hc.newton

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Cunk on Everything About?

Funny story (well, a story anyway), last week I was in my doctor’s office briefly and the nurse was being nice while she prepared to stab me with a knife (or maybe it was a tiny needle, the witness accounts vary) and she asked me what I was reading. I responded with, “Have you seen that show on Netflix called Cunk on Earth?” She hadn’t. Which made the whole small-talk pitch so much harder.

Because if you have seen the show (even just a clip or two), this is easy—it’s Philomena Cunk’s take on just about everything. History, culture, science, art, philosophy, religion, sports, food, and some of the important individuals in those areas. Presented in her idiosyncratic way, of course.

Now, if you haven’t watched the show—because you’re a reader, or something rare like that—this is trickier. Cunk’s approach to the documentary specials on TV or the encyclopedia entries in this book are a combination of naïveté, misunderstandings (especially in mispronunciation/misspellings), and cynicism.

Miscellaneous Observations

I don’t know how to talk about this book—especially as it’s essentially 1-5 page entries on a wide variety of topics (and that page count is just a guess, I couldn’t tell you from my eARC). The topics range from Alexander the Great, the Alphabet, The Alt Right, The Dark Ages, Democracy, Fake News, “Fullosophy,” Hair, the iPhone, The Mystery of Life, Sausages, “Weeing in Public,” and so on. So, right—forget trying to cover this all intelligibly.

• In lieu of that, here are some miscellaneous observations:
• The pacing is a bit odd—the “H” entries are around the fifty percent mark—I’ve come up with a dozen half-baked ideas/theories/jokes to explain it. It really doesn’t matter, but I thought it was odd. I don’t care—but it was something I noticed.
• The entry on Jazz is just fantastic.
• There are a couple of running jokes—derogatory comments about the idea of books throughout, repeated use of “Frankingstein” (to describe a certain Mary Shelley character), and that the moon landing was faked. This book doesn’t really feel like a vehicle for running jokes, but they work so well.
• The first paragraph about The Oedipus Complex is one of the best things I’ve read in 2023—the last sentence of that paragraph made me almost laugh out loud (but I was in the waiting room of that doctor’s office, so I had to swallow it to prevent strange looks)
• I really didn’t think that you could make many jokes about triangles. The authors of this book proved me wrong—and most of them were really funny, too.
• You are going to hear Diane Morgan’s deadpan delivery in your head whether you read this or get the audiobook. Just know that going in. (you likely assumed it that already, so know that you’re right).
• Mozart and Shakespeare are frequently the targets of jokes—it’s not surprising to see them both as topics here. Some of the funniest things I’ve seen written about both of them are here, too.
• The entry on Xylophones is fantastic—it covers the instrument, the usage of it in alphabet books, the silliness of using it in them (given the pronunciation), and more.

So, what did I think about Cunk on Everything?

I didn’t see (but maybe overlooked) the writers behind this book listed anywhere—but whoever they were, they deserve a round of applause. Or two.

I chuckled and laughed out loud a lot while reading this. There’s really not much more to say—that’s what they were going for.

My daughter and I have spent months sending various Cunk videos back and forth to each other. But now I’ve transitioned to reading her bits and pieces of this as I worked through it. I’m not nearly as good as Morgan at delivering the material, I realize. She’s probably glad I’m finished. But, man is this a quotable read—it’s virtually impossible to resist the urge to share this material.

Whether you go from cover to cover, or dip into it here and there (probably for longer than you intend to)—these brief entries are almost certainly going to be a burst of entertainment for you. Not all of them are going to work for every reader—but never fear, just turn the page and you’re probably going to come across one that will.

I had a blast with this—putting this post together took longer than you’d think based on the brevity of it because I kept getting distracted by the book and re-read large chunks of it. I think you will, too.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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The First Chapter

Don’t worry, I’m not about to go through this book chapter-by-chapter talking about each one—there are thirty chapters, and while I know I can go on and on about books that I like…

No, I’m going to focus on the first chapter for a moment for one reason—your reaction to the first chapter is going to tell you everything you need to know about this book. If you read that chapter (and everyone who’s stumbled onto this post should do at least that) and you think “Yeah, I can see myself enjoying this book.” You almost certainly will. If you read it and think, “Oh yeah! Give me more of that!!” You definitely need to read on. If you read this chapter and aren’t that interested in going on—trust that instinct and move on with your life. Also, I feel bad for you. (but I say that without judgment, even if it doesn’t sound like it).

This chapter isn’t quite the novel in microcosm, but it comes close—it has the spirit, the humor, the action, the supernaturally-charged martial arts, and the panache that will characterize the rest of the book. Anddddd, best of all, it features a very good dog. The book will bring in more characters than just Akina Azure and her dog (frustratingly named Dog*), which is the biggest reason I can’t say this chapter is a microcosm.

* It’s not just this that Akina has in common with Walt Longmire—I actually could write a post comparing the two—but this is my biggest complaint with both of them. You two have great canine companions, they deserve a great name.

So, What’s Partial Function About, Anyway?

I don’t know that I can do better than the description I was given for the cover reveal a couple of weeks ago—I’ve tried, and I keep unintentionally borrowing elements from it, so let’s just use it:

If Taken starred Michelle Yeoh and was set on a Jurassic Park-inspired Cradle.

Monster hunter Akina Azure inherited the most powerful weapon in the martial world before retiring to a peaceful life raising her twin girls.

The Reaver has them kidnapped, thinking Akina will trade that weapon for their safe return.

Will she? Or will she use it to wreak a terrible retribution on the men who took her girls?

You get one guess.

I’ll expand a bit on that, though.

Akina was part of a legendary band of adventurers, The Five Fangs, and then she and her husband Petrick (also one of the band) retired to go live far away and start a family. None of their friends have seen—or heard—from them or of them in years. Long enough for them to raise twins into their teens before Petrick died of blood plague (I don’t know what that is, but the name alone…).

Now, Akina tracks down one of the Fangs, Remy, to help her. She needs his connections to put her in touch with the people she needs to put her rescue plan into action. It wouldn’t hurt to have one of the few people alive that she trusts to have her back, either.

Remy isn’t crazy about the idea, but he can’t say no to Akina. These two past-their-prime warriors are soon joined by a much younger fighter (who is not quite in her prime and has a lot to learn first) that they can’t entirely trust, but can certainly use. Three people and a dog against the most powerful, feared, and twisted warrior (and his army) living. That’s if they can dodge the kaiju-esque monsters along the way.

It’s really not a fair fight.

Fantasy’s Answer to Sam Axe

I predict that most people talking about this book are going to focus on Akina—as they should. And I’m tempted to spend a lot of time talking about Dog, because he’s such a good boy.

But I want to hone in on Remy for a bit. He’s so essential to the way this book works, and I think he’s so easy to overlook. Sure, Akina and Zhu have some good, snappy, dialogue, and Dog being dog is amusing. Remy’s easily the funniest character in the novel and can be seen as only comic relief. That’s an error.

A couple of days ago, in an earlier draft of this post, I made a joke about him essentially being Sam Axe from Burn Notice. I haven’t been able to get that comparison out of my mind. It’s so on the nose. Remy serves as Akina’s Devil’s Advocate, voice of reason, conscience, and confessor. He’s the only one she fully trusts anymore. He knows someone (or knows someone who knows someone) everywhere they go and can get them whatever resources they need. In a fight, he’s almost as good as Akina and saves her on more than one occasion.

