July

Divergent by Veronica Roth, 2011

It's pretty impossible to read Divergent (or any recent dystopian YA novel, for that matter) without feeling the influence of the mega-successful Hunger Games trilogy. Just like the boom of magic-school sagas after the success of the Harry Potter books, the young adult market is currently awash with post-apocalyptic adventure, plucky young heroines and tyrannical governments.

So it's a testament to Veronica Roth's considerable skill as a storyteller that I didn't think much about any of the similarities between the two after the first fifty pages or so. I was just swept up in the story.

Divergent's dystopian gimmick is fairly clever and reasonably original: at some point in the relatively near future, the city of Chicago is split into five factions - Abnegation, Erudite, Candor, Amity and Dauntless - each one representing a different virtue or characteristic. At sixteen, sheltered Abnegation teen Beatrice Prior must choose which faction to join for the rest of her life. To everyone's surprise, Tris joins Dauntless, the faction of strength and bravery. But she has a deadly secret: she's Divergent (which means she's suited for more than one faction), and there are those in her faction, and in others, who would kill her if they find out.

From the first chapter, Divergent is a propulsive, perfectly paced read, with a great heroine, plenty of thrills and an interesting setting. It's absolutely to Roth's credit that she sells the concept of the five factions, an idea that seems pretty hard to swallow at first. She does a nice job of subtly showing what could have led the people of Chicago to this seemingly bizarre form of government. She doesn't dwell too much on the post-apocalyptic elements, though - a good move, I think, especially for a first book - instead focusing on Tris and her character arc.

Make no mistake: Tris is the novel's top draw. I loved this character. Her journey from repressed, shy schoolgirl to tough, gun-toting soldier is hugely compelling, and well portrayed. Roth puts us right in Tris's head, and then throws crazy challenge after crazy challenge at her, and it makes for some really thrilling stuff. Roth doesn't pull punches because this is a YA novel (there was some stuff even I found unsettling, and I was brought up on Stephen King) and it makes the book that much more exciting and visceral. The other characters are all less memorable than Tris, but most of them have at least a couple of dimensions, some of them quite surprising.

I'll admit, Tris's obligatory romance with her Dauntless instructor Four wasn't my favorite part of the novel. I liked the odd, adversarial chemistry between them towards the beginning of the story, but by the time they get together mid-book, complete with swoony makeout sessions, it had become a little routine. Not a bad plot thread, by any means, but not as strong as Tris's journey towards self-awareness (and abruptly changing Four's name to Tobias was not helpful to me, as an Arrested Development fan).

In all, Divergent delivered just about everything I would have wanted it to: a memorable and kick-ass heroine, a thought-provoking dystopia and a gripping plot. While I don't think the novel is likely to go down as a classic, it's a smart, quite well-written page-turner that made me lose sleep more than once. I can't wait to pick up Insurgent and see where the story goes from here.

Payment in Blood by Elizabeth George, 1990

What continually irritated me about Payment in Blood - and Elizabeth George's first novel, A Great Deliverance - is that it came so close to being great. I mean, great. George is clearly capable of a novel that will vault her to the top of my list of favorite mystery writers. Blood isn't quite it, but it's close enough to still be one hell of a well-put-together novel.

The book opens, of course, with a murder. Author and playwright Joy Sinclair is found gruesomely stabbed to death in her bed at a lavish Scottish bed-and-breakfast. Among the suspects are most of Britain's foremost actors, as well as a powerful lord and his mysterious family. Sent out into the brutal Scottish winter to nail the killer, Thomas Lynley and Barbara Havers contend with an incestuous web of deadly connections - a web that includes the woman that Lynley is in love with.

I'll deal with what annoyed me first. The book's biggest flaw is that George's pacing is uneven at best. The novel's first half feels cluttered to the point of claustrophobia; like in Deliverance, she throws so much exposition and backstory at you that the novel feels stalled from the beginning. The connections between all of the suspects are complicated enough that it sometimes feels like coming into a soap opera three seasons in. Wait, he slept with her and her? She's married to him? He's her brother? George's talents don't lie in relaying necessary information in a clear and entertaining way.

My second big problem is with the novel's central relationship between Lynley and Lady Helen Clyde. If you recall, Lynley spent pretty much the entire first book mooning over Deborah, his best friend's wife. Rather abruptly, we're informed early on in Blood that the woman Lynley truly loves is Helen (who, to make matters even more complicated, is the best friend's ex). Helen, however, is cheating on Lynley with an alcoholic stage director. Cue a whole lot of drama. Trouble is, for all the overwrought histrionics, George never really sells on us on the romance, or on Lady Helen, who seems a little too prissy and high-maintenance for Lynley (of course, I'm a Lynley/Havers shipper, so what do I know).
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It might sound like I'm a little down on Blood, but the truth of it is, that what's good about the book is very, very good. Once George has all of her pieces on the board, the real fun begins, as she picks apart the psyches of every suspect, and our heroes, too. Her psychological approach is what sets her apart from her peers, and with good reason: she excels at it. Blood is at its best when one of the characters starts really peeling back layers, and we can fully appreciate just how skilled George is at what she does.

As the book goes on and the plot gets into gear, things really start to pop, and I found myself really getting into it. The subplots in particular take a while to heat up, but when they do, they reveal George's incredible capacity for complex, heart-wrenching human drama. Her dense, lavish prose suits her style well and sometimes rises to the level of beautiful, even if her reliance on ten-dollar words can be a bit much.

 I did correctly guess the identity of the killer about two-thirds of the way through the novel, but that's more a symptom of how logically constructed the plot is than an indictment of George's skills of deception. Payment in Blood eventually ends on a satisfyingly melancholy note, and it's a testament to how much I ended up enjoying the book that I couldn't stop thinking about it for days after. It's not a perfect mystery by any means and, honestly, the structure left a lot to be desired, but I know that the day will come when Elizabeth George will knock my socks off. And I'm looking forward to it.

