The Gunslinger

My first thought was, he lied with every word,

That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

Askance to watch the workings of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored

Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

-Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came, Robert Browning

I can think of only a handful of openings to books that are so memorable that they stick with me for more than a few hours. The Day of the Triffids is one. Dune (or at least the chapter heading) is another. And having had a flick through the first few pages of Endymion, I think that could be another.

There can be no doubt that the opening of The Gunslinger is among these ranks, just for the questions it raises in the mind of the reader. 'The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed'. Who is the man in black? Who is the gunslinger? Why is the man in black fleeing? Why does the gunslinger follow? It's the perfect example of an opening hook.

In its way, the opening line embodies The Gunslinger in its entirety as an opening hook. For this is the opening volume of The Dark Tower, Stephen King's crowning achievement. It's a seven-volume epic spanning much of time and space. It stands at the very heart of King's work, acting as the lynchpin of all his creations. Few of King's works can be said to be essential reads, but if you've ever picked up any of his works you should give The Dark Tower a go. And The Gunslinger is where you'll be starting.

Compared to what follows, The Gunslinger is a slim volume. At 236 pages, it's hardly heavy going (by comparison, Wizard and Glass, book 4, weighs in at a hefty 840 pages). But it packs in plenty. Editions available now are that bit thicker than those available before 2003, when King embarked on a tidy-up and expansion of the book. It's supposedly a bit easier to read - King himself has stated that the original version is 'difficult' to read, and urges readers to give the second book a go where the story 'really finds its voice' - and the discrepancies with later books have been tidied up. For instance, Farson is no longer a town, but a man, as it was in Wizard and Glass.

He's right in saying that the tone of the story is a little different to the volumes which follow. But if he's being honest, he'll have to look at it and admit that, in the context of the journey as a whole, it works. The Gunslinger starts with Roland of Gilead, the last gunslinger, pursuing the man in black on a solitary quest for the Dark Tower, which stands as a nexus of time and space in the heart of all realities. He's been alone for a long time, though quite how long for we're never told. His former friends and allies are long dead, and he appears to have sacrificed his humanity for his quest for the Tower. There's a distance between Roland and the rest of humanity because of this solitude, one which comes across nicely because of the way the story is written. King's style isn't his usual colloquial, easily-relatable style. It's tighter (betraying the novel's origins as several short stories originally published in Fantasy and Science Fiction), whilst also being oddly dreamy. Told from Roland's perspective, a transparent wall is erected between him and the rest of the world.

What really drives home Roland's distance from - and indifference to - the rest of humanity happens in the opening part. He comes to the town of Tull, a place the man in black recently left. The man in black left a surprise for Roland: that of a man resurrected after succumbing to his addiction to devil-grass. In Tull, Roland encounters a woman who becomes his lover - not that he's any closer to her than he is to the rest of humanity - and a woman who preaches hatred. The man in black has set the trap for the gunslinger, and the trap is eventually sprung, leading to Roland dispassionately shooting down every person in the town. There's no remorse on Roland's part. The horror on the reader's part isn't that Roland gunned down every man, woman and child of Tull; it's that he does it without emotion. At this point, he's little other than a monster in a man's clothing.

It's only when Roland meets Jake, a boy from New York mysteriously transported to Roland's world , that Roland's walls start to come down. With human company, he becomes relatable, just as he is relatable as a flawed but oh-so-human teenager in the flashbacks to his youth which start to intersperse the journey. But he's still the same gunslinger who killed Tull. Events later in the book inspire the same horror - the same feeling of Roland being a complete monster - as the death of Tull.

But Roland's inhumanity is somewhat suited to the book, which is ultimately the scene-setter for the other six volumes. In setting up Roland as something both less than and more than a man it provides scope for the changes that would come about in future volumes. But it's also nicely self-contained. The Gunslinger works as a standalone novel in a way none of the others can manage - partly because they follow on, but also because this alone of all the Dark Tower novels has a distinct beginning, middle and end.

