Book Review - The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett

I first read this book for a class in high school, and remember being completely enamored of it. Rereading after an intervening fifteen years of reading experience has given depth to that appreciation. Immediately after finishing, I left the book nonplussed and somewhat unimpressed. After thinking about the story for a day or two, though, I’m in love all over again.

The Maltese Falcon is an essential detective novel and, along with Raymond Chandler’s works, a hallowed progenitor of the hardboiled genre. For those that haven’t already seen Humphrey Bogart’s turn as Sam Spade, I don’t want to ruin any part of the tangled, complex mystery, because all of the fun in this story is in trying to make your way through its moving parts. Let’s just say it starts how you would expect: sullen, sarcastic private eye Sam Spade sits in his office, flirting with his secretary and shooting the breeze with his somewhat oafish partner, when the dame walked in. It started as a simple case, tailing a shady character in order to track down his beautiful client’s sister, but things get complicated quick, and people end up dead. Soon, a host of shady characters are calling on Spade, offering him vast sums of money in exchange for a mysterious black statue that one of them likely already has. Meanwhile, Spade’s acquaintances in law enforcement are increasingly suspecting him of foul play, and his client seems to shift her allegiances whenever the wind changes. Using only his wits and his cool, Spade has to get to the bottom of things without getting wrapped up in them himself... hopefully ending up with a pocket full of cash, to boot.

I finally realized why I had to think about this one for a bit before reaffirming that I love it: Hammett leaves a huge amount of subtext up to the reader to decode. The story is classic noir, and reads just like watching a noir film. In fact, there are no internal monologues, omniscient narrations, or transcriptions of character thoughts. Everything is in the dialogue, and it’s up to the reader to determine what the characters are thinking, which is easy sometimes, but intriguingly impossible much more often. And man, what dialogue it is. Hammett’s writing is whip-smart, and the snappy patter never lets up. Sam Spade, in particular, is a bottomless pit of cool. He’s got a line for everything and everyone, and he never sounds trite or overdone, despite being the literal template for every booze-soaked, cigarette-rolling, skirt-chasing private dick since. He is the best kind of detective to read: the guy that always gets his man, but is quick to acknowledge that he’s always out for number one and never quite clear on just how corrupt he may or may not be.

The other characters in the story are considerably more stereotypical; they fit their assigned roles and play their assigned parts. Again, though, the beauty of Hammett’s writing makes them stand out, in that nobody’s motivations are ever revealed, and the reader only gets a glimpse of what’s really going on. This carries through to the plot, in that while Spade eventually solves one mystery, there are plenty of questions that go unanswered. This isn’t a tidy drawing-room mystery. This is a crime story mixed with an intrigue tale, and it's delightfully messy.

The 1941 film is probably the version of this story that most are familiar with, and rightly so, considering that it’s one of the best films ever made. But Hammett’s original story is a must-read, especially if you like detective fiction or film noir but haven’t yet seen Bogie do Spade. There’s a certain kitsch factor at work, considering that the book will fulfill every last expectation you might have of a book about a hardboiled private eye and the femme fatale that showed up at his doorstep one evening. But having those expectations fulfilled is the best part about this classic.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - The Wise Man's Fear, by Patrick Rothfuss

I don’t understand how you do it, Patrick Rothfuss. I can’t stop reading your ridiculous fucking books.

The Kingkiller Chronicle books are getting a fair amount of buzz, and well they should. They are epic fantasy in the classic vein: young boy with roughshod background turns out to be The Hero, and goes on a Hero’s Journey in preparation for a much-foreshadowed confrontation with evil forces. It’s time-tested comfort food for fantasy readers. Moreover, Rothfuss is a fantastic author. As I mentioned in my review for The Name of the Wind, he can turn a phrase like few others can. He writes characters and scenes so well that I didn’t particularly care that Kvothe is an obnoxious, smug little Mary Sue with unearthly good luck, or that The Wise Man’s Fear doesn’t have any recognizable climactic action or, for that matter, any story structure at all. I was too busy turning pages to find out what happened next. Well, that’s not entirely true; I did care. A lot. But I was ravenously turning pages anyway. Seriously, I have no idea what to think about this one.

