Category Archives: Books

To Do List

One of the unfulfilled intentions behind this blog was to write about the books I’ve been reading–to ensure that I actually *think* about what I read, not just set each book aside and move on to the next. Obviously I haven’t been doing that.

So here’s a list of books that impressed me (or in a few cases both annoyed *and* impressed me) in 2007–books I read in 2007, not necessarily books published in 2007–about which I feel I ought to write something, to better understand *why* I liked them. If I post this list, I might shame myself into actually, y’know, *doing* it. Continue reading To Do List

New Adventures Reviews: Deceit (Part One)

(This is the first half of a half-finished review. I’m hoping going ahead and posting it will prod me into writing the rest.)

The word for Deceit is “functional.” It does not tell an exciting story. It does not explore characters in great detail. It doesn’t say much about the human condition. Deceit was conceived and written solely to advance the editorial goals of Peter Darvill-Evans, New Adventures mastermind.

He’s testing his own editorial guidelines. He’s reintroducing Ace. He’s filling in the New Adventures’ future history. He’s cleaning up and retconning the last few books’ worth of characterization oddities. And he’s explaining his theory of time travel. As Darvill-Evans says in his afterward/apologia, “That’s a lot of functions for one medium-length novel to perform. I hope you didn’t notice it creaking under the weight of so many burdens.”

Deceit creaks. Understandably. Any writer juggling five such unwieldy objects hasn’t got a lot of spare attention for the things that make a book, y’know, good. The surprise is that Deceit is adequate. Continue reading New Adventures Reviews: Deceit (Part One)

Mr. Dickens Goes to Washington

Charles Dickens visited Washington, D.C. in 1842.

I was sometimes asked, in my progress through other places, whether I had not been very much impressed by the HEADS of the lawmakers at Washington; meaning not their chiefs and leaders, but literally their individual and personal heads, whereon their hair grew, and whereby the phrenological character of each legislator was expressed: and I almost as often struck my questioner dumb with indignant consternation by answering ‘No, that I didn’t remember being at all overcome.’ As I must, at whatever hazard, repeat the avowal here, I will follow it up by relating my impressions on this subject in as few words as possible.

[…]

I saw in them, the wheels that move the meanest perversion of virtuous Political Machinery that the worst tools ever wrought. Despicable trickery at elections; under-handed tamperings with public officers; cowardly attacks upon opponents, with scurrilous newspapers for shields, and hired pens for daggers; shameful trucklings to mercenary knaves, whose claim to be considered, is, that every day and week they sow new crops of ruin with their venal types, which are the dragon’s teeth of yore, in everything but sharpness; aidings and abettings of every bad inclination in the popular mind, and artful suppressions of all its good influences: such things as these, and in a word, Dishonest Faction in its most depraved and most unblushing form, stared out from every corner of the crowded hall.

— Charles Dickens, American Notes for General Circulation.

I think Charles would be pleased to learn that, one hundred and sixty-five years later, there has been an important change: members of our nation’s legislative body can now be trusted not to spit on the floor.

The Senate is a dignified and decorous body, and its proceedings are conducted with much gravity and order. Both houses are handsomely carpeted; but the state to which these carpets are reduced by the universal disregard of the spittoon with which every honourable member is accommodated, and the extraordinary improvements on the pattern which are squirted and dabbled upon it in every direction, do not admit of being described. I will merely observe, that I strongly recommend all strangers not to look at the floor; and if they happen to drop anything, though it be their purse, not to pick it up with an ungloved hand on any account.

American Notes (four paragraphs later).

Cleek of Scotland Yard

After reading Thomas Hanshew’s Cleek: The Man of the Forty Faces on Project Gutenberg (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, click that first link to read an essay from this past June) I knew I had to have a hard copy. So I headed over to AbeBooks and dropped twenty bucks on Cleek of Scotland Yard, an omnibus edition containing Cleek, a few of the short stories Hanshew pasted together to make Cleek, and an eponymous sequel: Cleek of Scotland Yard.

I think there’s a book missing in between. I’m pretty sure it’s one I’ve seen listed as Cleek’s Government Cases. I’m going to have to get hold of that one, too, because Cleek of Scotland Yard—which we’ll call CoSY, to save typing—is almost as good as the first. Continue reading Cleek of Scotland Yard

Review: To Ruhleben–and Back

In 1914, two months after England and Germany went to war, Geoffrey Pyke persuaded a newspaper to hire him as a war correspondent. Pyke was about 20 at the time and, acting under the same impulse by which modern 20 year olds crash keg parties and drink themselves into comas, snuck into Berlin. He was arrested, of course. But, hey, at least he got a book out of it.