So where does The Gunslinger rate for me? Of all the Dark Tower novels, it's perhaps the only one I'm prepared to dip in and out of. I like the distance King manages to put between Roland and the reader because it makes the action so much more compelling. His motives remain a mystery, and therefore we're always left wondering what he'll do next. He seems to flit between humanity and monstrosity (always veering to the monster side of things when it comes to others and big decisions). And that's without mentioning the setting and the pseudo-Wild West feel to the whole thing. There's this constant feeling of a world similar to ours, but just dislocated enough from reality that it jars and becomes unsettling.

 With the exception of Wizard and Glass, The Gunslinger is my favourite Dark Tower novel. I'd recommend it to anyone who wants to read a modern fantasy series with a difference.

Little Brother

Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organising its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.

-The American Declaration of Indepencence

People should not be afraid of their government. Governments should be afraid of their people.

-V For Vendetta

The Americans have got a lot wrong when it comes to human rights and civil liberties. In fact, in recent times it's become a habit of mine to read a headline related to American justice and predict the story. The continued existence of the death penalty is a particular bone of contention of mine - how can a nation that thinks of itself as civilised maintain such a barbarous way of dispensing 'justice'? I can point you in the direction of Guantanamo Bay for another human rights abuse. Hundreds of men have been held without indefinitely in a detention facility, to face trial in a military tribunal rather than in a open civilian court. And then there are the civil rights abuses which you still hear about, where a black man is apparently worth less than his white contemporary and a gay man can still be pilloried in the courts of public opinion for his sexuality.

A lot of work needs to be done to make America the proud nation it should have been.

The saddest thing about it is that there are so many fantastic underlying principles that any civil liberties or democracy campaigner could admire. Just look at the Constitution. As a modern document it has its problems, but in setting out the inalienable rights of the governed it acts as a barrier against tyranny and blazes a trail future documents - such as the European Convention on Human Rights - have been able to continue along. By modern standards it's grossly outdated and needs an overhaul, but it was the trendsetter that the entire free world should look to as the venerable grandfather of human rights legislation.

It also set out the principles of American government (based famously on Montesquieu's principle of the separation of powers, one of the first things any politics or law student learns at the start of their degree), along the lines of the declaration of independence. The attitudes of the people who use it may leave a lot to be desired politically, and its execution is somewhat overcomplicated and self-defeating at times, but the document itself is still a thing to be admired in its principles. With a man like Josiah Bartlet in charge (allied with a seismic shift in attitudes towards the left wing, finally getting rid of the American loathing of socialism), America's political and social future, with this document at its heart, could put it at the forefront of the world's developing attitudes.

Cory Doctorow is a Canadian writer who uses this vision of an ideal America to influence his 2008 novel Little Brother. Doctorow is a name well-known in SF circles, having come to attention in recent years with many excellent short stories and a number of novels. In Little Brother he focuses on the post-9/11 world, on civil liberties and increasing security measures - and on what powers the people have to take back their rights.

Ostensibly, Little Brother is a young adult SF novel, but no one should let that put them off. It's a sophisticated novel which harks back to Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, among others. In it, a terrorist attack hits San Francisco, killing thousands. Marcus, a seventeen-year-old high school student and tech-wizard is caught up in the attack with a group of his friends, only to find himself arrested by the Department of Homeland Security, detained for several days, interrogated and eventually set free with a warning that he'll have his every move watched. On the outside again, he finds his country transformed into a police state, with everyone's movements tracked, communications monitored, and free speech curtailed. So he decides to do something - bring down the DHS.

Most YA readers will enjoy the story of one boy sticking it to the man. It certainly has enough to keep the more mature readers of that age group engaged, even if they're not looking for a novel that investigates the erosion of civil liberties. There's an everyman protagonist in Marcus, who has an interesting group of friends and even does a bit of dating in the name of growing up. It's not a difficult read by any stretch, either, but there's enough depth to make it satisfying even to the casual reader.

But to glean the most from it you shouldn't read it as a casual read. Read it with human rights, governmental powers and the Big Brother world in mind. To a point, it's a love letter to the rights of every man in the West and the ideal America, best summed up by Marcus's outburst against the government's actions in combating terrorism by curtailing rights on page 203 of the Harper Voyager edition:

"The whole point of America is that we're the country where dissent is welcome. We're a country of dissidents and fighters and university dropouts and free speech people."

