Gladiatrix, by Russell Whitfield

I received a complementary copy of Gladiatrix, by Russell Whitfield, through the LibraryThing Early Reviewers program (and a wonderful program it is!). Being a huge fan of Mary Renault, Steven Pressfield (ok he mostly does Greece), Wallace Breem, and of course, the movie Gladiator, I was eagerly anticipating this book. Gladiatrix is the story of Lysandra, the female gladiator. Not a lot of mystery about what this book is going to be about!

First off, let’s get it out of the way: the title. Gladiatrix. With a name like that, you expect some titillation, and some lesbianism – if that’s what you’re looking for, you will not be disappointed. Gladiatrices regularly seem to fight in the nude, and the sex scenes are pretty graphic. The subject matter seems to inspire lurid treatment – for example, witness Roger Corman’s Gladiatrix movie with Pam Grier, or the Discovery Channel Documentary on the Gladiatrix finds in London (less salacious). Between the title, the premise, and the cover art, I think the book will sell heavily, and although there have been other gladiatrix movies, I’d expect another one. But I digress.

The early stages of the book heavily echo the themes of the movie Gladiator – someone from the upper echelons of society, driven by circumstance into the arena – personal misfortune, gladiator school, rising through the ranks because of innate quality. It is heavily derivative from Gladiator, and in the early going I found myself annoyed that it felt so clearly imitative. I got over it before too long – at some level, it is truth in advertising: this book is Gladiator with a female protagonist. I was disappointed early on that some scenes didn’t happen “on camera”: Lysandra is enslaved through a shipwreck and ensuing events – yet the shipwreck and those events are not really rendered – they would have made nice scenes, and a good counterpoint to the constant martial circumstances that follow. I periodically wondered how historically accurate the book was (of course, there were female gladiatrices) – the references to other historical personages seem accurate insofar as I can tell (but I’m no expert here). I don’t know whether Spartan princesses existed, or whether they received battle training, but I was willing to suspend my disbelief on that point. But the historical side of things doesn’t get much play – this isn’t historical fiction ala Saylor or Pressfield. The book at times feels more like a romance novel, oddly enough – due to the interpersonal issues and personal conflicts that drive the novel forward. The dialog is at times stilted, sometimes the prose feels awkward. I believe it’s a first novel and it periodically feels like one. Lysandra comes off as an insufferable teenager (which in fact she is). But after a few hundred pages, I wanted to say to the author, “OK, I get it – she’s arrogant – you don’t have to beat me over the head with it”. I wanted to see more personal development out Lysandra, but perhaps that is to wait for another installment. The book is not explicitly part of a series, but the deus ex machina ending leads me to conclude more is forthcoming.

In the end, I enjoyed the book, and finished it quickly, but I am left wondering who the intended audience is. This is no Renault or Pressfield novel, peering deep into the human condition to find the things that ennoble us. And I don’t believe it’s a juvenile book – the tone feels wrong and the sex is a bit graphic for that. The fights are good and the swordplay frequent. Perhaps it’s just good old fashioned entertainment – just like the Arena was, thousands of years ago.

Yikes!

The other boat on our Bahamas trip caught this incredible shot of a waterspout. We were on the other side of the island and didn't see it, unfortunately. Or maybe that's "fortunately we didn't see it!".

Pics from Bahamas

Bahamas

And, with that review of a great travel novel posted, it's time for some travel. Off to the Bahamas for a week of viking. er, sailing.

The White Mary, by Kira Salak

I recently received an advanced reader's copy of The White Mary by Kira Salak to review from the publisher, Henry Holt. I was excited to learn of the novel, as I was an avid fan of Salak's wonderful non-fictional narrative of her kayaking tour to Timbuktu, "The Cruelest Journey".

Salak is a unique phenomenon and a wild spirit - traveling alone as a woman to places most men would be afraid to go in a group. Her non-fiction travel works capture the fear, wonder, and strangeness of traveling alone, a sort of female incarnation of Paul Theroux. I was looking forward to her first fictional work (although one wonders just how fictional it is, exactly). I was not disappointed.

