read every book about Fillory, knows its boundaries and topography perfectly, but knows also that the world isn’t real. It exists only in the series of books that he has read too many times to count. It’s Quentin’s fictional world, within Grossman’s fictional world.

Still with me?

Then Quentin unexpectedly finds himself accepted into a special college in upstate New York. Like Hogwarts, Brakebills College for Magical Pedagogy trains magicians in spells and the proper use of magic. It’s a typical college, with houses and dorms, cliques and passable cafeteria food. An off-campus term is spent in the Antarctic, with the final project an unaided trip to the South Pole.

Grossman doesn’t take his magical world for granted. Here’s a passage that comes after Quentin’s graduation ceremony. Prof. Fogg is speaking to Quentin and his classmates.

Sometimes I wonder if man was really meant to discover magic ….  It doesn’t really make sense.  It’s a little too perfect, don’t you think? If there’s a single lesson that life teaches us, it’s that wishing doesn’t make it so. Words and thoughts don’t change anything. Language and reality are kept strictly apart — reality is tough, unyielding stuff, and it doesn’t care what you think or feel or say about it. Or it shouldn’t. You deal with it, and you get on with your life.

Little children don’t know that. Magical thinking: that’s what Freud called it. Once we learn otherwise we cease to be children. The separation of word and thing is the essential fact on which our adult lives are founded.

But somewhere in the heat of magic that boundary between word and thing ruptures. It cracks, and the one flows back into the other, and the two melt together and fuse. Language gets tangled up with the world it describes.

I sometimes feel as though we’ve stumbled on a flaw in the system, don’t you? … Is it possible that magic is knowledge that would be better off forsworn? Tell me this: Can a man who can cast a spell ever really grow up?

That final question is a clue to Quentin’s challenge. Does growing up require that he put away all childish things, including magic?

Then (there’s always another “then”) Quentin discovers that Fillory is an actual world to which he can travel, and this is the start of all his problems.  Like the Pevensie children in Narnia, Quentin must vanquish an evil beast that threatens to destroy the fantasy world he loves. I don’t think I’m giving anything away when I say that the Beast is someone very like Quentin himself. And, as with so many fantasy novels, the Beast is someone fighting with all its might against inexorable death.

Quentin’s quest continues in The Magician King, where he boards ship to search for several keys that are spread across much of Fillory’s uncharted Eastern Ocean. There’s something about a long sea voyage to unknown shores. Ged’s in The Farthest Shore and the children’s in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader – even Frodo’s and Bilbo’s at the end of The Return of the King – the unknown destination makes it hard to imagine how anyone can start such a journey, but it’s one we’re all on.

Sorry, didn’t mean to get so gloomy. These are good books, but, like all good books, they leave the reader with plenty to think about.

Share this:

Way back in August, I vowed to read only new books until the end of December, or to confess if I broke this pledge.

Well, I did pretty well until the end of November. Then, mentally worn out by my efforts for NaNoWriMo 2011, I could fight the urge no longer, and I pulled out my 5+ volume set of The Borrowers and read them all in about 3 days. It was restful, reminding me why I read so many of my favorite tales again and again.

But now, I’m back on the wagon and working my way through more new title — new to me, at any rate. This month, some adult fantasy from Lev Grossman, the final installment of the Montmorency series, and a couple of surprises.

Share this:

The Hopkins Manuscript (1939), R C Sherriff, 269 pp.

Another item for my ‘obscure book’ list. A friend loaned this to me, saying only, “It’s about how the moon crashes into the earth, but that doesn’t destroy us. People do.”

Sounds like a happy read, right?

Well, there are funny moments. Edgar Hopkins, the narrator, is a persnickety upper-middle-class countryman who breeds chickens for show (high ha-ha factor right there). Independently wealthy, he lives alone, blind to his snobbish crankiness. Even after the Cataclysm, as society is crumbling around him and he finds his lonely life changed (for the better) by joining forces with a brother and sister in their late teens/early twenties — even then he can’t let go of his sense of propriety. At a village dinner some months after the moon has killed more people than the Black Death did five centuries earlier, he admires the fact that class distinctions have disappeared, and then two lines later happily reports that he spoke to the washerwoman sitting next to him “as if she were my equal”.

Yes, there will always be an England.

Unless the moon decides to crash into the Atlantic Ocean.

In this alternate universe, the moon is hollow, so it collapses into the sea without completely demolishing the world. Most of the population of Africa, Asia, South America, and the Middle East survive with their societal structures intact. Uh-oh for the colonialists!

My edition includes an afterword by George Gamow analyzing Sherriff’s science. It’s a relief to learn that, if the moon should crash into the earth, we wouldn’t have to worry about subsequent wars. As Gamow so encouragingly put it, “it is not likely that anyone at all could survive this descent upon the earth.”

Whatever happened to “not with a bang, but a whimper”?