The sentiment is idealistic in the extreme. No reader will read that and think that the country depicted is the true America - the land where being socialist is almost a crime and where not too long back having the wrong colour skin made you ineligible to vote and pushed you to the back of a bus - but it's what civil liberties campaigners would love to see.

The other thread running through the book asks the question of how far a government should go in order to protect its people. In this case, it instigates a surveillance society - that has already been encroaching on some liberties even before the terror attack - with ever-more heavy-handed tactics. Arresting dissidents and disappearing others is the tactic of a totalitarian society that inspires terror in its people - with the government to a point becoming the terrorists. Marcus also notes this early on. It all provides food for thought.

People are the power in democracy, another theme that runs through the book. Doctorow shows the power one individual can hold if they are determined enough. He shows that a government does indeed rule with the consent of the governed (see again, idealistic vision of the United States).

So how highly would I recommend Little Brother? Extremely. With the exception of Embassytown, it's the best thing I've read so far this year. There are a few problems with the writing, but that shouldn't put anyone off. Read it and think.

And even better, it's available off Cory Doctorow's website for free. (Spot the mug who paid £7.99...)

Heart-Shaped Box

I have 18 minutes to write a coherent review before Not Going Out starts on the telly. So here we go.

Heart-Shaped Box is a 2008 horror novel written by the son of Stephen King. I, like many other reviewers, appear to have started by pushing aside the pseudonym Joe Hill and revealing Joseph King. Who understandably doesn't want to have his father's name hanging over him. And with good reason: on this evidence, he's better.

I'm not knocking Stephen King. When he writes well, he's a good read, and some of his works have had me properly enthralled. Misery was a visceral, engaging horror novel. The Dark Tower is a fantasy classic, and will be for years to come (provided that The Wind Through the Keyhole and any subsequent additions are up to scratch). 'Salem's Lot can reasonably stake its claim to be the best vampire novel of modern times. But it's when he's off-colour that the problems start: bloated middle sections (The Stand), rambling sequences, irritating protagonists and Song of Susannah are just some of the less good parts of his work.

King Junior (hereafter to be referred to as Joe Hill) has some of his father's habits. There's an easy readability to his style, which occasionally meanders when it doesn't need to. His characters seem to very much do their own thing and drive the story rather than events overtaking their importance. Pop culture references make more appearances than they probably need to.

But he's also got the knack of writing much tighter, focussed prose. Heart-Shaped Box isn't a short book (403 pages), but it has a drive to it and doesn't meander like some of King Senior's works, and there isn't the same lightness that seems to dog even King's heaviest works. The pacing is superb.

The book starts with Judas Coyne, ageing rock god, buying a ghost off the internet. As a concept for horror, it's not the most original, but it evolves from that point into a thoroughly engaging and suitably haunting ghost story. There's nothing fluffy to it either; don't have visions of gothic creepers in the night, this ghost is a hypnotic ex-soldier who twists minds and drives people to suicide. And it's out to get Judas Coyne.

It may not be my longest - or most coherent - review, but I appear to have managed it with 4 minutes to spare. Not bad.

The Chrysalids

One thing that may be said of the best SF is that it has the quality of transcending the time in which it was written. It remains relevant in a way contemporary mainstream literature can't, because by its very definition it has to be stuck in its time (whereas SF isn't). A good example of a piece of SF that remains relevant is Dune, which has the same thematic relevance now as it did on its publication in 1965.

Another novel from half a century ago that retains its relevance despite its age is The Chrysalids, written by the author of The Day of the Triffids, John Wyndham. First published in 1955, it's a story about intolerance that should be read by anyone who goes out into the world and deals with people on a day-by-day basis.

David Strorm is the son of the local community's chief preacher in a post-nuclear apocalypse world, where mutations are commonplace and religious zealotry rules over reason. Anything that differs from the norm is regarded as an offence against God, and has to be destroyed - including people. David and several of his contemporaries have a psychic link that they keep secret, fearing discovery as mutants. David's father is the biggest zealot of the community, urging his flock to stay pure and blaming any mutation on the weakness of others who slip into sin.

