Malice

Keigo Higashino's Malice is a whydunit page-turner we read in one night. Short, breezy yet very suspenseful, this murder mystery focuses entirely on motive. It's pretty clear who the culprit is in this story, but understanding his motives for killing Hidaka becomes a mystery in itself. The culprit has constructed a series of lies and planted evidence about why he committed the deed. In uncovering the truth of this case, our sleuth, Kyoichiro Kaga must confront his own demons from his stint as a teacher and explore the theme of bullying and pure "malice" that accompanied it in the childhood of the victim and killer. Like the other novel by this author that we've read, we suspect that a keen interest in the emotional and psychological state of murderers is a key part of the writer's interest in the genre. It allows him to deconstruct the murder mystery and focus on other elements like the "why" of it all. In this case, it largely succeeded, despite our initial reservations. The story is full of just enough misdirects, intrigue, suspense, and emotionally-charged episodes to retain our interest.

Don't Eat the Clues

After finally watching the third season of Twin Peaks (as well as rewatching the original run), we cannot help but feel somewhat disappointed. After so much time and the loss of some of the cast from the first and second seasons, Lynch and Frost had to make the final season something quite different. And while there are many great elements and a plethora of surreal scenes (and even some of the same quirky jokes and behavior), the third season is by necessity a different show. It is a true pity that we were deprived of a Twin Peaks conclusion right after the second season, when the character of Twin Peaks itself could have maintained more of the narrative focus. We found ourselves missing Catherine and Ben Horne's intrigues, we did not see nearly enough of Audrey or James, and while there may finally be a happy ending for Norma and Ed, so much of the magic and charm of the original run is diluted or absent. Perhaps that is also significant for symbolizing the darker world of season 3, but we nonetheless very much missed those early seasons.

The Labyrinth House Murders

The Labyrinth House Murders is a better novel than The Mill House Murders and an entertaining read for all fans of the mystery genre. With mystery writers, editors, critics, and our amateur sleuth, Shimada Kiyoshi, a series of killings takes place at a house designed by architect Nakamura Seiji. As one might expect, the building alludes to the myth of the Minotaur whilst also paying tribute to the mystery genre. In addition, the novel is structured as a story within a story with a surprise revelation at the end that I did not foresee at all. Indeed, it was something "cheap" and silly in some respects, but only if one forgets to always pay close attention to how the narrator of a murder mystery describes characters or scenes. Overall, this mystery has rekindled our interest in Shimada Kiyoshi as a 'great detective' worth paying attention. The creative use of prologues and epilogues and the meta-ness of the narrative were additionally great touches.

Murder in the Crooked House

Soji Shimada Murder in the Crooked House was a little underwhelming. Our sleuth, Kiyoshi, doesn't appear until the final third of the novel. And while his entry into the mysterious case of the serial murders at the odd Hokkaido home built on a slant is hilarious, one cannot help but feel somewhat disappointed. Furthermore, there are no astrological, alchemical or occult themes that our astrologer-sleuth must confront (unless one considers the Golem from Jewish folklore). It's certainly less occult and graphic than Tokyo Zodiac Murders, but also more convoluted and somewhat absurd. The big reveal at the end also fell a little flat since one of the victims, a lecherous older man, is turned into a war criminal during World War II in Burma. Needless to say, the novel is a bit of a mess, involving an unbelievable concept to elucidate the locked room murder(s). 

The Decagon House Murders

Yukito Ayatsuji's The Decagon House Murders was a mostly fun, suspenseful and intriguing novel inspired by Agatha Christie's class, And Then There Were None. Since over 20 years has passed since we first read Christie's novel, we thought reading a highly regarded Japanese work based on it would be a worthwhile read. And while the novel does capture the reader quite well with the chapters set on the island where the murders take place, the other characters off-island who are seeking to understand the mystery of two series of murders, are not quite as engaging or interesting. One was particularly expecting more of Shimada, whose opportunity to "reveal" what actually happened to the students in the mystery club is squandered. However, by ending the tale the way he did, the work illustrates exactly how the killer's conscience is torn and the disapproval of whatever higher being you honor. As for the actual mystery, that too was well done, although rather obvious once the only survivors on the island were 2 of the original group. The author plays around here quite well, showing a wicked sense of humor as one of the final victims, despite some brilliant deductive reasoning, fails to see the writing on the wall and lets down his guard. This was hilarious, tragic, and suspenseful to read, since we were still not sure if he was sincere in his beliefs about the real killer. Overall, a fun read with intrigue, mystery, wannabe detectives, and a dark tale of vengeance.

The Prince of Kashna (Katsina)

Jamaica (Britannica)

One of the most interesting narratives, presented by its publisher as a "true story" of a West African Muslim prince enslaved in Jamaica, is The Prince of Kashna: A West Indian Story. While there is ambiguity about the factual basis for the story, Camille Lefebvre has suggested viewing it through the lens of a topos of West African Muslims and royalty enslaved in the Americas. In that regard, it is also interesting to note how some stories of real cases of West African Muslims literate in Arabic probably influenced the author, Jane McManus Storm Cazneau. We suspect she was influenced by stories of West African royalty enslaved in the West Indies and the US, and perhaps by fictional accounts such as Aphra Behn's famous Oroonoko: or, the Royal Slave.

