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Reading Wednesday
May. 4th, 2016 02:49 pmWhat did you just finish?
Small Gods by Terry Pratchett. The 13th book of the Discworld series, and I can't imagine how to review this. It is my very favorite book by Pratchett (okay, maybe tied for first with Hogfather) and the temptation is to just quote the whole thing.
Okay. Plot summary: Brutha is a young, mostly ignored, fairly dumb (at least in the book-smarts sense) novice, the very bottom of a pyramid that stretches all the way up through the grand edifice of Omnism, a religion with an army, an empire, and millions of followers. It bears more than a little resemblance to medieval Catholicism, with a heavy emphasis on the Spanish Inquisition, though really it could be any authoritarian religion. However, fearing the outer organization of a religion and actually believing in its god are two very different things, and Brutha is the only one out of all these people who has any real faith in Om. Since a god's power is entirely dependant on the number of its followers, Om is therefore currently stuck in the shape of a tortoise, and summoning a shock of static electricity is the biggest miracle he (He?) can manage.
Om's goal is to acquire new followers, or at least make sure that Brutha doesn't die and leave him entirely bereft. Vorbis – an important power in the Church – wants to conquer new countries and give the practice of Omnism a new purity and stringency. And Brutha just wants to do the right thing, even if first he has to figure out what that is.
It's a funny book! But it's also a desperately serious one, and one that has a whole new resonance when read after Pratchett's death. This is a book where God, not the human characters, is terrified of his own mortality and the endless dark outside the brief bright span of life.
I know, said the small god. It knew speech, real god speech, although it talked as though every word had been winched from the pit of memory.
Who are you? said Om.
The small god stirred.
There was a city once, said the small god. Not just a city. An empire of cities. I, I, I remember there were canals, and gardens. There was a lake. They had floating gardens on the lake, I recall. I, I. And there were temples. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory.
Om felt sick. This wasn’t just a small god. This was a small god who hadn’t always been small…
Who were you?
And there were temples. I, I, me. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. The glory of. Thousands were sacrificed. Me. To the greater glory.
And there were temples. Me, me, me. Greater glory. Such glory temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid dream temples that reached to the sky. Me, me. Sacrificed. Dream. Thousands were sacrificed. To me the greater sky glory.
You were their God? Om managed.
Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory.
Can you hear me?
Thousands sacrificed greater glory. Me, me, me.
What was your name? shouted Om.
Name?
A hot wind blew over the desert, shifting a few grains of sand. The echo of a lost god blew away, tumbling over and over, until it vanished among the rocks.
Who were you?
There was no answer.
It's a book that sets up a rebellion against the obvious villains – and then, rather than having the reader cheer for them, heavily emphasizes how easy it is for the overthrowers to become the same thing they'd overthrown.
“You know,” he said, turning to Simony. “Now I know Vorbis is evil. He burned my city. Well, the Tsorteans do it sometimes, and we burn theirs. It’s just war. It’s all part of history. And he lies and cheats and claws power for himself, and lots of people do that, too. But do you know what’s special? Do you know what it is?”
“Of course,” said Simony. “It’s what he’s doing to—”
“It’s what he’s done to you.”
“What?”
“He turns other people into copies of himself.”
Simony’s grip was like a vice. “You’re saying I’m like him?”
“Once you said you’d cut him down,” said Urn. “Now you’re thinking like him…”
It's a book that can boil all of Paradise Lost to a mere clause, half of a sentence, and then stick in a humorous scene like a needle in blanket, all the more powerful for being hidden in between the jokes:
But there were things to suggest to a thinking man that the Creator of mankind had a very oblique sense of fun indeed, and to breed in his heart a rage to storm the gates of heaven.
