Review of "Alif the Unseen" by G. Willow Wilson

A boy with a computer program that can identify people on the Internet by their keystroke patterns. A girl with a book written by djinn entitled “The Thousand and One Days.” And outside their doors, it’s the beginning of the Spring Revolution all over the Middle East. Wilson finds the common thread between technology and mytholoy and wraps it all in a modern fantasy adventure that’s gripping and fun to read.

In Arab mythology the djinn are called the “invisible ones.” But Wilson quickly draws a parallel between the magical folk of myth and young people who spend most of their time socializing online. When the hero, Alif, is hunted down by State Security and forced to go offline, he wails to his two friends, Dina and Abdullah:

“And now I’m a ghost in the machine. By next week all the hacks and geeks and hats I call my friends will have forgotten who I am. That is the nature of this business. That is the Internet.”

“You still have real friends,” said Dina. The two men made identical derisive noises.

“Internet friends are real friends,” said Abdullah. “Now that you pious brothers and sisters have taken over half the planet, the Internet is the only place left to have a worthwhile conversation.”

But Wilson’s book doesn’t dismiss Islam in simple terms. One of the main characters is the Imam of the local mosque. And he has a very realistic view of what’s wrong with society:

“Oil,” the sheikh shook his head. “The great cursed wealth from beneath the ground that the Prophet foresaw would destroy us. And statehood--what a terrible idea that was, eh? This part of the world was never meant to function that way. Too many languages, too many tribes, too motivated by ideas those high-heeled cartographers from Paris couldn’t understand. Don’t understand. Will never understand. Well, God save them--they’re not the ones who have to live in this mess. They said a modern state needs a single leader, a secular leader, and the emir was the closest thing we had. So to the emir went all the power. And anyone who thinks that isn’t a good idea is hounded down and tossed in jail, as you have so recently discovered. All so that some pantywaist royal nephew can have a seat at the UN and carry a flag in the Olympics and be thoroughly ignored.”

The best parts of the novel involve the intervention of the unseen world into this reality, both the world of the djinn and the online world. Wilson makes strong connections between the zeros and ones that symbolize data and functions on a computer with the metaphors of mythology, literature, and the Koran which symbolize deeper themes, and have multiple meanings simultaneously. When her hero attempts to program a computer to understand metaphors, the narrative turns in a wild and unforeseen direction.

Even the characters themselves embody multiple meanings. Her hero, Alif, has two names: his online handle (Alif)--the first letter of the alphabet, shaped like a single vertical slash--and his given name, which remains unseen throughout most of the novel. He’s half-Arab and half-Indian, and is forced to master multiple languages: Arabic, Hindi, English, C++, and eventually the language of the djinn.

The unnamed city itself is a conglomeration, but not a melting pot, each area separate, but ultimately involved with the other: “The City, Abdullah had once quipped, is divided into three parts: old money, new money, and no money. It had never supported a middle class and had no ambition to do so--one was either a nonresident of Somewhere-istan, sending the bulk of one’s salary home to desperate relatives, or one was a scion of the oil boom.” Or one is like Alif, a child of two worlds, living with his Indian mother, but surviving on the “driblets” of money sent by his wealthy, absent father--a child of Nowhere-istan, unless you count the unseen world of the Internet.

This is a fantastic work of fiction (in multiple ways), and takes us inside the hearts and minds of the young protagonists who fueled the Spring Revolution. And it gives us a beautiful peek inside the unseen world (at least in the West) of Arab mythology and cultural concerns.

 

Review of "NW" by Zadie Smith

The novel is told in three voices:  two women who’ve grown up together in NW London and, between their separate sections of the book, a seemingly unrelated man who’s grown up in the same area and is trying to escape his past to make a better life. The two women have outwardly pulled themselves out of poverty, but Smith’s skill lies in showing the inner poverty of their lives; how external expectations keep them from even knowing what they really want from life, much less living the lives they want.

The first section, told through the eyes of Leah, is rough going. She’s depressed and lonely, feels trapped in her “happy” marriage and her respectable but boring job, and doesn’t want to have the child her husband craves so much. It’s only in the third section, told through her best friend Natalie’s eyes, that we see what kind of child Leah was: a empathic girl who becomes a rebel in high school, hangs out with artsy intellectuals, and flirts with lesbianism in college. And yet she ends up marrying a very conventional family man and living just a few doors down from the house where she grew up, in the same NW lower-class neighborhood.

Natalie’s story takes a different trajectory: she’s the little girl with a tough exterior who gets straight-A’s, goes to law school, puts in her requisite three years as a public defender, then takes a cushy job in a corporate law firm. She marries a rich, handsome, playboy banker and pops out two children, a boy and a girl, and seems to all outward appearances to have the perfect life. Except that inwardly, her life mirrors Leah’s more closely than she’s willing to admit.

The stories of these two women bracket the story of Felix, who as a black man, has a harder time making a success of his life. Whereas Leah (who’s white) and Natalie (who’s black) find it easier to climb the socioeconomic ladder, Smith reminds us that black men are viewed by all of society as inherently dangerous once they reach puberty. This applies even to Felix, whose name means “happy” and whose demeanor is always upbeat. He has a quick, creative mind, and is easily the most likable character in the book, yet he never gets a real break from anyone, except maybe his newest girlfriend, Grace. She’s presented in stark contrast to his former girlfriend, Annie, a drugged-out déclassé white woman who wants to support Felix’s work as a filmmaker, but whose drug habits pulled him down in the first place. As much as he loves Grace, Felix can’t easily let go of Annie, whose outlook on life, while more jaded, seems more realistic in the end.