However, we endeavored to determine to what extent, if any, the narrative could be based on a true story of a Muslim slave from Katsina who arrived in Jamaica in 1806. According to the early chapters of the text, Sidi Mahmadee, the titular prince, was born to Abdalah, the ruler of Katsina, and a woman taken as a captive from an unspecified northern location. Sidi Mahmadee, who lost his father and mother at a young age and left Katsina while still a youth, believed she may have been of Arab extraction. While possible, the straight-haired Mahmadee was too young when he left and may have misidentified his mother, who was possibly Fulani or from a Tuareg background. His father, the Katsina king, was later described as a descendant of the Prophet, Muhammad, and ruled a Katsina that included "pagans" as well as Muslims in his court. The only ruler of Katsina during the late 1790s and early 1800s who may correspond with this figure was Gozo, a Katsina sarki killed in c.1801 (assassinated, according to Yusuf Bala Usman). From the narrative, we learn that Sidi Mahmud was rather young when his parents were killed (in a raid on Katsina). He was taken in by an Islamic holyman and teacher, Hadji Ali, who raised the boy after his parents died. Meanwhile, the next king of Katsina, an uncle of Mahmadee named Taleb Ben Abu, reigned in Katsina but maintained his court in a separate place. If Gozo was succeeded by Bawa Dan Gima, a name which bears no resemblance to that given in this narrative, this is further evidence for the fabrication of the account. Indeed, Usman has argued that Bawa Dan Gima came from a distinct sub-lineage of the ruling house of Katsina, and was therefore unlikely to be a sibling of Gozo.

While it is possible that Mahmadee provided Arabic names or other regnal names for these figures, it seems unlikely that he was indeed from Katsina. He did correctly identify the presence of "fetishists" and Muslims in the pre-jihad Katsina court and noted the presence of Muslim scholars in the city, including the man who later adopted him, the lack of concordance with the established kings of Katsina during this period is telling. Intriguingly, however, Sidi Mahmadee's account includes a story of a white man with a red beard who visited Katsina and gave medicine to his adoptive father. This white man is said to have spoken the language of Mahmadee's mother when he came to Katsina, and was feared as a 'sorcerer' by locals. In fact, by using the white man's medicine, Mahmadee's adoptive father became suspect in the eyes of the community, prompting him to move back to his homeland somewhere to the west (we suspect he was a Fulani from a western territory). This tale of a strange white man's appearance in Katsina brings to mind the traveler Friederich Hornemann, who may have reached Katsina sometime in the early 1800s. However, since we know so little about Hornemann's time in Katsina, and it is possible the author of The Prince of Kashna had read his journal or descriptions of him, we cannot use this story to corroborate the existence of Mahmadee. 

Besides the aforementioned vague descriptions of Katsina, the rest of the narrative is rather light on Mahmadee's African background. To be sure, if someone was kidnapped and sold into slavery while still an adolescent, they may not have the most profound or descriptive memories of their homeland when writing about it decades later. Nonetheless, we learn from his narrative that his adoptive father taught him to read the Koran, which appears to have been the limit of his Islamic education. When they left Katsina, which was done clandestinely since Mahmadee's uncle wanted him to stay, they appear to have traveled west. Somewhere in or around the fictitious Kong mountains, Mahmadee was kidnapped and sold into slavery. After being exchanged multiple times, he reached the coast, where he and other Hausa captives were sold to Europeans. This is another vague point in the narrative, since Mahmadee mentioned that there were many Mandingo captives on the slave ship. This would suggest that he had been sold on the coast of the Senegambian region, yet he mentioned several other Hausa captives alongside himself. Other inconsistencies abound in the text, but it is highly likely that Mahmadee's account of his voyage on the slave ship, where he was the recipient of special treatment and even helped the slave traders defeat French pirates, is a work of fiction. 

Once in Jamaica, Mahmadee, after an unfortunate experience running away (only to be captured and returned by Maroons), experienced a remarkable series of fortunate luck. His master, Mr. Davis, and his family, are presented as rather benevolent and supportive of his interest in education. The novelist, or author of the narrative, wants to present Mahmadee as a grateful slave who, deprived of his original noble status, learns to appreciate superior Western education. Nonetheless, the fact that he was a Muslim and a prince in Katsina serves as an elevating factor, one that brings him closer to Western civilization despite ongoing Orientalist and racist narratives. The fact that the character often expresses dissatisfaction with African phenotypes and wishes to be white seems to reflect a white author's biases, although it is certainly possible that an African slave in 19th century Jamaica thought similarly. His willingness to obediently serve his white masters leads to him playing a key role in preventing a slave conspiracy from erupting into outright rebellion in Westmoreland. By the novel's conclusion, Mahmadee is an educated man studying medicine, French, and European literature, successful and civilized to the point of asking to wed a mixed-race ward of a "quadroon" from Saint Domingue. There are hints that he did eventually travel back to Africa, although certainly not as a Christian missionary eager to spread civilization and end slave trading in Katsina. 

