And yes, these aren’t reviews, but I’m around half-way through, and somewhat disappointed. There is a particular quality in her writing that even in her best works feels somewhat unclear, as though she knows the story she is telling perfectly, but it doesn’t quite make it to the page. In her works that succeed, this is merely a background hint, but in Daughter of Elysium, it’s unfortunately very clear.

Perhaps it’s a mix of characters being too archetypal, and so failing to act outside these roles; at other times it’s their behaviour, for which I feel strangely excluded from their motivation. Also too, despite drawing elegantly from microbiology and genetics, the gap of nearly twenty years shows. Perhaps this is an unfair criticism, as writing genuine science-fiction – that is, fiction which bases itself on plausible science – is the hardest genre to not become hopelessly, laughably old-fashioned or completely wrong in. Altogether this creates the uncanny air of reading something that doesn’t seem all that creative or inspired.

Not to worry, still only half-way, with another one yet unread, and it’s always worthwhile reading an author’s problem children. (And I still have a daunting pile of Cantonese and Chinese history to get through …)

Joan Slonczewski – Daughter of Elysium

It was Charlie who caused me to discover Joan, when she guest-blogged there, and The Highest Frontier was my book of the year last October. I since got through Brain Plague, and decided in the best tradition of gluttony that the only sensible course to follow was to acquire as many of her remaining books as quick as possible.

I also needed a small break from reading all things Canton.

My original idea in writing about what I was reading was to write before I began, so this would be a short document of my reasons and expectations for reading. Being a glutton, I finished this some time Saturday morning. Fie!

So, I write from behind.

I was somewhat anxious about this one, as aspects of Joan’s feminism as well her age places her squarely in 2nd wave territory, and all the nasty essentialist separatism that goes with it. Equally though, she is a Quaker and a microbiologist, and I would say both at very least annul any corporal nationalism inherent in a ‘feminist utopia’ based on separatism.

Still, A Door to Ocean was written in the latter days of that wave, and years before gender theory and people like Anne Fausto-Sterling, so I was prepared to experience sourness. Luckily not. It’s not as weirdly sublime as Brain Plague, but nonetheless has that same beauty, poignancy and glorious inventiveness, and characters whose personalities float around in my thoughts for weeks and months.

Joan Slonczewski – A Door into Ocean

Joan Slonczewski I discovered through Charles Stross, when she guest-blogged there, and her The Highest Frontier was my fiction book of the year this year. Getting hold of Brain Plague took longer than expected – much longer than reading it. I stopped in a café on the way home last night and began two hours there, devouring another third when I arrived in bed, and finishing it off in bits and pieces over the course of today.

A comparison with China Mievillé’s Embassytown comes to mind. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold off before ordering en masse the remainder of her books.

Joan Slonczewski – Brain Plague

There are familiar names again — thinking here of science-fiction, ones I know I will buy whenever a new something arrives from them, whose publication dates I note down and await with increasing excitement. New names also, whose discovery has caused much pleasure.

Changes also. When I first began this documenting of whatever I’d opened to the first page, I explicitly chose not to say anything, not to review or write any words — except in very rare cases when moved to do so. I didn’t and don’t want to be in the thrall of feeling obliged to write a review or criticism. What did change though, was to write some paragraphs about how a particular book came to be discovered or acquired; why I was reading, or about to read it.

For me, this seems to give a slight sense of completeness that just posting the title and author, along with the cover didn’t quite manage. Especially also as there have been some books this year which I’ve felt very happy to have begun.

As with last year, I’ll start with the disappointments. Last year it was William Gibson; this year, Neal Stephenson. Reamde could have been exquisite, if it had been anything comparable to the Baroque Trilogy. Instead it was tired, riddled with clichés, endless hyperventilating over gun-tech and battles … It’s the kind of book that would appeal to a specific North American white hetero male type, who is still angry at the (perceived or real) slaps in the face from Islamic terrorists, Russian Mafia, United States government, Chinese in general … In the same way the content and premise of the book read as though it should have been published six years ago, this type fails to realise the rest of the world doesn’t really care about him or find much interesting in his self-absorbed world-view. A pity, because Stephenson’s writing can be beautiful, yet there was scant substance here; nothing that inspired me to turn over new thoughts.

Last year  said much the same about William Gibson, with the caveat that I would nonetheless likely read him again. This year, when there are so many truly brilliant  science-fiction writers I have yet to read, I don’t see the point, especially for some long-past fondness. To be plain, I’m not wasting my time on white, North American hetero male writers whose vision has become increasingly small, when there’s the whole rest of the world.