He covers all this with a commitment to doing nothing but drinking, womanizing, and lazing about all day—which is pretty much what he’s been doing since Petrick took Akina off to who-knows-where. When called upon, he steps into action, griping the entire time about how it’s cutting into his drinking. Again—Sam Axe.

If you’ve ever wondered what a wuxia-adjacent Bruce Campbell would be like, this is the book for you.

Okay, setting that all aside—at the end of the day, you’re going to like Remy and trust him to do the right thing more than pretty much anyone else in the book (see the next section for a hint of that). His agenda is pretty clear—do the right thing by his friend, do the right thing in general, and then leave everyone to their business so he can get back to pickling his liver. He may not understand the nuances of everything going on—but he’s honest, he’s clever, and he’s tough. Just the kind of guy you want to have around.

The Central Question of the Book

Most—possibly all—of the “bad guys” in this novel wouldn’t describe themselves that way. They think they’re doing the right thing to save the world, or at least civilization. Not just the right thing—the only thing that will save humanity.

But they’re so focused on the ends that they cross all sorts of lines when it comes to means. They do things to increase their power that are repugnant to the reader and just about every character in the novel. Honestly, kidnapping Akina’s twins in order to compel her to surrender her weapon is pretty much the mildest thing the “villains” like the Reaver do to secure the ability they think will help them.

It’d be easy to write them off here—ends don’t justify the means and all that, right?

But when you stop and think about the steps that Akina takes to enable her to rescue the twins? It’s hard to think of her as a hero (and she doesn’t pretend to be one, in fact, she outright denies it).

The novel focuses on Akina; she’s nice (generally) to Remy, Zhu, and her dog as they travel; she’s funny; she defends young women from creeps and slavers…and so on. So you reflexively think of her as a “good guy” a “hero.”

As we read Partial Function, we’re thinking about things like Taken. So let’s start there—are the actions that Bryan Mills takes to rescue Kim, the right thing to do? Sure some of them—but all of them? How about John Wick—think of the death and destruction that comes from him getting his vengeance? We’re inclined to think of Mills* and Wick as the heroes—but are they? I’d ask the same thing about Akina.

* Who am I kidding? None of us think of him as Mills, we think “Liam Neeson”—or “Liam Neesons,” maybe. No one thinks of him as Bryan Mills.

Now, that isn’t a criticism of her as a character. I loved Akina. I wanted to see her win, her whole plan was brilliant, I enjoyed watching her fight, banter, be corrected, and wreak vengeance. Maybe even more than I enjoyed Neeson or Wick doing the same.

I’m just not sure I should.

So, what did I think about Partial Function?

I have a couple of pages of notes that I can’t get to. There are so many quotable moments—because of heart or laughs. Berne’s got a way with words that I’m tempted to call Butcher-esque, and I just want more of it. But I need to get moving, so let’s just say that I had so, so, so much fun with this. Between this, Chu’s The War Arts Saga, and talking a little to Tao Wong this summer, I’ve decided I need to make more room in my reading for wuxia-inspired works.

The world-building deserves a paragraph or five to celebrate it (but it’s taken me 2 weeks to get this much written, I’m not risking putting this off any longer). For example, I should talk about the kaiju-ish creatures, but beyond saying they’re dinosaurish animals with powers that love snacking on humans (when they’re not stomping on them), I don’t know what to say. The political/clan system serves the whole thing well and I’d enjoy seeing more of it in a future installment.

Partial Function is a fast, enjoyable, action-packed read with a lot of heart and just enough humor to help you deal with the stakes and destruction. And these characters? I loved getting to know them and spending time with them. There’s a lot to chew on in these pages if you’re in a thoughtful mood, and if you’re not? You don’t need to, you can just enjoy the ride.

This was intended as a stand-alone, but the door is open for another adventure or so for the survivors. If we get a sequel, I’ll be first in line for it. If we don’t? This is going down as one of my favorite fantasy stand-alones. Either way—I’m encouraging you to read the first chapter and apply what I opened with. I’m sure there will be those who don’t get into this, but I can’t understand why.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Healed About?

I’m pretty sure I’ve said this before, but after deciding to read a book, I basically forget whatever it was that I read it was about. That’s certainly the case here, in the month and a half between being sent it and opening it up, I’d forgotten everything—I dimly remembered it was about a nurse. That was it.

I was right, Cuppy Valentine is a nurse—she has been working for some time now for a urologist, who isn’t the best guy in the world, but he pays pretty well. Cuppy supplements this wage by picking up shifts here and there when she can and where there’s a need. Because this is 21st Century America, there’s always a need—she works in a Pediatric ICU, covers shifts for patients in hospice, and so on. She doesn’t have much of a social life—and will frequently work instead of dating. There’s one pretty cute doctor in the Pediatric ICU, however…

But the most important thing to know about Cuppy is that she works hard to care for her patients—no matter age, class, gender, etc.—or her fellow nurses. This will frequently involve flaunting/bending/fracturing rules/protocols/laws on their behalf. Think Nurse Jackie without the affairs or drug addiction.

That’s what we see for the first 40% or so of the book—Cuppy bouncing between the urology office and various assignments. We meet some patients, we see their distress, we occasionally laugh at situations the jerks find themselves in, we feel bad for the sympathetic ones, and our hearts break over the children kept alive by machines in the ICU.

Then (and this is what I’d forgotten, but it’s in the description so I can say it), Cuppy is given a gift (or a curse). She can heal people by her touch alone. She can hardly believe it—but she can. She begins going around and helping favorite patients, people she’s watched suffer for months and years—and then she broadens her horizons.

Cuppy’s aunt/surrogate-mother, a friend, the aforementioned cute doctor, a local Roman Catholic parish priest, a medical researcher, and more try to direct how she uses this ability. A would-be radio personality/medical specimen driver and a washed-up medical reporter have their own ideas for Cuppy. Legions want her help. All Cuppy wants to do is to help some people—but what’s the best way?

The Tone of the Book

It’s tricky to do medical-based humor—as anyone who’s watched a movie or TV show about it can tell you (the writers, cast, and directors can probably tell you more about it)—particularly if you want to get the medicine right. Alani frequently hits it right—basing things in a urology office probably helps. We all tend to laugh a little easier at things involving that set of plumbing—if only as a defense mechanism.

But she gets the serious stuff right, too. Those dealing with cancer, loneliness, and other heart-breaking conditions—especially the elderly and the very, very young—aren’t treated as avenues for comedy, we get to see them in their honestly tragic settings.

So, what did I think about Healed?

I wasn’t crazy about the way the book started—but I’d gotten into the groove of the episodic nature. It was enjoyable enough, but a series of set pieces like we were given is almost never going to be something I celebrate.

But when she gained her abilities, the book really took off. I’m not 100% sure I liked how Cuppy was treated by the author for the last half of the book—she really lost a lot of her maverick nature and agency. Alani largely justified it through circumstance—and eventually Cuppy started being herself again, but I think it went on too long without it.

I didn’t buy—or care one whit about—the love story. I think there’s a better way for Alani to get the doctor and his point of view into Cuppy’s story. But it wouldn’t surprise me to find I’m in the minority there.