Again, this book doesn’t really have a cohesive story to summarize, being largely an extension of the first book: Kvothe the innkeeper sitting with the Chronicler and relating the continuing adventures of Young Kvothe. The best way to synopsize this book is to consider it a road novel. After a meandering introduction of Kvothe continuing to be the best at everything while at the University in Imre, his quest to find out more about the Chandrian and avenge his family’s murders leads him away from his new home and out across the known boundaries of the world. Now, in theory, this is the perfect next step for developing Kvothe’s character and moving the story along. It works in practice, for the most part. Most of Kvothe’s adventures are compelling, even if they usually result in him growing more as a legendary badass than as a fully developed character. But each fun, well-written part is balanced out by something completely ludicrous. I honestly felt disoriented after finishing this one, trying to decide if I loved it or loathed it. Spoilers ahoy, so skip to the end if you don't want to know some of the major plot points.

When Kvothe first leaves the University, he ends up in the court of a foreign ruler (known colloquially as the Maer), tasked with navigating the intrigues of the local nobility and getting into the Maer’s good graces. He does this by foiling a long-game assassination attempt due to his exceptional powers of observation, and by playing Cyrano de Bergerac to woo the ruler’s lady love for him, which is naturally a cakewalk due to him being the Best Musician Ever. This would all be just fine (especially considering the hints throughout the book concerning just who the Maer’s lover is), if one could forget for the barest moment that Kvothe is sixteen years old. One star.

Kvothe then ends up on an expedition in the wild as the leader of a mercenary band. Since, you know, if I were a powerful noble, I would definitely put a sixteen-year-old in charge of a mercenary band. This part, however, is the strongest section of the book. Kvothe’s struggle to maintain his position amidst battle-hardened sellswords is actually interesting and believable, and the conclusion of their mission (which is the closest thing to a climax that this book has, even though it’s a little past the halfway mark) is tense and has interesting implications for the larger story. Five stars!

Then, there’s Felurian. The Felurian part. I just... I don’t even... I mean...

Okay, the Felurian part. So, this is foreshadowed since the blurb on the first book: "I spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life." Apparently, Felurian is a faerie spirit that is essentially an avatar of sexual desire. Capricious and seductive, she lures men into her domain for no reason other than her own desire and relatively innocent curiosity, but the awesome sexiness of her otherworldly sexitude is too much for a mortal man. Those who don’t suffer a massive coronary from the vigor of her faerie sex are left broken husks, spending the rest of their short lives pining for her after her curiosity and lust are sated. Kvothe, the sixteen-year-old virgin, stumbles into Felurian, and of course, she can't help but sex him up. But Kvothe the sixteen-year-old virgin has sexy sexitude powers of his own! He is so naturally gifted at the sexing that Felurian, the faerie spirit of lust, can’t get enough of his sexy sex. There’s still the problem of escaping her domain, but Kvothe manages that by once again being the Best Musician Ever. But Felurian decides that she won’t let her boy-pet back into the mortal world if he’s not the Best Sex Machine Ever, in addition to everything else, so she spends forty pages teaching him the secret faerie arts of sex wizardry. Seriously. Literally thousands of techniques are apparently imparted, with mysteriously sexy names like “Ivy Climbs the Love Tower” and “Rhino Fondles the Pomegranate,” or whatever. I mean... really? Zero stars, plus an additional penalty for squandering what could have been a fantastic goddamned story opportunity.

Here’s the thing: I could see how this would actually be a cool moment in the book. For all of Kvothe’s skill at everything he touches, Rothfuss has taken pains to depict him as woefully inept when it comes to romance. This could have been made a central point as to why his encounter with Felurian went as it did, especially considering that he manages, just for a brief moment, to master the art of Naming while in her domain. Something could have been made about the state of mind that sexual bliss encourages, especially to those that don’t already have preconceived notions about what it is, and this huge chunk of aimless titillation could have had a point. Instead, Kvothe lounges around naked and marvels at how he can’t remember how many times he’s grabbed Felurian’s breasts, or how much honeyed bread he’s eaten. Deep, man.

