Search Results: "absurd"

20 April 2025

Russ Allbery: Review: Up the Down Staircase

Review: Up the Down Staircase, by Bel Kaufman
Publisher: Vintage Books
Copyright: 1964, 1991, 2019
Printing: 2019
ISBN: 0-525-56566-3
Format: Kindle
Pages: 360
Up the Down Staircase is a novel (in an unconventional format, which I'll describe in a moment) about the experiences of a new teacher in a fictional New York City high school. It was a massive best-seller in the 1960s, including a 1967 movie, but seems to have dropped out of the public discussion. I read it from the library sometime in the late 1980s or early 1990s and have thought about it periodically ever since. It was Bel Kaufman's first novel. Sylvia Barrett is a new graduate with a master's degree in English, where she specialized in Chaucer. As Up the Down Staircase opens, it is her first day as an English teacher in Calvin Coolidge High School. As she says in a letter to a college friend:
What I really had in mind was to do a little teaching. "And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche" like Chaucer's Clerke of Oxenford. I had come eager to share all I know and feel; to imbue the young with a love for their language and literature; to instruct and to inspire. What happened in real life (when I had asked why they were taking English, a boy said: "To help us in real life") was something else again, and even if I could describe it, you would think I am exaggerating.
She instead encounters chaos and bureaucracy, broken windows and mindless regulations, a librarian who is so protective of her books that she doesn't let any students touch them, a school guidance counselor who thinks she's Freud, and a principal whose sole interaction with the school is to occasionally float through on a cushion of cliches, dispensing utterly useless wisdom only to vanish again.
I want to take this opportunity to extend a warm welcome to all faculty and staff, and the sincere hope that you have returned from a healthful and fruitful summer vacation with renewed vim and vigor, ready to gird your loins and tackle the many important and vital tasks that lie ahead undaunted. Thank you for your help and cooperation in the past and future. Maxwell E. Clarke
Principal
In practice, the school is run by James J. McHare, Clarke's administrative assistant, who signs his messages JJ McH, Adm. Asst. and who Sylvia immediately starts calling Admiral Ass. McHare is a micro-managing control freak who spends the book desperately attempting to impose order over school procedures, the teachers, and the students, with very little success. The title of the book comes from one of his detention slips:
Please admit bearer to class Detained by me for going Up the Down staircase and subsequent insolence. JJ McH
The conceit of this book is that, except for the first and last chapters, it consists only of memos, letters, notes, circulars, and other paper detritus, often said to come from Sylvia's wastepaper basket. Sylvia serves as the first-person narrator through her long letters to her college friend, and through shorter but more frequent exchanges via intraschool memo with Beatrice Schachter, another English teacher at the same school, but much of the book lies outside her narration. The reader has to piece together what's happening from the discarded paper of a dysfunctional institution. Amid the bureaucratic and personal communications, there are frequent chapters with notes from the students, usually from the suggestion box that Sylvia establishes early in the book. These start as chaotic glimpses of often-misspelled wariness or open hostility, but over the course of Up the Down Staircase, some of the students become characters with fragmentary but still visible story arcs. This remains confusing throughout the novel there are too many students to keep them entirely straight, and several of them use pseudonyms for the suggestion box but it's the sort of confusion that feels like an intentional authorial choice. It mirrors the difficulty a teacher has in piecing together and remembering the stories of individual students in overstuffed classrooms, even if (like Sylvia and unlike several of her colleagues) the teacher is trying to pay attention. At the start, Up the Down Staircase reads as mostly-disconnected humor. There is a strong "kids say the darnedest things" vibe, which didn't entirely work for me, but the send-up of chaotic bureaucracy is both more sophisticated and more entertaining. It has the "laugh so that you don't cry" absurdity of a system with insufficient resources, entirely absent management, and colleagues who have let their quirks take over their personalities. Sylvia alternates between incredulity and stubbornness, and I think this book is at its best when it shows the small acts of practical defiance that one uses to carve out space and coherence from mismanaged bureaucracy. But this book is not just a collection of humorous anecdotes about teaching high school. Sylvia is sincere in her desire to teach, which crystallizes around, but is not limited to, a quixotic attempt to reach one delinquent that everyone else in the school has written off. She slowly finds her footing, she has a few breakthroughs in reaching her students, and the book slowly turns into an earnest portrayal of an attempt to make the system work despite its obvious unfitness for purpose. This part of the book is hard to review. Parts of it worked brilliantly; I could feel myself both adjusting my expectations alongside Sylvia to something less idealistic and also celebrating the rare breakthrough with her. Parts of it were weirdly uncomfortable in ways that I'm not sure I enjoyed. That includes Sylvia's climactic conversation with the boy she's been trying to reach, which was weirdly charged and ambiguous in a way that felt like the author's reach exceeding their grasp. One thing that didn't help my enjoyment is Sylvia's relationship with Paul Barringer, another of the English teachers and a frustrated novelist and poet. Everyone who works at the school has found their own way to cope with the stress and chaos, and many of the ways that seem humorous turn out to have a deeper logic and even heroism. Paul's, however, is to retreat into indifference and alcohol. He is a believable character who works with Kaufman's themes, but he's also entirely unlikable. I never understood why Sylvia tolerated that creepy asshole, let alone kept having lunch with him. It is clear from the plot of the book that Kaufman at least partially understands Paul's deficiencies, but that did not help me enjoy reading about him. This is a great example of a book that tried to do something unusual and risky and didn't entirely pull it off. I like books that take a risk, and sometimes Up the Down Staircase is very funny or suddenly insightful in a way that I'm not sure Kaufman could have reached with a more traditional novel. It takes a hard look at what it means to try to make a system work when it's clearly broken and you can't change it, and the way all of the characters arrive at different answers that are much deeper than their initial impressions was subtle and effective. It's the sort of book that sticks in your head, as shown by the fact I bought it on a whim to re-read some 35 years after I first read it. But it's not consistently great. Some parts of it drag, the characters are frustratingly hard to keep track of, and the emotional climax points are odd and unsatisfying, at least to me. I'm not sure whether to recommend it or not, but it's certainly unusual. I'm glad I read it again, but I probably won't re-read it for another 35 years, at least. If you are considering getting this book, be aware that it has a lot of drawings and several hand-written letters. The publisher of the edition I read did a reasonably good job formatting this for an ebook, but some of the pages, particularly the hand-written letters, were extremely hard to read on a Kindle. Consider paper, or at least reading on a tablet or computer screen, if you don't want to have to puzzle over low-resolution images. The 1991 trade paperback had a new introduction by the author, reproduced in the edition I read as an afterward (which is a better choice than an introduction). It is a long and fascinating essay from Kaufman about her experience with the reaction to this book, culminating in a passionate plea for supporting public schools and public school teachers. Kaufman's personal account adds a lot of depth to the story; I highly recommend it. Content note: Self-harm, plus several scenes that are closely adjacent to student-teacher relationships. Kaufman deals frankly with the problems of mostly-poor high school kids, including sexuality, so be warned that this is not the humorous romp that it might appear on first glance. A couple of the scenes made me uncomfortable; there isn't anything explicit, but the emotional overtones can be pretty disturbing. Rating: 7 out of 10

4 April 2025

Gunnar Wolf: Naming things revisited

How long has it been since you last saw a conversation over different blogs syndicated at the same planet? Well, it s one of the good memories of the early 2010s. And there is an opportunity to re-engage! I came across Evgeni s post naming things is hard in Planet Debian. So, what names have I given my computers? I have had many since the mid-1990s I also had several during the decade before that, but before Linux, my computers didn t hve a formal name. Naming my computers something nice Linux gave me. I have forgotten many. Some of the names I have used:

30 March 2025

Russ Allbery: Review: Cascade Failure

Review: Cascade Failure, by L.M. Sagas
Series: Ambit's Run #1
Publisher: Tor
Copyright: 2024
ISBN: 1-250-87126-3
Format: Kindle
Pages: 407
Cascade Failure is a far-future science fiction adventure with a small helping of cyberpunk vibes. It is the first of a (so far) two-book series, and was the author's first novel. The Ambit is an old and small Guild ship, not much to look at, but it holds a couple of surprises. One is its captain, Eoan, who is an AI with a deep and insatiable curiosity that has driven them and their ship farther and farther out into the Spiral. The other is its surprisingly competent crew: a battle-scarred veteran named Saint who handles the fighting, and a talented engineer named Nash who does literally everything else. The novel opens with them taking on supplies at Aron Outpost. A supposed Guild deserter named Jalsen wanders into the ship looking for work. An AI ship with a found-family crew is normally my catnip, so I wanted to love this book. Alas, I did not. There were parts I liked. Nash is great: snarky, competent, and direct. Eoan is a bit distant and slightly more simplistic of a character than I was expecting, but I appreciated the way Sagas put them firmly in charge of the ship and departed from the conventional AI character presentation. Once the plot starts in earnest (more on that in a moment), we meet Anke, the computer hacker, whose charming anxiety reaction is a complete inability to stop talking and who adds some needed depth to the character interactions. There's plenty of action, a plot that makes at least some sense, and a few moments that almost achieved the emotional payoff the author was attempting. Unfortunately, most of the story focuses on Saint and Jal, and both of them are irritatingly dense cliches. The moment Jal wanders onto the Ambit in the first chapter, the reader is informed that Jal, Saint, and Eoan have a history. The crew of the Ambit spent a year looking for Jal and aren't letting go of him now that they've found him. Jal, on the other hand, clearly blames Saint for something and is not inclined to trust him. Okay, fine, a bit generic of a setup but the writing moved right along and I was curious enough. It then takes a full 180 pages before the reader finds out what the hell is going on with Saint and Jal. Predictably, it's a stupid misunderstanding that could have been cleared up with one conversation in the second chapter. Cascade Failure does not contain a romance (and to the extent that it hints at one, it's a sapphic romance), but I swear Saint and Jal are both the male protagonist from a certain type of stereotypical heterosexual romance novel. They're both the brooding man with the past, who is too hurt to trust anyone and assumes the worst because he's unable to use his words or ask an open question and then listen to the answer. The first half of this book is them being sullen at each other at great length while both of them feel miserable. Jal keeps doing weird and suspicious things to resolve a problem that would have been far more easily resolved by the rest of the crew if he would offer any explanation at all. It's not even suspenseful; we've read about this character enough times to know that he'll turn out to have a heart of gold and everything will be a misunderstanding. I found it tedious. Maybe people who like slow burn romances with this character type will have a less negative reaction. The real plot starts at about the time Saint and Jal finally get their shit sorted out. It turns out to have almost nothing to do with either of them. The environmental control systems of worlds are suddenly failing (hence the book title), and Anke, the late-arriving computer programmer and terraforming specialist, has a rather wild theory about what's happening. This leads to a lot of action, some decent twists, and a plot that felt very cyberpunk to me, although unfortunately it culminates in an absurdly-cliched action climax. This book is an action movie that desperately wants to make you feel all the feels, and it worked about as well as that typically works in action movies for me. Jaded cynicism and an inability to communicate are not the ways to get me to have an emotional reaction to a book, and Jal (once he finally starts talking) is so ridiculously earnest that it's like reading the adventures of a Labrador puppy. There was enough going on that it kept me reading, but not enough for the story to feel satisfying. I needed a twist, some depth, way more Nash and Anke and way less of the men, something. Everyone is going to compare this book to Firefly, but Firefly had better banter, created more complex character interactions due to the larger and more varied crew, and played the cynical mercenary for laughs instead of straight, all of which suited me better. This is not a bad book, particularly once it gets past the halfway point, but it's not that memorable either, at least for me. If you're looking for a space adventure with heavy action hero and military SF vibes that wants to be about Big Feelings but gets there in mostly obvious ways, you could do worse. If you're looking for a found-family starship crew story more like Becky Chambers, I think you'll find this one a bit too shallow and obvious. Not really recommended, although there's nothing that wrong with it and I'm sure other people's experience will differ. Followed by Gravity Lost, which I'm unlikely to read. Rating: 6 out of 10

