Michael Moorcock’s Into the Media Web: Best SF/F Nonfiction Book of 2010

Michael Moorcock’s Into the Media Web: Selected Short Nonfiction, 1956-2006, edited by John Davey, is the best SF/F nonfiction book published this year. Savoy should be commended for publishing it. John Coulthart did the remarkable design, and he’s shown off that design here. Over 700 pages and 300,000 words, with Alan Moore contributing a foreword and Moorcock himself has written a thorough introduction, which includes several interesting photographs.

Moorcock is a post-WWII literary icon and the range of his enthusiasms, dislikes, and passions is on full display in this book. It’s an important and career-spanning creation, and demonstrates the versatility and depth of Moorcock’s talent. The book is listed as out-of-print on Savoy’s site, but you really must seek it out regardless.

Drawn & Quarterly: Pablo Holmberg, Kevin Huizenga, and Brecht Evans

(OMG–are those mushroom dwellers?!?!?)

Thousands of books arrive at our house every year because of the various reviewing gigs like the NYT and Omnivoracious, and because of Ann editing Weird Tales. Some publishers, time and again, become anonymous in that context. The books all look the same, or there’s something about the format that becomes anonymous.

Others stand out by a mile because they’re recognizably coming at readers from a unique or interesting perspective, and because they vary their formats and design approaches while remaining true to some central focus.

Drawn & Quarterly always puts out cool books. When they come in the door, I can’t just throw them on the stack.

Today, for example, we got Eden by Pablo Holmberg, The Wild Kingdom by Kevin Huizenga, and The Wrong Place by Brecht Evens. The art style of each, the world view behind each, and the size of each book are entirely different. But they share the D&Q vision. They’ve all got great end papers. They each are in the format best-suited for them (Wild Kingdom as a little hardcover, cover image printed on the boards, for example.) Take a look at some samples below, and definitely look for all three. Extremely awesome stuff—and am enjoying the kind of “eavesdropping on party conversation” style of the Evens.

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Hiromi Goto Guest Blogging on Amazon’s Omnivoracious Book Blog

Hiromi Goto, Tiptree Award winner and author of the cross-over YA/adult novel Half World from earlier this year is guest blogging on Amazon’s book blog—and it’s great stuff.

Her first post is about romance or lack thereof in dark fantasy, specifically that her novel doesn’t have that element. (Just one of the things Half World doesn’t do that makes me like it so much.)

Goto’s second post is about a realistic approach to fantasy, which in some ways goes hand-in-hand with the first post. I agree with everything she says there. It’s one of the issues facing fantasists writing today—which is to say there’s this kind of escapist view of how things should happen that tends to destabilize some novels and introduce gaping plot holes as well, or to cover up plot holes with some fantasy element. Anyway, great post.

Check in over at the book blog on Monday and Tuesday when Goto talks about how fantasy is horror’s BBF and some really wonderful and poetic parting thoughts on the genesis of Half World.

Some readers may have missed Half World when it came out in the spring. Now’s your chance to pick up this unique and powerful novel, which also comes with pretty darn cool illustrations.

If you’re so inclined, give these posts some signal boost—I think they’re definitely worth it.

Bull Spec? BULL SO!


Editor-publisher Samuel Montgomery-Blinn recently sent me Bull Spec #3, a new speculative fiction magazine that has featured writers like Joe Haldeman, Natania Barron, Lavie Tidhar, D. Harlan Wilson, Katherine Sparrow (whose work is seriously underrated), Kaolin Fire, John Kessel, and more.

Starting a magazine with a hardcopy presence is probably seen as running counter to the Evidence, but in actual fact that’s one reason why it might be a good time to use this approach—simply because most new genre mags are web-only, or web with a resulting annual anthology.

I have to admit that although I know and respect the editor, I’ve been in the field for 25 years now and I’ve seen dozens and dozens of start-up publications last an issue or two and go the way of the dodo. So I’ve been supportive but also coldly clinical about its chances of sticking around. It’s a tough, tough area of publishing.