Anyway, that steaming ladleful of stupid is balanced out by one of the most intriguing scenes in either of the Kingkiller books: Kvothe’s encounter with a malicious faerie deity that calls into question everything he’s ever done from that point on, and implies that he may be doomed no matter what he does. My imagination is still reeling after reading it. After he escapes from Felurian, he ends up in the homeland of the stoic Adem mercenaries, and spends some time learning their ways. It’s a solid bit of world-building that honestly could have used its own novel-length exploration, but it really is a joy to read. Eight stars, and a demand for a side-project book about the Adem!

And then you once again remember that Kvothe is sixteen frigging years old, and accomplished more in a couple of months than any of the Adem did in years. That knowledge is stuck firm in your mind as you read about his encounter with a group of bandits that had kidnapped some farm girls and subjected them to days of rape and humiliation. By this point, it’s a forgone conclusion that Kvothe will save the day, but the revelation of him being the Best Consoler of Rape Victims Ever is just a bit too much to take. One of the girls had retreated inward after her brutal ordeal, and Kvothe manages to bring her around again just by being awesome. Okay, that’s easy enough to accept, I guess. But near the end of this vignette, the apex of this girl’s anger, shame, and helplessness is expressed thusly: “I hate men!” To which Kvothe deftly responds, “I’m a man too. We’re not all like that.” I’m not sure whether to be aghast at the author’s indelicate, crass handling of such a poignant and potentially provocative scenario, or appalled at how Kvothe is apparently still considered the most smooth-talking ladies' man ever to rescue a damsel after such a clumsy, boorish response. Either way, I have no earthly idea what this whole section is even doing in the book in the first place, as it doesn’t add a single bloody thing to the story. Negative fifty stars, and I want Patrick Rothfuss’s lunch money.

Sigh. I just don’t know. The thing is, there is justification for these problems right there in the text, because once again, Rothfuss is fundamentally a good writer. We have a classic case of an unreliable narrator, expounding on a theme of history and mythology being largely indistinguishable. We have a story framework that revolves around a broken, defeated man, who may have been marked for tragedy from the outset and who is obviously consumed by regret at the folly of his youthful arrogance, as the ritually repeated prologues and epilogues make clear (by the way, after the fourth time you read one of those florid passages, they start to become irritating). Both point to glimpses of a larger theme, and a purpose to everything that doesn’t currently make sense. Both also make me feel as if I’m being an apologist for a thousand pages of masturbatory author wish-fulfillment.

I can’t get around the fact that I really liked reading this book, and though I was frequently outraged, I was never bored. I would definitely recommend this to fantasy readers, and it decidedly belongs in the “must-read” pantheon for the genre. As for myself, though, I can’t decide between giving it a completely non-scientific five stars for being fun, smart, and readable despite its flaws, or an angry one star for the brazen, sustained assaults on my suspension of disbelief. You’re all duly warned, I guess, so I’ll split the difference with three stars.

This must be how Twilight fans with any remaining sense of shame feel.

Verdict: 3 / 5, I guess.

Graphic Novel Review - Astonishing X-Men Vol. 2: Dangerous, by Joss Whedon and John Cassaday

More hilarious snark! More fantastic artwork! The second volume of Whedon and Cassaday’s run on Astonishing X-Men is as good as the first in terms of story, characterization, and artwork, though it is perhaps not quite as accessible to new X-Men readers as the first volume. Thankfully, I’ve got enough background knowledge on the X-universe that it didn’t slow me down at all.

This volume breaks away from the story arc established in the first. Ord, the Breakworld, S.W.O.R.D., and the ominous prophecy of interdimensional warfare are all present, but referenced only briefly. Instead, this volume heads back to the mansion. With Colossus back from the dead and back on the team, the X-Men continue to try and find their place as protectors and heroes. However, an unexpected death caused by the events in the first volume force the team to circle the wagons, as an unknown force attacks their weakest point: the students at Xavier’s school. It is no coincidence that the assault takes place in the Danger Room, a holographic combat simulator in the heart of the mansion; as the X-Men learn more about the Danger Room’s true programming, the real target of the attack slowly becomes clear. Meanwhile, an old enemy bides their time in the background, and the motives of Emma Frost become murkier.