24 February 2025

Russ Allbery: Review: A Little Vice

Review: A Little Vice, by Erin E. Elkin
Publisher: Erin Elkin
Copyright: June 2024
ASIN: B0CTHRK61X
Format: Kindle
Pages: 398
A Little Vice is a stand-alone self-published magical girl novel. It is the author's first novel. C is a high school student and frequent near-victim of monster attacks. Due to the nefarious work of Avaritia Wolf and her allies, his high school is constantly attacked by Beasts, who are magical corruptions of some internal desire taken to absurd extremes. Standing in their way are the Angelic Saints: magical girls who transform into Saint Castitas, Saint Diligentia, and Saint Temperantia and fight the monsters. The monsters for some reason seem disposed to pick C as their victim for hostage-taking, mind control, use as a human shield, and other rather traumatic activities. He's always rescued by the Saints before any great harm is done, but in some ways this makes the situation worse. It is obvious to C that the Saints are his three friends Inessa, Ida, and Temperance, even though no one else seems able to figure this out despite the blatant clues. Inessa has been his best friend since childhood when she was awkward and needed his support. Now, she and his other friends have become literal heroes, beautiful and powerful and capable, constantly protecting the school and innocent people, and C is little more than a helpless burden to be rescued. More than anything else, he wishes he could be an Angelic Saint like them, but of course the whole idea is impossible. Boys don't get to be magical girls. (I'm using he/him pronouns for C in this review because C uses them for himself for most of the book.) This is a difficult book to review because it is deeply focused on portraying a specific internal emotional battle in all of its sometimes-ugly complexity, and to some extent it prioritizes that portrayal over conventional story-telling. You have probably already guessed that this is a transgender coming-out story Elkin's choice of the magical girl genre was done with deep understanding of its role in transgender narratives but more than that, it is a transgender coming-out story of a very specific and closely-observed type. C knows who he wishes he was, but he is certain that this transformation is absolutely impossible. He is very deep in a cycle of self-loathing for wanting something so manifestly absurd and insulting to people who have the virtues that C does not. A Little Vice is told in the first person from C's perspective, and most of this book is a relentless observation of C's anxiety and shame spiral and reflexive deflection of any possibility of a way out. This is very well-written: Elkin knows the reader is going to disagree with C's internalized disgust and hopelessness, knows the reader desperately wants C to break out of that mindset, and clearly signals in a myriad of adroit ways that Elkin is on the reader's side and does not agree with C's analysis. C's friends are sympathetic, good-hearted people, and while sometimes oblivious, it is obvious to the reader that they're also on the reader's side and would help C in a heartbeat if they saw an opening. But much of the point of the book is that it's not that easy, that breaking out of the internal anxiety spiral is nearly impossible, and that C is very good at rejecting help, both because he cannot imagine what form it could take but also because he is certain that he does not deserve it. In other words, much of the reading experience of this book involves watching C torture and insult himself. It's all the more effective because it isn't gratuitous. C's internal monologue sounds exactly like how an anxiety spiral feels, complete with the sort of half-effective coping mechanisms, deflections, and emotional suppression one develops to blunt that type of emotional turmoil. I normally hate this kind of book. I am a happy ending and competence porn reader by default. The world is full of enough pain that I don't turn to fiction to read about more pain. It says a lot about how well-constructed this book is that I stuck with it. Elkin is going somewhere with the story, C gets moments of joy and delight along the way to keep the reader from bogging down completely, and the best parts of the book feel like a prolonged musical crescendo with suspended chords. There is a climax coming, but Elkin is going to make you wait for it for far longer than you want to. The main element that protects A Little Vice from being too grim is that it is a genre novel that is very playful about both magical girls and superhero tropes in general. I've already alluded to one of those elements: Elkin plays with the Mask Principle (the inability of people to see through entirely obvious secret identities) in knowing and entertaining ways. But there are also villains, and that leads me to the absolutely delightful Avaritia Wolf, who for me was the best character in this book. The Angelic Saints are not the only possible approach to magical girl powers in this universe. There are villains who can perform a similar transformation, except they embrace a vice rather than a virtue. Avaritia Wolf embraces the vice of greed. They (Avaritia's pronouns change over the course of the book) also have a secret identity, which I suspect will be blindingly obvious to most readers but which I'll avoid mentioning since it's still arguably a spoiler. The primary plot arc of this book is an attempt to recruit C to the side of the villains. The Beasts are drawn to him because he has magical potential, and the villains are less picky about gender. This initially involves some creepy and disturbing mind control, but it also brings C into contact with Avaritia and Avaritia's very specific understanding of greed. As far as Avaritia is concerned, greed means wanting whatever they want, for whatever reason they feel like wanting it, and there is absolutely no reason why that shouldn't include being greedy for their friends to be happy. Or doing whatever they can to make their friends happy, whether or not that looks like villainy. Elkin does two things with this plot that I thought were remarkably skillful. The first is that she directly examines and then undermines the "easy" transgender magical girl ending. In a world of transformation magic, someone who wants to be a girl could simply turn into a girl and thus apparently resolve the conflict in a way that makes everyone happy. I think there is an important place for that story (I am a vigorous defender of escapist fantasy and happy endings), but that is not the story that Elkin is telling. I won't go into the details of why and how the story complicates and undermines this easy ending, but it's a lot of why this book feels both painful and honest to a specific, and very not easy, transgender experience, even though it takes place in an utterly unrealistic world. But the second, which is more happy and joyful, is that Avaritia gleefully uses a wholehearted embrace of every implication of the vice of greed to bulldoze the binary morality of the story and question the classification of human emotions into virtues and vices. They are not a hero, or even all that good; they have some serious flaws and a very anarchic attitude towards society. But Avaritia provides the compelling, infectious thrill of the character who looks at the social construction of morality that is constraining the story and decides that it's all bullshit and refuses to comply. This is almost the exact opposite of C's default emotional position at the start of the book, and watching the two characters play off of each other in a complex friendship is an absolute delight. The ending of this book is complicated, messy, and incomplete. It is the sort of ending that I think could be incredibly powerful if it hits precisely the right chords with the reader, but if you're not that reader, it can also be a little heartbreaking because Elkin refuses to provide an easy resolution. The ending also drops some threads that I wish Elkin hadn't dropped; there are some characters who I thought deserved a resolution that they don't get. But this is one of those books where the author knows exactly what story they're trying to tell and tells it whether or not that fits what the reader wants. Those books are often not easy reading, but I think there's something special about them. This is not the novel for people who want detailed world-building that puts a solid explanation under events. I thought Elkin did a great job playing with the conventions of an episodic anime, including starting the book on Episode 12 to imply C's backstory with monster attacks and hinting at a parallel light anime story by providing TV-trailer-style plot summaries and teasers at the start and end of each chapter. There is a fascinating interplay between the story in which the Angelic Saints are the protagonists, which the reader can partly extrapolate, and the novel about C that one is actually reading. But the details of the world-building are kept at the anime plot level: There's an arch-villain, a World Tree, and a bit of backstory, but none of it makes that much sense or turns into a coherent set of rules. This is a psychological novel; the background and rules exist to support C's story. If you do want that psychological novel... well, I'm not sure whether to recommend this book or not. I admire the construction of this book a great deal, but I don't think appealing to the broadest possible audience was the goal. C's anxiety spiral is very repetitive, because anxiety spirals are very repetitive, and you have to be willing to read for the grace notes on the doom loop if you're going to enjoy this book. The sentence-by-sentence writing quality is fine but nothing remarkable, and is a bit shy of the average traditionally-published novel. The main appeal of A Little Vice is in the deep and unflinching portrayal of a specific emotional journey. I think this book is going to work if you're sufficiently invested in that journey that you are willing to read the brutal and repetitive parts. If you're not, there's a chance you will bounce off this hard. I was invested, and I'm glad I read this, but caveat emptor. You may want to try a sample first. One final note: If you're deep in the book world, you may wonder, like I did, if the title is a reference to Hanya Yanagihara's (in)famous A Little Life. I do not know for certain I have not read that book because I am not interested in being emotionally brutalized but if it is, I don't think there is much similarity. Both books are to some extent about four friends, but I couldn't find any other obvious connections from some Wikipedia reading, and A Little Vice, despite C's emotional turmoil, seems to be considerably more upbeat. Content notes: Emotionally abusive parent, some thoughts of self-harm, mind control, body dysmorphia, and a lot (a lot) of shame and self-loathing. Rating: 7 out of 10

30 December 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: House in Hiding

Review: House in Hiding, by Jenny Schwartz
Series: Uncertain Sanctuary #2
Publisher: Jenny Schwartz
Copyright: October 2020
Printing: September 2024
ASIN: B0DBX6GP8Z
Format: Kindle
Pages: 196
House in Hiding is the second book of a self-published space fantasy trilogy that started with The House That Walked Between Worlds. I read it as part of the Uncertain Sanctuary omnibus, which is reflected in the sidebar metadata. At the end of the previous book, Kira had gathered a motley crew for her house and discovered that she had drawn the attention of some rather significant galactic powers. Now, with the help of her new (hopefully) friends, she has to decide what role she's going to play in the galaxy. Or she can dither a lot, ruminate repeatedly on the same topics, and flail about randomly. That's also an option. This is slightly unfair. By the second half of the book, the series plot is beginning to cohere around two major problems: what is happening to the magic flows in the universe, and who killed Kira's parents. But apparently there was a limit on my enjoyment for the chaos in Kira's chaotic decisiveness I praised in my review of the last book, and I hit that limit around the middle of this book. I am interested in the questions of ethics, responsibility, and public image that this series is raising. I'm just not convinced that Schwartz is going to provide satisfying answers. One thing I do appreciate about this book is that it acknowledges that politics exist and that taking powerful people at face value is a bad idea. You would think that this would be a low bar, and yet it's depressing how many fantasy novels signal the trustworthiness of a character via some variation of "I looked into his eyes and shook his hand," or at least expect readers to be surprised by the inevitable betrayals. Schwartz does not make that mistake; after getting a call from a powerful player in galactic politics, the characters take apart everything that was said while assuming it could be attempted manipulation, which is the correct initial response. My problem comes after that. I like reading about competent characters with a plan, and these are absurdly powerful but very naive characters with no plan. This is realistic for the situation Kira has been thrust into, but it's not that entertaining to read about. I think the root of my problem is that there are some fundamental storytelling problems here that Schwartz is struggling to fix. The basic theory of story says that you need a protagonist, a setting, a conflict, and a plot. Schwartz has a good protagonist, one great supporting character and several adequate ones, and an enjoyably weird setting. I think she's working her way up to having a plot, although usually it's best for the plot to show up before the middle book of the series. What she doesn't have is a meaningful conflict. It's not entirely clear to either the reader or to Kira why Kira cares about what's happening. You would not think this would be a problem given that Kira's parents were murdered before the start of the first book. That's a classic conflict that's driven more books than I think anyone could count. It's not what Kira has cared about up to this point, however; she got away from Earth and has shown no sign of wanting to go back or identify the people who killed her parents, perhaps because she mostly blames herself. Instead, she's stumbling across other problems in the universe that other people would like her to care about. She occasionally feels like she ought to care about them because they involve her new friends or because she wants to be a good person, but they have very little dramatic oomph. "I'm a sorcerer and vaguely want the universe to be a better place" turns out to not work that well as a source of dramatic tension. This lack of conflict is somewhat fascinating because it's so different than most fantasy novels. If Schwartz were more aware of how oddly disconnected her protagonist is from the story conflict, I think there could be a thoughtful, if odd, psychological novel in here about one's ethical responsibilities if one suddenly had vast power and no strong attachments to the world. Kira does gesture occasionally in that direction, but there's no real meat to her musings. Instead, her lack of motivation is solved through one of the hoariest tropes in fiction: children in danger. I really want to like this series, and I still love the House, but this book was not good. The romance that I was delighted to not be subjected to in the first book appears to be starting (sigh), the political maneuvering that happens here is only mildly interesting and not believably competent, and the book concludes in Kira making an egregiously and blatantly stupid mistake that should have resulted in one of her friends asking her what the hell she was doing. Some setup happens, and it seems likely that the final book will have a clear conflict and plot, but this middle book was a disappointing mess. These books are fast to read and lightly entertaining between other things, and the House still has me invested enough in this universe that I'll read the last book in the omnibus. Be warned, though, that the middle book is more a collection of anecdotes than a story, and there's only so much of Kira showing off her power I can take without a conflict and a plot. Followed by The House That Fought. Rating: 5 out of 10

