Posted by Matt | June 19th, 2011
As Deathless so often plays with the folktale “rule of three” so, too, does this review, split into three parts. This is the third and final part; part one (“Love in the Time of War,” on the book’s foreground character story) and part two (“Nation-building,” on the book’s construction of Russia) are best read before this.
Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente. Tor, 2011 (US).
The third time I follow the path set down by Catherynne Valente’s new novel Deathless
, what I notice is that it is a story about stories, about the struggle for power and control over stories. As it must be. In Deathless
as is often the case with Valente’s works, the recognizable story on the surface–the familiar folktale, or fairytale, or history, or in this case all three–is an entry point to the deeper fairy tales that rule the dreams of modern societies, and so become loci of conflict. By digging into the hidden kinks and power dynamics of the historical tales, Valente reconnects those tales to modern times, reconnects us with our past–and gives us a sense of just how much could still stand to change in the future.
Soviet Russia is doubly significant ground in this regard, first because of its attempt to erase stories of the past:
“Would you … get me a firebird’s feather, or fetch a ring from the bottom of the sea, or steal gold from a dragon?”
Ivan pursed his lips. “Those sorts of things are so old-fashioned, Masha. They are part of your old life, and the old life of Russia, too. We have no need of them now. The Revolution swept all the dark corners of the world away.
And Soviet Russia is equally of interest because of its founding belief in a new story of the future. “The Soviet Union was founded on a fairytale. It was built on 20th-century magic called ‘the planned economy’, which was going to gush forth an abundance of good things,” to quote the blurb for Francis Spuford’s Red Plenty–another good candidate to complement Deathless. Of course one might equally say that the United States was founded on a fairytale–of the inherent fairness of the market economy, of expansionist manifest destiny–or the same of any nation. But in addition to the self-consciousness with which it related to stories, the Soviet Union uniquely presents a modern, 20th century tale that at this point feels told, a failed and dead experiment.
Not for the last time, Valente uses the logic of folktales here as a tool to isolate just the elements of the world she wants to focus on: stories and their role in life, and in death. Much of Soviet Russia’s sweeping of dark corners involved literal death. Stalin’s purges of those who would tell a different story, political or religious; famine when the economy proved less susceptible to planning than planned: both loom unspecified in the background of Valente’s tale, but ever-present in its war against death that is “always going badly.” More to the foreground is death in the time of war, as Valente illustrates with a heartbreaking chapter on the Siege of Leningrad. And alongside these literal deaths, more sweeping of dark corners was done in the death of Russian national culture and spirit: Valente has Koschei’s brother Viy, the Tsar of Death, represent both equally. As a character who dwells in Viy’s land tells Marya:
I would never [...] be caught committing the crime of remembering that anything existed before this new and righteous regime. [...] The redistribution of worlds has made everything equal [...] Equally dead, equally bound. You will live as you live anywhere. With difficulty, and grief. Yes, you are dead. [...] But what does it matter? You still have to go to work in the morning.
Except people did remember; and eventually, in the late 1980s, people in Russia stopped going to work in the morning.
As with the relationship between nation and character in the book, Valente’s use of this historical knowledge gives the relationship between nation and story in Deathless a tight focus–enough to satisfy as a narrative, but not enough to escape the feeling that the story is not quite doing justice to the concepts that Valente has brought to bear. The dates, and the manner that the novel positions Russia on either side of the Soviet Union’s history, for example, and the way St. Petersburg is noted as returning to its old name, all make it feel like “Russia” is being affirmed as an intrinsic, irrepressible feature of the world. That it is deathless. There’s not much material on the degree that Russia itself is a story projected onto the world, that once was not; something that has changed and grown over time (St. Petersburg indeed being a relatively recent addition, in the 18th century), and something that may yet change more in the future. On how all nations are stories, often defined by conflict. And again, Valente doesn’t have much to say of those who believed in the Soviet system as an agent of life, rather than death; the hopeful Revolutionaries who believed that Communism would usher in that better world. Or at least, a better alternative to Tsarist rule. They should have seen the obvious problems, the sense of the book is. Instead, Valente here is in the unusual (for her) position of celebrating the story of the historical victors.
This, of course, is no bad thing. The years following the collapse of the USSR have been filled with works drawing remembered folktales and history out from the dark corners of the world and back into the heart of the former Soviet states. Ekaterina Sedia’s Secret History of Moscow, Sergei Lukyanenko’s World of Watches series, and Dubravka Ugrešic’s Tiptree-winning Baba Yaga Laid an Egg, to name only a few. And another excellence of Deathless is how it justifies itself in just this way. Marya and Koschei go underground, become subversive figures, quietly working for and waiting for the day when they can emerge and be told anew, when all these books can be written, when Valente can write Deathless.