Contra that, Charles Stross’ Rule 34, which covered similar territory to Reamde, is close to being re-read. The difference perhaps is that Stross, along with China Miéville, and unlike Gibson or Stephenson understands the point of shifting the attention and point-of-view away from the above-mentioned, and when he does so, it reads believably.

Along with Rule 34, Miéville’s Un Lun Dun and Joan Slonczewski’s The Highest Frontier both remain in my mind. All three have females in the leading roles, or are written from their perspective, and all of them have this believability that is necessary for me to say, “Oh, you should read that”. Miéville also published Embassytown, which also has remained swirling in my head; thoughts of language and meaning; science-fiction as written by Derrida.

A critical thing for me in books — fiction and non-fiction — that transcend being just a good read, is that I can see the world imagined or written about through the words. It is visible in my mind’s eye as clearly as any other imagination. Without this, it’s rare that I can finish a book. Perhaps it is something of a representation of the writer’s empathy for their subjects; for the people who populate and live their written words.

I’ve been fortunate to have read several science-fiction works this year that have had something of this; Hannu Rajaniemi’s The Quantum Thief, Reza Negarestani’s Cryptonomicon, and (still reading) Chingiz Aitmatov’s poignant The Day Lasts More Than One Hundred Years, as well as the others I’ve mentioned. What separates the books of the year from these — all of which I’ll probably re-read at some time — is a specific imagination they instil.

I remember these as I do a colour or feeling or texture. The thoughts and ideas they generate seem to recur over time, as a spring or well. China Miéville’s Un Lun Dun and Joan Slonczewski’s The Highest Frontier both have these things in abundance. I can’t really separate them even though they are completely different works, one set a hundred years from now on a space-hab at the end of an anthrax tether hooked to Ohio, the other a parallel world of objects beside/between/against London; one speculative sci-fi written by a professor of biology and Quaker, the other speculative horror written by a Phd in Marxism and international law.

What is perhaps curious, Miéville’s is probably aimed at readers around 12 years old, and Slonczewski’s late-teens to early-twenties. Perhaps to say, given the minds behind both it’s no surprise they are deceptively subtle and thoughtful. And they are both superb.

Away from science-fiction.

As usual, my non-fiction reading has been China, Central Asia, Afghanistan, with some theatre and ‘other’ thrown in.

The biggest disappointment, given it was based on the monumental research of Joseph Needham and his Science and Civilisation in China, was Robert Temple’s The Genius of China: 3,000 Years of Science, Discovery, and Invention. Without wishing to say too much, the sycophancy in this book (notably towards the Chinese Government) makes for difficult and biased reading, and while China does have a long history of invention, the scope covered by this book is only possible and true if the border of China was to extend to the farthest cumulative reach of all dynasties across the entire 3,000 year duration.

Thankfully, I have read some very strong scholarship on China in the last year: Vera Schwarcz’ The Chinese Enlightenment: Intellectuals and the Legacy of the May Fourth Movement of 1919, Frank Dikötter’s Mao’s Great Famine, Julia Lovell’s The Opium War. Richard Wolin’s The Wind From The East stands out for the analysis of Maoism and the Cultural Revolution and their influence on the ’68 movement. It’s a compelling and conflicting read, for the disgraceful romance of some European philosophers with Mao who should and did know what was really going on in China under the communists, and for the unequivocally positive influence the idea of a ‘cultural revolution’ transposed to Europe had post-’68.

A book I started before last year’s anniversary, Nazif Shahrani The Kirghiz and Wakhi of Afghanistan, is another superb work, and has really been responsible for pushing my interest into a very specific region where Afghanistan, Pakistan, Kashmir, Tibet, and Tajikstan all meet. A conflicted area certainly; one also replete with mountains, and for a long time the passes of which formed nodes of long-lived trade routes. I expect to be reading a lot more on this region in the coming years.

Liao Yiwu’s God is Red – The secret story of how Christianity survived and flourished in Communist China, despite the religious focus of which I have a visceral aversion to, is as profound as The Corpse-Walker, and there is little I can say other than he is the most important writer I know of in China. Or rather, now in exile in Berlin. Had I been making a book of the year when I read The Corpse Walker, I’m fairly sure it would have been that. As it is, God is Red is very near.

Returning to Afghanistan, I’ve just finished Rodric Braithwaite’s Afghansty: The Russians in Afghanistan 1979-89. Perhaps the timing of its release, when the United States and allies have reached their own ten-year anniversary of war in Afghanistan is not coincidental. I wonder if it will be in twenty years from now a similar work will be written on this war, with a similar epilogue. The feeling for me throughout, deeply unsettling at the parallels, one which I suspect was intentional on the part of Braithwaite. is there is little doubt the shape of the coming years for Afghanistan will be found as a repeat of the years after the Russians had left.