24 December 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: Number Go Up

Review: Number Go Up, by Zeke Faux
Publisher: Crown Currency
Copyright: 2023
Printing: 2024
ISBN: 0-593-44382-9
Format: Kindle
Pages: 373
Number Go Up is a cross between a history and a first-person account of investigative journalism around the cryptocurrency bubble and subsequent collapse in 2022. The edition I read has an afterward from June 2024 that brings the story up to date with Sam Bankman-Fried's trial and a few other events. Zeke Faux is a reporter for Bloomberg News and a fellow of New America. Last year, I read Michael Lewis's Going Infinite, a somewhat-sympathetic book-length profile of Sam Bankman-Fried that made a lot of people angry. One of the common refrains at the time was that people should read Number Go Up instead, and since I'm happy to read more about the absurdities of the cryptocurrency world, I finally got around to reading the other big crypto book of 2023. This is a good book, with some caveats that I am about to explain at absurd length. If you want a skeptical history of the cryptocurrency bubble, you should read it. People who think that it's somehow in competition with Michael Lewis's book or who think the two books disagree (including Faux himself) have profoundly missed the point of Going Infinite. I agree with Matt Levine: Both of these books are worth your time if this is the sort of thing you like reading about. But (much) more on Faux's disagreements with Lewis later. The frame of Number Go Up is Faux's quixotic quest to prove that Tether is a fraud. To review this book, I therefore need to briefly explain what Tether is. This is only the first of many extended digressions. One natural way to buy cryptocurrency would be to follow the same pattern as a stock brokerage account. You would deposit some amount of money into the account (or connect the brokerage account to your bank account), and then exchange money for cryptocurrency or vice versa, using bank transfers to put money in or take it out. However, there are several problems with this. One is that swapping cryptocurrency for money is awkward and sometimes expensive. Another is that holding people's investment money for them is usually highly regulated, partly for customer safety but also to prevent money laundering. These are often called KYC laws (Know Your Customer), and the regulation-hostile world of cryptocurrency didn't want to comply with them. Tether is a stablecoin, which means that the company behind Tether attempts to guarantee that one Tether is always worth exactly one US dollar. It is not a speculative investment like Bitcoin; it's a cryptocurrency substitute for dollars. People exchange dollars for Tether to get their money into the system and then settle all of their subsequent trades in Tether, only converting the Tether back to dollars when they want to take their money out of cryptocurrency entirely. In essence, Tether functions like the cash reserve in a brokerage account: Your Tether holdings are supposedly guaranteed to be equivalent to US dollars, you can withdraw them at any time, and because you can do so, you don't bother, instead leaving your money in the reserve account while you contemplate what new coin you want to buy. As with a bank, this system rests on the assurance that one can always exchange one Tether for one US dollar. The instant people stop believing this is true, people will scramble to get their money out of Tether, creating the equivalent of a bank run. Since Tether is not a regulated bank or broker and has no deposit insurance or strong legal protections, the primary defense against a run on Tether is Tether's promise that they hold enough liquid assets to be able to hand out dollars to everyone who wants to redeem Tether. (A secondary defense that I wish Faux had mentioned is that Tether limits redemptions to registered accounts redeeming more than $100,000, which is a tiny fraction of the people who hold Tether, but for most purposes this doesn't matter because that promise is sufficient to maintain the peg with the dollar.) Faux's firmly-held belief throughout this book is that Tether is lying. He believes they do not have enough money to redeem all existing Tether coins, and that rather than backing every coin with very safe liquid assets, they are using the dollars deposited in the system to make illiquid and risky investments. Faux never finds the evidence that he's looking for, which makes this narrative choice feel strange. His theory was tested when there was a run on Tether following the collapse of the Terra stablecoin. Tether passed without apparent difficulty, redeeming $16B or about 20% of the outstanding Tether coins. This doesn't mean Faux is wrong; being able to redeem 20% of the outstanding tokens is very different from being able to redeem 100%, and Tether has been fined for lying about its reserves. But Tether is clearly more stable than Faux thought it was, which makes the main narrative of the book weirdly unsatisfying. If he admitted he might be wrong, I would give him credit for showing his work even if it didn't lead where he expected, but instead he pivots to focusing on Tether's role in money laundering without acknowledging that his original theory took a serious blow. In Faux's pursuit of Tether, he wanders through most of the other elements of the cryptocurrency bubble, and that's the strength of this book. Rather than write Number Go Up as a traditional history, Faux chooses to closely follow his own thought processes and curiosity. This has the advantage of giving Faux an easy and natural narrative, something that non-fiction books of this type can struggle with, and it lets Faux show how confusing and off-putting the cryptocurrency world is to an outsider. The best parts of this book were the parts unrelated to Tether. Faux provides an excellent summary of the Axie Infinity speculative bubble and even traveled to the Philippines to interview people who were directly affected. He then wandered through the bizarre world of NFTs, and his first-hand account of purchasing one (specifically a Mutant Ape) to get entrance to a party (which sounded like a miserable experience I would pay money to get out of) really drives home how sketchy and weird cryptocurrency-related software and markets can be. He also went to El Salvador to talk to people directly about the country's supposed embrace of Bitcoin, and there's no substitute for that type of reporting to show how exaggerated and dishonest the claims of cryptocurrency adoption are. The disadvantage of this personal focus on Faux himself is that it sometimes feels tedious or sensationalized. I was much less interested in his unsuccessful attempts to interview the founder of Tether than Faux was, and while the digression into forced labor compounds in Cambodia devoted to pig butchering scams was informative (and horrific), I think Faux leaned too heavily on an indirect link to Tether. His argument is that cryptocurrency enables a type of money laundering that is particularly well-suited to supporting scams, but both scams and this type of economic slavery existed before cryptocurrency and will exist afterwards. He did not make a very strong case that Tether was uniquely valuable as a money laundering service, as opposed to a currently useful tool that would be replaced with some other tool should it go away. This part of the book is essentially an argument that money laundering is bad because it enables crime, and sure, to an extent I agree. But if you're going to put this much emphasis on the evils of money laundering, I think you need to at least acknowledge that many people outside the United States do not want to give US government, which is often openly hostile to them, veto power over their financial transactions. Faux does not. The other big complaint I have with this book, and with a lot of other reporting on cryptocurrency, is that Faux is sloppy with the term "Ponzi scheme." This is going to sound like nit-picking, but I think this sloppiness matters because it may obscure an ongoing a shift in cryptocurrency markets. A Ponzi scheme is not any speculative bubble. It is a very specific type of fraud in which investors are promised improbably high returns at very low risk and with safe principal. These returns are paid out, not via investment in some underlying enterprise, but by taking the money from new investments and paying it to earlier investors. Ponzi schemes are doomed because satisfying their promises requires a constantly increasing flow of new investors. Since the population of the world is finite, all Ponzi schemes are mathematically guaranteed to eventually fail, often in a sudden death spiral of ever-increasing promises to lure new investors when the investment stream starts to dry up. There are some Ponzi schemes in cryptocurrency, but most practices that are called Ponzi schemes are not. For example, Faux calls Axie Infinity a Ponzi scheme, but it was missing the critical elements of promised safe returns and fraudulently paying returns from the investments of later investors. It was simply a speculative bubble that people bought into on the assumption that its price would increase, and like any speculative bubble those who sold before the peak made money at the expense of those who bought at the peak. The reason why this matters is that Ponzi schemes are a self-correcting problem. One can decry the damage caused when they collapse, but one can also feel the reassuring certainty that they will inevitably collapse and prove the skeptics correct. The same is not true of speculative assets in general. You may think that the lack of an underlying economic justification for prices means that a speculative bubble is guaranteed to collapse eventually, but in the famous words of Gary Schilling, "markets can remain irrational a lot longer than you and I can remain solvent." One of the people Faux interviews explains this distinction to him directly:
Rong explained that in a true Ponzi scheme, the organizer would have to handle the "fraud money." Instead, he gave the sneakers away and then only took a small cut of each trade. "The users are trading between each other. They are not going through me, right?" Rong said. Essentially, he was arguing that by downloading the Stepn app and walking to earn tokens, crypto bros were Ponzi'ing themselves.
Faux is openly contemptuous of this response, but it is technically correct. Stepn is not a Ponzi scheme; it's a speculative bubble. There are no guaranteed returns being paid out of later investments and no promise that your principal is safe. People are buying in at price that you may consider irrational, but Stepn never promised you would get your money back, let alone make a profit, and therefore it doesn't have the exponential progression of a Ponzi scheme. One can argue that this is a distinction without a moral difference, and personally I would agree, but it matters immensely if one is trying to analyze the future of cryptocurrencies. Schemes as transparently unstable as Stepn (which gives you coins for exercise and then tries to claim those coins have value through some vigorous hand-waving) are nearly as certain as Ponzi schemes to eventually collapse. But it's also possible to create a stable business around allowing large numbers of people to regularly lose money to small numbers of sophisticated players who are collecting all of the winnings. It's called a poker room at a casino, and no one thinks poker rooms are Ponzi schemes or are doomed to collapse, even though nearly everyone who plays poker will lose money. This is the part of the story that I think Faux largely missed, and which Michael Lewis highlights in Going Infinite. FTX was a legitimate business that made money (a lot of money) off of trading fees, in much the same way that a casino makes money off of poker rooms. Lots of people want to bet on cryptocurrencies, similar to how lots of people want to play poker. Some of those people will win; most of those people will lose. The casino doesn't care. Its profit comes from taking a little bit of each pot, regardless of who wins. Bankman-Fried also speculated with customer funds, and therefore FTX collapsed, but there is no inherent reason why the core exchange business cannot be stable if people continue to want to speculate in cryptocurrencies. Perhaps people will get tired of this method of gambling, but poker has been going strong for 200 years. It's also important to note that although trading fees are the most obvious way to be a profitable cryptocurrency casino, they're not the only way. Wall Street firms specialize in finding creative ways to take a cut of every financial transaction, and many of those methods are more sophisticated than fees. They are so good at this that buying and selling stock through trading apps like Robinhood is free. The money to run the brokerage platform comes from companies that are delighted to pay for the opportunity to handle stock trades by day traders with a phone app. This is not, as some conspiracy theories would have you believe, due to some sort of fraudulent price manipulation. It is because the average person with a Robinhood phone app is sufficiently unsophisticated that companies that have invested in complex financial modeling will make a steady profit taking the other side of their trades, mostly because of the spread (the difference between offered buy and sell prices). Faux is so caught up in looking for Ponzi schemes and fraud that I think he misses this aspect of cryptocurrency's transformation. Wall Street trading firms aren't piling into cryptocurrency because they want to do securities fraud. They're entering this market because there seems to be persistent demand for this form of gambling, cryptocurrency markets reward complex financial engineering, and running a legal casino is a profitable business model. Michael Lewis appears as a character in this book, and Faux portrays him quite negatively. The root of this animosity appears to stem from a cryptocurrency conference in the Bahamas that Faux attended. Lewis interviewed Bankman-Fried on stage, and, from Faux's account, his questions were fawning and he praised cryptocurrencies in ways that Faux is certain he knew were untrue. From that point on, Faux treats Lewis as an apologist for the cryptocurrency industry and for Sam Bankman-Fried specifically. I think this is a legitimate criticism of Lewis's methods of getting close to the people he wants to write about, but I think Faux also makes the common mistake of assuming Lewis is a muckraking reporter like himself. This has never been what Lewis is interested in. He writes about people he finds interesting and that he thinks a reader will also find interesting. One can legitimately accuse him of being credulous, but that's partly because he's not even trying to do the same thing Faux is doing. He's not trying to judge; he's trying to understand. This shows when it comes to the parts of this book about Sam Bankman-Fried. Faux's default assumption is that everyone involved in cryptocurrency is knowingly doing fraud, and a lot of his research is looking for evidence to support the conclusion he had already reached. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with that approach: Faux is largely, although not entirely, correct, and this type of hostile journalism is incredibly valuable for society at large. Upton Sinclair didn't start writing The Jungle with an open mind about the meat-packing industry. But where Faux and Lewis disagree on Bankman-Fried's motivations and intentions, I think Lewis has the much stronger argument. Faux's position is that Bankman-Fried always intended to steal people's money through fraud, perhaps to fund his effective altruism donations, and his protestations that he made mistakes and misplaced funds are obvious lies. This is an appealing narrative if one is looking for a simple villain, but Faux's evidence in support of this is weak. He mostly argues through stereotype: Bankman-Fried was a physics major and a Jane Street trader and therefore could not possibly be the type of person to misplace large amounts of money or miscalculate risk. If he wants to understand how that could be possible, he could read Going Infinite? I find it completely credible that someone with what appears to be uncontrolled, severe ADHD could be adept at trading and calculating probabilities and yet also misplace millions of dollars of assets because he wasn't thinking about them and therefore they stopped existing. Lewis made a lot of people angry by being somewhat sympathetic to someone few people wanted to be sympathetic towards, but Faux (and many others) are also misrepresenting his position. Lewis agrees that Bankman-Fried intentionally intermingled customer funds with his hedge fund and agrees that he lied about doing this. His only contention is that Bankman-Fried didn't do this to steal the money; instead, he invested customer money in risky bets that he thought would pay off. In support of this, Lewis made a prediction that was widely scoffed at, namely that much less of FTX's money was missing than was claimed, and that likely most or all of it would be found. And, well, Lewis was basically correct? The FTX bankruptcy is now expected to recover considerably more than the amount of money owed to creditors. Faux argues that this is only because the bankruptcy clawed back assets and cryptocurrencies have gone up considerably since the FTX bankruptcy, and therefore that the lost money was just replaced by unexpected windfall profits on other investments, but I don't think this point is as strong as he thinks it is. Bankman-Fried lost money on some of what he did with customer funds, made money on other things, and if he'd been able to freeze withdrawals for the year that the bankruptcy froze them, it does appear most of the money would have been recoverable. This does not make what he did legal or morally right, but no one is arguing that, only that he didn't intentionally steal money for his own personal gain or for effective altruism donations. And on that point, I don't think Faux is giving Lewis's argument enough credit. I have a lot of complaints about this book because I know way too much about this topic than anyone should probably know. I think Faux missed the plot in a couple of places, and I wish someone would write a book about where cryptocurrency markets are currently going. (Matt Levine's Money Stuff newsletter is quite good, but it's about all sorts of things other than cryptocurrency and isn't designed to tell a coherent story.) But if you know less about cryptocurrency and just want to hear the details of the run-up to the 2022 bubble, this is a great book for that. Faux is writing for people who are already skeptical and is not going to convince people who are cryptocurrency true believers, but that's fine. The details are largely correct (and extensively footnoted) and will satisfy most people's curiosity. Lewis's Going Infinite is a better book, though. It's not the same type of book at all, and it will not give you the broader overview of the cryptocurrency world. But if you're curious about what was going through the head of someone at the center of all of this chaos, I think Lewis's analysis is much stronger than Faux's. I'm happy I read both books. Rating: 8 out of 10

23 December 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: The House That Walked Between Worlds

Review: The House That Walked Between Worlds, by Jenny Schwartz
Series: Uncertain Sanctuary #1
Publisher: Jenny Schwartz
Copyright: June 2020
Printing: September 2024
ASIN: B0DBX6GP8Z
Format: Kindle
Pages: 215
The House That Walked Between Worlds is the first book of a self-published trilogy of... hm. Space fantasy? Pure fantasy with a bit of science fiction thrown in for flavor? Something like that. I read it as part of the Uncertain Sanctuary omnibus, which is reflected in the sidebar metadata. Kira Aist is a doctor. She's also a witch and a direct descendant of Baba Yaga. Her Russian grandmother warned her to never use magic and never reveal who she was because people would hunt her and her family if she did. She broke the rule to try to save a child, her grandmother was right, and now multiple people are dead, including her parents. As the story opens, she's deep in the wilds of New Zealand in a valley with buried moa bones, summoning her House so that she can flee Earth. Kira's first surprise is that her House is not the small hut that she was expecting from childhood visits to Baba Yaga. It's larger. A lot larger: an obsidian castle with nine towers and legs that resemble dragons rather than the moas whose magic she drew on. Her magic apparently had a much different idea of what she needs than she did. Her second surprise is that her magical education is highly incomplete, and she is not the witch that she thought she was. Her ability to create a House means that she's a sorcerer, the top tier of magical power in a hierarchy about which she knows essentially nothing. Thankfully the House has a library, but Kira has a lot to learn about the universe and her place in it. I picked this up because the premise sounded a little like the Innkeeper novels, and since another novel in that series does not appear to be immediately forthcoming, I went looking elsewhere for my cozy sentient building fix. The House That Walked Between Worlds is nowhere near as well-written (or, frankly, coherent) as the Innkeeper books, but it did deliver some of the same vibes. You should know going in that there isn't much in the way of a plot. Schwartz invented an elaborate setting involving archetype worlds inhabited by classes of mythological creatures that in some mystical sense surround a central system called Qaysar. These archetype worlds spawn derived worlds, each of which seems to be its own dimension, although the details are a bit murky to me. The world Kira thinks of as Earth is just one of the universes branched off of an archetypal Earth, and is the only one of those branchings where the main population is human. The other Earth-derived worlds are populated by the Dinosaurians and the Neanderthals. Similarly, there is a Fae world that branches into Elves and Goblins, an Epic world that branches into Shifters, Trolls, and Kobolds, and so forth. Travel between these worlds is normally by slow World Walker Caravans, but Houses break the rules of interdimensional travel in ways that no one entirely understands. If your eyes are already starting to glaze over, be warned there's a lot of this. The House That Walked Between Worlds is infodumping mixed with vibes, and I think you have to enjoy the setting, or at least the sheer enthusiasm of Schwartz's presentation of it, to get along with this book. The rest of the story is essentially Kira picking up strays: first a dangerous-looking elf cyborg, then a juvenile giant cat (because of course there's a pet fantasy space cat; it's that sort of book), and then a charming martial artist who I'm fairly sure is up to no good. Kira is entirely out of her depth and acting on instinct, which luckily plays into stereotypes of sorcerers as mysterious and unpredictable. It also helps that her magic is roughly "anything she wants to happen, happens." This is, in other words, not a tightly-crafted story with coherent rules and a sense of risk and danger. It's a book that succeeds or fails almost entirely on how much you like the main characters and enjoy the world-building. Thankfully, I thought the characters were fun, if not (so far) all that deep. Kira deals with her trauma without being excessively angsty and leans into her new situation with a chaotic decisiveness that I found charming. The cyborg elf is taciturn and a bit inscrutable at first, but he grew on me, and thankfully this book does not go immediately to romance. Late in the book, Kira picks up a publicity expert, which was not at all the type of character that I was expecting and which I found delightful. Most importantly, the House was exactly what I was looking for: impish, protective, mysterious, inhuman, and absurdly overpowered. I adore cozy sentient building stories, so I'm an easy audience for this sort of thing, but I'm already eager to read more about the House. This is not great writing by any stretch, and you will be unsurprised that it's self-published. If you're expecting the polish and plot coherence of the Innkeeper stories, you'll be disappointed. But if you just want to spend some time with a giant sentient space-traveling mansion inhabited by unlikely misfits, and you don't mind large amounts of space fantasy infodumping, consider giving this a shot. I had fun with it and plan on reading the rest of the omnibus. Followed by House in Hiding. Rating: 6 out of 10