Valente, as is her wont, emphasizes this by never letting us forget that we’re being told a story. Some of her techniques are readily apparent: the repeated phrases, the triads of encounters, the book within the book, the question of narration raised by the story itself. Deathless also strikes me as Valente’s strongest work to-date with common, baseline elements of story. While many of her past works focused on the inner conflicts of her characters, the addition of an external antagonist, Viy, here helps throw the plotting into greater relief, lends the telling more urgency. At the same time, the spotlight on Marya allows Valente to delve deeper into a single character study than she’s done in her previous big-press novels. (Which according to her back-flap bio are all that exist–”Catherynne M. Valente’s first novel, The Orphan’s Tales, was released in the fall of 2006 when Cat was twenty-seven”–speaking of stories that erase history.)
Other techniques that emphasize the storytelling of Deathless are more subtle. Symbols are used that excite the mind because of the commonalities in their seeming contradiction–like birds, which seem to represent both a symbol of freedom, of flying away, and also the urge to family and domesticity, nesting. (Safety is one thing I’d suggest they share in common.) Important themes may be introduced without fanfare: it’s a delightful feeling, after having finished the book, to remember the demand that the title of the prologue makes, to notice anew that the prologue depicts a trial for desertion. And indeed Valente is excellent with the timed release of information throughout. Only gradually do we learn just how alive the city of the Tsar of Life is; only gradually do we learn what kind of character Madame Lebedeva is; which all emphasizes how we are at the mercy of the storyteller.
Withholding information in this manner is in a sense a power play, and this feels very natural here. More even than in Valente’s past novels, Deathless teases out the implicit kink of storytelling. Storytellers are seducers, in a fairly obvious sense. Less obvious are the power relationships in storytelling. The storyteller might be assumed to be the dominant partner, but the reader can always stop reading; throwing a book across the room is the ultimate safe word. And writers, to at least some degree, publish in the hope of being read well, of having their writings understood. Not unlike Koschei. It makes me wonder who is who in this story? Meanwhile, reviewers of course attempt to overlay stories of their own: like, a good way to get the most out of Deathless is to consider it according to these three conceptual levels….
Which is all to say, the question of power in a story is the question of who gets to define the narrative.
The fourth time I follow the path set down by Catherynne Valente’s new novel Deathless, what I notice is that there is a fourth time, that I’ve been led off the path. The storytelling “rule of three” popularized by Russian scholar Vladimir Propp in Morphology of the Folk Tale–and often invoked when discussing Deathless–is based on patterns of two wrongs and then a right, two failures and then success. Three is the minimum number required to establish and then break a pattern. So Cinderella is the third sister, Rumpelstiltskin’s name is correctly spoken on the third night, the third bed that Goldilocks sleeps in is the one that is the right size. But Marya is the fourth daughter (it is Ivan who is the youngest of three sons); after seeing her three sisters marry three birds, the man Marya marries is not really a bird; her first three attempts at ordering her relationships all end unsatisfactorily. So there is here, one final time in Deathless, a subtle but important rejection of the usual pattern of such stories: important because it represents Marya finding her own personal path; important because it represents the rejection of a simple, neat dialectical pattern–thesis (“too big”), antithesis (“too small”), synthesis (“just right”)–in favor of a view of the world and its relationships as a series of more complicated, ongoing conflicts.
Which is apt. Deathless is not an unproblematic novel, but it comes by its problems honestly, by ambitiously melding a variety of complicated subjects, and making hard choices of focus in order to say something interesting about almost all of them–while remaining at heart a well-written, compelling character drama. For all its awareness of itself as a story I do wish that Deathless showed more awareness of the limits of its story, of what is being left out. But for the most part Valente’s newest novel has conflicts and contradictions because our world that it represents has conflicts and contradictions; because an unproblematic story is a dead and lifeless story. Far from that, Deathless lives up to its name.
Posted by Matt | June 13th, 2011
As Deathless so often plays with the folktale “rule of three” so, too, does this review, split into three parts. This is part two; part one (“Love in the Time of War,” on the book’s foreground character story) and part three (“Storytelling,” on the book as a story about stories) are best read in sequence.
Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente. Tor, 2011 (US).