All of the best bits of the first volume are still in evidence here, but the new direction that this story arc takes can be a little jarring. Since I am reading this as a graphic novel, I am trying to approach reviewing it from a standalone perspective, and weigh its merits based on how it reads without an encyclopedic knowledge of X-Men lore (because, let’s face it, if you are already a fan of the title like I am, it’s all gravy). From that perspective, there are few oddities in this second arc. Much was made about Professor Xavier’s absence, and Scott Summers’ struggle under the burden of leadership without him. Okay, well, turns out he’s in Genosha (and let’s take a moment to say WOOOO BACK TO GENOSHA), and once everyone finds him, there doesn’t seem to be much of a revelatory moment.

“Oh, hey professor. Good to see you. We're not really curious at all about why you're her, so allow us to pour some of our angst on you.”

So, it wasn’t a big deal he was gone, after all? Nobody wonders what he was doing in Genosha, or why was he gone at all, exactly? What huh?

There are a few other things here that might confound newbie readers. I was excited to see some obvious references to the Shi’ar, but that’s some pretty inside stuff. Same with the big cliffhanger reveal at the end of the volume, though that will definitely become clearer in due time. And as cool as this story arc is, I’m not entirely sure how it connects to the first volume, other than the oblique references I mentioned before.

Thankfully, there’s enough surplus awesome in these pages to encourage forgiveness. An early cameo from another superhero team was a pleasant surprise. Beast and Shadowcat are more hardcore here than I’ve seen in a long while. The twist and cliffhanger at the end raises the bar for the larger story considerably, even if you don’t know who or what it refers to. And I once again have to hand it to Whedon’s writing: Logan’s three-word internal monologue in the introspective first chapter of the volume was hilariously perfect.

This is still a solid comic run, even if I didn’t quite geek out as much for this volume as I did for the first one. It’s a perfect introduction to the X-Men comics, and a smart and satisfying read for established fans. I almost feel ready to immerse myself in the more esoteric X-stuff again.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Dark Parties, by Sara Grant

Dystopias are where it’s at in YA, these days. I personally think the upswing started well before Hunger Games, but that series definitely made it clear that the kids are into perfect societies that are built on the suffering of their people, especially the young and attractive ones. Being an avowed fan of the genre for many years myself (I still insist that Orwell, Bradbury, and Huxley are required reading for just about everybody), I find myself surprisingly wary of this trend. The more dystopia tales that crowd the shelves, the less power they have, especially when it comes to doing their job by pointing out the parallels to events in real life. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t quite summon the excitement that this book probably warrants; it’s a solid YA sci-fi drama, but it didn’t really offer me anything I hadn’t seen before, and didn’t seem all that subtle or clever compared to its forebearers.

The book’s protagonist, Neva, lives in a country simply called Homeland that exists under a giant electrified dome known as the Protectosphere, which isolates them from the supposed aftermath of a widespread cataclysm. Hers is a country of stagnation; everybody looks the same due to generations of inbreeding. Homeland’s goods and technologies are slowly decaying, and even their population is on the decline, with young adults being desperately urged to pair off and procreate. Most disturbing are the disappearances, with more and more people (including Neva’s grandmother) simply vanishing and everyone else acting as if they never existed at all. Neva and her friends chafe underneath the increasingly draconian government, fearing that there will be no future for them, and resolve to do... something. That part isn’t really that clear, to the characters or to the reader, but it definitely involves civil disobedience of some sort. Neva’s first stab at defiance brings the full attention of Homeland on her, and she risks the safety of both her well-connected family and her loyal friends as she attempts to discover what has become of the missing.