It is not, however, a book against religion or belief, for all that it might be superficially easy to read it that way. Against the excesses of religions, or some of their worst moments, sure, but that would be like saying that a historian who points out that we've had bad presidents wants to get rid of democracy. It's a book that is probably the purest encapsulation of Pratchett's own personal belief in humanism. It's a humanism that is fully aware of the worst sides of humanity – that sees them being dumb and hateful and short-sighted and bigoted and everything else – and still loves them, fiercely, still wants to do the endless, petty work of changing the world for the better, still simply believes in them:
That’s why gods die. They never believe in people. But you have a chance. All you need to do is…believe.”
XIII. What? Listen To Stupid Prayers? Watch Over Small Children? Make It Rain?
“Sometimes. Not always. It could be a bargain.”
XIV. BARGAIN! I don’t bargain! Not With Humans!
“Bargain now,” said Brutha. “While you have the chance. Or one day you’ll have to bargain with Simony, or someone like him. Or Urn, or someone like him.”
XV. I Could Destroy You Utterly.
“Yes. I am entirely in your power.”
XVI. I Could Crush You Like An Egg!
“Yes.”
Om paused.
Then he said: XVII. You Can’t Use Weakness As A Weapon.
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
XVIII. Why Should I Yield, Then?
“Not yield. Bargain. Deal with me in weakness. Or one day you’ll have to bargain with someone in a position of strength. The world changes.”
XIX. Hah! You Want A Constitutional Religion?
“Why not? The other sort didn’t work.”
I first read this book when I was 13 or 14, and I literally don't know who I would be if I hadn't. How can I comment objectively on it? All I can do is point at it and go, "this! this!"
Anyway. If you haven't read it, do! And if you have, tell me all about it!
On Loving a Saudi Girl by Carina Yun. A short book of poetry that I picked up at a GLBT booksale recently. Much of the writing and turns of phrase are quite lovely, but ultimately I had hoped for more. You can write poetry that's meant to be universal, or you can write poetry that's quite specific to your individual life, but you do need to pick a focus. In trying to do both simultaneously this book came off as muddled. I felt like I needed to have read a biography of the author to understand what was happening and why.
I posted some of my favorites here and here, if you're interested in reading a sample.
Sugarland by Martha Conway. Eve is a black woman, a jazz pianist of the 1920s, when she witnesses a murder. This results in her quickly being caught up in an escalating tangle of bootlegging, gun running, gang violence, stolen money, and lies, when all poor Eve wants to do is survive. As if that isn't enough, she then discovers that her beloved younger sister, a nightclub singer, is pregnant and the father is nowhere to be found. Meanwhile Lena, a white nurse, is faced with the realization that her fragile younger brother is not as innocent as she assumed.
I was really impressed by the depth of research that went into this book. It's easy enough for an author to become an expert on her main subject (in this case, jazz and musicians), but Conway constantly drops in background details and allusions to other topics and events that give her depiction of 1921 Chicago a depth and complexity that is often lacking in historical fiction. I also really liked her descriptions of music: playing it, hearing it, writing it. She gives it a power and an attraction that felt very true to me. And, of course, to be able to do so is pretty important when all your main characters are musicians of one sort or another! We have people here who are working musicians, others who have given up on their dreams, and still others who are just now learning how to play. I liked that diversity.
My favorite part of the book was the slowly growing friendship between Eva and Lena. Though at first they have nothing in common, they're thrown together by circumstances and gradually learn to trust and care for one another. (YES I AM SHIPPING IT SOMEONE WRITE ME THIS FIC PLEASE) The racial disparity is handled very well, in my opinion; it's a constant tension and problem, but they also managed to come together despite social and legal barriers.
On the other hand, the mystery aspect could have been better handled; it was a bit confusing and seemed to include some jumps in logic. But you know what? I don't read mysteries for the mystery. I know that sounds odd, but I've discovered that the genre is a great place to find fantastic settings and characters, and as far as I'm concerned, the plots are just window dressing. Sugarland definitely succeeds at that.
What are you currently reading?
Secret of a Thousand Beauties by Mingmei Yip. Attempting to clear out some of the stacks of books I have bought but not read!