The second time I follow the path set down by Catherynne Valente’s new novel Deathless
, what I notice is that it is a story about the struggle for power in shaping a nation, Russia, from before the First World War to after the Second.
This focus on the idea of a nation is rare for Valente. Her past novels have dealt mainly with the household, the city, and then outward to the level of worlds; when she has dealt with nations, they have often been city-states. And to a large degree Deathless does use Marya’s home of St. Petersburg to represent Russia. As St. Petersburg becomes Petrograd and then Leningrad, as Gorokhovaya Street where Marya lives becomes Kommissarskaya Street becomes Dzerzhinskaya Street, we see in these re-namings both an echo of the political changes the nation is going through, and again–as with the changes Marya’s own name undergoes–the way that naming is used by those in power to define the parameters of a narrative, to establish and reify a history of rule.
In a larger sense this illustrates Valente’s tendency to focus on ideas both at a high conceptual level and, simultaneously, at the low level of the individual on the street–while often avoiding a certain middle layer of organizations and institutions. It’s again a question of register; again, and not for the last time, Valente uses the logic of folktales as a tool to isolate just the elements of the world she wants to focus on.
Indeed folktales are among these elements, and the way folktales can represent a nation. It is remarkable how thoroughly Valente populates Deathless with figures of Russian folktale, and how directly their presence identifies the novel’s setting as Russia. She mixes and matches elements from several different versions of the Koschei tale–mainly the version from Andrew Lang’s Red Fairy Book, along with some cleverly modernized images from Stravinsky’s The Firebird. To these she adds a who’s-who of Russian folktale personages and monsters:
“You can see there a firebird on the door, and Master Grey Wolf on the chimney, and Ivan the Fool scampering over the walls, with Yelena the Bright in his arms, and Baba Yaga running after them, brandishing her spoon. And that’s a leshy, creeping in the garden, and a vila and vodyanoy and a domovoi with a red cap. And there–they’ve put a rusalka near the kitchen window.” Kseniya turned to Marya. “And Koschei the Deathless is there, too, near the cellar. You can see him, painted on the foundation stones.”
That last line feels doubly significant. The deepest tenets of a nation are often embedded in its folktales–folktales can represent the foundation stones of nations. Valente’s catalog of monsters is thus not just there for cultural authenticity; rather, it is a statement of artistic intent, of the argument the book is making about the ties between the Koschei tale and Russia.
Indeed, while Marya is the central figure of Deathless, the novel’s kickstart choice is Koschei’s: his choice to pursue Marya, after hundreds of times choosing a very different type of woman. From the domino of this choice, all others fall. The question of what led Koschei to pursue a different type of bride is unasked and unanswered by the novel, but the implication, I’d suggest, is that it is the changing face of Russia that brings about a corresponding change, and need for change, in Koschei. This introduces the notion that plays out over the rest of the book, of the connection between the state of Russia and the state of the war between Koschei and his brother, between Life and Death.
Subtler but more pervasive: while I would not want to equate Marxism with Russia–other countries are or have been Marxist, and Russia was a particular strain of Marxism–the story of Deathless has conceptual ties to Marxism in that it is not merely a story of conflict, but of conflict that is dialectical. That is, there is a sense in the book’s conflicts–in people and in nations–that ideas are unstable, and that they create their own opposition. And that, as in Marx, that instability, that conflict, is a continual dialogue that drives progress. Valente’s style of writing, which so often encapsulates the performance of an argument, feels very much at home here. Her writing has always incorporated a seeming tension between luxurious language, and stories of those pushed to the economic and social margins of societies. Russia, land of caviar and champagne, land of the proletariat revolution, has a long history with both.
The street-level focus on Marya lets Valente use a minimum of formal description and depiction of the nation–people don’t think too much about what they’re familiar with looks like. That, and the fact that many of Marya’s adult years take place outside of Russia in various magical realms, mean that while the feel of Deathless is often of Russia–in addition to the above, there are matters of weather, recreation, animals, writers, and perseverance by black humor even when the end is never in doubt, which all point to the nation–there’s a universal aspect to the novel as well. Folktales and relationships are good pathways to understanding Russia; but Russia is also a good pathway to understanding folktales and relationships.