Dead Witch Walking by Kim Hamilton, 2004

Starting a new series is always an exciting proposition, especially when the series comes as highly recommended as Kim Hamilton's Rachel Morgan books. The Hollows series has a small, but extremely devoted fan base, and as soon as I heard about it, I knew I wanted to check it out. I love a good urban fantasy, vampire detectives, werewolves driving cabs, all that stuff. I figured Dead Witch Walking would be right in my wheelhouse.

And. . . well, it kind of is. To be honest, there was a lot that I liked about Witch, and a lot that I thought was kind of awful. On the whole, I enjoyed the book more than I probably should have, and I think Harrison has some obvious talent when it comes to her characters and world-building. But why is the plotting so strange?

The novel follows Rachel Morgan, a witch who works as a sort of bounty hunter/federal agent for the supernatural equivalent of the FBI, the IS. When Rachel leaves the IS to set up a private-detective agency with a motor-mouthed pixy and a sensual vampire, her former boss puts out a hit on her (this is where the plot gets weird). Dodging fairy commandos and assassins armed with spell-loaded paintball guns, Rachel and her gang must bring down a mysterious drug lord in order to get the IS to call off the hit.

What I liked a lot about Witch was the characters. While Rachel is a fairly typical heroine for this kind of story, predictably feisty and sarcastic - think Stephanie Plum with magical abilities and leather pants - her sidekicks are a lot more interesting. Jenks, the wise-ass pixie, could have been a goofy comic relief character, but he has more nuance than you'd think. And while Ivy, the aristocratic, sexually ambiguous vampire, is responsible for some of the novel's more uncomfortable scenes, she's also the most complicated and fascinating character. Even Nick, the bookish human who shows up late in the book, seemingly as a classic love interest, has some dimension. Harrison succeeds at making these characters the kind of people you could easily imagine reading ten more books about: a nice mix of likable and dynamic.

The setting, an alternate Cincinnati populated by both humans and supernatural creatures, is relatively standard as far as urban fantasies go, but I liked Harrison's take on pixie/fairy relations, her clever magic system and some rather ingenious little concepts (like the magical "splatballs") that help immensely to flesh out her world. I was less taken with her vampires, who are your standard Anne Rice-y sex machines, The vampire-related erotic segments fit rather uncomfortably alongside anything else, especially the distinct lesbian subtext between Rachel and Ivy. Maybe Harrison has a clever plan on where to take that particular relationship, but in this book, it's just awkward.

For the most part, though, so far, so good. Engaging characters, a relatively interesting world, writing that's not half-bad, in a rote, chick-lit kind of way. Where Harrison really stumbles, though, is plotting and pacing. The plot is lumpy, half-baked and overly simplistic, and the pacing is just weird. Harrison founds the whole story on the idea that a government agency would put out a hit on an agent who quit. I get that it's an alternate timeline and not our world, but there's not nearly enough attention given to this far-fetched plot point.

The Big Bad of the story, Trent Kalamack, is actually a little bit compelling, but there's no real mystery to unravel, and no stakes. Again, the story is predicated on a plot point that doesn't make much sense: Kalamack running biodrugs is made out to be a huge deal, but it isn't even clear what he's using them for. And the pacing, like I said, is distinctly odd. Scenes tend to stretch out way too long, with conversations getting tedious and circuitous. The bursts of action are refreshing (especially a very creative wizard's duel towards the end), but they get repetitive and tend to be sandwiched in between long, dull stretches. There's some good stuff here, and lots of smart and funny and exciting bits, but the plot just never coalesces into anything especially coherent.

That said, I see tons of potential in this series. You could definitely tell some great stories in this world, with these characters. Dead Witch Walking is too full of plot holes and labored pacing to be a true success, but there's every chance that this could end up being a really entertaining series. It just needs the right story.

January

Artemis Fowl: The Last Guardian by Eoin Colfer, 2012

I've been a fan of Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl series for years; at its best, these books are light, terrific fun with really endearing characters and goofy, James Bond-meets-Brothers Grimm plots. The first few installments are definitely the best ones; the series has been getting progressively weaker for a long time now, so I was rather pleased to hear that Colfer was finally wrapping up the series with Guardian. And I was even happier when Guardian proved to be a smart, satisfying conclusion to a sometimes troubled saga.

The plot revolves around the apocalypse, Fowl-style. Naturally, the engineer of this cataclysm is Artemis's arch-enemy, Opal Koboi, who escapes from prison using a brilliantly diabolical and bizarre trick. Her next step is unleashing ancient fairy magic that will destroy the world, if Artemis, Butler, Holly, Foaly and Mulch can't stop her in time. It's a something of a boilerplate plot for the series, but Colfer makes it clear from the get-go that the stakes are higher than ever. The action is completely relentless, and it's the classic mixture of exciting and entirely absurd that fans have come to expect. I mean, any book that has the Abominable Snowman pushing a small plane down a runway with a dwarf on his back, being pursued by fairy warriors possessing forest animals has to be awesome, right?

Colfer is not a phenomenal writer by any means; he never has been. There are plenty of awkward sentences and plenty of cliches, but there's generally enough genuine wit to counterbalance it. Gotta love the dialogue, too, even if it's often more cheesy than snappy. And hey, Colfer doesn't go too far with his usual ecological tangents, either, which is certainly a mercy.

The important thing about a finale, of course, is wrapping up character arcs, and for most of Guardian I was afraid that Colfer would shortchange Artemis (I was also a bit afraid that Artemis wouldn't have an opportunity to out-think his final foe). For the series to be at all satisfying, Artemis's redemption arc has to come full circle. Thankfully, Colfer makes the last few chapters one last classic Fowl gambit, with an emotional twist. For someone who's followed Artemis's journey from villain to hero for years, the ending has real impact. Everybody else gets a chance to shine, too, particularly Foaly, who gets his own subplot for the first time. And yes, Artemis's final sacrifice really got to me (I may have cried just a tad). It was a near-perfect conclusion to the series, as was the final line, where Holly, telling Artemis's clone his own life story, finishes the series with its very first sentence.

 

Let It Bleed by Ian Rankin, 1996

Let It Bleed is, in my opinion, the best John Rebus novel since Tooth and Nail. It's the longest in the series so far, a dense, intricate tale with both shocking intimacy and stunning scope. This is probably the most complex plot Rankin has yet attempted, but it's also one of his crispest and most logical. More important than the plot, of course, is John Rebus, and he's in fine form here--which is to say that he's an utter mess of a human being, and yet impossible not to love. Let It Bleed is the work of an author at the top of his game, and it's glorious.