Her fellow nurse and the receptionist in the Urology office (along with a couple of patients) made this book for me, though. They ground Cuppy, tell us more about her than the narration does, and get you to like her.

Occasionally—and Cuppy’s not around when this happens—Alani’s humor gets mean and insulting, usually in a condescending manner. That turned me off big time. Frequently, that has something to do with someone in the media (but not always). Perhaps she was trying to say something bigger about reporters, the press, TV/Radio personalities—but it fell flat. Maybe Alani had to cut some bigger pieces of that somewhere along the way that would’ve made these sections work, and inadvertently left these brief bits in where they stood out a little more. I don’t know—but it would’ve helped to cut all of those things.

The first chapter in the pediatric ICU was heartwrenching. Cuppy’s take on what we do to keep a little one alive—at the costs for the children and families (on all levels)—is likely to make you uncomfortable. And that’s the point. Even if you ultimately disagree with her (as I do), it’s something we should all think more about.

I do recommend this to those who read medical comedies/dramas and can appreciate a little supernatural element to them. Healed is an occasionally bumpy ride, but it’s an enjoyable one.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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This is Hard

I want to limit my comparisons between this new series and Jacka’s previous series to just one section—but that’s not going to happen. It makes sense, I suppose. It’s Jacka’s first non-Alex Verus book (other than the two hard-to-find children’s novels), so comparisons are inevitable, but I don’t want to turn this into an X vs. Y situation.

I will say at the outset, that if it wasn’t for the name on the cover, I don’t know that I’d have known they had the same author—so that tells you something about the comparisons. (except in quality—this is definitely up to the standards Jacka has established)

What’s An Inheritance of Magic About?

This is tricky. The Author’s Note at the beginning of the book tells us that this book is an introduction to the series. We are introduced to the world, the characters, the magic, and so on. Yes, there is a plot—a handful, actually—but the main point is for us to get oriented.

Basically, we meet Stephen—he’s roughly 20 and is fairly aimless. He doesn’t have the money (or, really, ambition) to go to University. He bounces from temp job to temp job, hangs out at his local with his friends regularly, takes care of his cat, and works on his magic in his spare time. It’s his real passion, but he doesn’t do much with it.

Then one day, some distant relatives that he’s never heard of come into his life (it’d be too complicated to list the reasons they give, and I think they’re half-truths at best, anyway). Suddenly, Stephen is thrown into a dangerous, high-stakes world of money and power—and he’s just a pawn to be used in the games of his “family” (and by family, I mean people that 23andMe would identify as relatives, but he’s never been in contact with or aware of for his entire existence). He’s a relatively unimportant pawn at that. He’s sort of grateful for that as he realizes it—but he’d have been happier if they never bothered him in the first place. Happier and with significantly fewer bruises.

However, through their machinations, he’s introduced to new levels of magic society and ways that the magic in this world works. Best of all he finds ways that he can be employed and use his magic—the best of both worlds. Sure, his friends don’t get it (not that he tells many of them, because he prefers that they think he’s sane), but he’s bringing in enough money to live and he’s getting stronger and more capable.

The World and Its Magic System

So, where the Alex Verus series was about one man and his friends/allies trying to navigate (and survive) the politics and power of the magical society in England (largely), at this point the Stephen Oakwood series appears to be about one man making his way (and hopefully surviving) the money and power of a different sort magical society—and it’s intersection with the non-magical world. We’re not just talking Econ 101 kind of stuff here—Stephen’s family appears to be some of the 1% of the 1% and there are huge multi-national corporations involved here with defense contracts to governments all over the world.

Basically, Alex had an easier place to navigate.

Most of the magic that’s used in this world comes from sigils—physical objects created from various kinds of energy wells (earth magic, life magic, light magic, and so on) to do particular tasks (shine a light, augment strength, heal minor wounds, etc.). There are likely bigger and better things along those lines (hence defense contracts), but that should give you an idea. The overwhelming number of these sigils are pumped out by some sort of industrial companies and are only good for a limited amount of time.

Stephen was taught (by his father, and by himself) to make sigils on his own—his are individualized, artisanal kinds of things. Think of a sweater you get from some hobbyist off of Etsy vs. the kind of thing you can get for much less at Walmart or on Wish—quality that lasts vs. cheap and disposable. He also reverse engineers almost all of his sigils—he sees something in a catalog (no, really, this is how people get their sigils for personal use) or in use and tries to figure out how such a thing will work and then sets out to create one.

I don’t know where Jacka is going to go with all of this, obviously. But I love this setup.

Alex and Stephen

It wasn’t until I was just about done with the book that I finally figured out what Alex and Stephen had in common—which is odd, it was staring me in the face for most of the novel. But before that, I really wouldn’t have said they had much in common at all.

Stephen is our entry point to this world, and he only knows a little bit about it so as he learns, so does the reader. Alex pretty much knew everything that was going on in his world, so he had to catch the reader up—or he could help Luna understand something (and make it easier for the reader to learn that way). Stephen has to learn almost everything by getting someone to teach him, or through trial and error—either way, the reader is along for the ride and learns with him.

Similarly, Stephen’s really just starting to get the knack of his abilities where Alex was already a pro—sure he had more to learn (and his power increased), but Stephen’s not even a rookie, really when things get going.

Stephen had a loving and supportive father growing up, a strong group of friends, and experience outside the area of magic users—something we never got a strong idea that Alex ever had. Alex had trauma and hardships behind him—Stephen doesn’t. So their personalities, outlooks, etc. are very different from the outset.

It’s not really that shocking that the protagonists of two different series wouldn’t be that similar. And yet…we’ve all read a second or third series from an author with a protagonist that’s just a variation of their initial breakout character. So it’s good to see that Jacka’s able to make that transition between his two series—it gives you hope for what he’s going to do in the future.

Oh, what did I finally realize the two characters shared? They watch and learn. Alex does it because that’s essentially what his abilities were—he could sift through the various futures and decide what to do based on that. Stephen just doesn’t know enough about anything so he has to sit and observe—and from there he can decide how to act. But where others will try to think first and act second, Stephen and Alex watch first—and for a long time—before they think and then act. It’s something not enough characters (especially in Urban Fantasy) seem to spend much time doing. So I’m glad to see it.

So, what did I think about An Inheritance of Magic?

I am just so excited about this series. I didn’t know how Jacka could successfully follow up the Verus series. I trusted he would, because he’s earned that over the last decade—but, I didn’t expect We need to start with Stephen’s spunky attitude—with a little bit of a chip on his shoulder due to his circumstances in life (that grows to a degree as he learns how much he and his father missed out on and starts to guess why)—is a real winner. He’s got a gritty (in an Angela Duckworth sense, not Raymond Chandler or William Gibson sense) outlook, is generally optimistic—and can even be funny—all the attributes you want in an underdog.

Then there’s the world-building that I tried to sketch out above—and did a not-wholly-inadequate job of. I want to know more about it—and figure increased familiarity is just going to make me more curious.

I have so many questions about the family members who’ve inserted themselves in Stephen’s life related to their motivations, trustworthiness (I suspect at least one will turn out to be an ally, however temporary), goals, and abilities. I have those questions about Stephen’s guides and allies—and think at least one of them is going to turn on him in a devastating way (thankfully, he doesn’t trust most of them completely). There’s also this priest who keeps assigning him theological work to study. Some good theology, too. I don’t fully know where this is going—but I’m dying to find out.