There are downsides to Valente’s somewhat distant treatment of the nation, however. For one, Deathless can feel like it is romanticizing the past. It largely dodges what it might have meant to be in the middle class during Russia’s years of revolution and civil war, in the city seat of Lenin’s power. Not only does nothing much happen, but there is no worry that anything might happen, to Marya’s family or their acquaintances. Yet Marya’s middle-class beginnings also mean that Russia’s Revolutionary history is presented as a linear slide downward, whereas I suspect that for large masses of the working class the historical journey was more complex. This sense that the past was better, safer, is further exacerbated by an otherwise excellent sequence where pillars of Russia’s political history, de-clawed, are gathered into a sort of Fletcher Memorial Home: Rasputin harmlessly reenacting his own death for the amusement of Tsarina Alexandra. It’s a wonderful mix of cute and macabre–one can almost see cartoon lil’ Leon and lil’ Joseph, two young brothers fighting again only to make up by dinnertime–but because this setting is our only view of the power figures of pre-Revolutionary Russia, its hazy golden perfection can easily be taken as a statement of the novel’s perspective on that era.
Deathless also feels murky in the ways it relates Russia’s history to the lives and actions of its characters. There’s a promise implicit in that early line that Marya “surmised that love was shaped [like] a treaty between two nations,” between equals, and then saw her surmise proven wrong, that instead love is a battlefield; a promise implicit in the linkage between Koschei and the nation of Russia, between the war with his brother Death and the war for control of Russia. The promise is that the novel will draw interesting parallels between the personal and the national, the interpersonal and the international. For the most part, however, the connections that Valente gives us have the feel more of isolated wordplay and tweaking of the folktale back-story than conceptual payoff. “I befriend your friends; I eat as you eat; I teach you the dialectic!” says Marya to Koschei–but it’s an isolated line, we see no indication that Tsar Koschei (or by then, Marya) care about the dialectic. It is a throwaway morsel of local color. Several lines do work better in capturing the feel of relationships vis-à-vis nations and wartime–a foretelling of Marya’s fate comes to mind–but they, too, are isolated rather than extended metaphors. The problem is not that the statements don’t all cohere into a sensible whole; the parallels between national and personal are too complex for simple coherence. But the hope in any such comparison is that it will be a useful engine for spinning out insights, and that potential feels largely untapped here.
Some of this, I think, is down to an ahistorical aspect to Valente’s narration. The story’s telling ends in 1952, near the end of Stalin’s life and rule. Yet there are flashes of a more contemporary perspective and knowledge. Deathless begins “in a city by the sea which was once called St. Petersburg, then Petrograd, then Leningrad, then, much later, St. Petersburg again”–that final name reversion only occurring in 1991. Even more interesting, Valente essentially ignores the creation of the USSR: no mention is made of it whatsoever. This is a novel of Russia, written with an awareness that Russia existed before the USSR and would–does–exist after it. This is an enormous double-edged sword for the book, an enormous gamble on Valente’s part. On the negative side, it cuts down the potential for human insight by transforming statements and actions into a theater of the ridiculous, that which should be ridiculed. When Ivan, having found a job in Leningrad with the Cheka national security bureau, tells Marya that “I am good at arresting. It is an art, you know. The trick is to arrest them before they have done anything wrong”–it is just the sort of buffoonish statement we expect from Ivan, but more than that, it is just the sort of buffoonish statement we in the West expect from a fictional character who believed in the Soviet system. And yet, real people did believe, and Deathless abdicates its chance to say anything about the potential for such belief–as it applies to countries, as it applies to relationships. On the positive side, however, the omission of the USSR in favor of Russia from start to finish makes the novel’s thesis unmistakeable: that history is always a story accompanied by a struggle for point of view; and that some stories can never be wholly suppressed, even on pain of death. And it finally does allow Valente to make her claim of connection between the idea of nation and the idea of the personal. Who is to rule? is a question in both cases that must be asked, cannot be ignored in favor of fantasies of perfect, static equality. The negotiations of power in a relationship don’t end after marriage, not for people who keep learning and growing; the negotiations of power in a nation don’t end after revolution. The best we can do in both, Deathless seems to suggest, is to better understand what it means to rule and to be ruled, and then to have the freedom and the strength to choose when, and to who, we do each.
It is deeply ironic–but apt, considering that both are books that demand to be read in their own particular registers–that Valente’s Deathless and Adam Roberts’s Yellow Blue Tibia actually make an interesting and mutually-rewarding reading pair. Valente’s book chronicles the death of one sort of fantasy–the folkloric cultural identity of Russia–in the wake of another, a modern fantastic narrative of equality and science, in the forty years leading up to the end of the Stalinist era. Roberts’s book in turn begins with the Stalinist era, and deals in that modern narrative’s own death throes forty years later. What both novels suggest is that the question of power in a nation is the question of who gets to define the nation’s narrative.