After reading the text in toto, we are convinced that it is almost certainly a work of fiction. While the author may have been inspired by tales of West African Muslims in Jamaica, such as Abu Bakr al-Siddiq, who was of partial Hausa heritage (linked to Katsina through his mother's family), it appears that Jane Cazneau wrote a fictional account that, while still racist, stressed the ability of some Africans to become assimilated to Western civilization and uplifted. Nonetheless, the elevation of the black African must be achieved through white tutelage, and slavery in early 19th century Jamaica is depicted as largely benign. None of the white slaveholders in the novel appear to abuse their slaves, and the ones most cruel to Mahmadee are enslaved overseers, Maroon slave-catchers or, in one case, a mixed-race engineer. Anyone looking for a work of fiction that honestly portrays the realities of chattel slavery in 19th century Jamaica will be disappointed. Yet, despite the occasionally racist narrative and dishonest depiction of slavery, this tale of an exotic West African Muslim does emphasize the perfectibility of the African, mediated via European tutelage. Interestingly, Mahmadee refuses to relinquish his Islamic identity, which may symbolize the author's recognition of Islam as a "legitimate" religion that elevated part of Black Africa before the inevitable European colonialism. To ascertain whether the character of Mahmadee was entirely invented, we would like to check 19th century Jamaican records, but our preliminary search has not led to an identification of any character from the narrative with a real person. 

Once in Puerto Rico

Although we had first learned of Pura Belpre several years ago, it is only recently did we develop an interest in her work collecting and disseminating Puerto Rican folklore for children. What is most intriguing about her work is the inclusion of multiple stories from or about the indigenous past of Borinquen. Almost half of Once in Puerto Rico consists of stories about the Taino past of the island or the early Spanish conquest and settlement of the island. Some of the tales must certainly postdate the Spanish arrival. For example, the tale of Guani involves an Indian boy who plays a flute to restore his flock of goats. With the help of Yukiyu, Guani saves his goats from a spell cast by an evil toad. This tale refers to a cemi, magic, and an animal that did not exist on the island of Puerto Rico until the Spanish introduced it to the Caribbean. 

Perhaps this tale does reflect a far earlier legend or tradition that was "updated" during the colonial period with animals of Old World origin? Other tales about the Indian past, such as that of Milomaki and "The Legend of the Royal Palm," appears to be a legend explaining the singing of a tall palm tree when the wind blows through its branches.  This tale, like the "Legend of the Hummingbird" endeavors to explain a natural phenomenon and relies on references to magical or supernatural events transforming people into plants, animals, or things. The tale of Amapola and the colibri, however, has a more tragic romance feel since the the former is not allowed to have a relationship with a Carib male, eventually causing both to transform into a flower and a bird.

Other tales of the Indian past, like that of Iviahoca, unambiguously allude to events associated with the conquistadors of the island and the cacique Mabodamoca. In the case of this last story, the wife of a powerful cacique stands up to Becerrillo and manages to impress Ponce de Leon and Diego de Salazar. Through doing so, she frees herself and her son from the Spanish. The last tale with an Indian character, about Yuisa and Pedro Mexias uses the marriage of a mulatto and a cacica as a symbol for the Puerto Rican people. The two meet, fall in love, and, despite having to relinquish her power as cacica, Yuisa chooses to marry Pedro Mexias. Intriguingly, a council of bohiques is responsible for forcing Yuisa to abdicate her political office. Unfortunately, Carib raids eventually target the village and the two lovers die fighting to defend the island. The tale extolls the two for dying to defend the island and inspiring the governor of the island to attack the Caribs at Vieques. This is lovely and all, but seems to be a justification of the Spanish colony. Perhaps these stories reflect the morally ambivalent feelings of Puerto Rican society about its colonial origins. Moreover, some of these tales were passed on or inherited by others in colonial society who may have changed the tenor to fit their own interests. Nonetheless, it is interesting to note the frequent allusions to caves, cemis, and aspects of belief that mirror those of the Taino cosmovision.

La dit de la Fleur

Fortunately, someone has posted a reading of Jacques Stephen Alexis's short story about Anacaona. Michel Séonnet reads "Le Dit de la Fleur d'or" ( from Romancero aux étoiles) with musical accompaniment. Until we can locate our copy of the book containing this story, we shall rely on this lively reading.

Spiks

For some strange reason, we never finished Pedro Juan Soto's Spiks during a past obsession with Puerto Rico and the Diaspora a few years ago. This time around, we devoured the slim collection of short stories and vignettes of Puerto Rican life in New York City. As the title suggests, these stories focus on ghetto life and the crushing poverty, dilapidated housing, and lack of opportunities for Puerto Rican migrants established in Harlem. Stories deal with themes of becoming an adult, frustrated romance, migration, the breakup of families, lack of work, English classrooms in school and failed dreams. Of all these tales, the most effective story is probably "Scribbles." The brief work perfectly encapsulates what happens when ambition and marital love are brutally confronted by the realities of life in New York. The father of the family will never become an artist and his one attempt to express his feelings for his wife through his talent are abruptly terminated by Graciela. Sadly the canvas of his planned artwork becomes a "wide and clear gravestone of his dreams." This is an apt description of the New York experience for more than a few of those earlier generations of migrants from Puerto Rico.