Are we going to get a Big Bad—or several—for Stephen to face off against? Or is this simply going to be about a series of obstacles Stephen has to overcome until he can carve out an okay existence for himself? Is this about Stephen becoming one of those 1% and the corruption of his character that will necessitate?

I’m not giving this a full 5 stars mostly because of the introductory nature of the book—also because I want to be able to say that book 2 or 3 is an improvement over this (which I fully expect). But that says more about me and my fussy standards than it does about this book. I loved it, and am filled with nothing but anticipation for the sequel/rest of the series. It’s entirely likely that as this series wraps up that we’re going to talk about the Alex Verus series as Jacka with his training wheels on.

I’m now in danger of over-hyping. Also, I’m going to just start repeating laudatory ideas. Urban Fantasy readers need to get on this now.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s ‘Twas the Bite Before Christmas About?

On the night of the Tara Foundation’s holiday party, Andy’s friend Pete Stanton, of the homicide department, calls him to ask Andy to bring one of his volunteers outside, so the police don’t have to cause a scene. Andy does so and immediately steps into the role of the volunteer’s attorney. He doesn’t know Derek Moore very well, but he likes Derek—and Derek’s dogs (more importantly), and wants to protect him at least until they both know what’s going on.

Andy quickly learns something about Derek—as he’s arrested, it’s revealed that his real name is Robert Klaster. Up until a couple of years ago, Bobby was in a gang in South Jersey. It was growing more and more violent, up to the point that Bobby was the wheelman for a murder. He went to the cops and turned in the men he drove—after their conviction, the state witness protection program moved him to Patterson with a new name.

Bobby’s made the most of this second chance and has become an upstanding citizen and moderately successful business owner—in addition to a great dog shelter volunteer. But now one of the leaders of his old gang has been killed in Patterson, and a tip led Stanton’s men straight to Bobby—with just enough evidence for them to make an arrest. The case is strong, but not air-tight. The question in front of Andy is can he take advantage of the weaknesses while finding the real killer?

And just why would someone bother setting Bobby up now?

The Recurring Cast

Almost the whole (and continually expanding) cast of regulars is around. Edna’s traveling, but we still get a couple of jokes about her work habits. Eddie shows up, but barely gets any dialogue—and not one sports cliché!—I really enjoyed those (see also: Sam’s song-talking), but the rest are about in their typical form.

Which is important—as much as these books are about the mystery/mysteries surrounding Andy’s case, it’s Andy and the crew we come back to spend time with. Including Tara, Sebastian, and Hunter—Sebastian particularly has some good moments in this book.

I do wonder if the supporting cast is getting too large, which is why Edna and Eddie get barely more than mentions. This makes sense, and it’d be good for Rosenfelt to rotate some of these in and out from book to book. It’d be better than cutting any of these for whatever reason—and better than just a token mention.

That said, Rosenfelt gave us some more than typical reflection on members of the cast. It was good to see Andy explain the specialization of work in his firm and for Andy to bring up the ethics of what he gets Sam to do in his narration. Cory’s been good about that in the companion series, but it’s not that frequent in this series.

I’m not sure if I had a point when I started this section, it’s basically turned into “assorted thoughts on the use of the supporting characters.” So let’s see if I can summarize my take on them for this novel—I enjoyed seeing them all, and am glad we got to spend time with them. I do wonder, however, if more judicious use of some of them per book rather than all of them each time, would be a better experience for the reader.

The Holiday-ness of It

So, this is the holiday-themed release for the series this year, as the title and cover image tell you. Very little in the book tells you that, however.

We don’t even get the typical (and always enjoyable) rant about Laurie’s months-long commemoration of Christmas. He gives a compressed version, but it’s not the same. In its place, we get Andy’s extended (and not favorable) review of egg nog. There are a few references to Christmas and a couple of the following holidays—but it’s not focused on too much. Honestly, we spend more time on Ricky’s soccer-fandom* than on any Federal or religious holiday.

* That was great to read about. Poor Andy. I get the same feeling when my kids prefer other SF franchises to Star Trek.

Do I care? Nope. I’ll take any excuse to hang with Andy and the gang. But I figure since it’s part of the theme of the book I should nod in it’s direction.

So, what did I think about ‘Twas the Bite Before Christmas?

This has nothing to do with anything, but Andy references the case in Flop Dead Gorgeous at one point in the book. It’s been a long time since he’s mentioned a previous case (outside of Willie Miller’s, which gets mentioned from time to time). It’s a nice touch to keep the series building on itself.

There were a couple of other things that stood out to me about this book compared to the rest of the series: Bobby’s about as close to an unsympathetic client as Rosenfelt gives us anymore (maybe ever—this is the twenty-eighth book in the series, I don’t remember the client in every one). And it’s good that Rosenfelt gives us some characters that are hard to root for—although a reformed criminal is pretty easy to root for, come to think of it.

Secondly, Andy slips up (at least in his mind, although Laurie disagrees) and it leads to some tragic consequences. Now, no one’s out there thinking that Andy’s infallible by any means, but it’s rare that a move on his part has such an obvious negative consequence. I’m not suggesting that we need to see major mistakes from our hero in every novel—but it’s good to see that just because Andy Carpenter gets involved, not everything is going to be sunshine and roses.

That said, he’s definitely at the point where I have to wonder why the DA keeps taking Andy’s clients to trial—when will they learn? Also, Pete sounds far too convinced that Andy’s client is guilty, you’d think he, in particular, would have more faith in his friend. This is a question countless readers have asked about Hamilton Burger and Lt. Tragg, as well, and the answer is simply: we wouldn’t get to see Andy or Perry Mason do their thing otherwise.

‘Twas the Bite Before Christmas delivered just what I expected—a good time with characters I enjoy, a clever whodunit, some fun moments with fictional dogs, and a satisfying resolution. Rosenfelt delivers that and more—there’s a sweet bonus moment to the resolution that adds a little holiday glow to the book (that works equally well in mid-September as it will closer to the holiday, or at any point in the calendar year that you happen to read this in). You’d do well to pick it up, whether you’re new to the series or a die-hard fan.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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A Quick Vocabulary Lesson

Leave it to our Teutonic friends to have a word for every occasion—in this case, we’re talking about “Fernweh.” Briefly, it’s the opposite of homesickness. It’s a longing for a far-off place, a farsickness. Not necessarily a particular place, but frequently it is one. The desire to travel would be another way to put it.

What’s Farsickness About?

Hal—he doesn’t really remember much about himself beyond his name—is hearing a voice inside his head. A voice telling him to go home. To go to Scotland (a place Hal doesn’t think he’s ever been, so how is it home?), to a particular castle there. Hal decides to call this voice “Fern” (from Fernweh, in case it wasn’t clear why I started talking about it) and does what Fern tells him to. Hal asks a lot of questions, only some of which get answers.

Then like Dante with Virgil, Christian with Evangelist (and others), Hal is taken on a journey once he gets off the plane in Scotland that is so strange, so fraught with peril and symbolism, and the difficult to explain, that I’m not going to bother trying. But in the end, Hal is taken on the journey to the places he’s really longing for.