So, encountering the third issue made me sit up and take notice. Oh, this magazine might just be around in a year—if it gets sufficient signal boost. All I know is, the little warning bells that always go off in my head when encountering something I’m not sure will have longevity have been snuffed out.

Also, Bull Spec is enjoyably and admirably eclectic. An interview with David Drake would not be the first thing I’d guess would be in the same issue with a story by Sparrow, but it works. The organizing impulse is a roving eye for stuff that’s interesting. The magazine deserves your support.

Bull spec? BULL SO!

Triple Review: Matt Bell’s Story Collection How They Were Found

How They Were Found by Matt Bell is the debut collection by a talented story writer whose work often straddles the gap between realism and fantasy or horror. Formally innovative, his fiction has appeared in Conjunctions and Best American Mystery Stories. The stories range from the tale of a nineteenth-century minister creating a mechanical messiah to the documenting of a strange and failing military outpost. In advance praise for the collection, Laird Hunt called it “fierce, unflinching, funny.”

This is the second book selected for review by Larry Nolen, Paul Charles Smith, and myself. You can read the entries on this book by the other two here and here.

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Amazon’s Best Books of 2010: Top 10 Science Fiction/Fantasy

Amazon has just revealed their top 10 SF/Fantasy books of the year, as well as a general top 100, and I’ve posted two blog entries showcasing all ten titles. The writers on the list are Michal Ajvaz, Charles Yu, Karen Lord, Felix Gilman, N.K. Jemisin, Grace Krilanovich, Dexter Palmer, Nnedi Okorafor, Brian Conn, and Richard Kadrey. The order kept changing and if I had my druthers the list wouldn’t be numbered at all, but in the end Michal Ajvaz won out. The list reflects consultation with Amazon editors and my own reading throughout the year.

Ajvaz’s The Golden Age was a brilliant act of imagination that showcased this Czech writer’s amazing talent—a career-defining book. Charles Yu single-handedly revived the time travel story with a short novel both inventive and poignant. Karen Lord’s Redemption in Indigo is a miracle of storytelling ability and compression and generosity. The dialogue and characters and quality of writing in Felix Gilman’s novel took me by surprise several times, and the book displays complexity and moral ambiguity at every turn. N.K. Jemisin’s wonderful Hundred Thousand Kingdoms plots a non-trad course for fantasy in the twenty-first century. Grace Krilanovich created an amazing phantasmagorical Pacific Northwest in her The Orange Eats Creeps. Dexter Palmer revitalized retro-futurism by way of The Tempest and his own absurdist imagination, while Nnedi Okorafor’s novel Who Fears Death features a brave and original heroine and a unique, often heart-breaking story. Finally, Brian Conn’s The Fixed Stars is a awesomely strange post-capitalist surreal SF mosaic novel and Richard Kadrey continues to mix pop culture and genre tropes in bold, high-energy recombinations.

Anyway, I’ll post about a “second ten” of worthy novels next week, as well as posts on anthologies and story collections before the end of the year. I’ve also invited each writer on the top 10 list to submit their own top 10 list—either of books read during the year, favorite books, or books specifically from 2010–and will post those on Omnivoracious as they come in.

Interesting Juxtapositions: Michal Ajvaz’s The Golden Age and Tim Robinson’s Stones of Aran


What do we mean by slow- versus fast-paced in the books we read? What is the nature of “action” versus “introspection”? Where do nonfiction and fiction have commonalities and interstices?

These are just a few of the general questions I have been asking myself as I re-read and savor Michal Ajvaz’s The Golden Age, a novel about an imaginary island in the Atlantic and begin to read for the first time Tim Robinson’s two-volume Stones of Aran, Pilgrimmage (his trek around the edge) and also Labyrinth (his journey in the interior), about the Aran islands off the coast of Ireland.

Both the Ajvaz and the Robinson are meditations of a sort, both are recursive, both encompass folktale, history, biology, anthropology, geology, architecture, and a myriad of other elements to tell their stories.

Readers who glut themselves on one type of book—thrillers, for example—will need to adjust to the pacing of both authors. However, read in concert, the Ajvaz and the Robinson place the reader in a different context with regard to pacing. The Robinson is so wonderfully and intensely poetic, without being in the least bit florid, that you must read and re-read each chapter for fear of missing something. The Ajvaz has a kind of dreamy intensity, with a specificity that lies somewhere other than the landscapes.