Foundation and Earth

Isaac Asimov's final installment, chronologically, in the Foundation series was, in our opinion, an unnecessary addition. Whereas Foundation's Edge at least featured real or at least exciting conflicts with multiple perspectives as the narrative shifted focus to different protagonists, Foundation and Earth focuses entirely on Golan Trevize, Pelorat, and Bliss on their quest for Earth. It is, more or less, a direct sequel to the previous novel without much change in the timeline of the projected 1,000 years predicted by Hari Seldon. Of course, as the great novel that sought to connect the Robots series and Foundation universe, the fusion is far from seamless. It didn't necessarily make much sense that the Galactic Empire would have, for the most part, completely forgotten the history of robotics. Nor does the reader find much excitement here. This dialogue-heavy novel is mostly centered on specific stops the trio make before finally reaching Earth and a certain character from the Robots novels. 

However, the novel's frequent digressions on which path from the previous novel is the best path forward for humanity contains occasionally interesting references to the history of space colonization and the Foundation universe. Unfortunately, much of it seems to revolve around the same recurring doubts of Trevize and a quickly irritating personal disagreement between Bliss/Gaia and Trevize. Their constant bickering does not make for entertaining reading. Nor was the ultimate "revelation" about the force behind Gaia and psychohistory really logical, although Trevize raising the possibility of intelligent life in other galaxies was interesting. Indeed, in End of Eternity, we know that had humans never developed interstellar travel, another species would have done it and humanity eventually went extinct. However, in this version of human history, without Eternity, there is no confirmation of alien life. The novel's final scene hints at possible "aliens from within" (perhaps Follom and the people of Solaria), so maybe Galaxia seems the best solution for preventing humanity from extinguishing itself. 

So, the necessity of Gaia or a collective consciousness in a superorganism becomes strategic for planning the Galaxy's defense against possible outside forces. Sure, one can say, Galaxia becomes more attractive than a Second Galactic Empire, when seen in that light. And the various "Isolated" planets and lost Spacer settlements seem to offer additional evidence of the danger of too much isolation and individuality. But it never quite struck us why humanity would have to submit to a collective consciousness when a Second Empire that combined the best of the First and Second Foundations could have led to a rational Galactic state encompassing advances in mentalics and technology. Nor do many of the obstacles faced by Trevize and company actually strike us as compelling or threatening. Moss and feral dogs on two deserted Spacer planets are hardly interesting, and the novel's episode on Solaria, while another interesting link between the Robots and Foundation series, does not suffice. 

All things considered, Asimov should have either left the series alone or at least written a shorter adventure tale that did a better job clarifying the future history of the Galaxy. Perhaps less obsession with backsides of female characters and, maybe, juggling between protagonists to illustrate what is going on with the galaxy, would have created a more effective narrative. Sure, it was interesting to see Solaria develop into a society of hermaphrodites who view others as only half-humans, and the "primitives" on Alpha provided an occasionally interesting example of both "primitiveness" and technological advancement in their own form of unhealthy isolation. Clearly, Asimov envisioned the future of humanity lay in further association and union, yet one cannot comprehend exactly why Galaxia and the vision of humanity's future informed by ancient robots is the best direction for ensuring humanity's future. Nor does anyone consider the ethics of fusing a human child's brain with that of the decaying robot?

The Story of Hong Gildong

Minsoo Kang's translation of the longest of the extant copies of The Story of Hong Gildong successfully makes the Korean tale accessible to modern Anglophone readers. The introduction to the text also persuasively makes the case for a relatively recent composition of the story in the 19th century (or possibly late 18th century). Instead of Kim Taejun's attempts to read the tale as subversive of Joseon mores and conventions, it actually is a rather traditional story bemoaning the plight of "secondary" sons. But like so many "traditional" tales, the protagonist, Hong Gildong, ends up becoming king of "Annam" and rules as an ideal king after leading a band of robbers in Joseon. 

The main problem and frustration of Hong Gildong was the discrimination against low-born children of yangban, who could not serve in high positions in the administration and military. There is also a general critique of provincial government corruption and exploitation of the lower classes, but it is hard to read this Robin Hood-like character as being revolutionary or ushering in a new society. It is immersed in a world where Confucian, Buddhist, Daoist, and classical Chinese texts are referenced by Hong Gildong and where magic and miraculous events occur in favor of the protagonist. All the world needs is to recognize the talent and merit of those born to concubines and ensure proper kingship and the five relationships. 

As to be expected, there is not much characterization and the plot moves rapidly along. This reader was actually reminded of the Alexander Romance, a somewhat similar tale of wonders and exploration as Alexander the Great traversed the known world and beyond. Some of the episodes are entertaining, there are moments of magic and amusing episodes with shamans and physiognomists. One can see why the character became something of a folk-hero and its legacy persists to this day. 

Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor

An informative podcast episode about an important tale in the history of written literature. Although, sadly, it is too brief, it is not fragmentary like some of the later stories in Demotic. It also, despite its brevity, points to shipwreck, adventures at sea, and mysterious encounters with supernatural events as key themes in ancient literature. Moreover, the vast serpent met by the sailor is the self-proclaimed king of Punt, suggesting ways in which this early work of fiction can be linked to ancient depictions of East Africa (or the Horn) as a source of wonder and luxury goods. Unlike the later Setne cycle of tales, where a Nubian magician is a a source of rivalry for Egypt, the people of Punt never appear in the story. Nevertheless, both this tale of shipwreck and wonder and works like Setne II point to possible ways Egyptian fiction may have influenced the depiction of "Ethiopia" to Greek writers of ancient "novels" or romances.

Alibée Féry's Short Stories

Although he seems to be a key writer of fiction in Haiti between Ignace Nau in the 1830s and the later short stories and novels produced from 1890-1915, it is difficult to find much information about Alibée Féry's literary writings. As a contemporary of Nau and the 1830s romanticists, Féry's short stories, published in Essais littéraires in 1876, seem to resemble the short stories of Nau and others published in journals like L'Union. Indeed, their brevity makes one think some of them were originally published in newspapers, presumably aimed at a similar audience as the works of of Nau and other anonymous contributors to Haitian journals. Intriguingly, Féry's collected works includes a glossary of Creole terms, suggesting he might have been addressing a non-Haitian audience to some undetermined extent.

Nonetheless, Féry avoids the lodyans style and deserves the distinction of being the first Haitian writer to compose a Bouqui et Malice tale, presumably based on oral tradition. Indeed, Féry's nouvelles often have a fairy-tale structure and bareness with minimal detail, supernatural events and creatures, and miraculous events. Indeed, with the exception of the Bouqui and Malice trickster tale, which is almost more focused on the fathers of the two figures, each story involves magical events, spirits, anthropomorphized animals, curses, or monsters. In that respect, Féry seems more interested in the "superstition" and folklore of the Haitian countryside than historic tales of Ignace Nau. 

Although it is probably misguided, it is interesting to think about Féry's tales as a precursor of sorts to early works of Black speculative fiction. Indeed, the number of ouangas, zombies, simbi spirits, monsters, and magical characters populating these short stories, often fragments, really, contain a wholly speculative character where the impossible and the implausible are everyday occurrences. For instance, a "ouangataire" curses a woman who chooses another man instead of him. His curse is passed on to her child, who turns out to be a serpent that eventually devours the ouangataire. Hidden messages in dreams assist our characters, as well as a friendly simbi spirit who transforms Monrose into an eel and takes him to his wondrous underwater palace in the river. Or, in the case of the beast without equal, angels bring an enchanted sword to an unnamed hero who must slay a monster. 

While one must admit the use of magic and elements of fantasy in Nau's Isalina, the tales of Féry are completely immersed in that world of zombies, charms, angels, monsters, and aid from the supernatural. Most have a happy ending as many fairy tales do, while the trickster tale ends with Petit Malice and his father playing a joke on the buffoonish Guiannacou and Bouqui. Each tale also imparts something of the values and beliefs of the Haitian people, from a positive perspective. One wonders how Féry actually felt about Vodou and "superstition" in his political life (and what of the connection between Romanticism and the irrational), but in the fairy-tales and snippets of of the fantastic here, a moral can always be found. One wonders how the nouvelles of Brun, Marcelin, Hibbert, and others in the late 19th century and early 20th century continue or deviate from this pattern. Finally, one wonders to what extent the Bouqui and Petit Malice tale of Féry has shaped the canon of Bouqui and Malice tales in the oral and written tradition.

City of a Thousand Suns

The final book in The Fall of the Towers concludes our trilogy and the fate of our protagonists. As to be expected, Delany's novel eschews easy outs and explanations, while engaging in some more experimental prose. The Lord of the Flames, unsurprisingly, is defeated, but at great cost (the fall of Toron). Jon, Petra, Arkor, Alter, and company are joined by Clea Koshar, Vol Nonick (a poet), and a historian (Rolth). These last three represent three ideal forms humanity can pursue: science, arts, philosophy. Like the enigmatic triple being which aids the human protagonists against the Lord of the Flames, they are still individuals but come together to find their strength. The rest of the novel is a series of obstacles, fast-paced action scenes, exploration of the City of a Thousand Suns (a new city on the hill for those malcontent with the malcontent, hopeful for a new, more egalitarian world) and the utter meaningless of war. While these three novels are certainly not my favorite of Samuel Delany's work, they seem to be important in his 1960s oeuvre as transitional works that develop a more complex prose with some of the typical themes and characters of American science fiction of this time. An "interesting" read for what it suggests about the pointlessness of war at a time where US entanglement in Vietnam was only intensifying...