2 December 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: Long Live Evil

Review: Long Live Evil, by Sarah Rees Brennan
Series: Time of Iron #1
Publisher: Orbit
Copyright: July 2024
ISBN: 0-316-56872-4
Format: Kindle
Pages: 433
Long Live Evil is a portal fantasy (or, arguably more precisely, a western take on an isekai villainess fantasy) and the first book of a series. If the author's name sounds familiar, it's possibly because of In Other Lands, which got a bunch of award nominations in 2018, She has also written a lot of other YA fantasy, but this is her first adult epic fantasy novel. Rae is in the hospital, dying of cancer. Everything about that experience, from the obvious to the collapse of her friendships, absolutely fucking sucks. One of the few bright points is her sister's favorite fantasy series, Time of Iron, which her sister started reading to her during chemo sessions. Rae mostly failed to pay attention until the end of the first book and the rise of the Emperor. She fell in love with the brooding, dangerous anti-hero and devoured the next two books. The first book was still a bit hazy, though, even with the help of a second dramatic reading after she was too sick to read on her own. This will be important later. After one of those reading sessions, Rae wakes up to a strange woman in her hospital room who offers her an option. Rather than die a miserable death that bankrupts her family, she can go through a door to Eyam, the world of Time of Iron, and become the character who suits her best. If she can steal the Flower of Life and Death from the imperial greenhouse on the one day a year that it blooms, she will wake up, cured. If not, she will die. Rae of course goes through, and wakes in the body of Lady Rahela, the Beauty Dipped in Blood, the evil stepsister. One of the villains, on the night before she is scheduled to be executed. Rae's initial panic slowly turns to a desperate glee. She knows all of these characters. She knows how the story will turn out. And she has a healthy body that's not racked with pain. Maybe she's not the heroine, but who cares, the villains are always more interesting anyway. If she's going to be cast as the villain, she's going to play it to the hilt. It's not like any of these characters are real. Stories in which the protagonists are the villains are not new (Nimona and Hench come to mind just among books I've reviewed), but they are having a moment. Assistant to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Maehrer came out last year, and this book and Django Wexler's How to Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying both came out this year. This batch of villain books all take different angles on the idea, but they lean heavily on humor. In Long Live Evil, that takes the form of Rae's giddy embrace of villainous scheming, flouncing, and blatant plot manipulation, along with her running commentary on the various characters and their in-story fates. The setup here is great. Rae is not only aware that she's in a story, she knows it's full of cliches and tropes. Some of them she loves, some of them she thinks are ridiculous, and she isn't shy about expressing both of those opinions. Rae is a naturally dramatic person, and it doesn't take her long to lean into the opportunities for making dramatic monologues and villainous quips, most of which involve modern language and pop culture references that the story characters find baffling and disconcerting. Unfortunately, the base Time of Iron story is, well, bad. It's absurd grimdark epic fantasy with paper-thin characters and angst as a central character trait. This is clearly intentional for both in-story and structural reasons. Rae enjoys it precisely because it's full of blood and battles and over-the-top brooding, malevolent anti-heroes, and Rae's sister likes the impossibly pure heroes who suffer horrible fates while refusing to compromise their ideals. Rae is also about to turn the story on its head and start smashing its structure to try to get herself into position to steal the Flower of Life and Death, and the story has to have a simple enough structure that it doesn't get horribly confusing once smashed. But the original story is such a grimdark parody, and so not my style of fantasy, that I struggled with it at the start of the book. This does get better eventually, as Rae introduces more and more complications and discovers some surprising things about the other characters. There are several delightful twists concerning the impossibly pure heroine of the original story that I will not spoil but that I thought retroactively made the story far more interesting. But that leads to the other problem: Rae is both not very good at scheming, and is flippant and dismissive of the characters around her. These are both realistic; Rae is a young woman with cancer, not some sort of genius mastermind, and her whole frame for interacting with the story is fandom discussions and arguments with her sister. Early in the book, it's rather funny. But as the characters around her start becoming more fleshed out and complex, Rae's inability to take them seriously starts to grate. The grand revelation to Rae that these people have their own independent existence comes so late in the book that it's arguably a spoiler, but it was painfully obvious to everyone except Rae for hundreds of pages before it got through Rae's skull. Those are my main complaints, but there was a lot about this book that I liked. The Cobra, who starts off as a minor villain in the story, is by far the best character of the book. He's not only more interesting than Rae, he makes everyone else in the book, including Rae, more interesting characters through their interactions. The twists around the putative heroine, Lady Rahela's stepsister, are a bit too long in coming but are an absolute delight. And Key, the palace guard that Rae befriends at the start of the story, is the one place where Rae's character dynamic unquestionably works. Key anchors a lot of Rae's scenes, giving them a sense of emotional heft that Rae herself would otherwise undermine. The narrator in this book does not stick with Rae. We also get viewpoint chapters from the Cobra, the Last Hope, and Emer, Lady Rahela's maid. The viewpoints from the Time of Iron characters can be a bit eye-roll-inducing at the start because of how deeply they follow the grimdark aesthetic of the original story, but by the middle of the book I was really enjoying the viewpoint shifts. This story benefited immensely from being seen from more angles than Rae's chaotic manipulation. By the end of the book, I was fully invested in the plot line following Cobra and the Last Hope, to the extent that I was a bit disappointed when the story would switch back to Rae. I'm not sure this was a great book, but it was fun. It's funny in places, but I ended up preferring the heartfelt parts to the funny parts. It is a fascinating merger of gleeful fandom chaos and rather heavy emotional portrayals of both inequality and the experience of terminal illness. Rees Brennan is a stage four cancer survivor and that really shows; there's a depth, nuance, and internal complexity to Rae's reactions to illness, health, and hope that feels very real. It is the kind of book that can give you emotional whiplash; sometimes it doesn't work, but sometimes it does. One major warning: this book ends on a ridiculous cliffhanger and does not in any sense resolve its main plot arc. I found this annoying, not so much because of the wait for the second volume, but because I thought this book was about the right length for the amount of time I wanted to spend in this world and wish Rees Brennan had found a way to wrap up the story in one book. Instead, it looks like there will be three books. I'm in for at least one more, since the story was steadily getting better towards the end of Long Live Evil, but I hope the narrative arc survives being stretched out across that many words. This one's hard to classify, since it's humorous fantasy on the cover and in the marketing, and that element is definitely present, but I thought the best parts of the book were when it finally started taking itself seriously. It's metafictional, trope-subverting portal fantasy full of intentional anachronisms that sometimes fall flat and sometimes work brilliantly. I thought the main appeal of it would be watching Rae embrace being a proper villain, but then the apparent side characters stole the show. Recommended, but you may have to be in just the right mood. Content notes: Cancer, terminal illness, resurrected corpses, wasting disease, lots of fantasy violence and gore, and a general grimdark aesthetic. Rating: 7 out of 10

21 October 2024

Russ Allbery: California general election

As usual with these every-two-year posts, probably of direct interest only to California residents. Maybe the more obscure things we're voting on will be a minor curiosity to people elsewhere. I'm a bit late this year, although not as late as last year, so a lot of people may have already voted, but I've been doing this for a while and wanted to keep it up. This post will only be about the ballot propositions. I don't have anything useful to say about the candidates that isn't hyper-local. I doubt anyone who has read my posts will be surprised by which candidates I'm voting for. As always with Calfornia ballot propositions, it's worth paying close attention to which propositions were put on the ballot by the legislature, usually because there's some state law requirement (often that I disagree with) that they be voted on by the public, and propositions that were put on the ballot by voter petition. The latter are often poorly written and have hidden problems. As a general rule of thumb, I tend to default to voting against propositions added by petition. This year, one can conveniently distinguish by number: the single-digit propositions were added by the legislature, and the two-digit ones were added by petition. Proposition 2: YES. Issue $10 billion in bonds for public school infrastructure improvements. I generally vote in favor of spending measures like this unless they have some obvious problem. The opposition argument is a deranged rant against immigrants and government debt and fails to point out actual problems. The opposition argument also claims this will result in higher property taxes and, seriously, if only that were true. That would make me even more strongly in favor of it. Proposition 3: YES. Enshrines the right to marriage without regard to sex or race into the California state constitution. This is already the law given US Supreme Court decisions, but fixing California state law is a long-overdue and obvious cleanup step. One of the quixotic things I would do if I were ever in government, which I will never be, would be to try to clean up the laws to make them match reality, repealing all of the dead clauses that were overturned by court decisions or are never enforced. I am in favor of all measures in this direction even when I don't agree with the direction of the change; here, as a bonus, I also strongly agree with the change. Proposition 4: YES. Issue $10 billion in bonds for infrastructure improvements to mitigate climate risk. This is basically the same argument as Proposition 2. The one drawback of this measure is that it's kind of a mixed grab bag of stuff and probably some of it should be supported out of the general budget rather than bonds, but I consider this a minor problem. We definitely need to ramp up climate risk mitigation efforts. Proposition 5: YES. Reduces the required super-majority to pass local bond measures for affordable housing from 67% to 55%. The fact that this requires a supermajority at all is absurd, California desperately needs to build more housing of any kind however we can, and publicly funded housing is an excellent idea. Proposition 6: YES. Eliminates "involuntary servitude" (in other words, "temporary" slavery) as a legally permissible punishment for crimes in the state of California. I'm one of the people who think the 13th Amendment to the US Constitution shouldn't have an exception for punishment for crimes, so obviously I'm in favor of this. This is one very, very tiny step towards improving the absolutely atrocious prison conditions in the state. Proposition 32: YES. Raises the minimum wage to $18 per hour from the current $16 per hour, over two years, and ties it to inflation. This is one of the rare petition-based propositions that I will vote in favor of because it's very straightforward, we clearly should be raising the minimum wage, and living in California is absurdly expensive because we refuse to build more housing (see Propositions 5 and 33). The opposition argument is the standard lie that a higher minimum wage will increase unemployment, which we know from numerous other natural experiments is simply not true. Proposition 33: NO. Repeals Costa-Hawkins, which prohibits local municipalities from enacting rent control on properties built after 1995. This one is going to split the progressive vote rather badly, I suspect. California has a housing crisis caused by not enough housing supply. It is not due to vacant housing, as much as some people would like you to believe that; the numbers just don't add up. There are way more people living here and wanting to live here than there is housing, so we need to build more housing. Rent control serves a valuable social function of providing stability to people who already have housing, but it doesn't help, and can hurt, the project of meeting actual housing demand. Rent control alone creates a two-tier system where people who have housing are protected but people who don't have housing have an even harder time getting housing than they do today. It's therefore quite consistent with the general NIMBY playbook of trying to protect the people who already have housing by making life harder for the people who do not, while keeping the housing supply essentially static. I am in favor of rent control in conjunction with real measures to increase the housing supply. I am therefore opposed to this proposition, which allows rent control without any effort to increase housing supply. I am quite certain that, if this passes, some municipalities will use it to make constructing new high-density housing incredibly difficult by requiring it all be rent-controlled low-income housing, thus cutting off the supply of multi-tenant market-rate housing entirely. This is already a common political goal in the part of California where I live. Local neighborhood groups advocate for exactly this routinely in local political fights. Give me a mandate for new construction that breaks local zoning obstructionism, including new market-rate housing to maintain a healthy lifecycle of housing aging into affordable housing as wealthy people move into new market-rate housing, and I will gladly support rent control measures as part of that package. But rent control on its own just allocates winners and losers without addressing the underlying problem. Proposition 34: NO. This is an excellent example of why I vote against petition propositions by default. This is a law designed to affect exactly one organization in the state of California: the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. The reason for this targeting is disputed; one side claims it's because of the AHF support for Proposition 33, and another side claims it's because AHF is a slumlord abusing California state funding. I have no idea which side of this is true. I also don't care, because I am fundamentally opposed to writing laws this way. Laws should establish general, fair principles that are broadly applicable, not be written with bizarrely specific conditions (health care providers that operate multifamily housing) that will only be met by a single organization. This kind of nonsense creates bad legal codes and the legal equivalent of technical debt. Just don't do this. Proposition 35: YES. I am, reluctantly, voting in favor of this even though it is a petition proposition because it looks like a useful simplification and cleanup of state health care funding, makes an expiring tax permanent, and is supported by a very wide range of organizations that I generally trust to know what they're talking about. No opposition argument was filed, which I think is telling. Proposition 36: NO. I am resigned to voting down attempts to start new "war on drugs" nonsense for the rest of my life because the people who believe in this crap will never, ever, ever stop. This one has bonus shoplifting fear-mongering attached, something that touches on nasty local politics that have included large retail chains manipulating crime report statistics to give the impression that shoplifting is up dramatically. It's yet another round of the truly horrific California "three strikes" criminal penalty obsession, which completely misunderstands both the causes of crime and the (almost nonexistent) effectiveness of harsh punishment as deterrence.