As is usual with Rebus novels, the plot is impossible to succinctly describe, since it's tangled and twisted and looped back on itself. Suffice it to say that the novel opens with a stunning car chase that ends in tragedy and sparks an unofficial investigation that leads Rebus to the highest level of the Scottish government. As usual, his search for the truth could easily cost him his job, if not his life. The strands of plot, which are many, all tie together neatly here, something which caused Rankin trouble in previous books. The story may be devilishly complex, but it all comes together well (a couple of slightly over-stretching moments aside).

A blurb on the back of my copy compares Rankin to Charles Dickens, and it's an astonishingly insightful and apt comparison. Rankin, like Dickens, tells vast narratives that encompass people from every level of the socioeconomic strata. He keenly observes not only what makes them different, but what makes them similar. Rebus--and Rankin--is above all an observer of human nature, and he's a brilliant way to tell a story about people from all different backgrounds through just one narrator. Rebus is contemptuous of everybody; he's an equal-opportunity snarker.

His own life has perhaps never been worse. Not only has he broken up with Patience, but his estranged daughter Sammy is now living with her, complicating two already terrible relationships. His arch-enemy Flower is trying to get him off the force, and may know more than he's letting on. On top of everything, Rebus's alcoholism is getting steadily worse. Rankin's portrayal of Rebus's quiet desperation and whiskey-soaked melancholy is genuinely haunting. Though he fights against it, ennui and loneliness are always close to consuming him. The only thing that helps is his work, and yet even that only serves to drive him further into depression. Anybody who's read my reviews of Rankin's previous novels will know that I have been crazy about John Rebus since day one, and he remains one of my favorite literary detectives ever. He's an incredible character, period.

In a very real way, Let It Bleed's main dramatic action is not Rebus hunting down a murderer or a terrorist, but Rebus going head-to-head with a far more powerful group of opponents. He's never been more isolated or more out-classed, but instead of giving up, he digs in and puts up a fight. Choosing the side of the angels is hard, however, when you seem to be surrounded entirely by demons. Ultimately, Rebus doesn't defeat all that's wrong with his screwed-up world (not even close), but he does the best he can and has to hope that that's enough.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, 1999

I sort of wanted to resist The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Its reputation as a "banned book," its supposed wisdom and beauty, its popularity among teen readers, all of it kind of turned me off to it a bit. I imagined the book being gimmicky and cliched, the kind of YA novel that gets acclaim without being very good.

And then the book made me sob my eyes out. So, yeah. I misjudged it from the outset.

Perks does a lot of difficult things very, very well. It's a virtual minefield from start to finish, and Chbosky navigates it with incredible confidence. A YA novel narrated by a quirky, innocent protagonist (in epistolary format, no less)? A main character whose sunny outlook on life is an inspiration to others? A narrative about the first year of high school, complete with first dates, lunchroom fights and all-important dances? And let's not forget that the novel deals with a laundry list of hot-button social issues, like abortion, homophobia, date rape, mental illness and sexual abuse. These are the ingredients for disaster, or at least generic blandness, when it comes to a novel like this.

Perks is not a disaster. It's actually kind of a masterpiece. It gets to the heart of adolescence better than just about any book that I can think of off the top of my head. It's straightforward without being pedantic, simple without being simplistic. Its main character, Charlie, is an endlessly kind and sensitive boy and he should be completely irritating. But instead, he's one of the most beautifully realized characters I've read about in a YA novel. Even a last-minute revelation about his past is a genuine gut-kick rather than a hokey device. Writing a character that good had to have been incredibly difficult, but it completely works.

Charlie's commentary on the more cynical world around him is both incredibly insightful and endearingly naive. One of Chbosky's most effective concepts is peopling Charlie's world with complicated, multi-faceted characters that he doesn't fully understand. The reader only gets to truly understand the supporting characters gradually; Charlie is not an especially reliable narrator, even with his moments of startling insight.

Complaints? I really don't have any. It takes a while to settle into the novel, but that's more because of the idiosyncratic nature of the narration than any fault in execution. There were a few moments that reminded me of Markus Zusak's The Book Thief: beautiful and well-observed, but a tiny bit manipulative, as though the author knows just how thoroughly he's grabbed hold of your emotions, and takes the opportunity to twist the knife a bit. Still, it's pretty hard to accuse an author of manipulating your emotions too successfully.

In a lot of ways, Perks is not a complex novel. The story is not the point; the book has little plot, and even the central framing device of Charlie's letters goes entirely unexplained. What it is is an enchanting character study, and a look at the messed-up ways in which people relate to each other. Charlie makes observations about families, friend, love and growing up that are understated and simple, but sometimes gut-wrenchingly true. How many first kisses have I read about in novels? A lot. But how many are as sweet and gorgeous and memorable as Charlie's first kiss with Sam? Very few.

The Sandman: Preludes and Nocturnes by Neil Gaiman, 1989

My second foray into the world of comic books was trickier but ultimately more rewarding than my first. The Sandman is one of the few comic book sagas to have a distinct beginning, middle and end. Unlike most others, it's actually possible to read it all the way through. The first eight issues, collected in Preludes and Nocturnes, are sometimes a little awkward, as you can see Gaiman getting his footing. By the end of the collection, however, the series starts to take form, and I realized that I was in for quite a journey.

Preludes and Nocturnes is a charmingly mixed-up narrative, hopping around genres, tones and locales with merry abandon, while keeping the main thread front and center. Some issues read like straight-up horror, others like elegant fantasy, others like DC superhero tales. The Sandman, Morpheus, is not a character nailed down to anything in particular; as is fitting for the Lord of Dreams, he is fluid and complex, and can pretty much end up anywhere, a storytelling device that's both handy and downright inspired.

The collection follows Morpheus as he escapes from a long imprisonment and returns to his realm to find that things have fallen apart in his absence. In classic form, he must go on a quest to reclaim three of his lost treasures, items that will give him back his power. This relatively simple frame enables Morpheus to travel to Hell, ally himself with a paranormal detective and go up against an escaped supervillain planning to take over the world.