The White Mary tells the tale of Marika Vecera, a journalist/war correspondent. The early parts of novel intertwine her experiences in Zaire reporting on genocide with a somewhat mysterious journey through the jungles of Papua New Guinea. We eventually learn that Marika is chasing the ghost of Robert Lewis, a journalist she worships and who inspired her career. She's also chasing some ghosts of her own; her time in Zaire has scarred her deeply. The White Mary is in fact an extraordinarily powerful portrait of a person who has "seen too much". Marika's near-death experience in the Congo has left her emotionally numb, and walled off from the care of those closest to her. Salak's rendering of Marika's psychological problems is done in pitch-perfect detail. The novel is sometimes adult, brutal and violent, and not for early teens or the faint of heart.

Just as folk musicians perform songs in pairs, it's sometimes interesting to read & review books in pairs. At the same time as I was reading The White Mary, I was also consuming "The Painter of Battles" by the renowned author Arturo Perez-Reverte (one of my favorite authors). The Painter of Battles covers very similar territory in some respects -
the protagonist there has "seen too much" as a war photographer and has given way to despair, retiring to paint a battle that spans all historical battles, and to avoid all human interaction (interestingly one of the key characters in The White Mary is a war photographer). Where the Painter of Battles is deeply philosophical and contemplative, the White Mary is visceral; the Painter of Battles is carefully drawn, exquisitely written and intriguing to read. And yet, three weeks later, the Painter of Battles is not finished, and The White Mary yielded in two sittings. It's that compelling; I had to finish it. Perez-Reverte's prose is smoother and more ornate, even in translation (or perhaps because of it), whereas Salak's prose is more muscular and direct. The writing in The White Mary is occasionally awkward but still compares favorably with that of such a distinguished author as Perez-Reverte.

Salak's Marika is an extraordinarily well-drawn character; I never doubted her reality for a moment. And Salak regularly captures one of the key aspects of travel - the shock of experiencing fundamentally different cultural assumptions. Marika for example, is sent to the "women's hut" when she is menstruating, where she rages at the artificial and (to her, of course) ludicrous belief system that requires it. Marika's progress through something like post-traumatic stress disorder is carefully and believably painted, and you root for her to come back even as she spirals downward in self-destructive behavior.

In short, the White Mary is a powerful and gripping first novel, a cautionary tale full of danger, travel, and adventure, and at the same time gives deep insight into the human condition.

(If you'd like to explore the geography of The White Mary, I've plotted many of the locations mentioned in my Books/Google Maps mashup, CodexMap.

The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson

The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson, created a minor sensation in the literary world when it went out for bid in 2007. Reportedly, early bids of $1 million were declined. Doubleday eventually came out the winner. Responding to a banner ad from Publisher's Lunch, I was fortunate enough to receive an Advance Readers Copy, prior to the book's August 5, 2008 release.

The narrator of The Gargoyle (it seems that he's consciously never named by the author) had a troubled childhood, and has grown into full-bore bad guy: Pornographer, Drug Addict, and, as the story opens, a Very Impaired Driver on a mountain road. Mysteriously, a volley of burning arrows flies across the road and in front of the car (are they real? hallucinated? Flying through a warp in the space-time continuum?). One too many over-reactions on the Narrator’s part, and he and his car are plunging down the mountainside, toward a crash and an inferno.

By the top of page 3, the narrator is on fire.

The opening of the Gargoyle is like a stiff Scotch, accidentally swallowed down the wrong pipe. It burns going down (you'll pardon the metaphor), with fumes all up your nose, and you’ll want to take a deep breath. And like a great scotch, once the first drink settles, you'll want more:

I imagine, dear reader, that you've had some experience with heat. Perhaps you've tipped a boiling kettle at the wrong angle and the steam crept up your sleeve....I want you to imagine something new...Imagine turning on one of the elements of your stove - let's say it’s the electric kind with the black coils on top. Don't put a pot of water on the element because the water only absorbs the heat….a slight violet tinge will appear, nestled there in the black rings, and then the element assumes some reddish-purple tones, like unripe blackberries. It moves towards orange, and finally – finally! – an intense glowing red. Kind of beautiful, isn’t it? Now lower your head so that your eyes are even with the top of the old stove and you can peer through the shimmering waves rising up…..I want you to trace the fingertips of your left hand gently across your right palm, noting the way your skin registers even the lightest touch. If some else were doing it, you might even be turned on. Now, slam that sensitive, responsive hand directly onto the glowing element.