And so, how do I choose? Different works, different fields of study; no work alone or springing fully-formed from nothing. Paul Hockenos’s Joschka Fischer and the Making of the Berlin should also be mentioned, as with others … is this book of the year making a competition out of my wandering reading? Maybe to say that what this is, is an attempt at a description of the works that have lingered in my thoughts. To that then, Nazif Shahrani’s The Kirghiz and Wakhi of Afghanistan is a fitting examples.

china miéville – un lun dun

richard wolin – the wind from the east

frank dikötter – mao’s great famine

hannu rajaniemi — the quantum thief

paul hockenos – joschka fischer

vera schwarcz – the chinese enlightenment

china miéville – embassytown

charles stross – rule 34

julia lovell – the opium war

chingiz aitmatov – the day lasts more than a hundred years

liao yiwu – god is red

rodric braithwaite – afghansty

nazif shahrani – the kirghiz and wakhi of afghanistan

Joan Slonczewski — The Highest Frontier

Charlie occasionally has guest bloggers, and recently, when he asked his blog commentators, “What do you think is the most important novel of the past 10-and-a-bit years (published since January 1st 2000)? All male authors are disqualified.” as a follow-on to a previous post where the question produced nearly 400 comments with scant representation from female authors, I thought, come to think of it, he doesn’t have  female guest bloggers (turns out he’s also had Elizabeth Bear guest blogging).

And then Joan turned up.

Professor of Biology, science-fiction writer, researching in extremophile microbiology and genomics … self-healing anthrax space-elevators! Naturally I ordered her just-published The Highest Frontier immediately. She also deals with space colonisation and some pretty complicated gender, identity, class, ethno-national issues as well as the social and medical consequences of student-minature-elephant sex in a space habitat.

Joan Slonczewski — The Highest Frontier

Because I had dropped out and didn’t have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can’t capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life.

For some reason, I’d saved a link to his site, and while cleaning my folders, and seeing what all the links were, ended up there. A list of works. One caught my attention: Knotunknot.

“Knoten sind gut, sie halten Dinge fest, damit sie nicht wegschwimmen. Knoten sind schlecht, denn sie fixieren Gedanken, die weiterlaufen sollten, oder sie bedeuten Krebs.”

Further looking … Suspense. An work from a couple of years ago. Forsythe bound and suspended in film.

I was talking with Gala last night about the messy tying Dasniya and I have been doing lately, so thought also to make some small notes about what is interesting for me at the moment in this. A question that occurs immediately is, where is shibari in all this? I think about formal tying figures, the social and gender aspects of traditional shibari and BDSM, the tropes they engage, how does my interest tangle with that?

No clear answer, these things are still there (I tried to remember Hojo Hishinawa a couple of nights ago), but not ascendent. Well perhaps formal figures are, as I’m certainly thinking about everything else in relation to this. In its simplest manifestation, this would be a question of: what constitutes a formal figure (any or one) that could be said to be understood as an expression (part-expression?) of the set of all possible figures?

From topology, the first obvious stop is knot theory, which goes to physical knot theory, being more practical in the real world – though ideas about knot description, (also invariants, and groups), equivalence and so on are at some point I think necessary to apply. Also adding knots together (or subtracting), particularly when knot tabulation is incorporated. I’ve been thinking about this in relation to messy tying, which I’ll come to later.

Braid theory turned out to be especially applicable in messy tying. Though I have nowhere near an even simplistic idea of how to formalise these theories in not just an analysis of what we do, but in some kind of system to determine what comes next.

On a somewhat unrelated side, there is a couple of words Lewis said recently about wabi-sabi. I can’t remember when the ideas of messy tying began, but by Parsifal, with the tying of Tamara, and around the same time with what I was thinking of for abjection, there was a definite point of clarification.

Messy tying seems a unsatisfactory name, but it suffices. Some of this was about needing a line of flight from the hegemony of traditional shibari; some of it was practical – tie and untie quickly, what’s the minimum necessary to do with a rope and be able to hang from it?, what can be found to be pleasing in playing with rope so? Starting to read about wabi-sabi, I also find aspects of Chuangzi’s Taoism.

Then also the practicality of rope as an object of use, its history and philosophy (on which I don’t think much has been written; history yes, maybe some anthropological studies on rope use …). Around a workshop recently, where I wrote on this briefly, I read someone interviewed who’d been in Guantanamo, who said, “… but every time I see a rope I remember …“

Physiology of pain and suspension also. Something about the the inner life of a rope. Yes, also in the play of rope the erotic, sex, relationships between people; the visual too, which is necessary in regarding this, not just thinking about it.

Merely some thoughts, nothing especially coherent, my interests at the moment in rope. Some images to break the monotony.