For my money, the more down-to-earth material is where Gaiman really shines. Cosmic metaphysics are all well and good, but I prefer the genuine characterization to the nutty comic-book action (call me crazy, but I prefer stories where people actually interact to stories where every other pages has BOOM or KRSHEESH). Luckily for me, there's plenty of Gaiman's trademarks: dry wit, smooth narration, brilliantly off-the-wall imagery. The series' main character, Morpheus, is obviously a tricky one to write: he's a literal force of nature, as well as a person in his own right. Overall, I found him interesting--detached, but not unkind, ballsy, but ultimately insecure--and I look forward to more development in the future. The last issue, and the best, introduces his sister, Death, who's easily the most interesting and poignant character in the book. Their interaction is absolutely fascinating; I can't wait to see more of the Endless (they must have some interesting Christmas dinners).

The standalone elements are more hit-or-miss for me. Dream's trip to Hell left me pretty cold, and the Doctor Destiny storyline (while creating a nice framework for the book) ends rather anticlimactically, despite some great moments along the way. The "24 Hours" vignette is a particularly chilling interlude, like a Stephen King novel compressed into just a few gruesome pages. Doctor Destiny definitely has his moments as a villain, but like I said, the end of the storyline basically amounts to "Okay, everything's fine again due to comic-book physics." The final issue, however, is what has me really excited to get my hands on the next collection: it's a spare, surprisingly sweet tale about moving on, in various ways. It's very funny in places, and moving, and it's drawn with an impeccable eye for mood and characterization. Hopefully, as the series moves on, it will continue to mature in new and astonishing ways. With Gaiman at the helm, it seems impossible that it wouldn't.

Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman

Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman, 1998

Benjamin Lassiter was coming to the unavoidable conclusion that the woman who had written A Walking Tour of the British Coastline, the book he was carrying in his backpack, had never been on a walking tour of any kind, and would probably not recognize the British coastline if it were to dance through her bedroom at the head of a marching band, singing "I'm the British Coastline" in a loud and cheerful voice while accompanying itself on the kazoo.

He had been following her advice for five days now and had little to show for it except blisters and a backache. All British seaside resorts contain a number of bed-and-breakfast establishments, who will be only too delighted to put you up in the "off-season" was one such piece of advice. Ben had crossed it out and written in the margin beside it: All British seaside resorts contain a number of bed-and-breakfast establishments, the owners of which take off to Spain or Provence or somewhere on the last day of September, locking the doors behind them as they go.

He had added a number of other marginal notes, too. Such as Do not repeat do not order fried eggs again in any roadside cafe and What is it with the fish-and-chips thing? and No they are not. That last was written beside a paragraph which claimed that, if there was one thing that the inhabitants of scenic villages on the British coastline were pleased to see, it was a young American tourist on a walking tour. ---- ("Shoggoth's Old Peculiar," pages 147-148)

As a general rule, I'm not a huge reader of short stories. My ideal reading experience is a nice hefty novel, not a series of insubstantial tales that oftentimes end up feeling like a series of unsatisfying nibbles. That said, there are a handful of authors whose short stories I really enjoy, Stephen King probably being foremost among them. King's tendency to ramble and take forever to get to the point is nicely curtailed by the short story format, and you could make an excellent argument that his short story collections represent his best work.

Neil Gaiman is a very different writer (and a better writer; sorry, Stephen), but his work is often similar to King's. Smoke and Mirrors resembles King's story collections in a lot of ways: it's a jumbled, quirky collection of stories, poems and experimental odd bits, most of them in some way related to fantasy or horror, with explanatory notes on each piece. Like all story collections, Smoke is sort of a mixed bag, the diversity of its offerings making it rather inconsistent, but it contains some truly fantastic stories and certainly more good than bad.

The stories run the gamut from comic to tragic, from amusing to terrifying. Gaiman's poetry is sometimes hair-raisingly haunting and sometimes a little thin. Every single piece, even the weaker ones, are imbued with Gaiman's particular brand of the bizarre and the gleefully wicked black comedy that is his trademark. Some of these stories are absolute gems and even the ones that aren't as good are at least entertaining.

The award-winning "Snow, Glass, Apples" is arguably the most well-known story in the collection, and it's definitely one of the finest. A razor-sharp retelling of the tale of Snow White, it's a great example of Gaiman's ability to find a unique way to tell old stories, as well as his tendency to find spine-tingling horror in the oddest places (seriously, if you don't shiver at least once while you read this story, there's something wrong). One of my other favorites, "Chivalry," is a complete contrast, a light and funny story that's actually a sneakily sad tale of loneliness. Whether it's emotional impact or a gruesome reveal, Gaiman is very good at narrative sleight-of-hand: keeping us focused on one idea or concept before pulling another one out of thin air.

Overall, Gaiman's prose is better than his poetry, although he is a pretty accomplished poet, too. A few of the poems, such as the haunting "The White Road" or the bizarre Beowulf-meets-Baywatch mashup "Baywolf" are highly memorable; whereas I could take or leave "Vampire Sestina" or "The Sea Change." In general, Gaiman is better at a more protracted narrative than a fleeting impression (this definitely holds true for his prose as well). His shorter pieces tend to be less interesting, and some of them feel a little half-baked.


Gaiman is unapologetic about the way that other authors and literary works have influenced him. "The Daughter of Owls" is a straight pastiche of John Aubrey's distinctive voice and "One Life, Furnished in Early Moorcock" was originally published in an anthology of stories celebrating legendary fantasy author Michael Moorcock. Several stories bear the mark of Gaiman's love for H.P. Lovecraft. The best of them is "Shoggoth's Old Peculiar," a sly little satire with some really excellent jokes. "Only the End of the World Again" has some arresting imagery, but an esoteric and impossible to follow plot. "Mouse," which according to Gaiman is his attempt at a Raymond Carver story, is another of the weaker tales in the collection, despite an intriguing central metaphor.