Small Gods by Terry Pratchett. The 13th book of the Discworld series, and I can't imagine how to review this. It is my very favorite book by Pratchett (okay, maybe tied for first with Hogfather) and the temptation is to just quote the whole thing.
Okay. Plot summary: Brutha is a young, mostly ignored, fairly dumb (at least in the book-smarts sense) novice, the very bottom of a pyramid that stretches all the way up through the grand edifice of Omnism, a religion with an army, an empire, and millions of followers. It bears more than a little resemblance to medieval Catholicism, with a heavy emphasis on the Spanish Inquisition, though really it could be any authoritarian religion. However, fearing the outer organization of a religion and actually believing in its god are two very different things, and Brutha is the only one out of all these people who has any real faith in Om. Since a god's power is entirely dependant on the number of its followers, Om is therefore currently stuck in the shape of a tortoise, and summoning a shock of static electricity is the biggest miracle he (He?) can manage.
Om's goal is to acquire new followers, or at least make sure that Brutha doesn't die and leave him entirely bereft. Vorbis – an important power in the Church – wants to conquer new countries and give the practice of Omnism a new purity and stringency. And Brutha just wants to do the right thing, even if first he has to figure out what that is.
It's a funny book! But it's also a desperately serious one, and one that has a whole new resonance when read after Pratchett's death. This is a book where God, not the human characters, is terrified of his own mortality and the endless dark outside the brief bright span of life.
I know, said the small god. It knew speech, real god speech, although it talked as though every word had been winched from the pit of memory.
Who are you? said Om.
The small god stirred.
There was a city once, said the small god. Not just a city. An empire of cities. I, I, I remember there were canals, and gardens. There was a lake. They had floating gardens on the lake, I recall. I, I. And there were temples. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory.
Om felt sick. This wasn’t just a small god. This was a small god who hadn’t always been small…
Who were you?
And there were temples. I, I, me. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. The glory of. Thousands were sacrificed. Me. To the greater glory.
And there were temples. Me, me, me. Greater glory. Such glory temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid dream temples that reached to the sky. Me, me. Sacrificed. Dream. Thousands were sacrificed. To me the greater sky glory.
You were their God? Om managed.
Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory.
Can you hear me?
Thousands sacrificed greater glory. Me, me, me.
What was your name? shouted Om.
Name?
A hot wind blew over the desert, shifting a few grains of sand. The echo of a lost god blew away, tumbling over and over, until it vanished among the rocks.
Who were you?
There was no answer.
It's a book that sets up a rebellion against the obvious villains – and then, rather than having the reader cheer for them, heavily emphasizes how easy it is for the overthrowers to become the same thing they'd overthrown.
“You know,” he said, turning to Simony. “Now I know Vorbis is evil. He burned my city. Well, the Tsorteans do it sometimes, and we burn theirs. It’s just war. It’s all part of history. And he lies and cheats and claws power for himself, and lots of people do that, too. But do you know what’s special? Do you know what it is?”
“Of course,” said Simony. “It’s what he’s doing to—”
“It’s what he’s done to you.”
“What?”
“He turns other people into copies of himself.”
Simony’s grip was like a vice. “You’re saying I’m like him?”
“Once you said you’d cut him down,” said Urn. “Now you’re thinking like him…”
It's a book that can boil all of Paradise Lost to a mere clause, half of a sentence, and then stick in a humorous scene like a needle in blanket, all the more powerful for being hidden in between the jokes:
But there were things to suggest to a thinking man that the Creator of mankind had a very oblique sense of fun indeed, and to breed in his heart a rage to storm the gates of heaven.