The effect is as if Robinson were the rock you hold onto to in the middle of the Ajvaz River, which glints and glides along hypnotically. You can better appreciate the pacing of the Ajvaz in the context of Robinson, and you soon begin to notice the changes in that pacing much more acutely than if you had paired the novel with, say, Elmore Leonard.

Similarly, the Ajvaz, with its somewhat different focus and different idea of specificity of detail, complements the Robinson by its blurring of fact and fiction, so that in returning to the Robinson you look for fiction in the fact, and you expect story where normally you would see only description.

Which is to say, you have now entered the real-time of the authors’ vision, no longer resistant, and now that you’re synched to it, you are able to appreciate the amazing, strange, and at times transcendent treasures to be found within each book.

Both Ajvaz and Robinson know how to stop Time. Both know how to make a single moment an epiphany, a single detail. Both know how to immerse the reader, if the reader is willing to give him or herself up to being immersed.

Which leads me to the question, what juxtapositions in your reading have you found most useful, unsettling, or revelatory?

Centipede Press: Luxurious Limited Editions of the Tems, Farris, Kuttner


Centipede Press continues to put out beautiful editions, four of which just arrived in the mail: In Concert: The Collected Speculative Fiction, Steve Rasnic Tem & Melanie Tem, Dragonfly by John Farris, Sacrifice by John Farris, Masters of the Weird Tale: Henry Kuttner

Some additional photos of the lovely detail of these books below…






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John le Carre’s My Kind of Traitor

Two years ago I was in the bookstore searching for something to read and my eye alighted upon a whole row of John le Carré novels. I decided to give them a try, and since I tend to gorge when I read, I bought the first twelve of them right then and there.

I read the first one, didn’t think much of it, skipped to The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, liked it but didn’t love it—the ending was too melodramatic and stagey for me—and then read The Looking Glass War and was, from the opening scene, blown the f— away. The use of coincidence for deepening crisis, the ineptitude of the players in the spy services, the desperation of the resulting mission, including the inadequacy of preparation—all of this had a maturity and kind of controlled insanity to it that appealed to me.

I then hungrily devoured (and savored) A Small Town in Germany, which I still think is one of le Carré’s best novels, with so many places where, as a writer, he impressed the hell out of me with his use of craft, while still delivering on an emotional level. By the time I hit A Small Town in Germany, I was having to re-read sections and take notes on all kinds of things he was doing stylistically, approaches to narrative and character, the way he doesn’t usually let character movements be generic, not to mention the way he describes speech in interesting ways.

If we were talking about a great boxer, we’d talk about all of the small things he does well. Like, that little half-step to the left after delivering a punch while turning his shoulder, or the almost imperceptible feint to the right that results in the opponent not just missing but leaving himself open for a counterpunch. Or the way he leans on his opponent while on the ropes to tire him out. Le Carré is that great boxer for me. I see all of the little things he does in his fiction and how that sets up the bigger things, and I’m in awe. So much appears so effortless, and yet it takes monumental effort and practice.

After A Small Town in Germany, I got blissfully lost in the George Smiley novels and didn’t come up for air for six months. Looking at some of those novels, there are fewer pages unmarked than marked. I took at least two years off of the learning curve of acquiring the kind of technique on display, just by reading and re-reading those novels.

Then I came to A Perfect Spy and le Carré kicked my ass again, but in a different way. He found a way to merge the spy thriller and what in the literary mainstream would be called a detailed, complex, and intense portrait of a man from childhood to the present-day of the novel. It’s riveting, moving stuff, and one of my favorite novels.

Although not all of his recent output has hit those highs, le Carré continues to impress me and to motivate me. Now in his 80s, he’s continuing to engage with the world as it currently exists—to dive into the moral ambiguity and controversy—not how it existed when he wrote his most iconic novels about the Cold War. Sometimes his work is on a smaller scale now, sometimes you can see the joins. But then you read something like the first sixty pages of his latest, Our Kind of Traitor, and your mouth drops open again. That first sixty pages is as adroit and skillful an opening to a novel as I’ve read in the last year.