27 August 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: Dark Horse

Review: Dark Horse, by Michelle Diener
Series: Class 5 #1
Publisher: Eclipse
Copyright: June 2015
ISBN: 0-9924559-3-6
Format: Kindle
Pages: 366
Dark Horse is a science fiction romance novel, the first of a five book series as of this writing. It is self-published, although it is sufficiently well-edited and packaged that I had to do some searching to confirm that. Rose was abducted by aliens. The Tecrans picked her up along with a selection of Earth animals, kept her in a cell in their starship, and experimented on her. As the book opens, she has managed to make her escape with the aid of an AI named Sazo who was also imprisoned on the Tecran ship. Sazo dealt with the Tecrans, dropped the ship in the middle of Grih territory, and then got Rose and most of the animals on shuttles to a nearby planet. Dav Jallan is the commander of the ship the Grih sent to investigate the unexplained appearance of a Class 5 Tecran warship in the middle of their territory. The Grih and the Tecran, along with three other species, are members of the United Council, which means in theory they're all at peace. With the Tecran, that theory is often strained. Dav is not going to turn down one of their highly-advanced Class 5 warships delivered to him on a silver platter. There is only the matter of the unexpected cargo, the first orange dots (indicating unknown life forms) that most of the Grih have ever seen. There is a romance. That romance did not work for me. I thought it was highly unprofessional on Dav's part and a bit too obviously constructed on the author's part. It also leans on the subgenre convention that aliens can be remarkably physically similar and sexually compatible, which always causes problems for my suspension of disbelief even though I know it's no less plausible than faster-than-light travel. Despite that, I had so much fun with this book! It was absolutely delightful and weirdly grabby in a way that caught me by surprise. I was skimming some parts of it to write this review and found myself re-reading multiple pages before I dragged myself back on task. I think the most charming part of this book is that the United Council has a law called the Sentient Beings Agreement that makes what the Tecran were doing extremely illegal, and the Grih and the other non-Tecran aliens take this very seriously and with a refreshing lack of cynicism. Rose has a typical human reaction to ending up in a place where she doesn't know the rules and isn't entirely an expected guest. She almost reflexively smoothes over miscommunications and tensions, trying to adapt to their expectations. And then, repeatedly, the Grih realize how much work she's doing to adapt to them, feel enraged at the Tecran and upset that they didn't understand or properly explain something, and find some way to make Rose feel more comfortable. It's surprisingly soothing and comforting to read. It occurred to me in several places that Dark Horse could be read as a wish-fulfillment fantasy of what life as a woman could be like if men took their fair share of the mental load. (This concept is usually applied to housework, but I think it generalizes to other social and communication contexts.) I suspect this was not an accident. There is a lot of wish fulfillment in this book. The Grih are very human-like but hunky, which is convenient for the romance subplot. They struggle to sing, value music exceptionally highly, and consider Rose's speaking voice beautifully musical. Her typical human habit of singing to herself is a source of immediate and almost overwhelming fascination. The supplies Rose takes from the Tecran ship when she flees just happen to be absurdly expensive scented shampoo and equally expensive luxury adaptable clothing. The world she lands on, and the Grih ship, are low-gravity compared to Earth, so Rose is unusually strong for her size. Grih military camouflage has no effect on her human vision. The book is set up to make Rose special. If that type of wish fulfillment is going to grate, wait on this book until you're more in the mood for it. But I like wish fulfillment books when they're done well. Part of why I like to read is to imagine a better world. And Rose isn't doted on; despite their hospitality, she's constantly underestimated by the Grih. Even with their deep belief in the Sentient Beings Agreement, they find it hard to believe that an unknown sentient, even an advanced sentient, is really their equal. Their concern at the start is somewhat patronizing, so watching Rose constantly surprise them delighted the part of my brain that likes both competence porn and deserved reversals, even though the competence here is often due to accidents of biology. It helps that Diener tells the story in alternating perspectives, so the reader first watches Rose do something practical and straightforward from her perspective and then gets to enjoy the profound surprise and chagrin of the aliens. There is a plot beneath this first contact story, and beyond the political problem of figuring out what to do with Rose and the Tecran. Sazo, Rose's AI friend, does not want the Grih to know he exists. He has a history that Rose does not know about and may not be entirely safe. As the political situation with the Tecran escalates, Sazo is pursuing goals of his own, and Rose has a firm opinion about where her loyalties should lie. The resolution is nothing ground-breaking as far as SF goes, but I thought it was satisfyingly tense and complex. Dark Horse leaves obvious room for a sequel, but it comes to a satisfying conclusion. The writing is serviceable, particularly once you get into the story. I would not call it great, and it's not going to win any literary awards, but it didn't interfere with my enjoyment of the story. This is not the sort of book that will make anyone's award list, but it is easily in the top five of books I had the most fun reading this year. Maybe save it for when you're looking for something light and wholesome and don't mind some rather obvious tropes, but if you're in the mood for imagining people who take laws seriously and sincerely try to help other people, I found this an utterly delightful way to pass the time. I immediately bought the sequel. Recommended. Followed by Dark Deeds. Rating: 8 out of 10

8 July 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: Beyond Control

Review: Beyond Control, by Kit Rocha
Series: Beyond #2
Publisher: Kit Rocha
Copyright: December 2013
ASIN: B00GIA4GN8
Format: Kindle
Pages: 364
Beyond Control is science fiction erotica (dystopian erotic romance, per the marketing) and a direct sequel to Beyond Shame. These books shift protagonists with each volume and enough of the world background is explained that you could start here, but there are significant spoilers for the previous book. I read this book as part of the Beyond Series Bundle (Books 1-3), which is what the sidebar information is for. This is one of those reviews that I write because I'm stubborn about reviewing all the books I read, not because it's likely to be useful to anyone. There are also considerably more spoilers for the shape of the story than I normally include, so be warned. The Beyond series is erotica. Specifically, so far, consensual BDSM erotica with bisexuality but otherwise typical gender stereotypes. The authors (Kit Rocha is a pen name for Donna Herren and Bree Bridges) are women, so it's more female gaze than male gaze, but by erotica I don't mean romance with an above-average number of steamy scenes. I mean it felt like half the book by page count was descriptions of sex. This review is rather pointless because, one, I'm not going to review the sex that's the main point of the book, and two, I skimmed all the sex and read it for the story because I'm weird. Beyond Shame got me interested in these absurdly horny people and their post-apocalyptic survival struggles in the outskirts of a city run by a religious surveillance state, and I wanted to find out what happened next. Besides, this book promised to focus on my favorite character from the first novel, Lex, and I wanted to read more about her. Beyond Control uses a series pattern that I understand is common in romance but which is not often seen in SFF (my usual genre): each book focuses on a new couple adjacent to the previous couple, while the happily ever after of the previous couple plays out in the background. In this case, it also teases the protagonists of the next book. I can see why romance uses this structure: it's an excuse to provide satisfying interludes for the reader. In between Lex and Dallas's current relationship problems, one gets to enjoy how well everything worked out for Noelle and how much she's grown. In Beyond Shame, Lex was the sort-of partner of Dallas O'Kane, the leader of the street gang that is running Sector Four. (Picture a circle surrounding the rich-people-only city of Eden. That circle is divided into eight wedge-shaped sectors, which provide heavy industries, black-market pleasures, and slums for agricultural workers.) Dallas is an intensely possessive, personally charismatic semi-dictator who cultivates the image of a dangerous barbarian to everyone outside and most of the people inside Sector Four. Since he's supposed to be one of the good guys, this is more image than reality, but it's not entirely disconnected from reality. This book is about Lex and Dallas forming an actual relationship, instead of the fraught and complicated thing they had in the first book. I was hoping that this would involve Dallas becoming less of an asshole. It unfortunately does not, although some of what I attributed to malice may be adequately explained by stupidity. I'm not sure that's an improvement. Lex is great, just like she was in the first book. It's obvious by this point in the series that she does most of the emotional labor of keeping the gang running, and her support is central to Dallas's success. Like most of the people in this story, she has a nasty and abusive background that she's still dealing with in various ways. Dallas's possessiveness is intensely appealing to her, but she wants that possessiveness on different terms than Dallas may be willing to offer, or is even aware of. Lex was, I thought, exceptionally clear about what she wanted out of this relationship. Dallas thinks this is entirely about sex, and is, in general, dumber than a sack of hammers. That means fights. Also orgies, but, well, hopefully you knew what you were getting into if you picked up this book. I know, I know, it's erotica, that's the whole point, but these people have a truly absurd amount of sex. Eden puts birth control in the water supply, which is a neat way to simplify some of the in-story consequences of erotica. They must be putting aphrodisiacs in the water supply as well. There was a lot of sector politics in this book that I found way more interesting than it had any right to be. I really like most of these people, even Dallas when he manages to get his three brain cells connected for more than a few minutes. The events of the first book have a lot of significant fallout, Lex continues being a badass, the social dynamics between the women are very well-done (and pass the Bechdel test yet again even though this is mostly traditional-gender-role erotica), and if Dallas had managed to understand what he did wrong at a deeper-than-emotional level, I would have rather enjoyed the non-erotica story parts. Alas. I therefore wouldn't recommend this book even if I were willing to offer any recommendations about erotica (which I'm not). I was hoping it was going somewhere more rewarding than it did. But I still kind of want to read another one? I am weirdly fascinated with the lives of these people. The next book is about Six, who has the potential to turn into the sort of snarky, cynical character I love reading about. And it's not that hard to skim over the orgies. Maybe Dallas will get one additional brain cell per book? Followed by Beyond Pain. Rating: 5 out of 10

25 April 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: Nation

Review: Nation, by Terry Pratchett
Publisher: Harper
Copyright: 2008
Printing: 2009
ISBN: 0-06-143303-9
Format: Trade paperback
Pages: 369
Nation is a stand-alone young adult fantasy novel. It was published in the gap between Discworld novels Making Money and Unseen Academicals. Nation starts with a plague. The Russian influenza has ravaged Britain, including the royal family. The next in line to the throne is off on a remote island and must be retrieved and crowned as soon as possible, or an obscure provision in Magna Carta will cause no end of trouble. The Cutty Wren is sent on this mission, carrying the Gentlemen of Last Resort. Then comes the tsunami. In the midst of fire raining from the sky and a wave like no one has ever seen, Captain Roberts tied himself to the wheel of the Sweet Judy and steered it as best he could, straight into an island. The sole survivor of the shipwreck: one Ermintrude Fanshaw, daughter of the governor of some British island possessions. Oh, and a parrot. Mau was on the Boys' Island when the tsunami came, going through his rite of passage into manhood. He was to return to the Nation the next morning and receive his tattoos and his adult soul. He survived in a canoe. No one else in the Nation did. Terry Pratchett considered Nation to be his best book. It is not his best book, at least in my opinion; it's firmly below the top tier of Discworld novels, let alone Night Watch. It is, however, an interesting and enjoyable book that tackles gods and religion with a sledgehammer rather than a knife. It's also very, very dark and utterly depressing at the start, despite a few glimmers of Pratchett's humor. Mau is the main protagonist at first, and the book opens with everyone he cares about dying. This is the place where I thought Pratchett diverged the most from his Discworld style: in Discworld, I think most of that would have been off-screen, but here we follow Mau through the realization, the devastation, the disassociation, the burials at sea, the thoughts of suicide, and the complete upheaval of everything he thought he was or was about to become. I found the start of this book difficult to get through. The immediate transition into potentially tragic misunderstandings between Mau and Daphne (as Ermintrude names herself once there is no one to tell her not to) didn't help. As I got farther into the book, though, I warmed to it. The best parts early on are Daphne's baffled but scientific attempts to understand Mau's culture and her place in it. More survivors arrive, and they start to assemble a community, anchored in large part by Mau's stubborn determination to do what's right even though he's lost all of his moorings. That community eventually re-establishes contact with the rest of the world and the opening plot about the British monarchy, but not before Daphne has been changed profoundly by being part of it. I think Pratchett worked hard at keeping Mau's culture at the center of the story. It's notable that the community that reforms over the course of the book essentially follows the patterns of Mau's lost Nation and incorporates Daphne into it, rather than (as is so often the case) the other way around. The plot itself is fiercely anti-colonial in a way that mostly worked. Still, though, it's a quasi-Pacific-island culture written by a white British man, and I had some qualms. Pratchett quite rightfully makes it clear in the afterward that this is an alternate world and Mau's culture is not a real Pacific island culture. However, that also means that its starkly gender-essentialist nature was a free choice, rather than one based on some specific culture, and I found that choice somewhat off-putting. The religious rituals are all gendered, the dwelling places are gendered, and one's entire life course in Mau's world seems based on binary classification as a man or a woman. Based on Pratchett's other books, I assume this was more an unfortunate default than a deliberate choice, but it's still a choice he could have avoided. The end of this book wrestles directly with the relative worth of Mau's culture versus that of the British. I liked most of this, but the twists that Pratchett adds to avoid the colonialist results we saw in our world stumble partly into the trap of making Mau's culture valuable by British standards. (I'm being a bit vague here to avoid spoilers.) I think it is very hard to base this book on a different set of priorities and still bring the largely UK, US, and western European audience along, so I don't blame Pratchett for failing to do it, but I'm a bit sad that the world still revolved around a British axis. This felt quite similar to Discworld to me in its overall sensibilities, but with the roles of moral philosophy and humor reversed. Discworld novels usually start with some larger-than-life characters and an absurd plot, and then the moral philosophy sneaks up behind you when you're not looking and hits you over the head. Nation starts with the moral philosophy: Mau wrestles with his gods and the problem of evil in a way that reminded me of Job, except with a far different pantheon and rather less tolerance for divine excuses on the part of the protagonist. It's the humor, instead, that sneaks up on you and makes you laugh when the plot is a bit too much. But the mix arrives at much the same place: the absurd hand-in-hand with the profound, and all seen from an angle that makes it a bit easier to understand. I'm not sure I would recommend Nation as a good place to start with Pratchett. I felt like I benefited from having read a lot of Discworld to build up my willingness to trust where Pratchett was going. But it has the quality of writing of late Discworld without the (arguable) need to read 25 books to understand all of the backstory. Regardless, recommended, and you'll never hear Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in quite the same way again. Rating: 8 out of 10