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Back to part 1 of the review | Continue to part 3 of the review
Posted by Matt | June 11th, 2011
As Deathless so often plays with the folktale “rule of three” so, too, does this review, split into three parts. Part two (“Nation-building,” on the book’s construction of Russia) and part three (“Storytelling,” on the book as a story about stories) are best read in sequence.
Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente. Tor, 2011 (US).
The first time I follow the path set down by Catherynne Valente’s new novel Deathless
, what I notice is that it is a story about the struggle for power in shaping a relationship, a household. When Marya Morevna, the youngest daughter of a bourgeois family in early-1900s St. Petersburg, sees a bird fall from a tree and turn into a man who knocks on the door and asks to marry the girl in the window, she feels that she has “seen the world naked,” discovered its secrets–even when the bird marries her oldest and most beautiful sister. After her two other sisters succumb to avian engagements of their own, Marya is primed for her own turn, one up on her sisters because “they did not know what their husbands really were. They were missing vital information. Marya saw right away that this made a tilted kind of marriage, and she wanted no part of that. [...] This was how Marya Morevna surmised that love was shaped: an agreement, a treaty between two nations that one could either sign or not as they pleased.”
So Marya waits for her bird, secure in her knowledge of what is to come and thus paying only casual attention as the world changes around her: as Tsarist Russia falls, as Leninism turns to Stalinism, as her family’s house is redistributed among eleven other families. And thus, waiting for her bird, Marya is–despite her anticipatory readiness–quite unprepared when the suitor who shows up at the door is the demonic figure of Koschei the Deathless.
There are no treaties in their courtship: Koschei wages war on Marya, tempting her mind with knowledge of the secret world-behind-the-world she had only glimpsed before; tempting her senses with food and sex and luxury; seducing her with words, and with the abjection of surrender. And surrender she does, for a time. But as Marya becomes accustomed to Koschei’s world–to the magical living city of Buyan which Koschei the Deathless, as Tsar of Life, rules; to being a center of attention rather than a fourth daughter; to pain and pleasure both–surrender becomes not enough, not right for her. Koschei will sleep with her, shower her in luxury, but he will not marry her. Nor will he share the location of his death, which he has ripped from himself as a gambit in his endless war with his brother Viy, the Tsar of Death. To facilitate the marriage, Marya must perform three impossible tasks for Kochei’s sister, Baba Yaga; to earn Koschei’s trust as his match, she must show herself to be as rapacious as he is himself, must realize her own power over him:
“If you want me, Koschei Bessmertny, tell me where your death is. Between us there must be no lies. To the world we may lie and go stalking with claws out, but not to each other. It is only fair: You know where my death is, at the point of your knife or between strangling fingers or in a glass of poison. Show me that you can rest in my hand like a chick, small and weak and knowing that I could crush you if I wished it, but that I will not, will never.”
And never she does; til death do they part, and beyond death–Koschei and Marya share surprisingly few pages in Deathless, yet those pages are ripe with the passion implicit in the nondenominational idea of marriage, of never and forever and til death.
But then, enter Ivan, and the world changes again.
There is always an Ivan in these tales. Marya has been told to expect him; has been told she must reject him; has been told she will not reject him. Always there is an Ivan, a human man who falls in love with Koschei’s bride, who saves her–in this case, from that endless, unwinnable war against Viy. Always Koschei’s bride falls in love with Ivan, too; always Ivan finds Koschei’s hidden death and kills the Deathless, again and again through history. Always, in Valente’s version of the tale, Koschei-who-cannot-die exacts his revenge by forcing his unfaithful love to labor in a factory full of unfaithful loves, producing soldier puppets for his war against Death. But these are modern times, revolutionary times in Russia, and Marya is not Koschei’s usual love. At the heart of the story is Marya’s attempt to find a third alternative, her exploration of ways to be true to both her monstrous love for Koschei and her mundane love for Ivan.
Not for the last time, Valente here uses fairly tale logic as a tool to isolate just the elements of the world she wants to focus on. Love, for one, and representation, and the link between the two. Implicit in Deathless is the question of why people love each other, and the story’s answer is largely a matter of representation. Marya appears to love Koschei, to grossly oversimplify, because he represents the secret world she had wanted to be part of since childhood, a world she felt able to know and empowered to participate in fully; she loves Ivan because he represents what she might have been, if she had never seen the secret world, never lost her red scarf, never left Leningrad and been thrust into Koschei’s war against Viy. Koschei in his turn loves Marya because she has proven herself capable of seeing the secret world, and he desires to be seen–because she represents change, and after endless failed brides, he desires change, a participant rather than a supplicant. And Ivan loves Marya, one suspects, as a matter of conquest, as what securing one such as her for a wife would represent about himself. From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs, then.
