My Cultural Diet

When is a time travel novel not a time travel novel? (Not in the usual sci-fi sense, anyway.) When it’s Jinwoo Chong’s Flux. Weaving three distinct narratives together with the framing device of a controversial ’80s detective show titled Raider, Flux explores Asian identity, queer relationships, corporate malfeasance (Flux was initially inspired by the fall of Theranos), family trauma, the ways in which pop culture shapes us, cancel culture, and yes, time travel. Suffice to say, Chong’s debut novel has a lot on its mind. And to be honest, I’m not sure how well it all fits together. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop reading, thanks to Chong’s striking prose and literate spin on sci-fi tropes. That, and his descriptions of Raider are so vivid, I found myself Googling it to see if it was actually a real series that I’d somehow missed out on as a child of the ’80s. (It’s not, but I kind of wish it was now. I’d love to watch an episode or two.)

Scotto Moore’s Wild Massive was on my list of the most anticipated books of 2023 due in large part to its absolutely bonkers concept: an infinitely tall skyscraper exists at the center of the multiverse, and each floor is a self-contained world. People use teleporting elevators to travel between floors and spend their leisure time in gigantic theme parks that use a blend of magic and technology. Suffice to say, the bonker concept never solidified for me. Some readers might appreciate the book’s gonzo ride, during which Moore hurls one idea after another for you, but I just found overwhelming… and not in a good way. Did not finish.

All Hollywood blockbusters require the suspension of disbelief, but with their death-defying stunts, cool gagdets, and outlandish settings, the James Bond movies require an extra high level suspension. Which is where Kathryn Harkup’s book comes into play, as she examines the science behind Rosa Klebb’s poison-tipped shoe, Goldfinger’s laser, and what it would take to have your very own volcanic lair à la Blofeld. (Spoiler alert: It’s probably more trouble than it’s worth.) It’s a thoroughly nerdy read, but much like Dave Addey’s Typeset in the Future, it’s the kind of nerdery that I can wholeheartedly endorse — especially when Harkup indulges in some cheeky commentary in her footnotes. Or put another way, if you ever enjoyed MythBusters’ various James Bond specials, then you’ll probably enjoy this.

To call Typeset in the Future “in-depth” is a gross understatement. Dave Addey’s book dives headfirst into that liminal space between typography and sci-fi, and specifically, how typography has often been used to help create futuristic fictional worlds. Addey reviews several classic sci-fi movies (e.g., 2001: A Space Odyssey, Star Trek: The Motion Picture, Blade Runner) to see how they used typefaces to lend their individual visions of the future detail and legitimacy. Along the way, he delves into the history of “futuristic” typefaces like the ominipresent Eurostile Bold Extended, discusses graphic design and sci-fi with legends like Mike Okuda (who designed many of the computer displays and user interfaces seen in Star Trek), and offers up all manner of behind-the-scenes trivia for the movies in question. (For example, did you know that some of the on-screen text that appears in Blade Runner was actually lifted from a Matrix Instruments ad that ran in the January 1980 issue of Datamation magazine?) In other words, Typeset in the Future is the sort of high-level super-niche ultra-nerdery that can only result from a fascination that borders on obsession, and it’s all the more enjoyable for it.

Novels like this contain a definite “male wish fulfillment” factor. Eisler’s main character isn’t just a deadly assassin; he’s also wealthy, cultured (as evinced by his taste in jazz and single malt scotches), operates according to a strict code of honor, and of course, sleeps with one or two beautiful women per novel. To his credit, Eisler does try to make John Rain more than just a mindless murderer with a few scenes that find him wrestling with his difficult and bloody past. Unfortunately, these scenes can make Rain seem petulant, self-pitying, and even whiny — which aren’t exactly qualities one looks for in their literary assassins. The book’s ultimate saving grace is Eisler’s descriptions of Tokyo which, due to his having lived there for several years, possess a gritty authenticity. That said, I don’t really feel a need to read any more John Rain novels after this one.

I read this back in the early ’00s when it was called Rain Fall, my curiosity piqued because I’d read a rumor that Jet Li had optioned it for a potential movie. The Jet Li movie never came to pass, but it was turned into a live-action film in 2009 starring Kippei Shîna and Gary Oldman (which I haven’t seen). This is a satisfying enough thriller about a half-Japanese assassin who specializes in deaths that look natural (e.g., heart attacks). After his latest assignment, he gets mixed up with the daughter of his target, a Japanese shadow government, and his former colleagues at the CIA — as you do. Like most books in this genre, it’s nothing terribly deep or thought-provoking, but makes for some nice late night/weekend reading. Barry Eisler lived and worked in Japan for several years, which gives his writing a nice verisimilitude, though the samurai/ronin metaphors and references get a bit heavy-handed after awhile.

The title suggests that this is the final Orphan X novel, and if that’s the case, then the series ends on an underwhelming note. Mind you, I never read these novels expecting high art, but rather, something really entertaining — think Jason Bourne meets Burn Notice — that I can devour in a single day. (Which I did here.) To his credit, Hurwitz puts his hero, a former government assassin named Evan Smoak, through the mental and emotional ringer to honestly explore the trauma and morality of his profession. But the result is page after page of clunky, portentous dialog. Put it this way: the descriptions of Smoak’s military equipment and super-secret ninjutsu techniques are more believable and enjoyable than any “serious” dialog. Combine that with a lackluster villain who’s a thinly veiled Elon Musk (I think) and several plot threads left unresolved in order to include new ones, and I think this might be the series’ weakest book.