The thing is, all of the Neva’s mysteries are crystal clear to the reader, for the most part. Isolated society. Rebellious grandmother suddenly disappearing. Big Brother attempting to manufacture happiness and patriotism. It becomes clear pretty early on that the Homeland government is up to something, so most of the book has the reader waiting for Neva to discover and catch on to what’s happening. There are some grim, exciting twists on the way, most notably when Neva explores the Women’s Empowerment Center, but for the most part the reader knows what’s going on well before Neva does.

On the other hand, I found the interpersonal aspect of the novel to be surprisingly believable, considering the book’s audience. The book gets its title from a gathering in the first chapter: a makeout party in a dark room that Neva and her best friend Sanna use as a cover to incite their fledging revolt. Neva shares a sudden, passionate kiss in the dark with Sanna’s boyfriend, Braydon, who she never really liked or trusted before. After the dark party, though, she can’t stop thinking about him, to the point of risking both her friendship with Sanna and her success in foiling her pursuers and striking against the government. Some may find that romance shallow and carnal, and, well, that’s because it is. Sanna’s deteriorating relationship with a longtime boyfriend she no longer loves, and her sudden lust for a boy she doesn’t know but loves to kiss, sounds like an authentic teenage experience to me. Moreover, the consequences from those decisions ripple out to affect the plot in meaningful ways.

As for the rest, though... eh. Again, I couldn’t really get worked up about this one, for some reason. I think my problem is that, other than the relationship aspect, nothing really has any subtlety. Grant drops some anvil-sized hints about the nature of Homeland and the Protectosphere throughout the story, which takes the edge off of the suspense. And though there’s nothing wrong with using familiar dystopia themes and tropes, they are used rather clumsily here. For example, one of the overriding themes in Dark Parties is the physical similarity of Homeland's citizens, and how it is a small act of rebellion to use “identity marks” (temporary or permanent tattoos) to establish oneself as an individual. Neva, whose name means “snow” in Latin, has a tattoo on her hip of a snowflake. That’s because her beloved grandma named her, and always called her that, and gave her a snowflake pendant that she always wears. Which is why there’s a big neon snowflake on the cover, you see. So naturally, it’s a huge revelation when someone actually tells Neva near the end of the book that she is unique and special like a snowflake. OMG I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW.

Which is not to say that this is a bad book. It’s actually a pretty decent book. The characters are good, the action is tightly plotted, and there’s a nice mix of sinister ennui and defiant hope sprinkled throughout. I think I’m just spoiled by my own expectations. This ends on a cliffhanger, so there’s obviously a sequel coming; I’m curious as to what happens next, but not really drawn in enough to be anxious about it. I’d label this a good primer for YA dystopias. There are better out there, but this is a good introduction to the genre, and worth reading for dedicated dystopia fans or for readers looking for a tale about emotion fighting against oppression.

Verdict: 2.5 / 5

Book Review - The Name of the Star, by Maureen Johnson

I came from the 2011 ALA Annual Conference in New Orleans with literally dozens of advance reader copies, and had the nice problem of trying to figure out which one to read first. I had a chance to meet Maureen Johnson while I was there, and she was one of the friendliest authors I had the privilege of talking to. So, I started following her Twitter feed, and if you don’t follow her, you really should. She’s manic and adorable, and I couldn't help but decide to read Name of the Star first. I’m glad I did, because even with a few hiccups, this is a great start to what looks to be a fantastic YA series.

This first entry in Johnson’s new Shades of London series introduces Rory Deveaux, a Louisiana teenager who comes to England with her parents and enters a boarding school in London. Coinciding with her arrival is a spree of murders that are eerily reminiscent of those committed by London’s most famous serial killer: Jack the Ripper. Rory tries to adjust to her new surroundings, but London has become a surreal carnival of glee and fear, with “Ripper mania” spawning macabre parties, thronging vigils, and 24/7 news coverage. The grim mystery gets deeper when Rory realizes that she spoke to a sinister man at the scene of one the murders that nobody else could see, even when he was in plain sight. Still trying to make sense of being an American in England, Rory quickly finds herself overwhelmed by the discovery of a rare ability, which draws a whole lot of attention. Attention from those who want to help her, but also from the Ripper himself.