It may be because I haven't read The Day of the Triffids or The Midwich Cuckoos for quite a while, but Wyndham's writing feels different. There's far less 1950s sensationalism, and it's far more fluent than what I've come across from him before. On a sentence level alone it's a good read, without having the detailed exploration of intolerance and the actions of the intolerant. Throw in a compelling story and you've got a top-notch read, possibly finer than what are widely regarded as Wyndham's greatest works.

So how does The Chrysalids relate to the modern world? Even today, intolerance is rife, because we don't understand the differences between peoples. In Wyndham's devastated future, we see physical differences marking people out as being less than pure, and therefore inhuman. Such people are, at the very least, ostracised and sent into exile in the Fringes, lands affected more badly by the unspecified disaster that led to the breakdown of civilisation in the first place. In cases where it's felt the difference poses a risk to the way of life, people are hunted down and disposed of. There are so many analogies that could be drawn. Were it written today, Wyndham could have been writing about religious intolerances in places like Saudi Arabia. He could be talking about racial tensions in the Deep South in the 1930s. But as it is the broad analogy may be applied to any number of situations. In truth, it does make it required reading for living in the modern world, where tolerance is still sadly lacking.

One final word: the cover of the edition you're most likely to pick up at the moment is an interesting exercise in spotting the artist's error.

The Wise Man's Fear

Patrick Rothfuss's beard is fantastic. In the moody black and white photos of him on his website, it's clearly the star performer. Even the 'Joss Whedon is my master now' t-shirt can't topple something of such wild beauty. Had Galen Tyrol's fledgling stubble in Battlestar Galactica been allowed to grow to its fullest extent, it would surely have matched it, but as it is it stands alone, its facial follicles unsurpassed.

You're probably getting tired of hearing about Patrick Rothfuss's beard at this point. I'm pretty sick of writing about it. I certainly grew tired of one thing in particular in The Wise Man's Fear, the second novel of Rothfuss's Kingkiller Chronicles: hearing about Kvothe's hair.

Let's start at the beginning. The Name of the Wind was the first novel from Rothfuss. It focussed on a barman, Kote, telling of his past as the legendary Kvothe, before he started to live in hiding as a red-headed landlord. As is standard in fantasy novels, Kvothe was orphaned and lived rough for a few years before, through sheer nerve, blagging his way into a prestigious educational institution, the University, to study to become an arcanist, the world's equivalent of a sorcerer. It was an enjoyable read, being fast-paced, with interesting characters and a well-realised world, ticking all the basic fantasy boxes and then taking a step beyond as it unfolded to become a story told with flair.

Did I mention that Kvothe was red-headed?

The storytelling medium is Kvothe himself, talking to a travelling chronicler. The first novel covers the first day of Kvothe telling his tale. In between times, other things happen in the present - this is a story told on two apparently separate (but I suspect otherwise) levels, one happening while Chronicler takes down Kvothe's memoirs, the other the memoirs themselves. The Wise Man's Fear follows the same narrative structure - as presumably the rest of the series will be as well - and picks up where The Name of the Wind left off.

By the way, Kvothe is a flame-haired magiciany bloke.

Being quite honest, it feels at times like the story barely moves on. But we do at least get to see the development of a character first-hand. We were told in the first volume that Kvothe was a fearsome warrior and magician, and throughout The Wise Man's Fear he grows into this role. He was a young and relatively innocent boy at the start. Two years down the line, we're starting to see a hardened man who is far easier to reconcile with the barkeeper telling the story. And the joy of it is that the development feels natural. Offhand, there aren't any sudden breaks in his development where Kvothe suddenly leaps from being one thing to another. Transition is smooth and barely noticeable. Even when he seems to do something out of character (as he does twice), there is a reasonable explanation that doesn't hinder the book.

The other characters are interesting as well. The enigmatic Denna provides a focal point for Kvothe's attentions, and she retains her mercurial air throughout. Elodin, Master Namer at the University (for a fuller explanation, read the books - it's easier that way), is also enigmatic, but he's also convincingly borderline insane. And then there are others.