And hold it there. Hold it there as the element scorches Dante’s nine rings right into your palm, allowing you to grasp Hell in your hand forever. Let the heat engrave the skin, the muscles, the tendons; let it smolder down to the bone. Wait for the burn to embed itself so far into you that you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to let go of that coil. It won’t be long until the stench of your own burning flesh wafts up, grabbing your nose hairs and refusing to let go, and you smell your body burn….I want you to do one more thing….lean down, turn your head to one side, and slap your check against that same element. I’ll let you choose which side of your face…Now you might have some idea of what it was like for me to be pinned inside that car…

Clearly Davidson has made a deep study of burns and their treatment. On occasion his hypnotic renderings of fire make you wonder if he played with matches too much as a child. Davidson gives all the gory details (literally) of burn treatment, the methods, rationales, and dangers. We follow the Narrator into the hospital and follow his recovery, where he is eventually discovered by Marianne Engle, who appears to be a somewhat deranged artist that likes to sculpt in the nude. Marianne apparently knows our Narrator from the Middle Ages (she apparently has a very long lifespan which our Narrator does not). Marianne attends to our Narrator during his recovery, and begins a Scheherazade-like series of tales involving….well, you’ll need to read the book for those. Along the way, the Narrator also acquires a metaphorical (or is it?) Snake: a voice of self doubt and the personification of Morphine addiction.

The series of tales start in the Middle Ages in Germany, and wend their way into other times and locations, including the aforementioned Hell of Dante. The two-track structure of the novel, alternating between modern times and the Middle Ages, is often reminiscent of Crichton’s Timeline. Yet Crichton’s time-travel has a meticulous and well-articulated (if speculative) mechanism for this time duality. I never felt a clear grasp of the intended mechanism in the Gargoyle, and as a result had some trouble achieving Coleridge’s state of “willing suspension of disbelief” required for fantasy to really work to the fullest extent.

The “Tales of a Thousand and One Nights” structure generally works well and is quite entertaining. This is a first novel, and a fine one – but in places the book feels forced, and I found some of the transitions from one tale to the next to be artificial and abrupt. And some of the stories seem a bit unmotivated and arbitrary. In particular, the Viking interlude featuring Sigurðr, while thoroughly enjoyable, in the end doesn’t seem to really take the book anywhere. Nonetheless the prose is crisp throughout – the occasional awkwardness comes more from the structure of the story than from the language, which is often quite powerful. As the stories progress, I often found myself trying to figure out who was re-incarnated, and who was not? But perhaps that is part of the experience….

The primary criticism of the novel that I have is that the transformation of the Narrator from Bad Guy into what he becomes seems to happen off-camera, as it were – I did not feel as though I was really participating in the internal dialog, the wrenching psychological changes that occur to the Narrator, until near the end of the book.

Those criticisms aside, the book was wonderful fun. Marianne is rendered larger than life – wild hair, flashing green eyes, carving grotesques and sleeping on them in the nude. The Snake is an ever-present voice, whispering poison into the Narrator’s ear (or mind) – a wonderful manifestation of the self doubt we all feel at times. The novel is sprinkled throughout with wonderful historical asides and filled with arcane Medieval history – the history of German translations of Dante, the parallels between Dante’s cosmography and the views and trials of Galileo, and the fundamental strangeness of Medieval German Christian Mysticism via the mortifications of the flesh and self-flagellation. And of course, Gargoyles, and how they are different from Grotesques (you probably have them mixed up, you know – if it doesn’t channel water, it’s not a Gargoyle, it’s a Grotesque). It’s an entertaining read. It has a few rough edges, but read it – I don’t think you’ll regret it.

A thing of beauty....

The site Visual Complexity has a wonderful array of web oriented visualizations - things of art, really. Now if I can just get them to list Codexmap 8)

Hat Trick

I just got a mail from Publisher's Lunch, an email service I signed up for recently. Lo & behold I saw a banner ad in one of the daily emails, advertising free advance reader's copies for The Gargoyle by Davidson. There was a lot of buzz about this book awhile back. I sent them an email requesting a copy, and they are going to send me one! Here's a link to The Gargoyle in CodexMap.

That makes the Hat Trick for recently getting three free reviewer copies of books - this one, Christine Falls, and Escape from Amsterdam!

The intersection between Maps & Books

Maps and Books have always interested me, independently from each other. I recently spent a fair bit of time exploring their intersection, via my website CodexMap, which is a Google Maps / Amazon Books / LibraryThing / Geocoding mashup, letting you interactively explore a Google Map to find & place books.

Imagine my delight at finding someone taking this intersection to the next level. Literature in a map, not on a map. Via Bruce Sterling's blog on Wired, and Entropist, I found "The 21 Steps" - a creation of Charles Cumming, the author of "Typhoon". It's a story (a takeoff of "The 39 Steps"), told via an interactive Google Map. It's Great Fun. Check it out.

Christine Falls, or, CSI: Dublin

It started like CSI Dublin...

There are a wealth of fascinating characters in Christine Falls (more on that momentarily), but the atmosphere of the book is almost more compelling than the characters, or the underlying mystery (more on that as well).

Quirke is a pathologist in 1950s Dublin. It starts off feeling very much like an episode of CSI:Dublin. A mysterious death, a persistent pathologist. But not the clean, crisp, morally certain world of CSI:Miami, but rather the lonely, smoky atmosphere of forensics in what seems like a disintegrating, dilapidated world:

Quirke, still in his gown and green rubber apron, sat on a high stool by the big steel sink, smoking a cigarette and thinking. The evening outside was still light, he knew, but here in this windowless room that always reminded him of a vast, deep, emptied cistern it might have been the middle of the night. The cold tap in one of the sinks had an incurable slow drip, and a fluorescent bulb in the big multiple lamp over the dissecting table flickered and buzzed. In the harsh, grainy light the cadaver that had been Christine Falls lay on its back, the breast and belly opened wide like a carpet bag and its glistening innards on show.

And then there is the smoke. Everything smokes in this book. Quirke smokes. His niece smokes. The chimneys smoke. The fireplaces smoke. Of course the police smoke, but that is described with loving, almost intimate care:

Quirke finished his cigarette and Hackett offered another, and after the briefest of hesitations he took it. Smoke rolled along the top of the desk like a fog at night on the sea.

Even the nuns smoke:

Sister Stephanus sat motionless and stared at the hastily squashed cigarette butt, from which there poured upward a thin and sinuous thread of heaven-blue smoke.

By the time the book was over, I wanted to smoke. About the only thing that's more frequent than smoking is drinking - but they are usually inextricably linked. The book is dark and smoky, and most of the characters seem to have an ashen taste in their mouths, as the phrase goes. There are some wonderfully humorous moments, and the occasional respite from the darkness. But these are exceptions.

Black/Banville has created a protagonist worthy of more than just a genre novel. Quirke is rendered with precision, sympathy, and believability, even when he might not be the most sympathetic of characters at time. To my mind, he most resembles Martin Cruz Smith's redoubtable Arkady Renko. Quirke is incapable of turning off his almost irrational curiosity, even in the face of clear physical danger. And he seems congenitally unable to tell a lie to spare someone's feels (perhaps even his own), even when it seems there's no chance the lie will be exposed. But one senses that this is not because he has moral qualms about lying - rather it seems to stem from pure obstinacy.

Class makes its presence felt in the novel - the Catholic / Protestant split is clear both in Dublin and Boston, and the economy class distinctions are on display as well. Dublin is wonderfully painted, compellingly so. Boston I found to be done reasonably well, but the scenes there did not hold my interest until well past midway of the book. As an evocation of time & place, the Boston scenes were good, but not in a class with some of the best books set in the area (by, say, Dennis Lehane or Robert B. Parker). But Dublin....now that was well done.