It must be said at the beginning that the general setting doesn't really fall outside of what readers might have seen before. It’s a British boarding school, with quirky roommates, mean girls, and a cute boy with a hot British accent. That almost qualifies as a subgenre, by now. Also, a few early twists are apparent a mile away to anyone who has seen the Sixth Sense (but, let’s be honest, that group is mostly comprised of people like me: thirty-somethings who are increasingly panicked about no longer being the arbiters of pop culture). And Ripper stories are always fascinating... seriously, always... but they are also prolific.

So it speaks highly of Johnson’s talent that this well-trodden path is so fun to walk down. The opening chapter grabs you immediately, and the beginning exposition is suffused with atmospheric tension. It also helps that Rory is such a likeable character; she has just the right mix of humor, awkwardness, and angst. Perfectly believable, and wholly sympathetic. Rory’s snark and self-effacing humility is a fantastic counterpoint to the rising tension and bloody attacks as the Ripper re-enacts the famous 19th-century rampage, ensuring that the story never falls too far on one side or the other of the drama/comedy spectrum. The setting is evocative and immersive; both the interiors and exteriors of this book's London resonate in the imagination, because they are written with an easy realism and an effortless eye for important detail.

The book heads in a different direction around halfway through, when Rory finally begins to understand what she can do and what that really means. This is where the story steps away from being a Jack the Ripper story, and determinedly sets up the larger Shades of London series premise. It’s a delicate moment, being the place most likely to lose readers who have been glued to the story so far, but I felt that Johnson handled it masterfully. The brooding tension that permeates the first half isn't lost, and Rory seamlessly moves from the boarding school into the wider, scarier world. Most importantly, though, Johnson keeps hot on the main mystery's heels while setting up the series, ensuring that this remains a strong standalone novel.

There are two minor quibbles I had with the book. At one point, the villain gets excessively monologue-y, which is a pet peeve of mine that I can never get over. The rest of the exposition was so good that it made that one "now I shall reveal my plan!" moment excessively grating. Also, for as much as Rory is smart, resourceful, and brave, she never really moves past being a perpetual damsel-in-distress until the very last moment. She spends the book being guarded, hunted, manipulated, herded, and being forced into uncomfortable situations, and even though there are plenty of moments that exemplify her innate strength, she spends too much time being at the mercy of her environment. To be fair, this could be attributed to overall tone of the book: unfamiliar school, unfamiliar city, unfamiliar culture, and, uh, unfamiliar ghosts. Still, I kind of waited for a definitive "Rory starts to kick ass" part of the story that never really came.

Both of these little issues are redeemed by a fantastic ending that wraps up the mystery nicely, but still leaves the reader with a tantalizing cliffhanger that sets up Rory's future exploits. It actually reminded me of the ending format that most Doctor Who episodes use (coincidence, considering the Amy Pond reference in the book? I THINK NOT). The Name of the Star pulls double duty as a gripping novel and as a series introduction with aplomb.

A word of warning: this is dark YA! *dramatic music* You know, because there's murders, and darkness, and making out, and everything is really foggy and whatnot! So, steer clear if you don't want your precious angel reading about subjects they might discover in other things you presumably don't let them read, like history books, or the newspaper. Otherwise, this is definitely one to check out once it hits shelves. The first Shades of London book is a great read, and I'm excited to see where the series goes from here.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Cordelia's Honor, by Lois McMaster Bujold

Let’s all agree on this right up front: the covers of the Vorkosigan Saga books are horrible. Just plain awful. The cover art for anything published by Baen is pretty bad, enough to make even the proud nerds of today cringe and place the book face-down whenever possible to avoid being snickered at. But these covers in particular, with their dramatic poses and odd retro fonts, seem to house a strange breed of quasi-historical space pulp that embodies everything that “serious readers” should avoid. And that’s a damned shame, because Bujold writes fantastic, accessible science fiction. Were I to browse this by cover instead of trying out a no-frills ebook version, I may well have never discovered it.