But that's a problem. The location shifts on a regular basis. Whilst the University provides a base of sorts, we're taken elsewhere several times and this means we're introduced to a new set of characters, who need to be fleshed out and developed. In terms of the scale of the cast, it's large enough to rival George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, but Rothfuss has yet to develop Martin's mastery of a large set of characters. Many characters feel paper-thin. Too many appear and then suddenly disappear, never to be heard from again. Rothfuss is on occasion reduced to telling us facts about these characters and then advancing. In some ways, he's been over-ambitious, writing things above his ability.

He also indulges in a few irritating habits. He insists on telling us Kvothe's skills time and again (as well as the fact he's red-headed). I certainly didn't forget that Kvothe's a fantastic musician; but it's like Rothfuss doesn't trust his audience. He didn't do this in his first book (or if he did, I didn't notice). I accept that the second novel is tough after a successful first, but Rothfuss doesn't quite do himself justice.

It's still not bad. At times, it can be very good. Kvothe is a sympathetic character, and it's easy to like his cheek and wit. But I was hoping for more.

Caprica

Anyone who knows me knows my love for Ronald D. Moore's reimagined Battlestar Galactica. I've yet to see a finer series. Nothing else has managed to capture the modern mentality towards differences in society whilst providing an illuminating allegory to the War on Terror. Then there's the last season, which, despite its bleak tone, carries a message of hope for humanity. And all of this without mentioning the core narrative of man on the run from a superior enemy that has forced the human race from its home after an attempted genocide on a massive scale.

The Cylons were an intriguing set of characters. They were human, but with a different psychology coming from their robotic roots and some unusual religious beliefs. They didn't believe in the polytheistic religion of the Twelve Colonies; instead, their beliefs lay in the worship of one true God.

Caprica tells of a time before the First Cylon War, when Cylons were invented. This is before even the initial 'they rebelled' bit of the opening titles of Galactica, when the Twelve Colonies weren't one supernation, but were fractured states. Daniel Graystone, computer genius and CEO of Graystone Industries, has a contract to fulfil, providing mechanised soldiers for a Caprican defence programme. His daughter is caught up in a terror attack (one she's linked to, in a way), and ends up dead. She's also a computer genius, and has secretly synthesised true artificial intelligence - or, as Cylons would probably have it, a soul in something artificial - which takes her form in a virtual world. We meet Joseph Adama, father of Admiral William Adama, who is a mob lawyer in Caprica City, and have a major side-plot involving gangsters and family homour in the vein of plenty of mob films.

The most intriguing character is Clarice Willow - played by Polly Walker, Atia of the Julii in Rome - who is Caprica's closest equivalent to Gaius Baltar. She's the leader of a cell of monotheistic terrorists - the Soldiers of the One - who provide the series with an interesting focal point. Working out their intentions is difficult, to a point. Are they evil or misguided in their pursuit of Apotheosis, or resurrection? What is obvious is that they're utterly ruthless. In a series of few action sequences, where the drama is largely personal, they give us a few moments of very strong violence. Seeing failed Soldiers of the One candidates lined up and shot is one of the series' most shocking moments.

Caprica has a major problem: it can't quite decide what it is. Too many episodes feel like they're a mismatch of ideas. At times the series seems to decide what path it will follow, and as a result there is an excellent episode or two. But these moments are few and far between. Part 1 has perhaps two episodes from nine which could be described as very good; part two has a similar ratio of very good episodes to those produced, one of which is the final episode. In between times, there are moments of excellence, but rarely more than one or two an episode.

That Caprica is a Battlestar Galactica prequel and is made by the same people is apparent throughout with things like camera angles, dropped hints of the future and references to Galactica ('The shape of things to come' from the final moments is one of the most obvious references, but there are plenty of others). Production values are high, and the acting standard is also good. There are also actors and actresses popping up in new roles, such as Luciana Carro (Kat, Starbuck's constant irritant, in Galactica), and Christian Tessier (Duck, another pilot).