22 April 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: The Stars, Like Dust

Review: The Stars, Like Dust, by Isaac Asimov
Series: Galactic Empire #2
Publisher: Fawcett Crest
Copyright: 1950, 1951
Printing: June 1972
Format: Mass market
Pages: 192
The Stars, Like Dust is usually listed as the first book in Asimov's lesser-known Galactic Empire Trilogy since it takes place before Pebble in the Sky. Pebble in the Sky was published first, though, so I count it as the second book. It is very early science fiction with a few mystery overtones. Buying books produces about 5% of the pleasure of reading them while taking much less than 5% of the time. There was a time in my life when I thoroughly enjoyed methodically working through a used book store, list in hand, tracking down cheap copies to fill in holes in series. This means that I own a lot of books that I thought at some point that I would want to read but never got around to, often because, at the time, I was feeling completionist about some series or piece of world-building. From time to time, I get the urge to try to read some of them. Sometimes this is a poor use of my time. The Galactic Empire series is from Asimov's first science fiction period, after the Foundation series but contemporaneous with their collection into novels. They're set long, long before Foundation, but after humans have inhabited numerous star systems and Earth has become something of a backwater. That process is just starting in The Stars, Like Dust: Earth is still somewhere where an upper-class son might be sent for an education, but it has been devastated by nuclear wars and is well on its way to becoming an inward-looking relic on the edge of galactic society. Biron Farrill is the son of the Lord Rancher of Widemos, a wealthy noble whose world is one of those conquered by the Tyranni. In many other SF novels, the Tyranni would be an alien race; here, it's a hierarchical and authoritarian human civilization. The book opens with Biron discovering a radiation bomb planted in his dorm room. Shortly after, he learns that his father had been arrested. One of his fellow students claims to be on Biron's side against the Tyranni and gives him false papers to travel to Rhodia, a wealthy world run by a Tyranni sycophant. Like most books of this era, The Stars, Like Dust is a short novel full of plot twists. Unlike some of its contemporaries, it's not devoid of characterization, but I might have liked it better if it were. Biron behaves like an obnoxious teenager when he's not being an arrogant ass. There is a female character who does a few plot-relevant things and at no point is sexually assaulted, so I'll give Asimov that much, but the gender stereotypes are ironclad and there is an entire subplot focused on what I can only describe as seduction via petty jealousy. The writing... well, let me quote a typical passage:
There was no way of telling when the threshold would be reached. Perhaps not for hours, and perhaps the next moment. Biron remained standing helplessly, flashlight held loosely in his damp hands. Half an hour before, the visiphone had awakened him, and he had been at peace then. Now he knew he was going to die. Biron didn't want to die, but he was penned in hopelessly, and there was no place to hide.
Needless to say, Biron doesn't die. Even if your tolerance for pulp melodrama is high, 192 small-print pages of this sort of thing is wearying. Like a lot of Asimov plots, The Stars, Like Dust has some of the shape of a mystery novel. Biron, with the aid of some newfound companions on Rhodia, learns of a secret rebellion against the Tyranni and attempts to track down its base to join them. There are false leads, disguised identities, clues that are difficult to interpret, and similar classic mystery trappings, all covered with a patina of early 1950s imaginary science. To me, it felt constructed and artificial in ways that made the strings Asimov was pulling obvious. I don't know if someone who likes mystery construction would feel differently about it. The worst part of the plot thankfully doesn't come up much. We learn early in the story that Biron was on Earth to search for a long-lost document believed to be vital to defeating the Tyranni. The nature of that document is revealed on the final page, so I won't spoil it, but if you try to think of the stupidest possible document someone could have built this plot around, I suspect you will only need one guess. (In Asimov's defense, he blamed Galaxy editor H.L. Gold for persuading him to include this plot, and disavowed it a few years later.) The Stars, Like Dust is one of the worst books I have ever read. The characters are overwrought, the politics are slapdash and build on broad stereotypes, the romantic subplot is dire and plays out mainly via Biron egregiously manipulating his petulant love interest, and the writing is annoying. Sometimes pulp fiction makes up for those common flaws through larger-than-life feats of daring, sweeping visions of future societies, and ever-escalating stakes. There is little to none of that here. Asimov instead provides tedious political maneuvering among a class of elitist bankers and land owners who consider themselves natural leaders. The only places where the power structures of this future government make sense are where Asimov blatantly steals them from either the Roman Empire or the Doge of Venice. The one thing this book has going for it the thing, apart from bloody-minded completionism, that kept me reading is that the technology is hilariously weird in that way that only 1940s and 1950s science fiction can be. The characters have access to communication via some sort of interstellar telepathy (messages coded to a specific person's "brain waves") and can travel between stars through hyperspace jumps, but each jump is manually calculated by referring to the pilot's (paper!) volumes of the Standard Galactic Ephemeris. Communication between ships (via "etheric radio") requires manually aiming a radio beam at the area in space where one thinks the other ship is. It's an unintentionally entertaining combination of technology that now looks absurdly primitive and science that is so advanced and hand-waved that it's obviously made up. I also have to give Asimov some points for using spherical coordinates. It's a small thing, but the coordinate systems in most SF novels and TV shows are obviously not fit for purpose. I spent about a month and a half of this year barely reading, and while some of that is because I finally tackled a few projects I'd been putting off for years, a lot of it was because of this book. It was only 192 pages, and I'm still curious about the glue between Asimov's Foundation and Robot series, both of which I devoured as a teenager. But every time I picked it up to finally finish it and start another book, I made it about ten pages and then couldn't take any more. Learn from my error: don't try this at home, or at least give up if the same thing starts happening to you. Followed by The Currents of Space. Rating: 2 out of 10

2 February 2024

Ian Jackson: UPS, the Useless Parcel Service; VAT and fees

I recently had the most astonishingly bad experience with UPS, the courier company. They severely damaged my parcels, and were very bad about UK import VAT, ultimately ending up harassing me on autopilot. The only thing that got their attention was my draft Particulars of Claim for intended legal action. Surprisingly, I got them to admit in writing that the disbursement fee they charge recipients alongside the actual VAT, is just something they made up with no legal basis. What happened Autumn last year I ordered some furniture from a company in Germany. This was to be shipped by them to me by courier. The supplier chose UPS. UPS misrouted one of the three parcels to Denmark. When everything arrived, it had been sat on by elephants. The supplier had to replace most of it, with considerable inconvenience and delay to me, and of course a loss to the supplier. But this post isn t mostly about that. This post is about VAT. You see, import VAT was due, because of fucking Brexit. UPS made a complete hash of collecting that VAT. Their computers can t issue coherent documents, their email helpdesk is completely useless, and their automated debt collection systems run along uninfluenced by any external input. The crazy, including legal threats and escalating late payment fees, continued even after I paid the VAT discrepancy (which I did despite them not yet having provided any coherent calculation for it). This kind of behaviour is a very small and mild version of the kind of things British Gas did to Lisa Ferguson, who eventually won substantial damages for harassment, plus 10K of costs. Having tried asking nicely, and sending stiff letters, I too threatened litigation. I would have actually started a court claim, but it would have included a claim under the Protection from Harassment Act. Those have to be filed under the Part 8 procedure , which involves sending all of the written evidence you re going to use along with the claim form. Collating all that would be a good deal of work, especially since UPS and ControlAccount didn t engage with me at all, so I had no idea which things they might actually dispute. So I decided that before issuing proceedings, I d send them a copy of my draft Particulars of Claim, along with an offer to settle if they would pay me a modest sum and stop being evil robots at me. Rather than me typing the whole tale in again, you can read the full gory details in the PDF of my draft Particulars of Claim. (I ve redacted the reference numbers). Outcome The draft Particulars finally got their attention. UPS sent me an offer: they agreed to pay me 50, in full and final settlement. That was close enough to my offer that I accepted it. I mostly wanted them to stop, and they do seem to have done so. And I ve received the 50. VAT calculation They also finally included an actual explanation of the VAT calculation. It s absurd, but it s not UPS s absurd:
The clearance was entered initially with estimated import charges of 400.03, consisting of 387.83 VAT, and 12.20 disbursement fee. This original entry regrettably did not include the freight cost for calculating the VAT, and as such when submitted for final entry the VAT value was adjusted to include this and an amended invoice was issued for an additional 39.84. HMRC calculate the amount against which VAT is raised using the value of goods, insurance and freight, however they also may apply a VAT adjustment figure. The VAT Adjustment is based on many factors (Incidental costs in regards to a shipment), which includes charge for currency conversion if the invoice does not list values in Sterling, but the main is due to the inland freight from airport of destination to the final delivery point, as this charge varies, for example, from EMA to Edinburgh would be 150, from EMA to Derby would be 1, so each year UPS must supply HMRC with all values incurred for entry build up and they give an average which UPS have to use on the entry build up as the VAT Adjustment. The correct calculation for the import charges is therefore as follows: Goods value divided by exchange rate 2,489.53 EUR / 1.1683 = 2,130.89 GBP Duty: Goods value plus freight (%) 2,130.89 GBP + 5% = 2,237.43 GBP. That total times the duty rate. X 0 % = 0 GBP VAT: Goods value plus freight (100%) 2,130.89 GBP + 0 = 2,130.89 GBP That total plus duty and VAT adjustment 2,130.89 GBP + 0 GBP + 7.49 GBP = 2,348.08 GBP. That total times 20% VAT = 427.67 GBP As detailed above we must confirm that the final VAT charges applied to the shipment were correct, and that no refund of this is therefore due.
This looks very like HMRC-originated nonsense. If only they had put it on the original bills! It s completely ridiculous that it took four months and near-litigation to obtain it. Disbursement fee One more thing. UPS billed me a 12 disbursement fee . When you import something, there s often tax to pay. The courier company pays that to the government, and the consignee pays it to the courier. Usually the courier demands it before final delivery, since otherwise they end up having to chase it as a debt. It is common for parcel companies to add a random fee of their own. As I note in my Particulars, there isn t any legal basis for this. In my own offer of settlement I proposed that UPS should:
State under what principle of English law (such as, what enactment or principle of Common Law), you levy the disbursement fee (or refund it).
To my surprise they actually responded to this in their own settlement letter. (They didn t, for example, mention the harassment at all.) They said (emphasis mine):
A disbursement fee is a fee for amounts paid or processed on behalf of a client. It is an established category of charge used by legal firms, amongst other companies, for billing of various ancillary costs which may be incurred in completion of service. Disbursement fees are not covered by a specific law, nor are they legally prohibited. Regarding UPS disbursement fee this is an administrative charge levied for the use of UPS deferment account to prepay import charges for clearance through CDS. This charge would therefore be billed to the party that is responsible for the import charges, normally the consignee or receiver of the shipment in question. The disbursement fee as applied is legitimate, and as you have stated is a commonly used and recognised charge throughout the courier industry, and I can confirm that this was charged correctly in this instance.
On UPS s analysis, they can just make up whatever fee they like. That is clearly not right (and I don t even need to refer to consumer protection law, which would also make it obviously unlawful). And, that everyone does it doesn t make it lawful. There are so many things that are ubiquitous but unlawful, especially nowadays when much of the legal system - especially consumer protection regulators - has been underfunded to beyond the point of collapse. Next time this comes up I might have a go at getting the fee back. (Obviously I ll have to pay it first, to get my parcel.) ParcelForce and Royal Mail I think this analysis doesn t apply to ParcelForce and (probably) Royal Mail. I looked into this in 2009, and I found that Parcelforce had been given the ability to write their own private laws: Schemes made under section 89 of the Postal Services Act 2000. This is obviously ridiculous but I think it was the law in 2009. I doubt the intervening governments have fixed it. Furniture Oh, yes, the actual furniture. The replacements arrived intact and are great :-).

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29 January 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: Bluebird

Review: Bluebird, by Ciel Pierlot
Publisher: Angry Robot
Copyright: 2022
ISBN: 0-85766-967-2
Format: Kindle
Pages: 458
Bluebird is a stand-alone far-future science fiction adventure. Ten thousand years ago, a star fell into the galaxy carrying three factions of humanity. The Ascetics, the Ossuary, and the Pyrites each believe that only their god survived and the other two factions are heretics. Between them, they have conquered the rest of the galaxy and its non-human species. The only thing the factions hate worse than each other are those who attempt to stay outside the faction system. Rig used to be a Pyrite weapon designer before she set fire to her office and escaped with her greatest invention. Now she's a Nightbird, a member of an outlaw band that tries to help refugees and protect her fellow Kashrini against Pyrite genocide. On her side, she has her girlfriend, an Ascetic librarian; her ship, Bluebird; and her guns, Panache and Pizzazz. And now, perhaps, the mysterious Ginka, a Zazra empath and remarkably capable fighter who helps Rig escape from an ambush by Pyrite soldiers. Rig wants to stay alive, help her people, and defy the factions. Pyrite wants Rig's secrets and, as leverage, has her sister. What Ginka wants is not entirely clear even to Ginka. This book is absurd, but I still had fun with it. It's dangerous for me to compare things to anime given how little anime that I've watched, but Bluebird had that vibe for me: anime, or maybe Japanese RPGs or superhero comics. The storytelling is very visual, combat-oriented, and not particularly realistic. Rig is a pistol sharpshooter and Ginka is the type of undefined deadly acrobatic fighter so often seen in that type of media. In addition to her ship, Rig has a gorgeous hand-maintained racing hoverbike with a beautiful paint job. It's that sort of book. It's also the sort of book where the characters obey cinematic logic designed to maximize dramatic physical confrontations, even if their actions make no logical sense. There is no facial recognition or screening, and it's bizarrely easy for the protagonists to end up in same physical location as high-up bad guys. One of the weapon systems that's critical to the plot makes no sense whatsoever. At critical moments, the bad guys behave more like final bosses in a video game, picking up weapons to deal with the protagonists directly instead of using their supposedly vast armies of agents. There is supposedly a whole galaxy full of civilizations with capital worlds covered in planet-spanning cities, but politics barely exist and the faction leaders get directly involved in the plot. If you are looking for a realistic projection of technology or society, I cannot stress enough that this is not the book that you're looking for. You probably figured that out when I mentioned ten thousand years of war, but that will only be the beginning of the suspension of disbelief problems. You need to turn off your brain and enjoy the action sequences and melodrama. I'm normally good at that, and I admit I still struggled because the plot logic is such a mismatch with the typical novels I read. There are several points where the characters do something that seems so monumentally dumb that I was sure Pierlot was setting them up for a fall, and then I got wrong-footed because their plan worked fine, or exploded for unrelated reasons. I think this type of story, heavy on dramatic eye-candy and emotional moments with swelling soundtracks, is a lot easier to pull off in visual media where all the pretty pictures distract your brain. In a novel, there's a lot of time to think about the strategy, technology, and government structure, which for this book is not a good idea. If you can get past that, though, Rig is entertainingly snarky and Ginka, who turns out to be the emotional heart of the book, is an enjoyable character with a real growth arc. Her background is a bit simplistic and the villains are the sort of pure evil that you might expect from this type of cinematic plot, but I cared about the outcome of her story. Some parts of the plot dragged and I think the editing could have been tighter, but there was enough competence porn and banter to pull me through. I would recommend Bluebird only cautiously, since you're going to need to turn off large portions of your brain and be in the right mood for nonsensically dramatic confrontations, but I don't regret reading it. It's mostly in primary colors and the emotional conflicts are not what anyone would call subtle, but it delivers a character arc and a somewhat satisfying ending. Content warning: There is a lot of serious physical injury in this book, including surgical maiming. If that's going to bother you, you may want to give this one a pass. Rating: 6 out of 10