So, what did I think about Farsickness?

The writing here—regardless what you think of what and who Mohr’s writing about—is worth your time. He’s got some of the nicest, most evocative phrases and sentences I’ve come across this year. They can make you grin until you remember he’s describing something horrible (or just plain weird). I think some passages would be great to read aloud—or listen to—just because of the sounds. There’s a scene of a submarine sinking, for example, it was a pure pleasure to read, the imagery was fantastic, it was a little funny, the vocabulary was vivid—and yet, it was about a manned vehicle going down. I tell you what, Tom Clancy, couldn’t have done it better (and he’d have taken multiple pages rather than the very tight paragraph or two Mohr used)—or as well.

I only have an ARC, so I’m not going to quote from it, just in case something changed—so you don’t get samples, but I’m telling you, it’s great. Think Lance Olsen, Mark Richard, or (because those names are likely too obscure) a decaffeinated Mark Leyner, and you’re on the right track. Kind of.

I’m clearly having trouble talking about that, so let’s move on to the who and what.

The more I think about it (and I’ve spent longer on it than I anticipated), I don’t know that Hal actually had fernweh. I think it’s something else—or we’re talking a metaphorical other place he wants to go. Or he thought he had fernweh, but was mistaken/confused/deceived. And…ugh. it’s hard to talk about what I’m trying to say without a lot of citations and deep-diving. It’s just something to think about as you read, I guess—”is ‘fernweh’ an appropriate term?” I actually think it adds another layer or three to things if Hal wasn’t feeling that after all. Not that it’s a bad or misleading title. I’m just wondering if we need to ponder it a while.

I’m also tempted to say that I’m overthinking things. But I’m reasonably sure that Mohr wouldn’t agree that I was.

(this would be so much easier to talk about if you had all read the book already. Why don’t you all agree to go read it right now and come back in 140 pages or so to read the rest of my post about why you should read it? Yeah…there’s something about that proposal that doesn’t work.)

Farsickness is one of those books that will tempt you almost immediately to try and figure out “what’s really going on,” to dive into the symbolism and other figurative representations to get to the bottom of things. I’d encourage you not to, just let Mohr and Hal take you along this surreal exploration of parts unknown (or are they?). Just let it unfold—relatively quickly you’ll start to think, “Oh, this is about ____.” Not long after that, you’ll know, “this is about ____.” Then you’ll start to see why it’s about ____, and why it matters. And everything you wondered about at the beginning will make utter sense. Then you’ll get some resolution to the story. Yeah, you could suss it out early on if you set your mind to it—but I think it’s a more satisfying experience (at least with this novel), if you let Mohr do the work.

Also, that approach lets you soak in and enjoy the very peculiar characters and imagery. Both of those deserve discussions of 500-1000 words a piece, but I’m not the writer to provide that.

There’s a pretty simple—and heart-tugging and sweet—story at the center of all this. But the 3+ licks to get to that Tootsie Roll center are enjoyable in their own way—and might do a little heart-tugging of their own. Yes, that candy shell is about trauma, healing, violence, forgiveness, and horror. But it’s not presented in a way that will make it too difficult to read. Like Hal, I didn’t know where I’d end up when I started the journey through Farsickness and I ended up far away from where I started—but it was absolutely worth the time (actually, it’d have been worth longer than it took, too).

This is no straightforward narrative, but the prose isn’t terribly dense and is fairly effortless to get through. After a few pages, you won’t notice it at all, Mohr will have sucked you into his absurd little reality and you’ll be turning pages like this is a thriller. I don’t know that I’d have gone out of my way for this (particularly with the cover), but I’m very glad Farsickness came across my path, and I wager you will be, too, if you give it a chance.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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The Background of Godzilla and Godzilla Raids Again

The movie producer, Tomoyuki Tanaka, brought some ideas (largely adopted from a Ray Bradbury story) to the novelist, Shigeru Kayama, and asked him to turn them into a story for a film. This story, in turn, was developed into a screenplay by Ishirō Honda and Takeo Murata (the director and assistant director) and became the movie Godzilla.

Godzilla was such a success that Tanaka had Kayama come up with a follow-up story, that became Godzilla Raids Again (although Godzilla Counterattacks is a better translation, that’s not what the movie’s title was originally titled in English).

About that time, Kayama was done with the movies and what they were doing to his idea about the monster—but he was helping to launch a series of books for young adult readers and adapted his original ideas for the movies into novellas for that series. These novellas came out around the time of the second movie’s release. Now, they’re being translated into English for the first time.

What’s Godzilla About?

The testing of some nuclear weapons in the Pacific Ocean has disturbed a long-dormant dinosaur/monster. Not only is it now awake, it may have mutated by the bomb(s). Angry and confused, it stumbles onto the Japanese islands and wreaks havoc on the people and cities it encounters.

The beast kills and destroys multitudes and seems invincible to every weapon that the nation has access to. But one scientist has been developing a new kind of weapon, that he doesn’t trust any government to have access to—but he might be forced to unveil it to stop Godzilla.

What’s Godzilla Raids Again About?

It was theorized when Godzilla showed up in the first novella that he might not be the sole monster/dinosaur/kaiju to have been awakened by the tests. A pair of pilots* working for a fishing company stumble upon another Godzilla on an island near Japan—while they’re trying to escape from that Godzilla, it’s attacked by another monster/dinosaur/kaiju, later identified as an Anguirus. The two pilots manage to escape following the fight between the two monsters.

* One of those pilots is named Kobayashi, and any good Star Trek fan knows bad things are about to happen as soon as that name is seen.

They rush back to warn the Anti-Godzilla Task Force who begin to strategize a defense against the monster—they cannot access the same weapon used last time, so they’re going to have to come up with something better, and quickly.

The Supplementary Materials

In addition to the novellas, the book has some additional material—the first (and most useful) is an Afterword, “Translating an Icon,” by the translator (obviously). These 30± pages contained answers to almost every question I had while reading—including a few things that I think would’ve been helpful knowing going into the book (the relation of the novellas to the films, the extent of Kayama’s involvement with the creation of Godzilla, why he published the novellas, etc.).

But there’s a lot of information that I’m glad I didn’t know going in—the critique of the U.S. nuclear testing, why it had to be so subtle, why the films didn’t include it as much as the novellas did, where (and why, sometimes) the films and novellas diverge, and the meaning of some of the more emotional moments. There were points where it was clear that something important or meaningful had happened, but I wasn’t sure exactly what it was—Angles helped a lot.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that in a perfect world (at least perfect for me), we’d have gotten a foreword as well the afterword—but like just about every writer out there, Angles wasn’t writing to satisfy my whims. And as an Afterword, he could really get into spoilers and things it’s best to have explained after the text.

The whole thing was so interesting I could’ve easily read something twice the length (and something tells me that Angles could’ve done that without much effort, it was probably harder for him to leave out ideas and details). The part I enjoyed the most was his discussion of a few translation issues, for example, the excessive (for a contemporary English reader, anyway) use of onomatopoeias throughout the book—but particularly in the battle scenes, or scenes when Godzilla is angry and taking it out on human structures and devices. Those pages read like the Batman TV series from 1966—full of Bams, Pows, and the like. And Angles describes how he cut many of them by translating them somewhat differently. He also discussed how he chose to spell the roars of Godzilla and Anguirus, and I really enjoyed that.

There were some things that he wanted to do a more accurate job of translating, but given the history fans have with the films, etc. he chose to stay consistent with the films, so he wouldn’t have to fend off accusations of bad work from those fans. I absolutely get why he’d make that choice, and feel so bad for him that he had to make it.

I’d noticed that there was a Glossary of Names, Places, and Ideas at the end of the book, but completely forgot to use it while reading the novellas. I don’t know that using it would’ve helped me too much during the reading—almost always the context was clear enough to get the meaning across. But reading it afterward helped clarify a thing or two, but by and large, those were minor details that not knowing them didn’t detract much from the text. The things I really needed (and some I could’ve guessed at) were in the handful of footnotes throughout the novellas. The Glossary was pretty interesting to read, I should note.

So, what did I think about Godzilla and Godzilla Raids Again?

Before I get into this, I want to take a moment to say how cool it was to get to read a book about Godzilla. From the time I can remember this monster has been something I’ve been aware of in some way. The old movies, cartoons about him (and his goofy nephew, Godzooky), the toys, the newer movies, and everything in between. He’s just been one of the coolest creatures in my pop culture awareness—there’ve been few times that I’ve clicked on “Request” so hard on NetGalley. Now, I do have to admit, it’s been decades since I watched the original films—I’m much more familiar with the Gamera movies than Godzilla. So I had to wait until the Afterword to know what was different between what I was reading and what audiences saw in the 50s (it was certainly different enough from the Emmerich movie from 1998, that I remember more of than I want to).

I did think some of the dialogue was pretty stilted, and some of the character reactions seemed overwrought (and some underwrought). It actually reminded me a lot of the Gamera films and other English-dubbed live-action shows/movies I’ve watched—and while reading the book, I frequently thought that I owed those who wrote the scripts for the dubbing an apology—their work felt a lot like Angles’ translation. I don’t think that the dialogue or characterizations damaged my appreciation of the work, it just underlined for me that this is the work of another culture (and another time). So they’d better not sound like native English speakers, and should probably act/react in ways that don’t seem particularly American. What might be slightly off-putting at first quickly becomes part of the charm of the novellas.

The intended audience for these novellas were young adults, and throughout Kayama would insert asides “You may not understand…” or “You’ve probably seen something like…” to help his reader understand what’s going on, or perhaps the feeling behind it. The first time it happened, it was entirely unexpected, but I enjoyed the idea. I liked each successive one more than the last and was disappointed that we didn’t get nearly as many as I’d hoped. I don’t know if this was characteristic of his writing (I suspect it wasn’t), but for these novellas, it really worked.

We don’t see Godzilla right away, and Kayama did a great job of building the tension until we do—he’s there, doing damage and terrifying people, but the reader doesn’t get an idea of what they’re seeing until we’re about one-third of the way through the first novella. As impatient as I was to see the monster myself, I wish he’d been able to hold out a little longer. Now in the second book, we know what Godzilla looks like, so we can skip the build-up and throw him in right away—and then add Anguirus just a couple of pages later.

I found everything about Godzilla more satisfying than Godzilla Raids Again, but the latter was more fun and action-packed. I can see where some might be put off by the not-at-all-subtle messaging of Godzilla, but I thought it fit the story and the need at the time.

The Afterword and Glossary added a lot to my understanding and appreciation of what Kayama was seeking to accomplish and say, lifting the impact of the book as a whole. The novellas on their own would’ve been entertaining and satisfying, mostly as an artifact of another era (see what I said about the dialogue and characterizations)—but the supplementary material added the necessary context and definition to the novellas so that I walked away with a better understanding and appreciation for the book. Don’t skip those bits.

I’ve said a lot more than I expected to—and have only scratched the surface of what I’d hoped to say. So let me cut to the chase—I really enjoyed this experience—fun novellas, a deeper understanding of the creature and the themes the original movie was trying to explore, and a glimpse into Japan of the 1950s. And, once again, it’s a book about Godzilla, do you really need me to say more? I heartily encourage you to check this book up. Now, I’ve got to go track down some black-and-white films.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s ‘Twas the Bite Before Christmas About?

On the night of the Tara Foundation’s holiday party, Andy’s friend Pete Stanton, of the homicide department, calls him to ask Andy to bring one of his volunteers outside, so the police don’t have to cause a scene. Andy does so and immediately steps into the role of the volunteer’s attorney. He doesn’t know Derek Moore very well, but he likes Derek—and Derek’s dogs (more importantly), and wants to protect him at least until they both know what’s going on.

Andy quickly learns something about Derek—as he’s arrested, it’s revealed that his real name is Robert Klaster. Up until a couple of years ago, Bobby was in a gang in South Jersey. It was growing more and more violent, up to the point that Bobby was the wheelman for a murder. He went to the cops and turned in the men he drove—after their conviction, the state witness protection program moved him to Patterson with a new name.

Bobby’s made the most of this second chance and has become an upstanding citizen and moderately successful business owner—in addition to a great dog shelter volunteer. But now one of the leaders of his old gang has been killed in Patterson, and a tip led Stanton’s men straight to Bobby—with just enough evidence for them to make an arrest. The case is strong, but not air-tight. The question in front of Andy is can he take advantage of the weaknesses while finding the real killer?

And just why would someone bother setting Bobby up now?

The Recurring Cast

Almost the whole (and continually expanding) cast of regulars is around. Edna’s traveling, but we still get a couple of jokes about her work habits. Eddie shows up, but barely gets any dialogue—and not one sports cliché!—I really enjoyed those (see also: Sam’s song-talking), but the rest are about in their typical form.

Which is important—as much as these books are about the mystery/mysteries surrounding Andy’s case, it’s Andy and the crew we come back to spend time with. Including Tara, Sebastian, and Hunter—Sebastian particularly has some good moments in this book.

I do wonder if the supporting cast is getting too large, which is why Edna and Eddie get barely more than mentions. This makes sense, and it’d be good for Rosenfelt to rotate some of these in and out from book to book. It’d be better than cutting any of these for whatever reason—and better than just a token mention.

That said, Rosenfelt gave us some more than typical reflection on members of the cast. It was good to see Andy explain the specialization of work in his firm and for Andy to bring up the ethics of what he gets Sam to do in his narration. Cory’s been good about that in the companion series, but it’s not that frequent in this series.

I’m not sure if I had a point when I started this section, it’s basically turned into “assorted thoughts on the use of the supporting characters.” So let’s see if I can summarize my take on them for this novel—I enjoyed seeing them all, and am glad we got to spend time with them. I do wonder, however, if more judicious use of some of them per book rather than all of them each time, would be a better experience for the reader.

The Holiday-ness of It

So, this is the holiday-themed release for the series this year, as the title and cover image tell you. Very little in the book tells you that, however.

We don’t even get the typical (and always enjoyable) rant about Laurie’s months-long commemoration of Christmas. He gives a compressed version, but it’s not the same. In its place, we get Andy’s extended (and not favorable) review of egg nog. There are a few references to Christmas and a couple of the following holidays—but it’s not focused on too much. Honestly, we spend more time on Ricky’s soccer-fandom* than on any Federal or religious holiday.

* That was great to read about. Poor Andy. I get the same feeling when my kids prefer other SF franchises to Star Trek.

Do I care? Nope. I’ll take any excuse to hang with Andy and the gang. But I figure since it’s part of the theme of the book I should nod in it’s direction.

So, what did I think about ‘Twas the Bite Before Christmas?

This has nothing to do with anything, but Andy references the case in Flop Dead Gorgeous at one point in the book. It’s been a long time since he’s mentioned a previous case (outside of Willie Miller’s, which gets mentioned from time to time). It’s a nice touch to keep the series building on itself.

There were a couple of other things that stood out to me about this book compared to the rest of the series: Bobby’s about as close to an unsympathetic client as Rosenfelt gives us anymore (maybe ever—this is the twenty-eighth book in the series, I don’t remember the client in every one). And it’s good that Rosenfelt gives us some characters that are hard to root for—although a reformed criminal is pretty easy to root for, come to think of it.

Secondly, Andy slips up (at least in his mind, although Laurie disagrees) and it leads to some tragic consequences. Now, no one’s out there thinking that Andy’s infallible by any means, but it’s rare that a move on his part has such an obvious negative consequence. I’m not suggesting that we need to see major mistakes from our hero in every novel—but it’s good to see that just because Andy Carpenter gets involved, not everything is going to be sunshine and roses.

That said, he’s definitely at the point where I have to wonder why the DA keeps taking Andy’s clients to trial—when will they learn? Also, Pete sounds far too convinced that Andy’s client is guilty, you’d think he, in particular, would have more faith in his friend. This is a question countless readers have asked about Hamilton Burger and Lt. Tragg, as well, and the answer is simply: we wouldn’t get to see Andy or Perry Mason do their thing otherwise.

‘Twas the Bite Before Christmas delivered just what I expected—a good time with characters I enjoy, a clever whodunit, some fun moments with fictional dogs, and a satisfying resolution. Rosenfelt delivers that and more—there’s a sweet bonus moment to the resolution that adds a little holiday glow to the book (that works equally well in mid-September as it will closer to the holiday, or at any point in the calendar year that you happen to read this in). You’d do well to pick it up, whether you’re new to the series or a die-hard fan.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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The Background of Godzilla and Godzilla Raids Again

The movie producer, Tomoyuki Tanaka, brought some ideas (largely adopted from a Ray Bradbury story) to the novelist, Shigeru Kayama, and asked him to turn them into a story for a film. This story, in turn, was developed into a screenplay by Ishirō Honda and Takeo Murata (the director and assistant director) and became the movie Godzilla.

Godzilla was such a success that Tanaka had Kayama come up with a follow-up story, that became Godzilla Raids Again (although Godzilla Counterattacks is a better translation, that’s not what the movie’s title was originally titled in English).

About that time, Kayama was done with the movies and what they were doing to his idea about the monster—but he was helping to launch a series of books for young adult readers and adapted his original ideas for the movies into novellas for that series. These novellas came out around the time of the second movie’s release. Now, they’re being translated into English for the first time.

What’s Godzilla About?

The testing of some nuclear weapons in the Pacific Ocean has disturbed a long-dormant dinosaur/monster. Not only is it now awake, it may have mutated by the bomb(s). Angry and confused, it stumbles onto the Japanese islands and wreaks havoc on the people and cities it encounters.

The beast kills and destroys multitudes and seems invincible to every weapon that the nation has access to. But one scientist has been developing a new kind of weapon, that he doesn’t trust any government to have access to—but he might be forced to unveil it to stop Godzilla.

What’s Godzilla Raids Again About?

It was theorized when Godzilla showed up in the first novella that he might not be the sole monster/dinosaur/kaiju to have been awakened by the tests. A pair of pilots* working for a fishing company stumble upon another Godzilla on an island near Japan—while they’re trying to escape from that Godzilla, it’s attacked by another monster/dinosaur/kaiju, later identified as an Anguirus. The two pilots manage to escape following the fight between the two monsters.

* One of those pilots is named Kobayashi, and any good Star Trek fan knows bad things are about to happen as soon as that name is seen.

They rush back to warn the Anti-Godzilla Task Force who begin to strategize a defense against the monster—they cannot access the same weapon used last time, so they’re going to have to come up with something better, and quickly.

The Supplementary Materials

In addition to the novellas, the book has some additional material—the first (and most useful) is an Afterword, “Translating an Icon,” by the translator (obviously). These 30± pages contained answers to almost every question I had while reading—including a few things that I think would’ve been helpful knowing going into the book (the relation of the novellas to the films, the extent of Kayama’s involvement with the creation of Godzilla, why he published the novellas, etc.).

But there’s a lot of information that I’m glad I didn’t know going in—the critique of the U.S. nuclear testing, why it had to be so subtle, why the films didn’t include it as much as the novellas did, where (and why, sometimes) the films and novellas diverge, and the meaning of some of the more emotional moments. There were points where it was clear that something important or meaningful had happened, but I wasn’t sure exactly what it was—Angles helped a lot.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that in a perfect world (at least perfect for me), we’d have gotten a foreword as well the afterword—but like just about every writer out there, Angles wasn’t writing to satisfy my whims. And as an Afterword, he could really get into spoilers and things it’s best to have explained after the text.

The whole thing was so interesting I could’ve easily read something twice the length (and something tells me that Angles could’ve done that without much effort, it was probably harder for him to leave out ideas and details). The part I enjoyed the most was his discussion of a few translation issues, for example, the excessive (for a contemporary English reader, anyway) use of onomatopoeias throughout the book—but particularly in the battle scenes, or scenes when Godzilla is angry and taking it out on human structures and devices. Those pages read like the Batman TV series from 1966—full of Bams, Pows, and the like. And Angles describes how he cut many of them by translating them somewhat differently. He also discussed how he chose to spell the roars of Godzilla and Anguirus, and I really enjoyed that.

There were some things that he wanted to do a more accurate job of translating, but given the history fans have with the films, etc. he chose to stay consistent with the films, so he wouldn’t have to fend off accusations of bad work from those fans. I absolutely get why he’d make that choice, and feel so bad for him that he had to make it.

I’d noticed that there was a Glossary of Names, Places, and Ideas at the end of the book, but completely forgot to use it while reading the novellas. I don’t know that using it would’ve helped me too much during the reading—almost always the context was clear enough to get the meaning across. But reading it afterward helped clarify a thing or two, but by and large, those were minor details that not knowing them didn’t detract much from the text. The things I really needed (and some I could’ve guessed at) were in the handful of footnotes throughout the novellas. The Glossary was pretty interesting to read, I should note.

So, what did I think about Godzilla and Godzilla Raids Again?

Before I get into this, I want to take a moment to say how cool it was to get to read a book about Godzilla. From the time I can remember this monster has been something I’ve been aware of in some way. The old movies, cartoons about him (and his goofy nephew, Godzooky), the toys, the newer movies, and everything in between. He’s just been one of the coolest creatures in my pop culture awareness—there’ve been few times that I’ve clicked on “Request” so hard on NetGalley. Now, I do have to admit, it’s been decades since I watched the original films—I’m much more familiar with the Gamera movies than Godzilla. So I had to wait until the Afterword to know what was different between what I was reading and what audiences saw in the 50s (it was certainly different enough from the Emmerich movie from 1998, that I remember more of than I want to).