But it serves as a constant reminder to what Caprica doesn't achieve. Battlestar Galactica is one of the essential TV shows to watch of this century, and one of the greatest of all time. Caprica is merely decent, convoluted in places, with some excellent moments.

To a Galactica fan, it will be essential viewing. It answers questions about the inception of the Cylons and their religious beliefs - and at times does it well - as well as providing an insight into the origins of everyone's favourite Admiral. The series finale will catch the eye for others, being what the series should have been throughout rather than for 41 minutes. But if you're not a Galactica fan the series may leave you feeling alienated with its glacial pace and convoluted storytelling.

The Forever War

There's a set of clichés that attach themselves to war stories like limpets to rock. 'War is hell'. 'Soldiering is nine-tenths boredom and one-tenth terror'. 'Somewhere there's a bullet with your name on it'. Sometimes something is produced that manages transcend the clichés and become truly memorable for its particular depiction of war - an obvious example is Blackadder Goes Forth - although more often than not we're left with the same tired depictions which come back to the same old sayings. It's not to say that those idioms aren't true - because they clearly are - but I'd argue that we've all heard them so often that we've become desensitised. Which is why when something exceptional does come along we heap well-deserved praise on the book or film or series.

The Forever War is hardly new. It was written in the mid-1970s by Joe Haldeman, a veteran of the Vietnam war. It won the Hugo and Nebula awards, and became the first title to be released as part of the SF Masterworks imprint from Gollancz. Rumour even has it that it was written as a response to Robert A. Heinlein's Starship Troopers.

It's not even new to me. I read it when I was 17, just after I first read Dune. At the time I was struck by the violence. Some of the emotional impact was fairly hopelessly lost on me, as was much of the cultural significance of what Haldeman was saying. All I knew was that I was being treated to a rip-roaring story about the horrors of war.

I've grown up since then, but it hasn't stopped me enjoying the re-read. The story remains as strong as ever. William Mandella is a young man conscripted to the United Nations Explorer Force (UNEF) following the Elite Conscription Act. He has an IQ of over 150 and the physical attributes needed to fight humanity's newly-discovered enemy, the Taurans. He - and 99 others - are trained up (which is where we come in, with the memorable opening line, 'Tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man'), and then sent off to fight in a series of hellish encounters.

Thanks to time dilation (a topic I'm not convinced is covered accurately by Haldeman, but I'm no expert on the subject), when the recruits get back to Earth decades have passed while they have only aged a matter of a couple of years. Mandella is incapable of adjusting to the new Earth, being alienated by the massive changes in society, and chooses to re-enter the army with Marygay Potter. Yet more military fun and frolics ensue.

The whole book is good. The action scenes are brutal, with matter-of-fact descriptions of horrific injuries. In between, we have the military discipline and turmoil of a man who doesn't particularly want to be there. Mandella is a sympathetic character, and he's easy enough to like.

But, for me, the most haunting part of it isn't anything to do with the battles or the science or the sex (and there's quite a bit of that, on the quiet). It's the return to Earth. The soldiers are warned beforehand of the changes, but it's jarring once they get there. Mandella's inability to adjust to the planet he has been fighting for is almost heartbreaking. There's a palpable sense of almost traumatic alienation throughout the sequence, which only lasts for 30 pages or so, but which sticks with me more strongly than any of the blood and guts. All he has throughout is the companionship of Marygay, one of his co-enlisted. Eventually, the couple choose to join up again, the army being the only thing they're adjusted for.

It's this which marks The Forever War out as an exceptional war novel. Haldeman's own experiences come through strongly (and some feel that The Forever War has an autobiographical element to it - I for one wouldn't disagree with them), and they leave an almost bitter taste in the mouth. It's a war novel that makes you think beyond the battlefield, and one I'd recommend to anyone. Whilst the clichés are there, Haldeman works expertly with them to bring home more than just the bombs and bullets.

Sadly for Haldeman, I've yet to come across anything else which even comes close to The Forever War. Its sequel, Forever Free, was a train-wreck of a novel, the companion novel Forever Peace merely passable and the short stories I've read have been underwhelming. But if you're going to write one great novel, it's better that it's something like The Forever War.