To Ruhleben–and Back was published in 1916 and recently republished under McSweeney’s (McSweeney’s’s?) Collins Library imprint. (And damn, this is a handsome book. Good paper, a cover made of sturdy boards and real cloth–Cloth! In an age of big-publisher hardcovers covered in construction paper!–and the design must have time-travelled forwards from the days when books were bound like their publishers gave a damn. I stuck it on my shelf between Phillip Pullman and David Quammen and it looked like Mr. Blackwell at a hobo convention.)

Pyke spent months in solitary confinement wondering whether he’d be shot. Then he was transferred to a cold and inadequate POW camp at Ruhleben. A case of pneumonia left him with a weak heart. He escaped in the company of a man who knew the country better. They walked a very long way to the Netherlands with very little food. Pyke collapsed several times and was once almost left for dead.

As Pyke tells it, all of this was hilariously funny. Continue reading Review: To Ruhleben–and Back

New Adventures Reviews: The Pit

I just read The Pit. It’s staring into me, man. It’s staring riiiiiiight into me.

The Pit. My god. No title has ever described its book with such pure and concise accuracy. Not even the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. This book is a legend among Doctor Who fans. Fifteen years later the mere mention of the name Neil Penswick brings fainting fits. Some people swear their copies of The Pit have tried to kill them.

Can The Pit really be that bad? Yes, it can. Is it the worst of the New Adventures series? Yes, it is. Is it really, as has been an article of faith for so long, the Worst Doctor Who Book Ever?

Well, no. But only because so many boring runarounds were published by BBC Books. The Pit is at least interestingly bad.

Continue reading New Adventures Reviews: The Pit

New Adventures Reviews: The Highest Science

(Another Doctor Who book. Continue bearing with me.)

I’m just getting back to rereading the New Adventures, and I find I don’t have much to say about The Highest Science—in fact, I couldn’t even summon up the enthusiasm to read it properly, though I skimmed bits of it. I don’t know why. There’s nothing wrong with it, and I have nothing against Gareth Roberts in general. It just didn’t grab me. (I’m actually more interested in rereading The Pit, just to see if it’s as bad as I recall.) So this is a much shorter and less careful review than some of my others.

Continue reading New Adventures Reviews: The Highest Science

Short Trips to Bland Places

Fair warning: I’m about to post a couple things that will be of no interest unless you follow Doctor Who. Bear with me.

There’s a small company called Big Finish that has a license to publish Doctor Who audio dramas and short story collections. The latter are published under the series name Short Trips.

Not long ago I discovered a couple of recent “Short Trips” volumes going for ten dollars each on Amazon. I haven’t been following the range, because they’re a bit pricey. Ten dollars is a bit less pricey. So I thought what the hell, and ordered Short Trips: Farewells and Short Trips: The Centenarian.

I am glad I did not pay twenty-five dollars each for these books.

Continue reading Short Trips to Bland Places

Not Really a Review of Spin Control

Sometimes I think I should update this more… so I’m going to try to review some of what I’ve been reading lately. Obviously I’ll have to try harder in future as in this case I did not end up with a review.

For some reason I’ve been reading a lot of Hardass Space Mercenary books. First there was Richard Morgan’s Broken Angels. Then Spin Control. Now I’m reading Morgan’s Woken Furies and pretty soon I’m going to reread the Doctor Who: New Adventures novel Deceit, in which Ace returned to the series. As a hardass space mercenary. I have no idea why I am doing this.

The main thing I learned from Spin Control is that series books really, really need to include plot summaries of previous books. Really. I read the preceding book (Spin State) a couple of years ago. At this point I remember nothing except that (A) I mildly enjoyed it, even though (B) it was fifty to a hundred pages over its natural length. Spin Control’s plot is independent of the earlier book, but kept referencing people and places and bits of future tech that I felt I should have recognized, but didn’t.

Beyond that… well, this one is fifty to a hundred pages too long again, but I get that feeling from a lot of science fiction these days. Meanwhile, fantasy is getting shorter. Charles Stross has had to chop his Merchant Princes books in half, and I get the impression that Paul Park’s Roumania tetralogy was originally supposed to be a trilogy. (Just the way the natural stopping point for the first volume occurs about a third of the way into the second. You know. Little things.)

This is why I could never work in publishing: the forces that shape the industry are as mysterious to me as quantum mechanics.

The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek

“‘Cleek!’ he said, in a voice that shook with nervous catches and the emotion of a soul deeply stirred, ‘Cleek to take the case? The great, the amazing, the undeceivable Cleek!’”
—T. W. Hanshew, Cleek: The Man of the Forty Faces

For old-school detective fans, times must come when Lord Peter Wimsey irritates; when Hercule Poirot comes off as an anal retentive with a weird moustache; when they even wish Sherlock Holmes would stop self-medicating his manic depression and get professional help. At moments like this I turn to Cleek. Hamilton Cleek. The Man of the Forty Faces.

Continue reading The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek