Deus X Makina

2 STARS

How did I ever love this book in high school? I remember a friend of mine and I pouring over every aspect of this book and how cool it was. Well, the first third is certainly frightening and stark, and clearly in Stephen King's wheelhouse. The second third is the sociological analysis of a civilization's creation, and the most fun to read. The character of Glenn Bateman opines about the state of humanity, and is an interesting voice. The development of Harold Lauder is suspenseful and progressive. I really enjoyed it.

The last third of the book, however, it all begins to come undone: especially the post-climax events. Mr. King claims in the author's note to know that most critics claimed he had "diarrhea of the mouth", but it is so obvious that this is the case after reading the epilogue that I bear a heavy grudge against him. It's tough to enjoy this book when he recognizes what the problem is but refuses to fix it, and even adds 400 pages of irrelevant drivel. Half a chapter devoted to the inner voice of Kojak? Seriously? I have no problem with background, and the journey of the Trashcan Man adds a lot to the character. The voyage home within the last 250 pages does not. Everyone knows what will happen, but Mr. King seems to want to punish every reader who stuck with it. The only nice thing about the trudging, painful fiasco is that he refrains from adding interludes with Frannie Goldsmith, and when she reappears in the last two chapters, you realize how much you absolutely hated her sobbing, and wish you were still on the road.

Still, we can draw a few specific critiques on top of this. The first is the continual use of the possessive when referring to relationships, e.g. Frannie was Stu's woman. I'm not a feminist, but Mr. King only mentions marraige once, and even then only overtly. Is this a reversion to a pre-revolution way of thought? It certainly smacks as such. It's a little distracting.

The other clearly visible theme with which I had a problem was Mr. King's clear prejudice against, and I hate to use the term, "city folk". Only two characters emerge for the good guys from cities: Larry Underwood, the self-loathing cocaine-filled italian, who is constantly trying to drive the "city" out of himself, and Rita Blakermoor, who forgets to obtain hiking shoes, among other shortcomings. Every other Zoner seems to come from a small town of less than a few thousand people: I am surprised Glenn Bateman didn't remark upon the statiscal possibility of two people with immunity living in close proximity to each other (Harold and Frannie). Other city dwellers try to barter for Larry's woman, get drunk all the time, and, in general, head for Las Vegas.

The pinnacle of Mr. King's disdain for city life comes at the end when people start leaving the Freezone. Uh, guys? There's 5 billion dead bodies out there. It took you six weeks and a gunfight with slavers to get to Boulder. Perhaps you shouldn't venture out for a little bit? One character seems to think that a few books on midwifery can guide her through childbirth, rather than sticking close to the two doctors left alive. "It wouldn't be such a bad thing, if the Freezone fell apart." Wow, Stephen: way to flush everything they fought and died for down the toilet. Good luck getting back to western Maine in a Winnebago on the back roads: I'm sure the 100,000 cars littering the roads won't be a problem. You've got a winch!

4 STARS

There is no doubt: Stephen King is one of the premier American fiction writers of our generation. And as soon as you open Duma Key, his skill becomes readily apparent. The trials of Edgar Freemantle, especially in the first third of the book, paint a picture (a painting reference... how disgustingly appropot) of a main character that will grab you and keep you going throughout the novel.

For a book this long, however, you must be prepared for a few strange shortcuts that King takes about the limits of Edgar's powers. The portrait of Ilse's boyfriend is quite shocking, but I found it readily believable as the book entered into the supernatural. It seemed odd to me, however, when King introduced the active powers of the paintings with the portrait of Candy Jones. As my title dictates, you have to want to believe, otherwise you'll find yourself disconnected from Freemantle and, more importantly, from Wireman. With just a little more preparation from King, I think the reader would be far more ready for this departure from reality.

The art show is clearly the best part of the book. Wireman's intervention, along with the fascinating development of the "dissertation" (did King call it something different? I can't remember), make the scene startlingly normal yet totally astounding. It's very easy to empathize.

I thought King choosing to make Freemantle wealthy was strange, as more of a plot device than anything to do with character development. Edgar never seemed to notice or care about the money, more just needing the Gulfstream every now and then.

The literary device that King constantly relies on throughout is moving out of his past tense voice to a knowing observation from the post-event narrator. It's a little dizzying to listen to a disembodied voice that knows how things turn out but seems unwilling to give the reader any relevant information, like King wanted to give the book replay value so you'd be tempted to read it again to see how the commentary relates to the climax.

My criticisms are light and secondary: Freemantle's grief over the deaths that occur late in the book seemed softer than I would have expected from a character with severe temper problems. More notably, Jack's accompanying Freemantle and Wireman to Heron's Roost seemed very strange as King didn't characterize Jack as someone who had any investment in the events.

The climax is a true descent into madness, but if you're prepared, you'll be wonderfully rewarded with a great, character-driven, vastly surreal and terrifying trip into the unknown.

3 STARS

David Eddings is one of the best young adult fantasy authors around today, and it really shows in his epic, the Belgariad. There is a simplicity in his descriptions that allows for clever imagery, without betraying any long-winded detail (what Tolkein would refer to as "depth"). This makes it appealing to anyone with a few hours to kill, and as long as you're not reading too hard, this fantasy is accessible: "the people's epic".

The story is roughly sensible, the characters reasonably distinct and conflicted, and the subplots numerous and sometimes ethically interesting. The biggest problem, which is not necessarily a problem, is that, armed with the knowledge of the Prophecy, the reader is equipped with everything he or she needs to predict almost precisely what will happen at any time in the story. Eddings is either unwilling or unable to violate any element of story construction, making events startingly normal, even though enormous upheaval is occurring in the plot ("Oh, well, of course he's immortal. No duh.").

The first of my major complaints is that the message for our young readers is starkly unimaginative, without meaning to be: it's okay to judge people on their race or perceive huge cultural stereotypes, because each and every one of them are true. All Sendars are sensible, all Drasnians are sly, all Murgos are evil, and all Arends are stupid. No exceptions.

The second is that Belgarath and Polgara, while cool to the 14-year-old boy because they are infinitely powerful, become increasingly irritating to the older reader because they are walking deus ex machina elements who are constantly rewriting and reworking the environment to make things exactly as they like. Belgarath does so with an ale in one hand and a wry grin, which, for a while, is somewhat endearing, but grows tiresome. "A nymph will do almost anything for a candy"? Disgusting. You're seven thousand years old! Polgara is decidedly worse. Blithe, cheap, manipulating, smug, and malignantly irritating, she constantly reminds you of the Machiavellan mother you never had (and never wanted). The fact that she is all-powerful and consistently gets her way because she has a nasty demeanor nearly ruined the entire story for me. The idea of me ever reading a book entirely devoted to her (Polgara, the Sorceress) makes me want to vomit. Durnik, you can do so much better.

Overall, give this book to your pre-teen cousin who thinks anything without giant robots or Pokemon is boring, and maybe read it yourself after he's done. But don't expect a story you can't mindlessly see coming a mile away (sole exception: fate of Olban).

Whatever you do, do not expect anything different in the Mallorean. It is the same story with much less substance and the same tired lines from the same predictable characters. Skip it. Magic Kingdom For Sale is worth 250 pages, though. Pick that up, instead.

Imagine, for a moment, something that causes you enjoyment. I'll use the mostly-universal example of success. Though many of us define success in entirely different ways in relation to our own lives, the following would certainly qualify as one definition for most people.

Imagine a beggar, penniless and alone. He is homeless, scavenges through others' garbage to survive, shunned by all but the most charitable in civilized society, and vocally resents anyone who would seek to help him. He is savage, unclean, and takes pleasure in nothing but the short-lived fog of alcohol. Let us call that "unsuccessful".

Conversely, imagine the CEO of a billion-dollar company. Respected and admired by both his employees and the industry, he is faced with tough challenges but makes wise, principled decisions that cause his company to be very profitable and his employees to be secure in their careers, in addition to the superior products and services he offers to his customers. He is immensely wealthy, though he saves most of his earnings, donates significantly more than is required of him, and still has enough to provide for his family, but strives not to spoil his educated, kind children. Let us call that "successful".

Now imagine that the beggar is insane, and even though he sleeps in cardboard box and shuffles between dumpsters, soup kitchens, and liquor stores, he believes he sleeps in an ornate mansion, and goes to his corner office on the top floor of his headquarters every day. In effect, he is pretending to be successful, and finds intense enjoyment in the reverie of the illusion.

Now ask yourself if you could do that: continue on the current path of your life, mindlessly following the directions of your supervisor but constantly daydreaming you were someplace else, far more successful than you actually were. Would you find enjoyment in that success? I believe that almost everyone would answer, "No," because the dream is not real. The knowledge that you would forsake your own life to live a false one simply for your own pleasure is intolerable to most people. That is, most people would rather take the chance at mild success in real life than be completely successful in a fictional life.

The crux of the difference, however, between all of us and the insane beggar is that the beggar's delusion is so vivid, so immersive, that he no longer bears the restraint of the tether to the real world. He has totally disconnected, perhaps even totally forgotten, the fact that he is unsuccessful. What does that tell us? Only that our enjoyment is not based on reality: but on our perception of reality. And that the most deadly weapon any of us can use against another is modification of their perception so that they view their current accomplishments as worthless and hollow.

Ultimately, the question is whether you will adjust your perception positively, so that you can take enjoyment in the fruits of your current labors, or negatively, so that you will not (and, hopefully, work harder to find those successes). How does your perception of yourself maintain the balance between realizing the progress you have made and realizing the progress that you can make?

3 STARS

I have to admit that I had taken several grains of salt before beginning this book (perhaps one too many) and without these I would not be as happy as I am to have read it. Truthfully, I never expected to make it past the third chapter, but I wanted to see what the fuss was about.

To begin, if you are the book's target audience, i.e. teenage girls looking for a book to read instead of doing your Chemistry homework, this book will consume you. The story construction is good, and you will identify with the characters immediately and thoroughly.

Let's say, however, that you're not a teenager nor a girl. Then this book becomes tougher to love. If you want to, however, this is how you do it.

First, be ready for about 10-15% of the book to be sappy drivel dealing with Edward's good looks. It will make you want to strangle Bella. You will want to write Stephanie Meyer and advise her that if she finds herself in future works comparing Edward to an angel, calling him any variation of the word "perfect", or using a metaphor involving Bella's heart (which she does, extensively), to immediately throw that page out. You must be ready for this junk, because it's all over. WE GET IT. HE'S A LOOKER. OKAY. LET'S MOVE ON.

Second, don't hope for an action novel. There are a couple scenes of suspense and thrills, but not much. I think Meyer admits to herself that she can't write action well, and decided to leave that part out, instead of drawing attention to her own weakness. So don't be hoping for a big vampire fight scene at the end, because you're not going to get it.

Third, focus on what this book is good at: the psyche of the high school girl. I wish I had read this book in or before high school, because it would have saved me a lot of heartache. Meyer does a great job reliving the dynamics of the relationships of teenagers, and this is where the book really shines. I was really hoping for more interaction with the Cullen family, and Meyer tantalizes you with it, but doesn't do more than scratch a few surfaces. I assume this is expounded in the rest of the series.

What I, and I assume you, are mostly interested in is how Bella and Edward handle the immortality of their love. Meyer skillfully dances around it until near the end, and all of a sudden, they are asking the question that has been on your mind for ages: will Edward, or any other vampire, infect Bella so they can be together forever? Unfortunately, this is where Meyer blows it, and loses two stars for such an incomplete, incompetent analysis of her characters.

Edward smartly brings up the issue of Bella's family, and how she's willing to abandon them for vampirehood. Bella responds that her mom is flaky and her dad is resilient. Wow, you kind of flushed her relationship with both of them down the toilet in one paragraph, huh? I was honestly feeling for Bella when she was forced to tell off Charlie earlier in the novel, but after her revelation that he's used to being alone and wouldn't miss her, I was hoping Bella would get hit by a van just to knock some sense into her. I would have thought Edward, being almost one hundred years old, would realize that 16-year-old girls might not be entirely familiar with the ramifications of immortality, but he seems entirely flimsy about his resistance. In short, all I can assume is that Meyer doesn't want to alienate her wheelhouse audience, and assigns Bella a simplicity that ruins the character for me.

All in all, Anne Rice and others offer better vampire relationship drama. I might try to read the second book of this series, but again, I'm keeping my expectations rock bottom.