The least successful stories in the anthology are probably the underwritten sci-fi fable "Changes," "Foreign Parts," an icky and somewhat puzzling story of an unusual disease, "Tastings," the least erotic piece of erotica imaginable and, perhaps most of all, "When We Went to See the End of the World by Dawnie Morningside, age 11¼," an utterly cloying and poorly done story of the Apocalypse. The first of these three all have to do with sex in some form, which is an indication that it's not Gaiman's strongest subject. The last story is definitely the worst in the entire book; I can't help but wonder if its inclusion is a practical joke of some kind.

But the good far outweighs the bad. "We Can Get Them For You Wholesale" is a diabolically brilliant little piece of black comedy. The long-form poem "Cold Colors" is an eye-popping journey through a world where Hieronymus Bosch meets the iPad. "The Goldfish Pool and Other Stories," an unusually long and non-fantasy story of a writer attempting to sell his novel to Hollywood, goes from a bitterly funny diatribe to a moving mediation on fame. When Gaiman is at the top of his form, he can knock a story or poem completely out of the park.

Perhaps my very favorite story in Smoke and Mirrors is "Murder Mysteries," a sprawling tale that goes from modern-day Los Angeles to the origin of the universe, when an angel committed the very first murder. Parts of the story are astonishingly brilliant, even if the frame story never quite comes together. Very few writers could come up with a concept as mind-bogglingly original and still fewer could execute the story with the grace, wit and thoughtfulness that Gaiman does. He is truly one of the most arresting writers working today, and probably one of the finest fantasy authors of all time. Smoke and Mirrors is not without its flaws and weak spots, but the overall impression is that of a master carefully crafting miniature versions of his longer works that sometimes pack just as much (or more) of a punch.

NEXT UP: Lee Child's Tripwire, because my Jack Reacher addiction is still ongoing.

Hyperion by Dan Simmons

Hyperion by Dan Simmons, 1990

"All right," said the Consul, "we vote. Our first decision relates to M. Weintraub's suggestion that we tell the stories of our past involvement with Hyperion."

"All or nothing," said Het Masteen. "We each share our story or none does. We will abide by the will of the majority."

"Agreed," said the Consul, suddenly curious to hear the others tell their stories and equally sure he would never tell his own. "Those in favor of telling our tales?"

"Yes," said Sol Weintraub.

"Yes," said Het Masteen.

"Absolutely," said Martin Silenus. "I wouldn't miss this little comic farce for a month in the orgasm baths on Shote."

"I vote yes also," said the Consul, surprising himself. "Those opposed?"

"Nay," said Father Hoyt but there was no energy in his voice.

"I think it's stupid," said Brawne Lamia.

The Consul turned to Kassad. "Colonel?"

Fedmahn Kassad shrugged.

"I register four yes votes, two negatives, and one abstention," said the Consul. "The ayes have it. Who wants to start?"----- (pages 22-23)

Hyperion is a frustrating novel. It's written by the author of several excellent sci-fi/fantasy novels. Simmons's Drood is a massive, magnificent tome of creepy historical suspense, and his Ilium/Olympos duology is one of my favorite works of science fiction (although I'm admittedly not a huge fan of the genre). Simmons is fully capable of writing a really good sci-fi novel, but Hyperion is alternately boring and arresting, saddled with an awkwardly utilized literary device, a novel's that kind of coming apart at the seams. There's a lot of things that I really liked about the book, a lot of elements that really work well. And then there were a lot of parts that had me yawning.

The novel is set thousands of years after the death of Earth. The human race has formed a vast society called the Hegemony, spanning thousands of planets and dozens of solar systems. A highly evolved group of artificial intelligences called the TechnoCore aids the Hegemony in its quest to expand its borders by installing farcasters (big teleportation devices, essentially) on non-Hegemony worlds. When Hyperion begins, a group of evolved humans called the Ousters are preparing for an all-out assault on the independent planet of Hyperion. Hyperion is home to the world's greatest mystery: the Time Tombs, strange, ancient structures that appear to be moving backwards in time. The Time Tombs are guarded by the Shrike, a deadly, omnipotent creature that some see as a god, others as a serial killer and others as an avenging angel.
Phew. Everybody with me so far?

At the beginning of the Ousters' attack on Hyperion, seven pilgrims (a detective, a priest, a soldier, a political official, a scholar, a poet and a Templar tree-worshipper) set out on a journey to see the Shrike and demand something from it. Each one tells their story throughout their trip, with the book ending just as they reach the Valley of the Time Tombs, with an interstellar war of massive proportions looming.

Simmons is not an author to scrimp on scope, that's for sure. For a medium-length book (450+ pages) Hyperion covers the stories of six main characters--some of whom have other people's stories embedded within their own--and establishes a hugely complicated fictional universe with a long backstory. Oh, hey, and throw in a galactic apocalypse while you're at it, as well as Simmons's customary literary metatextual references. Dan Simmons is the only author I know of for whom the inclusion of a cyborg version of John Keats is typical. Simmons is at his best when he's creating wild fusions of science-fiction and Greek poetry, or rewriting Shakespeare characters as genetic mutants or AIs. Given the right story, Simmons can wreak merry havoc with the reader, spinning out his trademark insanity with an exhilarating freshness and originality.

Like many writers, however, Simmons has an Achilles heel: characters. What he does best are plot-driven books where the character arcs are basic and simple (yes, Drood is something of an exception to this rule). Hyperion plays right into his weaknesses as a writer because so much of the book relies on the framing device of the characters' backgrounds. For a device like this to work, the character arcs need to be surprising, well-told and relevant to the larger story. Instead, the individual stories vary widely in quality from moving and suspenseful to just plain boring. While the six protagonists are certainly a quirky bunch at first glance, they turn out to be pretty flat as the book progresses. None of them are wildly different than they seem from their first appearance. Simmons is clearly having fun with Martin Silenus, the ancient, foul-mouthed poet whose abrasive personality puts him in conflict with the other pilgrims. Silenus is kind of entertaining at first, and his grandiose narration makes his story rather amusing, but his shtick wears off quickly, especially when it becomes apparent that he doesn't have any depth. Comic relief characters work the best when they're more than flat joke machines.