It is not, however, a book against religion or belief, for all that it might be superficially easy to read it that way. Against the excesses of religions, or some of their worst moments, sure, but that would be like saying that a historian who points out that we've had bad presidents wants to get rid of democracy. It's a book that is probably the purest encapsulation of Pratchett's own personal belief in humanism. It's a humanism that is fully aware of the worst sides of humanity – that sees them being dumb and hateful and short-sighted and bigoted and everything else – and still loves them, fiercely, still wants to do the endless, petty work of changing the world for the better, still simply believes in them:
That’s why gods die. They never believe in people. But you have a chance. All you need to do is…believe.”
XIII. What? Listen To Stupid Prayers? Watch Over Small Children? Make It Rain?
“Sometimes. Not always. It could be a bargain.”
XIV. BARGAIN! I don’t bargain! Not With Humans!
“Bargain now,” said Brutha. “While you have the chance. Or one day you’ll have to bargain with Simony, or someone like him. Or Urn, or someone like him.”
XV. I Could Destroy You Utterly.
“Yes. I am entirely in your power.”
XVI. I Could Crush You Like An Egg!
“Yes.”
Om paused.
Then he said: XVII. You Can’t Use Weakness As A Weapon.
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
XVIII. Why Should I Yield, Then?
“Not yield. Bargain. Deal with me in weakness. Or one day you’ll have to bargain with someone in a position of strength. The world changes.”
XIX. Hah! You Want A Constitutional Religion?
“Why not? The other sort didn’t work.”
I first read this book when I was 13 or 14, and I literally don't know who I would be if I hadn't. How can I comment objectively on it? All I can do is point at it and go, "this! this!"
Anyway. If you haven't read it, do! And if you have, tell me all about it!
On Loving a Saudi Girl by Carina Yun. A short book of poetry that I picked up at a GLBT booksale recently. Much of the writing and turns of phrase are quite lovely, but ultimately I had hoped for more. You can write poetry that's meant to be universal, or you can write poetry that's quite specific to your individual life, but you do need to pick a focus. In trying to do both simultaneously this book came off as muddled. I felt like I needed to have read a biography of the author to understand what was happening and why.
I posted some of my favorites here and here, if you're interested in reading a sample.
Sugarland by Martha Conway. Eve is a black woman, a jazz pianist of the 1920s, when she witnesses a murder. This results in her quickly being caught up in an escalating tangle of bootlegging, gun running, gang violence, stolen money, and lies, when all poor Eve wants to do is survive. As if that isn't enough, she then discovers that her beloved younger sister, a nightclub singer, is pregnant and the father is nowhere to be found. Meanwhile Lena, a white nurse, is faced with the realization that her fragile younger brother is not as innocent as she assumed.
I was really impressed by the depth of research that went into this book. It's easy enough for an author to become an expert on her main subject (in this case, jazz and musicians), but Conway constantly drops in background details and allusions to other topics and events that give her depiction of 1921 Chicago a depth and complexity that is often lacking in historical fiction. I also really liked her descriptions of music: playing it, hearing it, writing it. She gives it a power and an attraction that felt very true to me. And, of course, to be able to do so is pretty important when all your main characters are musicians of one sort or another! We have people here who are working musicians, others who have given up on their dreams, and still others who are just now learning how to play. I liked that diversity.
My favorite part of the book was the slowly growing friendship between Eva and Lena. Though at first they have nothing in common, they're thrown together by circumstances and gradually learn to trust and care for one another. (YES I AM SHIPPING IT SOMEONE WRITE ME THIS FIC PLEASE) The racial disparity is handled very well, in my opinion; it's a constant tension and problem, but they also managed to come together despite social and legal barriers.
On the other hand, the mystery aspect could have been better handled; it was a bit confusing and seemed to include some jumps in logic. But you know what? I don't read mysteries for the mystery. I know that sounds odd, but I've discovered that the genre is a great place to find fantastic settings and characters, and as far as I'm concerned, the plots are just window dressing. Sugarland definitely succeeds at that.
What are you currently reading?
Secret of a Thousand Beauties by Mingmei Yip. Attempting to clear out some of the stacks of books I have bought but not read!