Out of the Dead City

Like his first novel, Out of the Dead City, which is a revised version of Captives of the Flames, is set in post-nuclear war world centuries from now. The remnants of humanity are limited to a few islands and mainlands, with humans, "neo-Neanderthals," and growing social inequality in the Empire of Toromon. The current king is weak, the pace of economic and technological change is wiping out jobs, the slums are ever-growing, crime is up, and a mysterious force beyond the radiation barrier is destroying the airships of Toromon. Jon, Arkor, Duchess Petra, and others team up to prevent the war, while helping another alien being defeat a common foe (the Lord of the Flames). It is unclear whether or not our heroes succeed, but this early Delany novel actually builds a more interesting setting than Aptor. The civilization depicted here is one in which every social class is highlighted and the many ways in which society is coming apart is at the forefront. Delany also manages the transitions quite well between different characters in different parts of the Empire or in Telphar, the dead city (and presumably, the inspiration for the revised title). While it is a bit cryptic and the conclusion abrupt, as the first novel in a trilogy, it's entertaining and of sociological interest for those intrigued by the political dimensions of Delany's science fiction. It would be enlightening to see how the Empire of Toromon, the federations in Nova and the heterotopia in Triton compare. 

The Jewels of Aptor

Samuel R. Delany's first novel shows much promise. Although clunky in dialogue and occasionally prose, the novel successfully tells a quest/adventure story in which lost, ancient technology and fantasy-styled swords and belief in magic coexist. Set over 1000 years after a nuclear holocaust, the remnants of humanity have shifted into two separate camps on two lands, Aptor and Leptar. Those on the latter have remained devotees of the white goddess, Argo, and rejected ancient advanced technology. The followers of the dark god, Hama, however, have retained much of the ancient technology and, 500 years before the story takes place, destroyed Aptor's City of New Hope through the titular jewels. 

Much of the novel's symbolism and themes relies on the duality of chaos and order, black and white, and that eternal symbiosis as the way of the world. Nothing is black and white, despite the central duality of the gods Argo and Hama. Indeed, the novel posits a holistic view inspired by things such as yin and yang, rejecting a Manichaean  view that would lead to humanity's destruction a second time around. Needless to say, this novel, published in 1962, reflects much of the era in its anti-nuclear war stance and rejection of a simplistic Cold War dichotomy of the USSR versus the US. 

Since this is Delany's first novel we're talking about, the characters here resemble some of the later characters of his subsequent work. For example, the poet/university-educated character, Geo, bears a strong resemblance to the academic in The Ballad of Beta-2. Both must unravel the mystery of ancient poems and texts while embarking on a quest with existential consequences. Iimmi, the sole black character, also resembles some of the fully-fleshed nonwhite protagonists of Delany's other novel. Iimmi is a central character in the plot, with an eidetic memory and a university education that makes him just as important as Geo for his intellectual and navigational skills. 

Last but certainly not least, Little Argo, the daughter of the Argo onboard the ship which instigated the entire quest, is not a damsel in distress but plays a central role in the text when her and four-armed Snake retrieve the last jewel. She also represents a promise of the return of some lost technology, as she illustrates an understanding of electric engineering. The characters here are a bit more engaging than those in Ballad of Beta-2, Delany's second standalone work.

Sweet Diamond Dust and Other Stories

Out of a desire to read more of Rosario Ferré's fiction, I decided to tackle her novella and related short stories contained in Sweet Diamond Dust and Other Stories. They are fascinating tales in that they clearly established the template for The House on the Lagoon and Eccentric Neighborhoods. Like those future novels, Sweet Diamond Dust is a multigenerational family drama in which a wealthy, landowning Puerto Rican family becomes a metaphor for the nation. Like the Vernets or the Mendizabals, the De La Valle family is riddled with all of the usual problems of gender, race, and class in a shifting Puerto Rican society (from the decline of the local sugar barons to industrialization and post-WWII migrations and political transformations). Unfortunately, some of her short stories are less compelling than the extended prose works, but, when combined, tell the story of a fictionalized Ponce (Santa Cruz) quite satisfactorily. 

Her satirical approach to Puerto Rican social relations in the "American Century" is rather priceless as it directly addresses the question of the rise and fall of the Puerto Rican gentry and bourgeoisie, and to what extent an independent Puerto Rico is viable. Despite our possible objections to the author's views on independence, which are perhaps best seen in the final short story, which imagines a Puerto Rico on the cusp of independence after the mainland government wishes to cease economic support, Ferré focuses on the interstitial spaces and shadows that connect across social classes. Like hidden black ancestors in the wealthy white family or the mixed-race nouveau riche, Ferré invariably focuses on these types of connections and their ways of uniting and dividing the "Puerto Rican family." 

While I did not enjoy the other stories as much as the novella within this collection, they are also quite experimental and polyphonic, taking the reader on a journey into the psyche of various characters from all social classes. There is a certain delight in reading of the rather extreme courses of action taken by some of these characters, particularly in their destructive actions which threaten the foundations of Puerto Rican society. Indeed, what more could accomplish this when Gloria and Titina burn the De La Valle home in the novella or the disastrous conclusion to the marriage of Don Augusto Arzuaga and Adriana? Or the solidarity of wealthy Mercedita with her friend, Carlotta? The instability and uncertainty of the narratives mirrors the ambiguous status of Puerto Rico.

