there's a nasty part of me that thinks china mieville writes his books just to show off his vocabulary. (i mean, where else would he showcase them -- twitter?)
but the reader in me is so glad i picked up the scar some time ago at a booksale, glad the cheap price was finally enough to overcome the trepidation over having to read him since i now own his book (and when i buy a book, i read it - a point of pride i take seriously as i do very few). him whose books have for years stirred in me a novice's doubts about my capacity to understand the arcane and lofty craft of the best, who i believed were reserved only for the few who'd fed on science fiction all their lives. more than incomprehension, it was a fear of discovering i actually had no taste for it. that would be sad, like the realization of an unworthy dream years too late.
i opened the scar and experimentally tasted a few pages before i gave it up to read something else. it was some weeks before i came back to it to stubbornly forge ahead. i bought and devoured mieville's iron council next.
they were difficult reads, filled with the macabre and the grotesque creations of a writer with such obviously strong political leanings i'm not sure i want to subscribe to, or even wholly understand. with both books set in the urbanely gritty world of new crobuzon, mieville touches on such themes as human cruelty, discrimination, capitalism, freedom, love, war, and making your own peace wherever you are. (iron council especially reverberates with hope, and ends with a stunning picture equally literal as it is metaphorical.)
it does not surprise me that they were deeply rewarding. they filled me up as hot soup does on a rainy day, when slowly the heat seeps through your body and envelops you with a satisfying warmth. what took me aback was the joy of rediscovering that indeed, like the classic tales that elevated this genre from mere escapism, the main draw of fantasy/sci-fi (at least for me) is how books like these unravel simple truths familiar to every person who cares enough to look, truths veiled only by the alien settings and limited only by the fantastical sight of their creator. truth in different lights and shadows.
and you realize this not at once, but slowly, a building up, and understanding follows. obscure words aside, these truths are universal and their cloaks not so strange, after all. this, the act, is itself the magic trick.
by knowing this, you come out changed. you come out shaking your head in awe. you come out grateful. you come out aching. you come out writing.
but the reader in me is so glad i picked up the scar some time ago at a booksale, glad the cheap price was finally enough to overcome the trepidation over having to read him since i now own his book (and when i buy a book, i read it - a point of pride i take seriously as i do very few). him whose books have for years stirred in me a novice's doubts about my capacity to understand the arcane and lofty craft of the best, who i believed were reserved only for the few who'd fed on science fiction all their lives. more than incomprehension, it was a fear of discovering i actually had no taste for it. that would be sad, like the realization of an unworthy dream years too late.
i opened the scar and experimentally tasted a few pages before i gave it up to read something else. it was some weeks before i came back to it to stubbornly forge ahead. i bought and devoured mieville's iron council next.
they were difficult reads, filled with the macabre and the grotesque creations of a writer with such obviously strong political leanings i'm not sure i want to subscribe to, or even wholly understand. with both books set in the urbanely gritty world of new crobuzon, mieville touches on such themes as human cruelty, discrimination, capitalism, freedom, love, war, and making your own peace wherever you are. (iron council especially reverberates with hope, and ends with a stunning picture equally literal as it is metaphorical.)
it does not surprise me that they were deeply rewarding. they filled me up as hot soup does on a rainy day, when slowly the heat seeps through your body and envelops you with a satisfying warmth. what took me aback was the joy of rediscovering that indeed, like the classic tales that elevated this genre from mere escapism, the main draw of fantasy/sci-fi (at least for me) is how books like these unravel simple truths familiar to every person who cares enough to look, truths veiled only by the alien settings and limited only by the fantastical sight of their creator. truth in different lights and shadows.
and you realize this not at once, but slowly, a building up, and understanding follows. obscure words aside, these truths are universal and their cloaks not so strange, after all. this, the act, is itself the magic trick.
by knowing this, you come out changed. you come out shaking your head in awe. you come out grateful. you come out aching. you come out writing.
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