These characters–Koschei and Baba Yaga and Ivan and Marya–are like Harlequin figures of Russian folktale, stock characters who in different combinations act out a variety of tales. An excellence of Deathless is how Valente manages to tell a thoroughly modern version of the “Death of Koschei the Deathless” folktale while staying true to these archetypes and to most of the core tale, yet satisfying best when these characters are seen as individual people beyond their archetypes. It is easy to generalize that each character wants a sense of normality, a sense that they fit into someone else’s narrative; harder is figuring out the best fit, which consumes Valente’s tale. It is easy to see Marya’s explorations with Koschei as explorations of dominance and submission, harder to affix labels onto the characters like “dominant” and “submissive,” “top” and “bottom.” It is easy to see the movement of the book as towards polyamory, harder to affix that label to the state of the character relationships at any point in the book. The relationships keep changing, as the characters keep learning. Valente tracks this through the series of names, titles, and endearments each character is given as the tale progresses–Marya becomes Masha becomes Mashenka becomes Morevna. And the result is that Marya in Deathless is like other Maryas, but also unique; and so with Ivan; and so with Koschei: and the tale works out as it does both because of their usual traits and because of their unique ones.
This register of storytelling, that melds a modern concept of serious psychological drama with a folktale-like circumscription of motivations and possibilities, is I suspect one of the more common bars to appreciating Valente’s work. Why would a character do X? and Why didn’t they just do Y? are questions that leap from the text; why is there so often a gap between how imaginatively Valente’s characters speak and how constrained they act? There’s the temptation to tally these questions up as just poor characterization, except that the same questions are often wondered of real people in real situations, real relationships. Valente’s storytelling register, the register used in Deathless, is a way of conceptualizing–if not necessarily understanding–these decisions. It is a register that I imagine speaks most to, or most of, people most aware of the weight of stories on their decisions, people who most feel the constraint of predefined roles upon their lives. Those most aware that there’s a difference between what they feel is true and what they’re told is true, between what they feel is right versus the actions they’re told should be right.
This doesn’t mean that the character story of Deathless is above criticism. Most notably, the unique story that follows from these particular characters seems at times to be fighting with a common narrative that Valente tends to impose on her revisionist tales: the foolish but stubborn male suitor whose attempts to heroically save his beloved, in accordance with the typical pattern of fairy tales, are at best unwelcome by, and at worst disastrous for, a woman who has learned to love monsters. This narrative appears in many of Valente’s recent novels–Habitation of the Blessed and Palimpsest and both volumes of The Orphan’s Tales, without even trying to be exhaustive–but its presence here feels problematic not merely for its expectedness. Valente is a very honest writer, and when her work presents a politicized idea for consideration–such as D/s and poly relationships here–she never shies away from portraying both the constructive and destructive possibilities inherent. What’s being advocated is not so much a single specific way of life, but rather an open-mindedness towards people’s right to discover what way of life works best for them. “No one should be judged for loving more than they ought,” as one character puts it. Marya’s journey in Deathless is very much a process of discovery of how much she can love, and how best to go about it. There’s a rather touching scene when Marya attempts to define her relationship with Ivan by following the same script of control that Koschei led her through, and it fails miserably. Marya and Ivan must write their own script, what works for one lover will not necessarily work for another: these are not matters of stock roles but of individual negotiations. And yet, this ideal of open-mindedness towards individual solutions feels compromised here by the presence of what, for readers of Valente’s work, is becoming just as much a fixed narrative as the one she’s trying to subvert. It becomes not so much an open-minded narrative as a narrative that exchanges a lack of place for one group with lack of place for another: for all the pages Ivan occupies, Valente doesn’t really seem sure what to do with him–his inclusion at the end of Deathless feels less than half-hearted–and yet she is reluctant to replace him with a better model of human male. The sense that Valente is stuck on the same revisionist narrative in these types of tales, and the limited options this narrative appears to give her characters, suggests that Deathless may itself be a demonstration of the very sort of entrapment by traditional roles that the novel otherwise speaks so successfully against.
Of course, what makes this so evident is the relationship between Marya and Koschei. Perhaps it is because Koschei is not a human male, that Valente is able to introduce a deep level of personality and urgency in his and Marya’s union that’s been rare in her depictions of relationships. Valente’s writing in past books could seem distant and impersonal, due to multiple points of view; could seem languorous, with elaborate layers of structure and long lists of bling. Here, the close focus on Marya makes the story feel more personal; here, minus a short prologue, the structure is straightforward. Here, the sentences are shorter and sharper. “Punishment doesn’t mean you aren’t loved. On the contrary. You can really only punish someone you love,” says Marya, as she begins to realize that those who would sleep with monsters must inevitably become monsters themselves. And that the question of power in a relationship is the question of who gets to define the relationship’s narrative.
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Continue to part 2 of the review
Posted by Matt | December 31st, 2010
Kaaron Warren, Walking the Tree. Angry Robot 2010 (US & UK): paperback.
Somewhat belatedly, I should mention that my review of Kaaron Warren’s Walking the Tree has been published by Strange Horizons. When Kaaron Warren is writing, she tells us in an Author’s Notes section at the end of the book, she keeps a notebook of “threads,” ideas she wants to interweave throughout the text. In the Notes section she gives us several pages of such threads. In a small case of congruence, when I read a book for review I do something similar: I jot down the threads I’m seeing, the repeated or emphasized elements in the text that might be interesting to write about. So I thought here, since Warren shared with us some of her threads, I’d share some of mine that didn’t make it into the published review:
Warren as a writer known for horror short fiction, and many themes and images Warren has dealt with in her short fiction are clustered here around the Tree like a bleak Christmas–beach and bones, babies and blood, birds and masks of clay.
Basic premise is also reminiscent of horror films like Friday the 13th: young female camp councilors put on front of respectability, but really are eager for the kids to fall asleep so they can hook up with the men. Like those movies there’s the sporty one, the brainy one, the kind one, etc. Like those movies, one by one they drop out of the story. But here, often in a more positive (or at least neutral) way. Is Warren playing on expectations, of the story type and/or of her own reputation in horror fiction?
Although there is some of the usual horror movie plot logic used: bad things–death or rape or both–happen mainly (only?) when women make errors in judgment, typically due to overconfidence or insecurity.
Also feels a bit like a feminist take on the traditional male post-apocalyptic narrative: typically lone man leading single child or woman, here that image and its implications–generational, educational, species survival/reproductive–have been thoroughly domesticated.
Metatextual elements, the focus on stories. Each Order has a different origin story of the Tree. Most contain a seed of truth, none are wholly true. Also game of “telephone” Lillah and her brother invent. How stories get distorted by the passage of time and distance seems a recurring theme.
Selected past reviews at other venues:
- Christopher Barzak, The Love We Share Without Knowing
- Elizabeth Bear, Chill
- Darin Bradley, Noise
- Avram Davidson, Adventures in Unhistory
- David Louis Edelman, MultiReal
- Theodora Goss, In the Forest of Forgetting
- Brent Hartinger, Dreamquest
- Brent Hayward, Filaria
- David Marusek, Getting to Know You
- J.M. McDermott, Last Dragon
- Patricia McKillip, Od Magic
- Geoff Ryman, Ed., When It Changed: Science Into Fiction
- Delia Sherman and Theodora Goss (eds), Interfictions: An Anthology of Interstitial Writing
- Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem, The Man on the Ceiling
- Catherynne M. Valente, Palimpsest
- Peter Watts, Blindsight
- Robert Freeman Wexler, The Painting and The City
- Zoran Zivkovic, The Last Book
- Zoran Zivkovic, Seven Touches of Music
- Zoran Zivkovic, Steps Through the Mist
Posted by Matt | December 31st, 2010
There is, to be clear, no such thing as the Encyclopedia Fantastika. I use the label because my models for these brief pieces are the wonderful “motif” entries in John Clute & John Grant’s The Encyclopedia of Fantasy, and in Peter Nicholls and Clute’s The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction.