I’ll try to stick to well-known details, but there are a few mild spoilers here if you want to fly completely blind. Cordelia’s Honor is an omnibus, comprising two separately published novels: Shards of Honor and Barrayar. These two books represent the first chronological stories in the sprawling Vorkosigan Saga, and begin a generation before the introduction of that saga’s hero, Miles. Shards of Honor begins with Betan explorer Captain Cordelia Naismith, attempting to chart a new, unclaimed world. Her party is surprised and attacked by a squad of the warlike Barryarans, and she barely escapes with her life. She finds herself lost on an unfamiliar planet, and thanks to a mutiny within the Barryaran ranks, she is forced to rely on a gruff Barrayaran outcast named Aral Vorkosigan, better known to her people as the Butcher of Komarr. She comes to know him better than she would ever have guessed during their ordeal in the wild, and their understanding of one another becomes crucial when they meet again, once the reason for the Barrayarans' presence on the untouched world becomes clear and their respective peoples stand on the brink of a brutal war.

The second book, Barrayar, picks up on the titular planet. Having forsaken her homeworld of Beta Colony after her unpleasant homecoming, Cordelia attempts to build a peaceful life with her new husband and the eventual birth of their son. However, after the Barrayaran emperor dies, Aral Vorkosigan finds himself manipulated into being the regent for the child heir, and thus a prime target for those lusting after the child heir’s power. An attempted assassination has dire consequences for Cordelia’s unborn child, and before she and Aral can gain their balance, a Barrayaran noble launches an insurrection and attempts to seize control of the empire through force. Cordelia, loath to accept the responsibilities placed on her by political momentum, must decide how far she is willing to go to rescue her fledgling family, and how much she should compromise her personal ethics in order to do so.

This is the second collected omnibus of sequential novels that I’ve read in the past year (third if you count graphic novels), and I’m starting to notice a distinct feeling that the novels contained within such volumes work a lot better together than they do apart. I can’t decide whether that’s a psychosomatic thing that’s brought on by there being so many pages left after getting through one book; I finished Shards of Honor feeling like more should have happened, and glad that I had a second half to move on to. In retrospect, I think that has everything to do with Bujold’s writing style, and I’m pretty sure I would have liked each book on its own, had I approached them that way. These books are referred to as a “saga,” and that’s an appropriate label. This is the first entry in a space opera that spans great distances, unravels intricate political intrigues, and narrates epic battles, but it’s immediately clear that the books are first and foremost about the characters. The saga follows the rise and fall of its players, and the landmark events in the plot provide the catalyst and backdrop for the landmark changes in the character arcs. This is what makes these books transcend pulp sci-fi and confirms them as a great choice for anyone who wants to read a good story.

There are a couple of snags, though. The characters are pitch-perfect, but their dialogue can get a little awkward from time to time. The narration is also a little odd, as well, especially in Shards of Honor. Bujold tends to get a little informal with the narrative voice, occasionally letting Cordelia’s sardonic humor bleed into the exposition and narration. Compounding this problem is the lack of italics or any other device to differentiate character thoughts in the first book, making the whole story feel a little slapdash. There was apparently a fair amount of time between the publication of the first book of this story arc and the second, and it definitely shows; Barrayar is much more tightly plotted, better paced, and efficiently narrated than Shards of Honor, displaying Bujold’s evolution as an author between the two stories. Standing as a testament to her talent, however, the joining of the actual story is seamless and natural.

I am to understand that the Vorkosigan books don’t really get going until we get into the exploits of Miles Vorkosigan, but as a newcomer to the series, I found this book to be a wonderful introduction to this particular world(s) and set of characters. It gives insight into the politics and technology of two distinct planets without seeming either contrived or confusing, leaving plenty of room to get to know wonderfully nuanced characters like Cordelia, Aral, Droushnakovi, and my favorite, Bothari. This gets a solid recommendation to any science fiction reader that puts a premium on good characters.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Penny Arcade Volume 6: The Halls Below, by Jerry Holkins and Mike Krahulik

I’ve been a dedicated Penny Arcade reader since before they were Internet rock stars with their own convention, children’s charity, webseries, and video games. As such, it’s not so odd that I’ve only picked up a print version of the comic at the publication of book six, seeing as how I’ve already read every single strip. Should I feel the urge to go back and reread, these strips are still all available for free online. The value of this book is in the added features, just as it would be for a DVD: new commentaries on each comic, slick packaging (though not as slick as previous editions, I am told), and extra content at the end. I’m an enthusiastic fan, so I’m pretty easy to please, but these added features should be enough to sway any fan of the series.

This is not a graphic novel, but a more traditional collection of comic strips with occasional spurts of continuity. For the uninitiated, Penny Arcade is a hilariously crass webcomic that revolves around two gamer protagonists, Gabe and Tycho, along with a revolving misfit cast of recurring characters. Gabe and Tycho are rough analogs of the two personalities behind the comic: artist Mike Krahulik and writer Jerry Holkins, respectively. The humor is a little inside; working knowledge of gaming culture and at least a passing familiarity with current gaming news is usually necessary to get the jokes, though there are occasional exceptions. However, the often obscene strips have a lot to offer for anybody who has an appreciation for the absurd, especially if you enjoy dark sarcasm, snappy dialogue (Holkins/Tycho is an unabashed logophile that uses a symphonic vocabulary both in the strip and in the accompanying commentary), or, well, poop jokes.

This volume collects all the strips published in 2005, and although I think 2004’s bouquet might be a little more piquant, this was a pretty good year for Penny Arcade and its readers. I’m especially fond of Krahulik’s art in this period, although I think that might just be nostalgia talking. Penny Arcade has existed for over a decade now, and the artwork has evolved along with Krahulik over that period. The latest change has occurred in the past year or so, with the characters beginning to look increasingly like they were drawn by John Kricfalusi. Now, I will concede that it is a fascinating exercise to watch an artist try new things and incorporate their various influences into their work as they mature. But I’ve never liked John Kricfalusi's artwork, and so I’m feeling a little sullen about the new look. This book covers the heyday of the clean, angular art that drew so many people to Penny Arcade in the first place, and I really enjoy the novelty of having prints from that time period, if not for entirely objective reasons.

The actual content from this year included more hits than misses, and introduced more than one long-standing character or meme. The Merch is a notable exception, but I’m heartened by Holkins’ commentaries on these strips, which seem to indicate that he was as skeptical of that particular angle as I was. Balancing that out in this volume are two classic, fantastic subplots: Annarchy, and the Elemenstor Saga. The first involves a rare bit of story continuity revolving around Tycho’s eleven-year-old niece Ann, providing a surprisingly funny and poignant take on both Tycho and on Penny Arcade’s general content. Annarchy is living proof that a warm, fuzzy teddy bear lives deep inside a lot of cynical, foul-mouthed gamers like me. The second started as an obscure one-off comic and sparse wiki, and through the machinations of the Penny Arcade fanbase became a sprawling faux-franchise, allegedly covering over a dozen novels, two animated series, and a collectible card game. This meta-narrative is admittedly a little hard to appreciate, being that it lives mostly outside of the actual comic and is purposefully obtuse and ridiculous. However, anybody that has ever read a licensed fantasy novel or attempted to immerse themselves in the lore of an RPG or CCG will find this absolutely hilarious. The premium content at the back of the book is devoted to the Elemenstor Saga, consisting of an introduction to the joke’s concept and some excerpts of the vast fan-authored wiki page. My only disappointment is that The Halls Below doesn’t really cover the second half of this enormous in-joke: the rival “franchise” Song of the Sorcelator, and its flamboyant mastermind, L. H. Franzibald. Yes, it's as funny as it sounds.

It’s kind of hard to recommend this to curious readers who aren’t already familiar with Penny Arcade, since the actual website is the best place for that. But speaking as a longtime fan of the strip, this is a nice little curio, and worth buying just for the additional commentary on each strip.

Verdict: 5 / 5