15 January 2024

Russ Allbery: Review: The Library of Broken Worlds

Review: The Library of Broken Worlds, by Alaya Dawn Johnson
Publisher: Scholastic Press
Copyright: June 2023
ISBN: 1-338-29064-9
Format: Kindle
Pages: 446
The Library of Broken Worlds is a young-adult far-future science fantasy. So far as I can tell, it's stand-alone, although more on that later in the review. Freida is the adopted daughter of Nadi, the Head Librarian, and her greatest wish is to become a librarian herself. When the book opens, she's a teenager in highly competitive training. Freida is low-wetware, without the advanced and expensive enhancements of many of the other students competing for rare and prized librarian positions, which she makes up for by being the most audacious. She doesn't need wetware to commune with the library material gods. If one ventures deep into their tunnels and consumes their crystals, direct physical communion is possible. The library tunnels are Freida's second home, in part because that's where she was born. She was created by the Library, and specifically by Iemaja, the youngest of the material gods. Precisely why is a mystery. To Nadi, Freida is her daughter. To Quinn, Nadi's main political rival within the library, Freida is a thing, a piece of the library, a secondary and possibly rogue AI. A disruptive annoyance. The Library of Broken Worlds is the sort of science fiction where figuring out what is going on is an integral part of the reading experience. It opens with a frame story of an unnamed girl (clearly Freida) waking the god Nameren and identifying herself as designed for deicide. She provokes Nameren's curiosity and offers an Arabian Nights bargain: if he wants to hear her story, he has to refrain from killing her for long enough for her to tell it. As one might expect, the main narrative doesn't catch up to the frame story until the very end of the book. The Library is indeed some type of library that librarians can search for knowledge that isn't available from more mundane sources, but Freida's personal experience of it is almost wholly religious and oracular. The library's material gods are identified as AIs, but good luck making sense of the story through a science fiction frame, even with a healthy allowance for sufficiently advanced technology being indistinguishable from magic. The symbolism and tone is entirely fantasy, and late in the book it becomes clear that whatever the material gods are, they're not simple technological AIs in the vein of, say, Banks's Ship Minds. Also, the Library is not solely a repository of knowledge. It is the keeper of an interstellar peace. The Library was founded after the Great War, to prevent a recurrence. It functions as a sort of legal system and grand tribunal in ways that are never fully explained. As you might expect, that peace is based more on stability than fairness. Five of the players in this far future of humanity are the Awilu, the most advanced society and the first to leave Earth (or Tierra as it's called here); the Mah m, who possess the material war god Nameren of the frame story; the Lunars and Martians, who dominate the Sol system; and the surviving Tierrans, residents of a polluted and struggling planet that is ruthlessly exploited by the Lunars. The problem facing Freida and her friends at the start of the book is a petition brought by a young Tierran against Lunar exploitation of his homeland. His name is Joshua, and Freida is more than half in love with him. Joshua's legal argument involves interpretation of the freedom node of the treaty that ended the Great War, a node that precedent says gives the Lunars the freedom to exploit Tierra, but which Joshua claims has a still-valid originalist meaning granting Tierrans freedom from exploitation. There is, in short, a lot going on in this book, and "never fully explained" is something of a theme. Freida is telling a story to Nameren and only explains things Nameren may not already know. The reader has to puzzle out the rest from the occasional hint. This is made more difficult by the tendency of the material gods to communicate only in visions or guided hallucinations, full of symbolism that the characters only partly explain to the reader. Nonetheless, this did mostly work, at least for me. I started this book very confused, but by about the midpoint it felt like the background was coming together. I'm still not sure I understand the aurochs, baobab, and cicada symbolism that's so central to the framing story, but it's the pleasant sort of stretchy confusion that gives my brain a good workout. I wish Johnson had explained a few more things plainly, particularly near the end of the book, but my remaining level of confusion was within my tolerances. Unfortunately, the ending did not work for me. The first time I read it, I had no idea what it meant. Lots of baffling, symbolic things happened and then the book just stopped. After re-reading the last 10%, I think all the pieces of an ending and a bit of an explanation are there, but it's absurdly abbreviated. This is another book where the author appears to have been finished with the story before I was. This keeps happening to me, so this probably says something more about me than it says about books, but I want books to have an ending. If the characters have fought and suffered through the plot, I want them to have some space to be happy and to see how their sacrifices play out, with more detail than just a few vague promises. If much of the book has been puzzling out the nature of the world, I would like some concrete confirmation of at least some of my guesswork. And if you're going to end the book on radical transformation, I want to see the results of that transformation. Johnson does an excellent job showing how brutal the peace of the powerful can be, and is willing to light more things on fire over the course of this book than most authors would, but then doesn't offer the reader much in the way of payoff. For once, I wish this stand-alone turned out to be a series. I think an additional book could be written in the aftermath of this ending, and I would definitely read that novel. Johnson has me caring deeply about these characters and fascinated by the world background, and I'd happily spend another 450 pages finding out what happens next. But, frustratingly, I think this ending was indeed intended to wrap up the story. I think this book may fall between a few stools. Science fiction readers who want mysterious future worlds to be explained by the end of the book are going to be frustrated by the amount of symbolism, allusion, and poetic description. Literary fantasy readers, who have a higher tolerance for that style, are going to wish for more focused and polished writing. A lot of the story is firmly YA: trying and failing to fit in, developing one's identity, coming into power, relationship drama, great betrayals and regrets, overcoming trauma and abuse, and unraveling lies that adults tell you. But this is definitely not a straight-forward YA plot or world background. It demands a lot from the reader, and while I am confident many teenage readers would rise to that challenge, it seems like an awkward fit for the YA marketing category. About 75% of the way in, I would have told you this book was great and you should read it. The ending was a let-down and I'm still grumpy about it. I still think it's worth your attention if you're in the mood for a sink-or-swim type of reading experience. Just be warned that when the ride ends, I felt unceremoniously dumped on the pavement. Content warnings: Rape, torture, genocide. Rating: 7 out of 10

27 December 2023

Russ Allbery: Review: A Study in Scarlet

Review: A Study in Scarlet, by Arthur Conan Doyle
Series: Sherlock Holmes #1
Publisher: AmazonClassics
Copyright: 1887
Printing: February 2018
ISBN: 1-5039-5525-7
Format: Kindle
Pages: 159
A Study in Scarlet is the short mystery novel (probably a novella, although I didn't count words) that introduced the world to Sherlock Holmes. I'm going to invoke the 100-year-rule and discuss the plot of this book rather freely on the grounds that even someone who (like me prior to a few days ago) has not yet read it is probably not that invested in avoiding all spoilers. If you do want to remain entirely unspoiled, exercise caution before reading on. I had somehow managed to avoid ever reading anything by Arthur Conan Doyle, not even a short story. I therefore couldn't be sure that some of the assertions I was making in my review of A Study in Honor were correct. Since A Study in Scarlet would be quick to read, I decided on a whim to do a bit of research and grab a free copy of the first Holmes novel. Holmes is such a part of English-speaking culture that I thought I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. This was largely true, but cultural osmosis had somehow not prepared me for the surprise Mormons. A Study in Scarlet establishes the basic parameters of a Holmes story: Dr. James Watson as narrator, the apartment he shares with Holmes at 221B Baker Street, the Baker Street Irregulars, Holmes's competition with police detectives, and his penchant for making leaps of logical deduction from subtle clues. The story opens with Watson meeting Holmes, agreeing to split the rent of a flat, and being baffled by the apparent randomness of Holmes's fields of study before Holmes reveals he's a consulting detective. The first case is a murder: a man is found dead in an abandoned house, without a mark on him although there are blood splatters on the walls and the word "RACHE" written in blood. Since my only prior exposure to Holmes was from cultural references and a few TV adaptations, there were a few things that surprised me. One is that Holmes is voluble and animated rather than aloof. Doyle is clearly going for passionate eccentric rather than calculating mastermind. Another is that he is intentionally and unabashedly ignorant on any topic not related to solving mysteries.
My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it. "You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it." "To forget it!" "You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you chose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
This is directly contrary to my expectation that the best way to make leaps of deduction is to know something about a huge range of topics so that one can draw unexpected connections, particularly given the puzzle-box construction and odd details so beloved in classic mysteries. I'm now curious if Doyle stuck with this conception, and if there were any later mysteries that involved astronomy. Speaking of classic mysteries, A Study in Scarlet isn't quite one, although one can see the shape of the genre to come. Doyle does not "play fair" by the rules that have not yet been invented. Holmes at most points knows considerably more than the reader, including bits of evidence that are not described until Holmes describes them and research that Holmes does off-camera and only reveals when he wants to be dramatic. This is not the sort of story where the reader is encouraged to try to figure out the mystery before the detective. Rather, what Doyle seems to be aiming for, and what Watson attempts (unsuccessfully) as the reader surrogate, is slightly different: once Holmes makes one of his grand assertions, the reader is encouraged to guess what Holmes might have done to arrive at that conclusion. Doyle seems to want the reader to guess technique rather than outcome, while providing only vague clues in general descriptions of Holmes's behavior at a crime scene. The structure of this story is quite odd. The first part is roughly what you would expect: first-person narration from Watson, supposedly taken from his journals but not at all in the style of a journal and explicitly written for an audience. Part one concludes with Holmes capturing and dramatically announcing the name of the killer, who the reader has never heard of before. Part two then opens with... a western?
In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a barrier against the advance of civilization. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout the grim district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged ca ons; and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are grey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
First, I have issues with the geography. That region contains some of the most beautiful areas on earth, and while a lot of that region is arid, describing it primarily as a repulsive desert is a bit much. Doyle's boundaries and distances are also confusing: the Yellowstone is a northeast-flowing river with its source in Wyoming, so the area between it and the Colorado does not extend to the Sierra Nevadas (or even to Utah), and it's not entirely clear to me that he realizes Nevada exists. This is probably what it's like for people who live anywhere else in the world when US authors write about their country. But second, there's no Holmes, no Watson, and not even the pretense of a transition from the detective novel that we were just reading. Doyle just launches into a random western with an omniscient narrator. It features a lean, grizzled man and an adorable child that he adopts and raises into a beautiful free spirit, who then falls in love with a wild gold-rush adventurer. This was written about 15 years before the first critically recognized western novel, so I can't blame Doyle for all the cliches here, but to a modern reader all of these characters are straight from central casting. Well, except for the villains, who are the Mormons. By that, I don't mean that the villains are Mormon. I mean Brigham Young is the on-page villain, plotting against the hero to force his adopted daughter into a Mormon harem (to use the word that Doyle uses repeatedly) and ruling Salt Lake City with an iron hand, border guards with passwords (?!), and secret police. This part of the book was wild. I was laughing out-loud at the sheer malevolent absurdity of the thirty-day countdown to marriage, which I doubt was the intended effect. We do eventually learn that this is the backstory of the murder, but we don't return to Watson and Holmes for multiple chapters. Which leads me to the other thing that surprised me: Doyle lays out this backstory, but then never has his characters comment directly on the morality of it, only the spectacle. Holmes cares only for the intellectual challenge (and for who gets credit), and Doyle sets things up so that the reader need not concern themselves with aftermath, punishment, or anything of that sort. I probably shouldn't have been surprised this does fit with the Holmes stereotype but I'm used to modern fiction where there is usually at least some effort to pass judgment on the events of the story. Doyle draws very clear villains, but is utterly silent on whether the murder is justified. Given its status in the history of literature, I'm not sorry to have read this book, but I didn't particularly enjoy it. It is very much of its time: everyone's moral character is linked directly to their physical appearance, and Doyle uses the occasional racial stereotype without a second thought. Prevailing writing styles have changed, so the prose feels long-winded and breathless. The rivalry between Holmes and the police detectives is tedious and annoying. I also find it hard to read novels from before the general absorption of techniques of emotional realism and interiority into all genres. The characters in A Study in Scarlet felt more like cartoon characters than fully-realized human beings. I have no strong opinion about the objective merits of this book in the context of its time other than to note that the sudden inserted western felt very weird. My understanding is that this is not considered one of the better Holmes stories, and Holmes gets some deeper characterization later on. Maybe I'll try another of Doyle's works someday, but for now my curiosity has been sated. Followed by The Sign of the Four. Rating: 4 out of 10