In the fourth and final section, Smith artfully links together the three characters in a way that makes the reader feel as if you’ve been given the full tour of NW.

Overall, this book was fantastic, although a little hard to get into.  Once you reach Felix’s section, though, Smith hits her stride and there’s no turning back.

Review of The Yellow Birds, by Kevin Powers

So many good reviews have been written about this book is that I was puzzled to find it lacking in many ways.

 

It’s a first novel written by a young poet, and it contains many of the elements of good poetry:  archetypes, vivid metaphors, wrenching themes, alternating stanzas that lead us eventually to a final reveal, and a strong central voice.  But for those reasons, it doesn’t quite hold together as a novel.  Archetypes, when used in a longer narrative format, quickly become uninteresting stereotypes—for example Sterling, the hard-bitten sergeant whom everyone agrees is the perfect soldier.  And we never get attached to the younger soldier that the narrator has promised to protect (conveniently named Murph, as if he were a cute, stuffed toy unable to hold his stitching intact in a hostile environment).

 

So instead the book becomes an exploration of the soul of its narrator, and succeeds on that level.  Its poetry reminds us that the young men we send into war are not machines, not the brutal automatons that the army wants them to be, but young people full of life and the urge to experience beauty and a sense of purpose.  As the narrator says of himself and Murph while they’re getting ready to be deployed: “Being from a place where a few facts are enough to define you, where a few habits can fill a life, causes a unique kind of shame.  We’d had small lives, populated by a longing for something more substantial than dirt roads and small dreams.  So we’d come here, where life needed no elaboration and others would tell us who to be.”

 

But a novel is not just the poetry of its language and the insights of one narrative voice.  And sometimes the metaphors in this book stretch to the breaking point and beyond, as when the narrator struggles for an image to describe what it’s like to fly home as one of the survivors of a pointless war.  His words are buffeted by so much turbulence that the reader eventually loses the sense of what he’s saying or what the character is thinking.

 

And we never get a sense of the day-to-day routine of deployment in Iraq.  Amongst all the lovely metaphor, the book is strangely lacking in description.  I felt that less poetry and more straightforward narration would have served the story better.  Fortunately, the novel is short in length so that the reader isn’t asked to stay involved with the characters too long.  And the disjointed narration lends truth to its overall message, presented as a sudden insight the narrator has after going AWOL in Germany:  “I realized, as I stood there in the church, that there was a sharp distinction between what was remembered, what was told, and what was true.  And I didn’t think I’d ever figure out which was which.”

 

I can’t say I liked “The Yellow Birds” as much I expected to.  And I find the high praise that critics and other writers have given it to be more an expression of their guilt over not condemning a war that was obviously unnecessary from the beginning, than a clear-eyed look at the qualities of the book itself.  Nevertheless, I think everyone should read it in spite of its flaws, and take the opportunity to get inside a mind that’s been battered and torn by war.

 

Review of "2312" by Kim Stanley Robinson

My first impression of this novel is that the author could use a good editor, or needs to take up short-form poetry to sharpen his descriptive skills.  Much of the book is repetitive and does little to propel the narrative or bolster the main themes.

And yet...I haven't read a book in decades that reminds me of the best long-form science fiction of the Silver Age ('60's and '70's) like this book does.  Robinson looks forward to an era when humans have populated and terraformed Mars, Venus, and the moons of Saturn, when space-flight within our solar system is common, and human lifespans have more than doubled.  And, of course, the main theme of the novel is not just whether humanity can grow up as it grows outward, but what will humanity become--what will being "human" mean--when people can incorporate genes from animal species and alien bacteria into their bodies, and even implant quantum computers into their brains.

In one passage that falls in the center of the book, Robinson riffs on the similarity between a linked group of quantum computers and the human brain.  He asks:  "if you program a purpose into a computer program, does that constitute its will?  Does it have free will, if a programmer programmed its purpose?  Is that programming any different from the way we are programmed by our genes and brains?  Is a programmed will a servile will?  Is human will a servile will?  And is not the servile will the home and source of all feelings of defilement, infection, transgression, and rage?...could a quantum computer program itself?"

The difference, of course, is that humans "programming" themselves with their own brains is how we might define "free will."  But Robinson nicely illustrates that our free will is limited by physical externalities: our physical bodies, the environment around us, the society in which we live, and the deceptively remote influence of historical forces.

And so this big, sprawling work brings us back around to a question that lies at the heart of most American fiction:  how self-reliant and self-actualized do you really need to be?  In the end, don't you need other people--a connection to human society--as much or even more than your personal, individual freedom?

For that, the book is worth the time it takes to read all of its 560 pages.  And Robinson does provide many beautiful descriptive passages like this one of Titan, the terraformed moon of Saturn:  "True sunlight and mirrored sunlight crossed to make the landscape shadowless, or faintly double-shadowed--strange to Swan's eye, unreal-looking, like a stage set in a theater so vast the walls were not visible.  Gibbous Saturn flew through the clouds above, its edge-on rings like a white flaw cracking that part of the sky."  I just wish the book were as condensed and strking as this lively passage.