The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell
I found this on some random list of recommended speculative fiction (can't remember the source of the list). It's a great premise, as far as scifi goes: scientists discover a radio signal coming from a star system in the vicinity of Alpha Centauri, which turns out to be music. A mission is sent to the planet, and 40 years later one survivor returns to tell the tale. Pretty promising premise. I had two major quibbles with this book, however:
- The writing was sub-par. It wasn't grammatically questionable, but it just felt amateurish throughout. There was too much use of dialogue as plot exposition, and that kind of thing. Also, the characters felt like they were designed for maximum effect rather than existing as fully faceted entities, even from a fictional standpoint; problem one may have been a side effect of the other major problem;
- In the end, I felt that the whole book was mainly an excuse to explore the theological problem of evil. Ostensibly, the question of the existence of God was also under consideration, but it became pretty obvious that this wasn't really up for grabs, and that the real question was how to integrate evil into belief. The author suggests that her original topic of interest was the anniversary of Columbus's voyage, and the various implications of one culture "discovering" another, but I felt like that topic didn't get nearly as much attention as the theological question. Since that's not a theological question that interests me, I got tired of that aspect quickly.
There definitely were some interesting aspects to the book. The intelligent alien species MDR imagines, for example, are quite fascinating. There are two intelligent species with a disturbing symbiotic relationship. MDR is actually quite good at putting cultural trappings around a different conception of intelligent lifeforms in ways that make sense. At least part of my disappointment was that of a missed opportunity: because she is quite good at certain aspects of expanding on an interesting premise, I found it that much more disappointing that her main interest seemed to be the theological questions.
Breaking Bad
I finally got around to watching Breaking Bad, starting from the beginning. The fourth season is ongoing, apparently, though I'm still working my way through Season 2. I must say, first of all, that I'm once again very impressed by the quality of original programming being put out by AMC. Mad Men is amazing of course (if uneven), and I really enjoyed the first season of The Walking Dead. Like those, Breaking Bad is very high quality work.
The basic premise: a high school chemistry teacher, Walt, finds out that he has inoperable lung cancer, and this shock to his system leads to his decision to start manufacturing crystal meth with Jesse, a former student of his who has since become a drug dealer. There are a lot of directions you could go with this story, and the creators/writers have chosen (so far anyway) a gritty, realistic approach. Unlike Weeds, say, which immediately swerved towards cartoonish characters and straight up gallows humor, Breaking Bad is trying to stay on the straight and narrow of something that's at least plausible (not that it doesn't have its share of funny moments, mind you).
The story is anchored/constrained by Walt's pregnant wife, Skyler, and disabled son, Walt, Jr., who are constantly forcing Walt back towards evaluation of his ongoing transformation from high school chemistry teacher to would-be drug kingpin. The characters are interesting and solid, and the storylines have been very engaging. There's both episode and major story arc foreshadowing (fragments of action yet to come that doesn't make sense at first, but becomes clearer as the story goes along), from time to time, and this also is a great way of ratcheting up the tension. I'm nearing the Season 2 finale, and will report more as I go.
2666, by Roberto Bolaño
Unfortunately, I don't have the time to write a review of this book that does it justice. Suffice to say that I think it's somewhere up in the masterpiece category (flawed masterpiece, perhaps, but still masterpiece). Which doesn't mean that it's a compelling page-turner, mind you. This is not reading candy. It's work, and in some places a full-on slog, but ultimately well worth the effort. I'm not sure it's even worth trying to summarize the plot, except to say that the work is divided into five sections, each of which could stand alone (and in fact, Bolaño, who died before 2666 was published, left instructions to publish the five sections independently, presumably because it would be easier to sell them individually), but which definitely are interwoven in ways that make them connected (there's a bit of a Mobius strip aspect to the way they're connected, though not in the tidy, clever way of something like Memento or Pulp Fiction).
The best way to describe the work of Bolaño generally, and this work in particular, is that I believe them to be near perfect examples of what Roland Barthes calls a "writerly text," which Barthes describes thus:
"[a] writerly text is ourselves writing, before the infinite play of the world is traversed, intersected, stopped, plasticized by some singular system (Ideology, Genus, Criticism) which reduces the plurality of entrances, the opening of networks, the infinity of languages..."
Or, to put it another way, a writerly text does not constantly struggle to reduce the possibilities of meaning, but instead glories in the interpretive space created by (inherent to, according to Barthes) all texts. I think I can safely say that 2666 does not (nor try to) shut down the interpretive possibilities it opens up. If all of that sounds like deeply annoying gobbledygook to you (and I'm sympathetic if it does), then 2666 is probably not for you. If you're even a little curious or intrigued, I recommend the experience.