21 December 2023

Russ Allbery: Review: The Box

Review: The Box, by Marc Levinson
Publisher: Princeton University Press
Copyright: 2006, 2008
Printing: 2008
ISBN: 0-691-13640-8
Format: Trade paperback
Pages: 278
The shipping container as we know it is only about 65 years old. Shipping things in containers is obviously much older; we've been doing that for longer than we've had ships. But the standardized metal box, set on a rail car or loaded with hundreds of its indistinguishable siblings into an enormous, specially-designed cargo ship, became economically significant only recently. Today it is one of the oft-overlooked foundations of global supply chains. The startlingly low cost of container shipping is part of why so much of what US consumers buy comes from Asia, and why most complex machinery is assembled in multiple countries from parts gathered from a dizzying variety of sources. Marc Levinson's The Box is a history of container shipping, from its (arguable) beginnings in the trailer bodies loaded on Pan-Atlantic Steamship Corporation's Ideal-X in 1956 to just-in-time international supply chains in the 2000s. It's a popular history that falls on the academic side, with a full index and 60 pages of citations and other notes. (Per my normal convention, those pages aren't included in the sidebar page count.) The Box is organized mostly chronologically, but Levinson takes extended detours into labor relations and container standardization at the appropriate points in the timeline. The book is very US-centric. Asian, European, and Australian shipping is discussed mostly in relation to trade with the US, and Africa is barely mentioned. I don't have the background to know whether this is historically correct for container shipping or is an artifact of Levinson's focus. Many single-item popular histories focus on something that involves obvious technological innovation (paint pigments) or deep cultural resonance (salt) or at least entertaining quirkiness (punctuation marks, resignation letters). Shipping containers are important but simple and boring. The least interesting chapter in The Box covers container standardization, in which a whole bunch of people had boring meetings, wrote some things done, discovered many of the things they wrote down were dumb, wrote more things down, met with different people to have more meetings, published a standard that partly reflected the fixations of that one guy who is always involved in standards discussions, and then saw that standard be promptly ignored by the major market players. You may be wondering if that describes the whole book. It doesn't, but not because of the shipping containers. The Box is interesting because the process of economic change is interesting, and container shipping is almost entirely about business processes rather than technology. Levinson starts the substance of the book with a description of shipping before standardized containers. This was the most effective, and probably the most informative, chapter. Beyond some vague ideas picked up via cultural osmosis, I had no idea how cargo shipping worked. Levinson gives the reader a memorable feel for the sheer amount of physical labor involved in loading and unloading a ship with mixed cargo (what's called "breakbulk" cargo to distinguish it from bulk cargo like coal or wheat that fills an entire hold). It's not just the effort of hauling barrels, bales, or boxes with cranes or raw muscle power, although that is significant. It's also the need to touch every piece of cargo to move it, inventory it, warehouse it, and then load it on a truck or train. The idea of container shipping is widely attributed, including by Levinson, to Malcom McLean, a trucking magnate who became obsessed with the idea of what we now call intermodal transport: using the same container for goods on ships, railroads, and trucks so that the contents don't have to be unpacked and repacked at each transfer point. Levinson uses his career as an anchor for the story, from his acquisition of Pan-American Steamship Corporation to pursue his original idea (backed by private equity and debt, in a very modern twist), through his years running Sea-Land as the first successful major container shipper, and culminating in his disastrous attempted return to shipping by acquiring United States Lines. I am dubious of Great Man narratives in history books, and I think Levinson may be overselling McLean's role. Container shipping was an obvious idea that the industry had been talking about for decades. Even Levinson admits that, despite a few gestures at giving McLean central credit. Everyone involved in shipping understood that cargo handling was the most expensive and time-consuming part, and that if one could minimize cargo handling at the docks by loading and unloading full containers that didn't have to be opened, shipping costs would be much lower (and profits higher). The idea wasn't the hard part. McLean was the first person to pull it off at scale, thanks to some audacious economic risks and a willingness to throw sharp elbows and play politics, but it seems likely that someone else would have played that role if McLean hadn't existed. Container shipping didn't happen earlier because achieving that cost savings required a huge expenditure of capital and a major disruption of a transportation industry that wasn't interested in being disrupted. The ships had to be remodeled and eventually replaced; manufacturing had to change; railroad and trucking in theory had to change (in practice, intermodal transport; McLean's obsession, didn't happen at scale until much later); pricing had to be entirely reworked; logistical tracking of goods had to be done much differently; and significant amounts of extremely expensive equipment to load and unload heavy containers had to be designed, built, and installed. McLean's efforts proved the cost savings was real and compelling, but it still took two decades before the shipping industry reconstructed itself around containers. That interim period is where this history becomes a labor story, and that's where Levinson's biases become somewhat distracting. In the United States, loading and unloading of cargo ships was done by unionized longshoremen through a bizarre but complex and long-standing system of contract hiring. The cost savings of container shipping comes almost completely from the loss of work for longshoremen. It's a classic replacement of labor with capital; the work done by gangs of twenty or more longshoreman is instead done by a single crane operator at much higher speed and efficiency. The longshoreman unions therefore opposed containerization and launched numerous strikes and other labor actions to delay use of containers, force continued hiring that containers made unnecessary, or win buyouts and payoffs for current longshoremen. Levinson is trying to write a neutral history and occasionally shows some sympathy for longshoremen, but they still get the Luddite treatment in this book: the doomed reactionaries holding back progress. Longshoremen had a vigorous and powerful union that won better working conditions structured in ways that look absurd to outsiders, such as requiring that ships hire twice as many men as necessary so that half of them could get paid while not working. The unions also had a reputation for corruption that Levinson stresses constantly, and theft of breakbulk cargo during loading and warehousing was common. One of the interesting selling points for containers was that lossage from theft during shipping apparently decreased dramatically. It's obvious that the surface demand of the longshoremen unions, that either containers not be used or that just as many manual laborers be hired for container shipping as for earlier breakbulk shipping, was impossible, and that the profession as it existed in the 1950s was doomed. But beneath those facts, and the smoke screen of Levinson's obvious distaste for their unions, is a real question about what society owes workers whose jobs are eliminated by major shifts in business practices. That question of fairness becomes more pointed when one realizes that this shift was massively subsidized by US federal and local governments. McLean's Sea-Land benefited from direct government funding and subsidized navy surplus ships, massive port construction in New Jersey with public funds, and a sweetheart logistics contract from the US military to supply troops fighting the Vietnam War that was so generous that the return voyage was free and every container Sea-Land picked up from Japanese ports was pure profit. The US shipping industry was heavily government-supported, particularly in the early days when the labor conflicts were starting. Levinson notes all of this, but never draws the contrast between the massive support for shipping corporations and the complete lack of formal support for longshoremen. There are hard ethical questions about what society owes displaced workers even in a pure capitalist industry transformation, and this was very far from pure capitalism. The US government bankrolled large parts of the growth of container shipping, but the only way that longshoremen could get part of that money was through strikes to force payouts from private shipping companies. There are interesting questions of social and ethical history here that would require careful disentangling of the tendency of any group to oppose disruptive change and fairness questions of who gets government support and who doesn't. They will have to wait for another book; Levinson never mentions them. There were some things about this book that annoyed me, but overall it's a solid work of popular history and deserves its fame. Levinson's account is easy to follow, specific without being tedious, and backed by voluminous notes. It's not the most compelling story on its own merits; you have to have some interest in logistics and economics to justify reading the entire saga. But it's the sort of history that gives one a sense of the fractal complexity of any area of human endeavor, and I usually find those worth reading. Recommended if you like this sort of thing. Rating: 7 out of 10

29 June 2023

Russ Allbery: Review: Semiosis

Review: Semiosis, by Sue Burke
Series: Semiosis #1
Publisher: Tor
Copyright: February 2018
ISBN: 0-7653-9137-6
Format: Kindle
Pages: 333
Semiosis is a first-contact science fiction novel and the first half of a duology. It was Sue Burke's first novel. In the 2060s, with the Earth plagued by environmental issues, a group of utopians decided to found a colony on another planet. Their goal is to live in harmony with an unspoiled nature. They wrote a suitably high-minded founding document, the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Pax, and set out in cold sleep on an interstellar voyage. 158 years later, they awoke in orbit around a planet with a highly-developed ecology, which they named Pax. Two pods and several colonists were lost on landing, but the rest remained determined to follow through with their plan. Not that they had many alternatives. Pax does not have cities or technological mammalian life, just as they hoped. It does, however, have intelligent life. This novel struggled to win me over for reasons that aren't the fault of Burke's writing. The first is that it is divided into seven parts, each telling the story of a different generation. Intellectually, I like this technique for telling an anthropological story that follows a human society over time. But emotionally, I am a character reader first and foremost, and I struggle with books where I can't follow the same character throughout. It makes the novel feel more like a fix-up of short stories, and I'm not much of a short story reader. Second, this is one of those stories where a human colony loses access to its technology and falls back to a primitive lifestyle. This is a concept I find viscerally unpleasant and very difficult to read about. I don't mind reading stories that start at the lower technological level and rediscover lost technology, but the process of going backwards, losing knowledge, surrounded by breaking technology that can never be repaired, is disturbing at a level that throws me out of the story. It doesn't help that the original colonists chose to embrace that reversion. Some of this wasn't intentional some vital equipment was destroyed when they landed but a lot of it was the plan from the start. They are the type of fanatics who embrace a one-way trip and cannibalizing the equipment used to make it in order to show their devotion to the cause. I spent the first part of the book thinking the founding colonists were unbelievably foolish, but then they started enforcing an even more restrictive way of life on their children and that tipped me over into considering them immoral. This was the sort of political movement that purged all religion and political philosophy other than their one true way so that they could raise "uncorrupted" children. Burke does recognize how deeply abusive this is. The second part of the book, which focuses on the children of the initial colonists, was both my favorite section and had my favorite protagonist, precisely because someone put words to the criticisms that I'd been thinking since the start of the book. The book started off on a bad foot with me, but if it had kept up the momentum of political revolution and rethinking provided by the second part, it might have won me over. That leads to the third problem, though, which is the first contact part of the story. (If you've heard anything about this series, you probably know what the alien intelligence is, and even if not you can probably guess, but I'll avoid spoilers anyway.) This is another case where the idea is great, but I often don't get along with it as a reader. I'm a starships and AIs and space habitats sort of SF reader by preference and tend to struggle with biological SF, even though I think it's great more of it is being written. In this case, mind-altering chemicals enter the picture early in the story, and while this makes perfect sense given the world-building, this is another one of my visceral dislikes. A closely related problem is that the primary alien character is, by human standards, a narcissistic asshole. This is for very good story and world-building reasons. I bought the explanation that Burke offers, I like the way this shows how there's no reason to believe humans have a superior form of intelligence, and I think Burke's speculations on the nature of that alien intelligence are fascinating. There are a lot of good reasons to think that alien morality would be wildly different from human morality. But, well, I'm still a human reading this book and I detested the alien, which is kind of a problem given how significant of a character it is. That's a lot baggage for a story to overcome. It says something about how well-thought-out the world-building is that it kept my attention anyway. Burke uses the generational structure very effectively. Events, preferences, or even whims early in the novel turn into rituals or traditions. Early characters take on outsized roles in history. The humans stick with the rather absurd constitution of Pax, but do so in a way that feels true to how humans reinterpret and stretch and layer meaning on top of wholly inadequate documents written in complete ignorance of the challenges that later generations will encounter. I would have been happier without the misery and sickness and messy physicality of this abusive colonization project, but watching generations of humans patch together a mostly functioning society was intellectually satisfying. The alien interactions were also solid, with the caveat that it's probably impossible to avoid a lot of anthropomorphizing. If I were going to sum up the theme of the novel in a sentence, it's that even humans who think they want to live in harmony with nature are carrying more arrogance about what that harmony would look like than they realize. In most respects the human colonists stumbled across the best-case scenario for them on this world, and it was still harder than anything they had imagined. Unfortunately, I thought the tail end of the book had the weakest plot. It fell back on a story that could have happened in a lot of first-contact novels, rather than the highly original negotiation over ecological niches that happened in the first half of the book. Out of eight viewpoint characters in this book, I only liked one of them (Sylvia). Tatiana and Lucille were okay, and I might have warmed to them if they'd had more time in the spotlight, but I felt like they kept making bad decisions. That's the main reason why I can't really recommend it; I read for characters, I didn't really like the characters, and it's hard for a book to recover from that. It made the story feel chilly and distant, more of an intellectual exercise than the sort of engrossing emotional experience I prefer. But, that said, this is solid SF speculation. If your preferred balance of ideas and characters is tilted more towards ideas than mine, and particularly if you like interesting aliens and don't mind the loss of technology setting, this may well be to your liking. Even with all of my complaints, I'm curious enough about the world that I am tempted to read the sequel, since its plot appears to involve more of the kind of SF elements I like. Followed by Interference. Content warning: Rape, and a whole lot of illness and death. Rating: 6 out of 10

1 May 2023

Russ Allbery: Review: The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

Review: The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, by Terry Pratchett
Series: Discworld #28
Publisher: HarperCollins
Copyright: 2001
Printing: 2008
ISBN: 0-06-001235-8
Format: Mass market
Pages: 351
The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents is the 28th Discworld novel and the first marketed for younger readers. Although it has enough references to establish it as taking place on Discworld, it has no obvious connections with the other books and doesn't rely on any knowledge of the series so far. This would not be a bad place to start with Terry Pratchett and see if his writing style and sense of humor is for you. Despite being marketed as young adult, and despite Pratchett's comments in an afterward in the edition I own that writing YA novels is much harder, I didn't think this was that different than a typical Discworld novel. The two main human characters read as about twelve and there were some minor changes in tone, but I'm not sure I would have immediately labeled it as YA if I hadn't already known it was supposed to be. There are considerably fewer obvious pop culture references than average, though; if that's related, I think I'll prefer Pratchett's YA novels, since I think his writing is stronger when he's not playing reference bingo. Maurice (note to US readers: Maurice is pronounced "Morris" in the UK) is a talking cat and the mastermind of a wandering con job. He, a stupid-looking kid with a flute (Maurice's description), and a tribe of talking rats travel the small towns of Discworld. The rats go in first, making a show of breaking into the food, swimming in the cream, and widdling on things that humans don't want widdled on. Once the townspeople are convinced they have a plague of rats, the kid with the flute enters the town and offers to pipe the rats away for a very reasonable fee. He plays his flute, the rats swarm out of town, and they take their money and move on to the next town. It's a successful life that suits Maurice and his growing hoard of gold very well. If only the rats would stop asking pointed questions about the ethics of this scheme. The town of Bad Blintz is the next on their itinerary, and if the rats have their way, will be the last. Their hope is they've gathered enough money by now to find an island, away from humans, where they can live their own lives. But, as is always the case for one last job in fiction, there's something uncannily wrong about Bad Blintz. There are traps everywhere, more brutal and dangerous ones than they've found in any other town, and yet there is no sign of native, unintelligent rats. Meanwhile, Maurice and the boy find a town that looks wealthy but has food shortages, a bounty on rats that is absurdly high, and a pair of sinister-looking rat-catchers who are bringing in collections of rat tails that look suspiciously like bootlaces. The mayor's daughter discovers Maurice can talk and immediately decides she has to take them in hand. Malicia is very certain of her own opinions, not accustomed to taking no for an answer, and is certain that the world follows the logic of stories, even if she has to help it along. This is truly great stuff. I think this might be my favorite Discworld novel to date, although I do have some criticisms that I'll get to in a moment. The best part are the rats, and particularly the blind philosopher rat Dangerous Beans and his assistant Peaches. In the middle of daring infiltration of the trapped sewers in scenes reminiscent of Mission: Impossible, the rats are also having philosophical arguments. They've become something different than the unaltered rats that they call the keekees, but what those differences mean is harder to understand. The older rats are not happy about too many changes and think the rats should keep acting like rats. The younger ones are discovering that they're afraid of shadows because now they understand what the shadows hint at. Dangerous Beans is trying to work out a writing system so that they can keep important thoughts. One of their few guides is a children's book of talking animals, although they quickly discover that the portrayed clothing is annoyingly impractical. But as good as the rats are, Maurice is nearly as much fun in an entirely different way. He is unapologetically out for himself, streetwise and canny in a way that feels apt for a cat, gets bored and mentally wanders off in the middle of conversations, and pretends to agree with people when that's how he can get what he wants. But he also has a weird sense of loyalty and ethics that only shows up when something is truly important. It's a variation on the con man with a heart of gold, but it's a very well-done variation that weaves in a cat's impatience with and inattention to anything that doesn't directly concern them. I was laughing throughout the book. Malicia is an absolute delight, the sort of character who takes over scenes through sheer force of will, and the dumb-looking kid (whose name turns out to be Keith) is a perfect counterbalance: a laid-back, quiet boy who just wants to play his music and is almost entirely unflappable. It's such a great cast. The best part of the plot is the end. I won't spoil it, so I'll only say that Pratchett has the characters do the work on the aftermath that a lot of books skip over. He doesn't have any magical solutions for the world's problems, but he's so very good at restoring one's faith that maybe sometimes those solutions can be constructed. My one complaint with this book is that Pratchett introduces a second villain, and while there are good in-story justifications for it and it's entangled with the primary plot, he added elements of (mild) supernatural horror and evil that I thought were extraneous and unnecessary. He already had enough of a conflict set up without adding that additional element, and I think it undermined the moral complexity of the story. I would have much rather he kept the social dynamics of the town at the core of the story and used that to trigger the moments of sacrifice and philosophy that made the climax work. The Discworld books by this point have gotten very good, but each book seems to have one element like that where it felt like Pratchett took the easy way out of a plot corner or added some story element that didn't really work. I feel like the series is on the verge of having a truly great book that rises above the entire series to date, but never quite gets there. That caveat aside, I thoroughly enjoyed this and had trouble putting it down. Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh was one of my favorite books as a kid, and this reminded me of it in some good ways (enough so that I think some of the references were intentional). Great stuff. If you were to read only one Discworld book and didn't want to be confused by all the entangled plot threads and established characters, I would seriously consider making it this one. Recommended. Followed by Night Watch in publication order. There doesn't appear to be a direct plot sequel, more's the pity. Rating: 8 out of 10

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