Other than Silenus, the main characters are certainly a grim bunch. They all have predictably painful backstories, which are kind of boring, for the most part. Father Hoyt's story isn't really his own--most of it is taken from the diary of his mentor, a disgraced priest who encounters a bizarre tribe of natives in Hyperion's flame forest. It's an intriguing, if overlong, interlude, and will no doubt have importance to the series's endgame, but it does nothing to illuminate Hoyt's character. Kassad's story is superficially interesting, and there are some extremely cool scenes (the simulation of the Battle of Agincourt, the fight with the Ousters aboard the destroyed medical spinship), but again, the emotional through-line is lacking. I suppose I feel bad that the love of his life is an evil, metal-toothed harpy, but his character remains thoroughly one-dimensional.

Brawne Lamia, the hardboiled detective of the group, is another character with an intriguing, unsatisfying storyline. The sci-fi-noir gimmick is clever at first, but Simmons isn't good enough at the voice to keep it from getting old. Brawne herself is kind of an irritating character, and her love affair with the John Keats cybrid doesn't do a whole lot for me, emotionally. Dan Simmons, I'm sorry, but you can't write an effective romance to save your life. I did enjoy some of the nutty concepts and ideas in Brawne's story--the gun battle in the multi-level complex was really something--but I didn't really care. The relationship between Brawne and Johnny was rote, and the mystery was not very mysterious (or fair), since it takes place in a science-fiction universe with rules that readers don't necessarily understand.

The best storyline in the book is probably the tale of Sol Weintraub and his daughter. Rachel Weintraub, a bright, vivacious archaeologist, was touched by the Shrike during an expedition to Hyperion. She contracts a strange disease from the monster: she ages backward, one day at a time, her memory erasing itself and her body regressing.  Sol's desperate quest to save his daughter is probably the only emotional beat in the novel that Simmons absolutely nails. The concept of someone aging backward is not new, but the heartbreaking way that Rachel slowly loses her identity feels fresh, and it's portrayed with surprising sensitivity. It probably says a lot that the most successful backstory is the one with the least to do with the main plot of the novel. Sol probably has the least to do of all the characters in the present, but it's his story that really resonates.

The final backstory is the most unusual. It's the story of the Consul, the mystery man who is basically the novel's de facto protagonist. The first part of his narrative is the story of his grandfather, a man caught in a romance with a woman's who aging much faster than he is (yeah, this plotline basically reads like an amalgam of the other stories in the book). The whole interlude was actually published as a standalone short story prior to the writing of Hyperion, and it shows. It's not exactly a bad story: the concepts are solid and Simmons's imagination is, as always, fascinating to see at work, but once again, the emotional backbone is lacking. It's also too long, considering its level of relevance to the larger arc of the novel and its position at the very end of the book. A dicursion of that length might have been acceptable closer to the beginning; at the end, it's just a momentum-killer.

Then we get the whammy: the Consul tells his own story, and many separate threads from throughout the book are bound up together in one fell swoop. This is the kind of thing at which Simmons excels: an epic rug-pull that completely shakes up the story. I have to say, for all that I sort of dragged my feet through the novel's weaker spots, Simmons does justify the disparity of the book's many plotlines by tying them all up at the conclusion. It's the best kind of ending for a first book: an ending that feels like a beginning. A truly enormous stage has been set for Book Two, with several mysteries resolved, and many more still hanging.

I still can't call Hyperion a true success. There's too much sci-fi gobbledygook (for my taste anyway) and characters that aren't deep enough to be the leads in a series this immense. For a science-fiction epic of this scope to be really excellent, there needs to be at least a couple of characters worth rooting for, or against. Hyperion's characters have not yet proved themselves to be compelling protagonists, nor has the Shrike really done anything extremely terrifying. I enjoyed all the book's spectacle and its wild ideas, but the stakes don't seem very high. Hopefully, the second book will get rid of the tiresome flashback structure, bone up the character development and fulfill the first book's promise of heady space opera.

NEXT UP: Meg Gardiner's Mission Canyon.

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins, 2009

I look at Cinna, raising my eyebrows for an explanation. He just gives his head a slight shake, as perplexed as I am. Why are they delaying this?

Suddenly the door behind him bursts open and three Peacekeepers spring into the room. Two pin Cinna's arms behind him and cuff him while the third hits him in the temple with such force he's knocked to his knees. But they keep hitting him with metal-studded gloves, opening gashes on his face and body. I'm screaming my head off, banging on the unyielding glass, trying to reach him. The Peacekeepers ignore me completely as they drag Cinna's limp body from the room. All that's left are the smears of blood on the floor.

Sickened and terrified, I feel the plate begin to rise. I'm still leaning against the glass when the breeze catches my hair and I force myself to straighten up. Just in time, too, because the glass is retreating and I'm standing free in the arena. Something seems to be wrong with my vision. The ground is too bright and shiny and keeps undulating. I squint down at my feet and see that my metal plate is surrounded by blue waves that lap up over my boots. Slowly I raise my eyes and take in the water spreading out in every direction.

I can only form one clear thought:

This is no place for a girl on fire.---- (pages 262-263)

Against all odds, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, tributes from the impoverished District 12, have won the Hunger Games. As the first joint winners of the games, Katniss and Peeta find themselves in a delicate political situation: the trick that won them the Games has made Katniss into a symbol of defiance against the government. As districts begin to rebel against the all-powerful Capitol, Katniss is forced to walk a tightrope between encouraging the rebels and keeping the Capitol appeased and her friends and family safe.

Things only get worse when the twist is revealed for the next year's Hunger Games: the tributes will be chosen from the former victors, all of whom are now countrywide celebrities. Katniss and Peeta will be forced to return to the arena, to compete against a gang of hardened older killers. And this time, only one of them can survive the Games.

Like The Hunger Games, Catching Fire is a zippy and highly entertaining novel, written with a lot of originality and verve. Even though Fire had some structural problems that Games didn't, I actually enjoyed it more. Since the characters and world have already been established, Collins is free to deepen the plot and character development, while still providing hair-raising adventure and some admirably imaginative devices. I'm not doing handstands over the central love triangle, which occurs more in Katniss's mind than in reality, but it's still done pretty well.

The only real problem with the book is that it has a slow beginning, a repetitive middle and a terrific third act. We know from the beginning that Katniss and Peeta will end up in the arena again, since it's the book's main plot and it's the only direction the story can go in. But instead of revealing this early, Collins draws out the revelation, focusing on happenings inside District 12, where the Capitol is tightening its control. The dystopian elements are not the real draw of the series; Collins does a fine job of making the Capitol a believably evil force of facism, but she doesn't do much that's new with the concept. Having Katniss internally recap the events of the first book for about thirty pages starts things off rather sluggishly, and it doesn't help that the love triangle proves to be more conceptual than actual. Katniss goes over the Peeta/Gale debate in her head over and over, despite the fact that there isn't enough interaction between either couple to warrant all the analysis (that said, the idea that Katniss and Peeta have to pretend to be lovers for the camera is delightfully wicked).

Once the twist in the Games is revealed, we have to go through all of the Games-related routines that were established in the previous book--like all reality shows, the Hunger Games has a set formula that is repeated each year. This is fine and is probably necessary for the story, but it sometimes feel like a warmed-over rehash of what happened in Games. It feels as though the story doesn't really begin until the Games do, some 260 pages in.

Like its predecessor, the last act is far and away the best part of Fire. The concept of the deadly competition is Collins's masterstroke and she does a great job of coming up with inventive (and sometimes grisly) traps and obstacles. This time around, the other tributes are also much better developed than Katniss's opponents in Games, something that leads to a much more dynamic conflict, since Katniss actually knows some of the people she's fighting. The whole section reads like one long action movie--which it soon will be, since the adaptation of the first book is coming out next year. Collins has provided quite a gift for the filmmakers with Fire; her talent for cinematic description is one of her most useful writing tools.

I still have problems with young-adult-iness of her writing. Having bare-bones descriptions is not bad in and of itself, but when writing about a sci-fi world, it seems odd not to describe it more effectively. For instance, the whole Captiol is described in only a few lines, as is the arena. Collins's spare style may be perfect for action, but it hurts her a bit when it comes to world-building. On the other hand, we get pages of Katniss's emotional descriptions, which tend to be pretty generic star-crossed lover material. A lot of teen literature has this kind of internal narration, as though younger readers can't interpret a character's motives based on her actions and dialogue. Collins does tend to over-explain and reiterate certain concepts over and over; she feels the need to remind everyone that Haymitch is an alcoholic every few pages by having him throw up or pass out. The present-tense narration also turns into a distraction after a while. A more conventional past-tense might have served the story better.

There's definitely stronger character work in Fire than in Games. Katniss is still a pretty engaging protagonist, even if she goes back and forth between being a total badass and an emotional wreck. Gale gets a little more depth, as we see the depth of his hatred for the Capitol and his desire to escape his miserable life in District 12. Peeta remains the most likable character, and Collins gives him some much-needed dimension here. A couple of the new characters show promise as well. President Snow is an appropriately unnerving baddie and dangerous heartthrob Finnick Odair is an interesting and somewhat multi-layered addition to the cast. Even though Collins is not particularly good at writing compelling supporting characters, her heroes are strong enough to keep the plot moving along and just complex enough to keep the book from feeling cartoonish.

I spent most of Catching Fire enjoying myself without getting too involved or being much shocked by the plot twists, so when Collins suddenly hit the gas and gave us one hell of a cliffhanger ending, I was surprised by how skillfully she had woven it. It's an ending that basically upends everything that has been constant about her universe and sets up an all-bets-are-off final chapter, 2010's Mockingjay. I still wish that Collins had written the trilogy with an adult audience in mind, allowing her to have a more complex plot and richer prose, but Catching Fire is still a pretty satisfying and creative sci-fi thriller, and I'm genuinely excited to see how it all turns out in Mockingjay.

NEXT UP: Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, 2008

The Hunger Games gleefully and literately mixes together several genres (sci-fi, dystopia, action, romance) and then wraps it up in fairly standard YA prose. Like Twilight, it's struck an immediate chord with teenagers, and there's a big-budget Hollywood movie already in production.

Like a big-budget Hollywood movie, Games is sleek, swift and suspenseful, but somewhat lacking in finesse and subtlety. The basic premise (a deadly reality show) is actually the best part of the novel, a timely, cuttingly funny allegory. The teen romance segments are somewhat less inspired, although even that is perfectly fine, as far as those kinds of things go.

Games begins in a post-apocalyptic America--now called Panem--which is comprised of twelve Districts and a Capitol. Once a year, two teenagers are selected from each District to participate in the Hunger Games, a lethal reality show in which the contestants kill each other on live television.

Katniss Everdeen, a born survivor from the poorest District, isn't selected to join the Games: she volunteers in order to save her younger sister from certain death. She finds herself an early favorite, but she'll have to use all her skills to survive against her bloodthirsty fellow contestants.

There's a really fantastic sci-fi thriller in here. The fact that it's a young-adult novel means that (despite a fairly graphic amount of violence) the concept is never allowed to really take off. It could have been dark, edgy, grim, maybe a little twisted. Instead, it's glossy and fun, but not much else.

Collins' writing style is fairly generic, get-the-job-done YA, heavy on emotional description, light on description of pretty much anything else. The budding romance between Katniss and fellow "tribute" Peeta (yeah, I know, unfortunate name) is given more attention than anything else. The main--and admittedly somewhat ingenious-- twist is that Katniss and Peeta have to keep up their relationship to stay alive, since their pairing is incredibly popular with the audience. It's a shame that Peeta is so much less interesting than Katniss, who is herself a fairly generic protagonist.

The novel's best sections are definitely the action scenes and the amusing skewering of reality television (tributes are sent important gifts like weapons or food by "sponsors"). If Collins was a subtler author (or if the book was written for adults), the satire could have been sharper and more complex. But because the book is far more preoccupied with dewy-eyed teen romance, it's a throwaway element.

The action is fun, though, and marvelously inventive. Collins throws a lot of amusing challenges at her characters--psychedelic wasps, fireballs, booby traps, mutated monsters and even weather manipulation. The book's latter half is almost nonstop suspense, like an entertaining action movie that thrills the senses and allows the brain to sit back:

The game has taken a twist. The fire was just to get us moving, now the audience will get to see some real fun. When I hear the next hiss, I flatten on the ground., not taking time to look. The fireball hits a tree off to my left, engulfing it in flames. To remain still is death. I'm barely on my feet before the third ball hits the ground where I was lying, sending a pillar of fire up behind me. Time loses meaning now as I frantically try to dodge the attacks. I can't see where they're being launched from, but it's not a hovercraft. The angles are not extreme enough. Probably this whole segment of the woods has been armed with precision launchers that are concealed in trees or rocks. Somewhere, in a cool and spotless room, a Gamemaker sits at a set of controls, fingers on the triggers that could end my life in a second. All that's needed is a direct hit.

Whatever vague plan I had conceived regarding returning to the pond is wiped from my mind as I zigzag and dive and leap to avoid the fireballs. Each one is only the size of an apple, but packs tremendous power on contact. Every sense I have goes into overdrive as the need to survive takes over. There's no time to judge if a move is the correct one. When there's a hiss, I act or die. --- (page 175)

Despite the entertaining plot and cool gimmicks, the flaws are serious enough to be distracting. The only characters with any real development are Katniss, Peeta and Haymitch (a crusty, alcoholic mentor for the District 12 tributes), and they're all strictly two-dimensional. The other characters are flimsy stereotypes and the tributes are barely sketched at all. The arena scenes would have been more dynamic if we had actually known who these people were.

Dialogue is also a big problem. The characters' lines are always just a little awkward--they either say exactly what's on their minds, or they clumsily hide it. I don't know why, but dialogue in young-adult novels is often very dumbed down, as though kids aren't smart enough to pick up any subtleties on their own.

Games is an entertaining diversion and it's just original enough to warrant some attention. It's just too bad that Collins couldn't have gone further with her concept, although maybe that's what she does in the two highly popular sequels that have been released. I definitely liked the book enough to read the second one, which will hopefully feature better character development and an improved style. And maybe Peeta can change his name.

NEXT UP: Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hill.

Artemis Fowl: The Atlantis Complex by Eoin Colfer

Artemis Fowl: The Atlantis Complex by Eoin Colfer, 2010

Yes, I know the Artemis Fowl series isn't exactly heady, mind-bending science fiction. And yes, I know it's technically a series for kids. But I've found the Artemis books highly entertaining over the years. They're an appealing mixture of smart-ass humor, nonstop action and fun characters. Eoin Colfer will never be on the level of, say, J.K. Rowling or Jonathan Stroud, but he's created an entertaining series.

It's also a series that's been off its game for a few volumes now. 2008's The Time Paradox was sub par at best, while 2006's The Lost Colony was only so-so. Part of the problem is that the plots and devices are getting increasingly stale and part of it is that Colfer has not really allowed the characters to grow much outside of their respective roles in the story.

So, for me, The Atlantis Complex really needed to revive the series and prove that it still has some juice left. I can say that it was definitely an improvement on Paradox, as well as being a fast, fun read. What it didn't do was solve any of the series' long-lasting problems.

As one would guess, the series revolves around Artemis Fowl, a brilliant teenaged ex-criminal mastermind who, at the tender age of twelve, discovered the existence of a high-tech race of fairies, who keep themselves hidden from humans. Although initially enemies, Artemis eventually joins forces with the fairies in order to combat various evildoers and fiendish plots.

In Complex, Artemis arranges a meeting with the fairies in order to discuss a new technology he's created. Unfortunately, the meeting is cut short when a space probe plummets to earth, putting the fairy city of Atlantis at risk, which is only the beginning of an old adversary's attack on the fairy world. To top it off, Artemis is suffering from a magical disease that causes obsessiveness, paranoia and and the emergence of a second personality.

In short, all the trappings are there for the average Artemis adventure. All of the main characters are back (feisty Captain Holly Short, unstoppable bodyguard Butler, wisecracking techie centaur Foaly and flatulent burglar dwarf Mulch Diggums) and all of the old tropes firmly in place.

This works both to the novel's advantage and to its detriment. The familiarity of the plotting, characterization and semi-lame banter is comfortingly entertaining, but it also makes for a fairly predictable, straightforward read. The main story doesn't really twist or turn, and the villain is unmemorable.

Ironically, the "fresher" parts of the book are also some of the weak parts. Artemis's split personality is mildly amusing at first, but gets old quickly, especially because we're deprived from seeing Artemis in action for most of the novel.

Despite the fact that he isn't a terrific stylist (there's a few noticeably awkward sentences in Paradox), Colfer has a good sense of humor and his wit and sarcasm have always been a highlight of the series:

"I do not intend to ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage, Mr. Adamsson, so I think we can skip over any icebreakers you may feel obliged to offer. Is everything ready?"

Adam Adamsson's pre-prepared icebreakers melted in his throat, and he nodded half a dozen times.

"All ready. Your crate is around the back. I have supplied a vegetarian buffet and goody bags from the Blue Lagoon Spa. A few seats have been laid out too, as bluntly requested in your terse e-mail. None of your party turned up, though--nobody but you-- after all my labors."

Artemis lifted an aluminum briefcase from the Ski-Doo's luggage box. "Don't you worry about that, Mr. Adamsson. Why don't you head back to Reykjavik and spend some of that extortionate fee you charged me for a couple of hours' usage of your frankly third-rate restaurant and perhaps find a friendless tree stump to listen to your woes?"--- (pages 9-10)

Overall, Complex was a good time, an entertaining, breezy (literally) novel that still never manages to escape the good-not-great box that the Fowl series currently resides in. The character interaction and the plotting feels a little tired and staid, signs of age for the seven-book cycle. Colfer claims that the next entry is the series' last-- which he's said about every book since the third. If it truly is, I hope he manages to craft a fitting end. Artemis, Holly, Butler, Mulch and Foaly deserve it.

And, yeah, I know it's a kids' book. Sue me.

NEXT UP: George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones. 'Cos the Wheel of Time series just isn't enough for me.