But the book does not feel like it's ultimately about class, or location, or even religion - rather, it seems a meditation on secrets, mistakes, and the past - the gripping tentacles that reach forward in time to drag us down. The mystery itself (this is after all at least in the form of noir mystery) - well, the surface mystery is not so hard to figure out - I won't spoil it, but I guessed the answer fairly early on in the book. The deeper mystery is harder to sniff out, and (at least for me) comes like a sucker punch in the gut.

Christine Falls was compelling reading. Superficially, it was genre - but like the best literature, it's about what makes people tick.

(A minor complaint - I received this book as part of the LibraryThing "Early Reviewers Program". The implication is that this program is for reviewing not-yet-released books. As it happens, this book has been out for some time - after writing this review I found that there is a NY Times book review written on this book from over a year ago, and the original copyright is from 2006. LibraryThing: What's Up With That? But in the end, who can complain about receiving a book of this quality for free?)

Codexmap news

GoogleMaps Mania did a very nice review of Codexmap yesterday. Gmaps mania is a great resource if you are interested in Google maps applications (but then if you are interested in that, you've probably already been to the site 8)).

He's recently done a nice roundup of hardware-oriented product integrated with Google Maps, including the particularly interesting Pharos Trips & Pics Geologger.

The Greek Islands

I'm currently reading "The Greek Islands" by Lawrence Durrell. First, let's be clear. I haven't been to Greece, although (like many I am sure), I dream of a day when I can pilot my own sailboat into the harbor of a small Greek village washed in blue sky and white buildings. But reading Durrell, I feel like I've been there. The book reads hypnotically. Consider this passage. Durrell is writing about Corfu, and speculating that it is the site for The Tempest:

One of the magical things in The Tempest is the way the atmosphere of the island is experienced and conveyed by the shipwrecked souls when they come ashore. The sleep - the enormous spell of sleep which the land casts upon them. They become dreamers, and somnambulists, a prey to vision and to loves quite outside the ordinary boundaries of their narrow Milanese lives. This seductive quality, its bewitched disengagement from all concern, is something you will not be long in feeling here. The air around you becomes slowly more and more anaesthetic, more blissful, more impregnated with holy sleep. You will realize that this is exactly what happened to the conquerors who landed here - they fell asleep. The French started to build the Rue de Rivoli but fell asleep before it was finished. The British, who had almost a hundred year lease on the place, decided that it needed a seat of Government and built a most elegant one with imported Malta stone, as well as a chapter for the Ionian Parliament which they planned to create (for once, memorable and apposite architecture - is there any other British colony with buildings so fine?). But they fell asleep and the island slipped from their nerveless fingers into the freedom it had always desired. Freedom to dream.

Or:

Coming out of the dark church into the market he will be almost blinded by the light, for the sun is up; and it is now that the impact of this extraordinary phenomenon will begin to intrigue him. The nagging question, 'In what way does Greece differ from Italy or Spain?' will answer itself. The light! One hears the word everywhere 'To Phos' and can recognize its pedigree - among other derivatives is our English word 'phosphorescent', which summons up at once the dancing magnesium-flare quality of the sunlight blazing on a white wall; in the depths of the light there is blackness, but it is a blackness which throbs with violet - a magnetic unwearying ultra-violet throb. This confers a sort of brilliant skin of white light on material objects, linking near and far, and bathing simple objects in a sort of celestial glow-worm hue. It is the naked eyeball of God, so to speak, and it blinds one.

Durrell's casual erudition is on display throughout, especially in his discussion of Minoan and Mycenaean history, where many of his comments about arcane corners of history come off almost as afterthoughts, rather than carefully studied history. And his portrayal of small village customs and interaction styles, while perhaps dated by now, speak to a deep well of experience.

This book, being from the late 70s, may be dated in spots. And as I said, I haven't been there (yet!). But like the best travel writing, reading this book, I feel like I have.