The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

Edgar Allan Poe's sole novel never appealed to me during my Poe phase, which was perhaps 17 years ago. For some reason, the nautical jargon and central character never resonated with me until Mat Johnson's satirical Pym piqued my interest. Learning of Poe's The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket influence on H.P. Lovecraft also fueled my interest. However, the fantastic, cosmological horror of Lovecraft's famous novel set in Antarctica is only hinted at in Poe's 1838 novel. Johnson's inspiration, of course, leans more heavily into the racist beliefs and practices of Poe's time, reimagining the half-Indian Dirk Peters as a black man and turning Tsalal into a utopian refuge from the blinding white horror of Antarctica and Arthur Gordon Pym. A number of other writers, including Jules Verne, were inspired by Poe's singular novel and sought to write their own sequels or adaptations, trying to find something to match the tantalizing conclusion of the original's interrupted ending.

At first, Poe's novel seems like a simple adventure story set at sea. After an initial tale of shipwreck involving an inebriated Augustus and Pym, which foreshadows their future fate, the narrative shifts to the Grampus. Arthur Gordon Pym and his friend, Augustus, join a whaling expedition after the former is sneaked aboard by the latter. Unfortunately, a mutiny on board occurs and the ship is, after some time, damaged in a gale. The four survivors, which include a man named Richard Parker (the inspiration for the character of the same name in Life of Pi), are left adrift while they slowly starve and die of thirst. Bizarrely, after committing themselves to cannibalism, they eventually access the storageroom of the ship to feed themselves a bit longer. More strange events occur, such as crossing paths with the Flying Dutchman and, their eventual rescue by the Jane Guy ship, a British schooner from Liverpool. En route to the South Seas, the Jane Guy takes the survivors (Dirk Peters and Pym) with them. They stop at a few South Indian Ocean islands like Kerguelen, restock, and eventually engage in some explorations further south in the direction of Antarctica.

Now, in the then-unknown Antarctic region, more bizarre and inexplicable events occur. Temperatures oddly rise, and they encounter black-skinned peoples on an island called Tsalal. The natives are, unlike the Negro cook from the Grampus, jet-black with black teeth. Perhaps inspired by European accounts of Polynesian and Melanesian peoples, Edgar Allan Poe turns these "savages" into something questionably human by turning their teeth black. Nonetheless, the natives are initially friendly and engage in trade with the crew, especially in "biche de mer," which sells well in the Chinese market. Of course, the treacherous black natives, after lulling the white men into a sense of false security, trap them in a ravine and kill off all but Dirk Peters and Pym. After more days of struggling to survive, they eventually escape in a canoe and continue southward, entering a land of pure whiteness (white birds who cry "Tekeli-li!" like the Tsalalians), vapor, white ash, and a shrouded human figure of vast proportions and white skin). This is the famous ending of the novel, and the "Note" after chapter 24 indicates that Dirk Peters is alive and well in Illinois some years after this.

Now, what does any of this mean? First, like the future famous novel of Melville, it shows how interconnected the global economy was, and how the diverse crews of whalers and other ships brought together all "races" of men. Through their collective labor, ties to trade and burgeoning international markets, these ships, and their contact with the South Pacific and other peoples exemplify modernization of human societies. "Savages" and "civilized" peoples were unable to remain wholly distinct, and the former were incorporated into wider circulations of goods and people through natural resources, such as the "biche de mer" of Tsalal. In the case of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, however, the peoples of Tsalal succeed in destroying the ship that would have led to their incorporation into a colonial world of trade and domination. Perhaps, like the example of black rebellions in Virginia (Nat Turner) and Haiti, Tsalal exemplifies a refusal of modernity and its blessed comforts and sciences. Tsalal's people, intriguingly, are not entirely cut off from more advanced peoples, as they possess canoes constructed by another people which are more seaworthy than their rafts. Their own social organization is seen as primitive by Pym, but they are in communication with peoples of the surrounding islands and governed by a common king. While technologically "primitive," their land of color excludes whiteness. This actually brings to mind Haiti and the lack of citizenship accorded to whites in the 19th century.

However, this reading of Tsalal and the mysterious white land to its south ignores the numerous Biblical references and the god-like being of whiteness described in the Antarctic region, not to mention the ancient inscriptions in "Ethiopian" (Ethiopic), Arabic and Egyptian describing blackness, whiteness, and the South (Antarctica) as separate regions. The darkness of Tsalal, linked to ancient Ethiopia, is forever in opposition to the whiteness of the Antarctic, possibly another reference to race as a fundamental divide linked to Biblical prophesy (the destruction of Jerusalem?) or other references to racial difference justified by pro-slavery voices in the US? The novel's ambiguous ending, as suggested by a number of studies, could also be found in Christian prophecy and Poe's own suffering (the loss of his mother and brother). And here lies the greatness of the novel, since its open to a vast number of interpretations and possible symbolic messages that combines a number of genres. Poe's creative use of ancient Egyptian, Ethiopic, and Arabic writings in the South Seas hints at a fascinating example of world-building for his fictionalized version of the South Pole. No one knows what to make of this innovative, creative tale.