SAIL AWAY. At the conclusion of some fantasy stories, especially those with epic themes, a subset of the victorious heroes will sail away from the land of the tale, forever departing it. This image of sailing away, of leave-taking over water, is powerful because, in the best tradition of the fantastic, it unites a complex mesh of primal narrative themes, psychological metaphors, and actual cultural activities. In epic fantasies, centrally concerned with the restoration of rightness and health to a land afflicted by wrongness, heroic figures are typically bonded with the land. The land will reflect their moral advancement, and in turn their moral standing is a gauge of the land’s health. For the heroes to sail away displays that the land has been healed as much as it can be–that the hero’s work has been done. In this display, the instability of water marks an important contrast to the land. Merely walking away from a land can be an act of repudiation. But the contrast of a newly-stabilized land with water can suggest that something has been birthed, often a new nation or ordering of nations, based on a concept of rightful rule. And so, by association, a new hero. This hero’s sailing away is often a stately farewell, ceremonial–a sign that proper order has been restored to the land. This often marks another contrast, with what was often a panicked and unruly initial departure earlier in the story. Sailing is a potent symbol of mastering chaos.
On the other hand, there is more than a hint of death ritual in scenes of sailing away, as sending the dead away by boat, and/or a land of the dead reachable only by crossing water, figures in many world cultures–and is duplicated in such scenes as the Departure of Boromir. The departure of the hero necessarily results in a land lessened by their absence. In J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, this lessening is a literalized departure of what the heroes symbolize: that is, the departure, or death, of moral absolutes and certainty from the world. In this sense sailing away as a movement can be a deliberately anachronistic evocation of a time when sailing was a perilous to journey into the unknown and unmapped. This uncertainty is now our world writ large. Similarly in The Lord of the Rings, and in other epic works such as Lloyd Alexander’s The Chronicles of Prydain, the hero’s departure is connected to the departure of magic and possibility from the world. In these cases the departure has connective and explanatory content. It connects the fantasy world with our own, or one like our own, and explains the mundanity of our world. This has led some critics (cf China Miéville) to label this narrative of departure as consolatory, in that the modern world is presented as inherently imperfectable–and so discouraging of attempts at perfecting it. The hero has healed the land, but only imperfectly; and the land, in turn, is often unable to heal the hero: the hero has perhaps become too pure for the land to sustain. This disparity, that the hero must often leave the land and move on to some heaven-like realm to receive healing, sets ultimate limits on our ability to improve conditions in this world, and so is often conservative. And the associated element of sacrifice often makes it a movement utilized by Christian authors or authors steeped in Christian cultures. This can also be true of the sort of SF that can read like fantasy: each of Gene Wolfe’s Sun series, for example–New, Long, and Short–ends with a departure by ship. But in cases where heroes are offered a chance to sail away and refuse this opportunity–as do both Taran and Eilonwy in Alexander’s Prydain, or Raederle at the end of Patricia McKillip’s Riddlemaster trilogy–there can be both a conservative sense of knowing one’s proper place, of quasi-Christian rejection of temptation, combined with an un-Christian groundedness in the land and affirmation of its vitality and the primacy of the relationships it offers. Ursula Le Guin’s original Earthsea trilogy cleverly mixed these possible endings: the commonly-told ending, the book’s narrator tells us, is that the hero Ged, having given up his magic, sailed away never to be heard from again; but, we are also told, others hold that he returned to the forests and mountains of his homeland, where we first encountered him.
The content of the movement of sailing away is not just metaphorical–the question “what would it be like to live in a world in which qualitative differences between lands were incarnate” can be evocative because many cultural stories of our world have historically represented lands in that fashion–America as a golden land of opportunity, for example. This can have negative consequences. Insofar as it is often an entire race that sails away (Tolkien’s elves, Alexander’s Sons of Don), this movement can be connected with notions of racial essentialism and can have colonial connotations. It can feel like attempts at justification: there is a pattern of a “superior” race sailing to a land, saving it from great evil, and then sailing away; and it is the rare fantasy in which those who remain are depicted as glad to see such drive-by saviours depart. It is also a movement generally rejecting of multicultural ideas, in that it tends to imply that there are separate, rightful places for different races and other groups. Exceptions–such as the friendship of Legolas and Gimli, who teach each other to love each other’s realms–are nearly always individual, and nearly always due to love. There can be a complexity to this movement, then, even in “classic” genre works often regarded as morally simple: the meaning can change depending on the scale examined, and so will be read differently by different readers at different times. And with these tropes established by the classics, more modern fantasies can–deliberately or not–offer larger subversions of the motif. In VanderMeer’s Finch, for example, the usual movements of departure are first revealed to be false, and then fail; and what is left, as the eponymous Finch observes by rickety rowboat, is a teeming mass of races and peoples with equally valid land claims now faced with the challenge of living together, however imperfectly.
If you have any good examples that I missed, or further thoughts, feel free to add them in the comments.