I did think some of the dialogue was pretty stilted, and some of the character reactions seemed overwrought (and some underwrought). It actually reminded me a lot of the Gamera films and other English-dubbed live-action shows/movies I’ve watched—and while reading the book, I frequently thought that I owed those who wrote the scripts for the dubbing an apology—their work felt a lot like Angles’ translation. I don’t think that the dialogue or characterizations damaged my appreciation of the work, it just underlined for me that this is the work of another culture (and another time). So they’d better not sound like native English speakers, and should probably act/react in ways that don’t seem particularly American. What might be slightly off-putting at first quickly becomes part of the charm of the novellas.

The intended audience for these novellas were young adults, and throughout Kayama would insert asides “You may not understand…” or “You’ve probably seen something like…” to help his reader understand what’s going on, or perhaps the feeling behind it. The first time it happened, it was entirely unexpected, but I enjoyed the idea. I liked each successive one more than the last and was disappointed that we didn’t get nearly as many as I’d hoped. I don’t know if this was characteristic of his writing (I suspect it wasn’t), but for these novellas, it really worked.

We don’t see Godzilla right away, and Kayama did a great job of building the tension until we do—he’s there, doing damage and terrifying people, but the reader doesn’t get an idea of what they’re seeing until we’re about one-third of the way through the first novella. As impatient as I was to see the monster myself, I wish he’d been able to hold out a little longer. Now in the second book, we know what Godzilla looks like, so we can skip the build-up and throw him in right away—and then add Anguirus just a couple of pages later.

I found everything about Godzilla more satisfying than Godzilla Raids Again, but the latter was more fun and action-packed. I can see where some might be put off by the not-at-all-subtle messaging of Godzilla, but I thought it fit the story and the need at the time.

The Afterword and Glossary added a lot to my understanding and appreciation of what Kayama was seeking to accomplish and say, lifting the impact of the book as a whole. The novellas on their own would’ve been entertaining and satisfying, mostly as an artifact of another era (see what I said about the dialogue and characterizations)—but the supplementary material added the necessary context and definition to the novellas so that I walked away with a better understanding and appreciation for the book. Don’t skip those bits.

I’ve said a lot more than I expected to—and have only scratched the surface of what I’d hoped to say. So let me cut to the chase—I really enjoyed this experience—fun novellas, a deeper understanding of the creature and the themes the original movie was trying to explore, and a glimpse into Japan of the 1950s. And, once again, it’s a book about Godzilla, do you really need me to say more? I heartily encourage you to check this book up. Now, I’ve got to go track down some black-and-white films.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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A Quick Vocabulary Lesson

Leave it to our Teutonic friends to have a word for every occasion—in this case, we’re talking about “Fernweh.” Briefly, it’s the opposite of homesickness. It’s a longing for a far-off place, a farsickness. Not necessarily a particular place, but frequently it is one. The desire to travel would be another way to put it.

What’s Farsickness About?

Hal—he doesn’t really remember much about himself beyond his name—is hearing a voice inside his head. A voice telling him to go home. To go to Scotland (a place Hal doesn’t think he’s ever been, so how is it home?), to a particular castle there. Hal decides to call this voice “Fern” (from Fernweh, in case it wasn’t clear why I started talking about it) and does what Fern tells him to. Hal asks a lot of questions, only some of which get answers.

Then like Dante with Virgil, Christian with Evangelist (and others), Hal is taken on a journey once he gets off the plane in Scotland that is so strange, so fraught with peril and symbolism, and the difficult to explain, that I’m not going to bother trying. But in the end, Hal is taken on the journey to the places he’s really longing for.

So, what did I think about Farsickness?

The writing here—regardless what you think of what and who Mohr’s writing about—is worth your time. He’s got some of the nicest, most evocative phrases and sentences I’ve come across this year. They can make you grin until you remember he’s describing something horrible (or just plain weird). I think some passages would be great to read aloud—or listen to—just because of the sounds. There’s a scene of a submarine sinking, for example, it was a pure pleasure to read, the imagery was fantastic, it was a little funny, the vocabulary was vivid—and yet, it was about a manned vehicle going down. I tell you what, Tom Clancy, couldn’t have done it better (and he’d have taken multiple pages rather than the very tight paragraph or two Mohr used)—or as well.

I only have an ARC, so I’m not going to quote from it, just in case something changed—so you don’t get samples, but I’m telling you, it’s great. Think Lance Olsen, Mark Richard, or (because those names are likely too obscure) a decaffeinated Mark Leyner, and you’re on the right track. Kind of.

I’m clearly having trouble talking about that, so let’s move on to the who and what.

The more I think about it (and I’ve spent longer on it than I anticipated), I don’t know that Hal actually had fernweh. I think it’s something else—or we’re talking a metaphorical other place he wants to go. Or he thought he had fernweh, but was mistaken/confused/deceived. And…ugh. it’s hard to talk about what I’m trying to say without a lot of citations and deep-diving. It’s just something to think about as you read, I guess—”is ‘fernweh’ an appropriate term?” I actually think it adds another layer or three to things if Hal wasn’t feeling that after all. Not that it’s a bad or misleading title. I’m just wondering if we need to ponder it a while.

I’m also tempted to say that I’m overthinking things. But I’m reasonably sure that Mohr wouldn’t agree that I was.

(this would be so much easier to talk about if you had all read the book already. Why don’t you all agree to go read it right now and come back in 140 pages or so to read the rest of my post about why you should read it? Yeah…there’s something about that proposal that doesn’t work.)

Farsickness is one of those books that will tempt you almost immediately to try and figure out “what’s really going on,” to dive into the symbolism and other figurative representations to get to the bottom of things. I’d encourage you not to, just let Mohr and Hal take you along this surreal exploration of parts unknown (or are they?). Just let it unfold—relatively quickly you’ll start to think, “Oh, this is about ____.” Not long after that, you’ll know, “this is about ____.” Then you’ll start to see why it’s about ____, and why it matters. And everything you wondered about at the beginning will make utter sense. Then you’ll get some resolution to the story. Yeah, you could suss it out early on if you set your mind to it—but I think it’s a more satisfying experience (at least with this novel), if you let Mohr do the work.

Also, that approach lets you soak in and enjoy the very peculiar characters and imagery. Both of those deserve discussions of 500-1000 words a piece, but I’m not the writer to provide that.

There’s a pretty simple—and heart-tugging and sweet—story at the center of all this. But the 3+ licks to get to that Tootsie Roll center are enjoyable in their own way—and might do a little heart-tugging of their own. Yes, that candy shell is about trauma, healing, violence, forgiveness, and horror. But it’s not presented in a way that will make it too difficult to read. Like Hal, I didn’t know where I’d end up when I started the journey through Farsickness and I ended up far away from where I started—but it was absolutely worth the time (actually, it’d have been worth longer than it took, too).

This is no straightforward narrative, but the prose isn’t terribly dense and is fairly effortless to get through. After a few pages, you won’t notice it at all, Mohr will have sucked you into his absurd little reality and you’ll be turning pages like this is a thriller. I don’t know that I’d have gone out of my way for this (particularly with the cover), but I’m very glad Farsickness came across my path, and I wager you will be, too, if you give it a chance.