My wife and I have both been on a bit of noir kick lately, and I picked this up after reading her review. I did enjoy the hard-boiled dialog, which is often funny and frequently ventures on cliché — until you remember that this is probably the original source for this sort of thing, that is. As for the actual storyline, I confess that I got lost amidst all of the twists and turns. I’m sure it all holds together, but by the end, I didn’t really care. Which is frustrating because I do like Chandler’s language, which was — as I said — humorously hard-boiled. But it could also be surprisingly beautiful and even poignant at times, whether capturing Philip Marlowe’s lonely life or the mundane details of Little Fawn Lake.

The final book in David Zindell’s trilogy is supremely underwhelming. His striking prose is unable to redeem the meandering plot or make up for the total lack of resolution in some key storylines. But even said prose starts to feel tedious after awhile, especially when the protagonist — who is practically perfect in every way — experiences a mind-blowing epiphany seemingly every other chapter, epiphanies that Zindell describes in great detail. Perhaps most annoying of all, the novel’s climax is basically a riff on classic utilitarianism, which (A) requires the protagonist to abandon the lofty idealism he’s spouted throughout the trilogy and (B) undermines Zindell’s passionately written ruminations on life’s purpose and humanity’s potential.

The sequel to 2021’s A Psalm for the Wild-Built chronicles the ongoing travels of Sibling Dex and their robot companion, Mosscap. This is good lazy weekend comfort reading: it’s slight and not too demanding or action-packed but it’s nevertheless filled with charming little moments that’ll put a smile on your face. More than the story, though, I enjoy Chambers’ world-building, and want to know more about Panga’s history and various cultures.

I had mixed reactions to the drama in this novel about a pair of lifelong friends and video game designers whose relationship evolves and breaks and heals over the years. But I did enjoy the snapshots of ’80s and ’90s video game nostalgia as well as the commentary on the video game industry as a whole (commentary that, thankfully, never felt heavy-handed or pedantic).

Zindell continues to fascinate and frustrate. His prose can be compelling and even strikingly beautiful in its description of a far-distant spacefaring future. But it’s also ponderous and long-winded, with segues and side quests that are a slog (and could’ve used an editor’s red pen). I’m glad to be reading this trilogy, but I’ll be glad to be done with it.

Like Andy Weir (Project Hail Mary, The Martian), Blake Crouch writes sci-fi that’s intellectually stimulating thanks to the science involved, but at the same time, real page-turners. (I think I read Upgrade in two days, total.) That said, Upgrade may have been too much of a page-turner; it felt perfunctory given the heady topic involved (genetic engineering). As for the ending, I get why Crouch wanted to end the novel on an optimistic note, but it rang a bit false to me and left a bad taste in my mouth.

The final book in Alexander’s Prydain series. Elegant storytelling steeped in Welsh mythology. What strikes me the most is how elegiac and melancholy it is, from the various sacrifices that each main character has to make, to the bittersweet ending. And it’s all the better because of it. It affected me as an adult; I can only imagine how it would’ve affected me had I read it as a kid.

Allegedly based on a classic Japanese folk tale, Neil Gaiman’s story is a joy to read. Even better, though, is Yoshitaka Amano’s incredibly lush and vivid artwork. Amano might be best known for his work with the Final Fantasy video game franchise, but his dreamlike and highly stylized imagery here is an absolutely perfect match for Gaiman’s prose.

Blackout is billed as a “gripping WW2 thriller,” but while I enjoyed it well enough and found its Nazi Germany setting interesting, I wouldn’t exactly call it “gripping.” It moves at a brisk pace but I was never on the edge of my seat. What’s more, the protagonist’s angst — to be fair, he’s in a pretty unenviable position — and stricken conscience both become rather on-the-nose by the novel’s final act.

Given that it’s basically a Lovecraftian spy thriller, I expected to like this a lot more than I actually did. However, the nonstop snarky tone got tedious after awhile, as did all of the spy lingo and technobabble. There are apparently a dozen novels in Charles Stross’ Laundry Files series, plus various novellas and spin-offs. But I’m good after just this one.

Lois McMaster Bujold’s The Curse of Chalion is one of my favorite fantasy novels of all time. This novella is set in the same world, though a century earlier. It’s a nice return to the World of the Five Gods, but does pale in comparison to Bujold’s novels set in that mythical world.

While reading this psychological thriller about a mother who’s concerned about her daughter’s bizarre behavior, I kept waiting for it all to come together. But after I finished reading it and described it to my wife, the more preposterous and nonsensical it seemed, including the twist in the final pages. You know how some things are greater than the sum of their parts? This is the opposite of that.

David Zindell’s Neverness is one of the more interesting sci-fi novels I’ve ever read, and The Broken God picks up where it left off. Zindell’s prose is often breathtakingly beautiful and his world building is ambitious but he’s also prone to heady philosophizing and meandering narratives that can pretentious.