Anyway, I’ve posted the first of a few short pieces on the man’s work on Omnivoracious, and as I post more I’ll try to also post here, if I have time. I’d like to mirror the posts from a reader’s perspective on Omnivoracious with ones from the writer’s perspective on Ecstatic Days.

Reading Gravity’s Rainbow: First 75 Pages, Initial Contact

“Entertainment” and “pleasure” are somewhat devalued words when it comes to reading novels, subject to inflation both through overuse and through association with commercial fiction. With that caveat, I am being mightily entertained, and deriving much pleasure from, Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. I’ve come to the novel after many months of speed reading and of fragmented reading, and reading that lived up to the promise of the text: which is to say, if the text itself isn’t doing much interesting, then why not power-skim it? It only matters what’s going to happen next anyway.

But seventy-five pages into Gravity’s Rainbow (and 18,000 words into my next [short] novel, which is creating lightning bolts in my brain), Pynchon’s novel has proven resistant to restless eyes, to sideways glances, to anything other than slow, immersive reading, and I’m thankful for it. Is it effect or cause that during this time I’m developing a resentment toward answering email, or performing any tasks not connected to reading or writing?

The first thing about the novel that strikes me is the language—its precision, power, and ambition in support of the multiple ways in which Pynchon approaches entry into narrative and character. Its rollicking good (black) humor and assuredness also impress. It’s hard for a text to make me laugh, disturb me, and move me all in the space of a few pages.

What makes the novel so difficult? A lot of characters, and many abrupt transitions into other points of view or into internal reveries that can jolt the reader initially.

Which is fine with me—I’m willing to be ignorant for awhile. I’m willing to live in the dark.** I’m also willing to go back and search for clues, which is why I have now stopped forward progress to re-read the first 75 pages, after which I’ll lurch forward with the context further strengthened in my mind.

Gravity’s Rainbow, in my humble opinion, forces the reader to adapt to its strategies, and the first thing it requires is a careful read. If you’re not willing to give it a patient, honest read, there’s no point in starting.

Other basic ground rules I’ve found useful.

—Don’t assume who the POV character is at the beginning of a scene until Pynchon makes it explicitly clear.

—Don’t expect the normal context and anchors and foundations provided by most authors, at the points at which you might expect them elsewhere.

—Therefore, be prepared not to understand a scene fully until later, when other clues or scenes illuminate it.

—Therefore, be at peace with the idea of being puzzled, even deeply perplexed, and try to enjoy the prose in the moment.

—Further, the lack of context will mean you encounter scenes that will make you deeply uncomfortable, even upset, until you find the later key that puts it in the proper context. Even then, you may feel vaguely disturbed.

—A re-read, especially “regrouping” re-reads while encountering the text for the first time, is a good idea, as this will prove essential to fortifying connections, making bridges between events and characters, and in general bringing the novel into focus.

—Recognize that some terms you may not grok because they’re specific to the World War II era, or specific to the idioms of writers working in the 1970s. Treat such terms as learning opportunities, or treat them like the small, benign, knotted tumors of made-up words you find in some forms of science fiction.

Yesssss, very basic, but has worked well for me. Once I’ve gotten back to page 75, I’ll post about the experience more directly…i.e., engage the text.

**My first major reading experience was The Lord of the Rings trilogy at the age of eight or nine. My parents gave it to me and in some ways it was a bit like a Rosetta Stone combined with the monolith from 2001: I didn’t understand all of it at that age, the vocabulary being beyond my reading skills a lot of the time, but I understood enough to be intrigued and to keep reading, and in some ways the mystery of what I didn’t know made the novels more compelling than they would’ve been otherwise, because I had to create connections, motivations, and narrative to fill in my blind spots. Indeed, my most complete understanding of the trilogy, in a future reading, left me sad and disappointed because the reality of what was on the page couldn’t compete with what I’d conjured up in my mind (even though it was still triggered by Tolkien’s own imagination).