The Tales of Ise

I was pleasantly surprised to see how readable The Tales of Ise can be. Translated by Peter Macmillan, it's smooth, engaging, and lyrical while taking the reader on a journey to Heian Japan. Based around 125 episodes combining poetry and prose, the narrative is a fictionalized take on the life of aristocrat Ariwara no Narihira. Most of the episodes concern Narihira's love affairs and poetic messages to past and present women in his life. Some also contrast the countryside with the elite court culture of the capital (modern Kyoto) and describe various regions of Honshu. Reading this after the Ochikubo Monogatari, one can see how The Tales of Ise influenced future monogatari through its subject matter, tropes, and combination of poetry and prose. 

Like Ochikubo Monogatari, men and women often communicate through love poems, and the courtly culture of the capital is clearly the main social arena through which the various characters interact. However, unlike the husband of Lady Ochikubo, Narihira is a womanizer who is constantly wooing or sleeping with various women of all social classes (countrywomen, women of higher rank, lusting for his own sister), including the Priestess of Ise. I personally think Ochikubo Monogatari is, at times, a defense of monogamy possibly written by a woman. Ise Monogatari, on the other hand, seems to lack any judgment of the various affairs of Narihira, and takes the reader on an endless romp with the various successful and unsuccessful conquests of its protagonists. At times, one cannot help but admire him though, as he decides to stay with country women or, in one case, with an older woman to please others besides himself. 

In its combination of poetry and prose to tell a (somewhat) central narrative, it also brings to mind the far older Satyricon of Petronius. While Petronius's comic "novel" is more of a satire on Rome from nearly 2000 years ago, both texts combine poetry and prose to propel a narrative centered on a man and his amorous affairs. Encolpius is far less likable or romantic than Narihira, but both engage with a variety of social classes in their various amorous affairs across their respective territories. The Tales of Ise, however, actually consists of well-written poetry and contains less humor. Yet, both are bound together by their episodic nature of life in highly stratified ancient societies. Ultimately, The Tales of Ise is the more rewarding work because of the incomplete nature of The Satyricon, but it is interesting to see how early "fiction" in both the "Western" and "Eastern" contexts evolved from a combination of verse and prose. 

The House on the Lagoon

Although I could not finish The House on the Lagoon a year ago when I attempted to read it, this time it was a breezy and entertaining read. Telling the story of 20th century Puerto Rico through the wealthy San Juan-based Mendizabal family, the novel is ostensibly the manuscript of Isabel, describing the origins of the her and her husband's families from the Spanish-American War to the turbulent 1970s of independentist radicalism. As the daughter of a Puerto Rican governor and with somewhat of a similar background as Isabel, one assumes Rosario Ferre based some of the characters on people in her own life, while fictionalizing historical events in Puerto Rican history (such as the Ponce Massacre). There is a strong feminist undertone to the novel, which illustrates across class and racial boundaries the role of sexism in limiting the fate of women in Puerto Rican society, although the class and racial politics of Isabel, a "liberal," usually leave more to be desired.

The most interesting aspect of the novel are the Afro-Puerto Rican servants, living in the cellar of the titular house on the lagoon. Led by Petra, the daughter of African slaves from Guayama, who is a devotee of Eleggua and healer, the black characters, who link the elite Mendizabal family with the slums of Las Minas, are often in the shadows but reveal the racial domination built into Puerto Rican society. Petra, who lives in the house for over 50 years, has a special influence on Buenaventura Mendizabal, the "alleged" descendant of Francisco Pizarro, and her presence is the stone upon which the house on the lagoon endures and, eventually, falls. 

Her devotion to Eleggua and observation of African-derived rites and beliefs ultimately has a major influence on Isabel, and Eleggua, the intermediary communicator and guardian of the crossroads, seems to appeal to her. She cannot decide which political path to take (independence, statehood, commonwealth) or personal (remain with Quintin, continue her novel, or leave), and Eleggua, via Petra, becomes the bedrock of support and eventual decision-making. There is no elaborate description of Santeria or Afro-Puerto Rican spirituality here (and Isabel conflates Angolan and West African traditions somewhat lazily in her manuscript), but there is an undeniable presence of the orisha and Black Puerto Rico throughout the narrative. Indeed, even the lagoon or swamp and the nearby Lucumi Beach or Las Minas slum hint at the ever-present black past. 

While reading this, I could not help but recall Du Bois's Quest of the Silver Fleece, which also uses a swamp and hints of non-Christian African-American religion through the character of Zora. Or, without the swamp but similar attention to water and the sea, the works of Jorge Amado. Yet Ferre creates far more appealing and complex women characters while bringing Puerto Rican history to life. One should read this novel alongside Puerto Rico in the American Century.