But a funny thing happened. The story stuck with me. Several years later, I had forgotten almost all the details, but what little I could remember was fascinating. Was the story really that strange or was my memory playing tricks on me? And so I returned to the story. Yes, it really was that strange. In fact, it was far stranger than I remembered. It was also beautiful. Reading through it the second time, I read more slowly and this time was not impatient to get to the end of the story to learn the answers to its questions (since I knew none would be provided). It had been the almost deranged nature of “The Library” that stuck in my mind, but now I found so much more: the touching, understated anecdotes of the main character’s friendships, the way his parents marriage was breaking apart due to his father’s fiction, and most of all the simple but affecting prose that tied it all together.

I went back and reread the story a third time a few months later, and realized it was my absolute favorite short story. Now, understand, I don’t think I’ve read more than maybe a hundred short stories in my life. Well, two hundred, maybe, since I’ve plowed through a few big collections of stories I mostly didn’t think much of, like Ascent of Wonder and Arthur C Clarke’s collected stories. A lot of people online have read orders of magnitude more. But small sample size or not, I was amazed that somehow, even though “Magic For Beginners” broke all the rules I thought I had for liking stories, I loved it.

So far I’ve been talking mainly about the story “Magic For Beginners” and not the collection of the same name, which is what I am actually trying to review here. You’d think that after realizing how much I liked the story “Magic For Beginners” I would have rushed to read the rest of the collection. I’d like to say I don’t know what I was thinking, but I still remember: well, I liked that one story from Kelly Link, but that was some sort of amazing alignment, and the rest of her work must surely be the empty exercises in style I had originally thought she trafficked in. Eventually I realized how silly that was and sat down to read the collection, promising myself that at the very least I had another reread of the title story to look forward to. The collection’s first story is “The Faery Handbag”, and I felt apprehensive. On the strength of basically one story I now thought Kelly Link was some sort of genius short story writer, and I couldn’t believe “The Faery Handbag” was as weak a story as I remembered. On the other hand, if I read it and found out it was a great story, I’d have to come on here and try to explain why I was wrong.

Well, I’ve read it again, and it’s a great story. That was a really strong year for novelettes, and I’d have to reread Benjamen Rosenbaum’s “Biographical Notes…” and Christopher Rowe’s “Voluntary State” to be certain, but it’s hard to believe it wasn’t the best of those nominated. More importantly, it was way better than I realized the first time. So here I am. Why was I wrong? The story hasn’t changed, so I have to attribute the difference in reaction to myself as a reader.

Whenever I talk about short stories, I always say I like stories that, to me, are recognizable as stories. That is to say, a narrative that starts in one place and builds up to somewhere else. Maybe that’s not the dictionary definition of a story, but that’s what American culture has taught me to expect. For me the ideal short story writer is Ted Chiang, whose stories aren’t content to just move characters through a situation, but simultaneously move the reader through ideas in pursuit of synthesis. But all too many stories, especially shorter ones, don’t seem to go anywhere. They are content to stay in one place, paint a single image, moment, or thought, and that’s it. I call them mood pieces, and from me that’s not a compliment. While they might be pleasant to read, I don’t feel it’s worth my time to read even good ones, and they’re not always good.

So how does this relate to Kelly Link’s stories? Upon first reading, they almost always seem like “mere” mood pieces to me. They usually do not have action-driven narratives, for one thing, and one of Link’s strengths is the way she evokes different moods with her prose. When her stories end, the major issues they have raised, or at least what on first reading seem like the major issues, go unresolved. But when I reread her stories I find there is indeed narrative motion, just not in an obvious, conventional way. The best way I can describe the difference is that, where an ordinary story drives you down a road past interesting scenery to a perhaps surprising destination, Link’s stories seem to stay in one place, looking at one odd scene, but upon closer inspection have shifted the angle during the story so that the same scene now appears different. If you don’t pay attention, you won’t realize the angle is different at all, and if you miss that then you certainly won’t see what the story is really supposed to show.

I mentioned earlier that Link is very evocative, and while her different stories aim at different moods and emotions, they all have an underlying strangeness, a sort of dream-logic. There are other writers who achieve similar effects (Catherynne Valente’s story “The Radiant Car Thy Sparrows Drew” is a recent example) but for me I associate this most strongly with Gene Wolfe, most notably in his Book of the New Sun. I think a quick comparison of Wolfe and Link is instructive. Reading Book of the New Sun for the first time (not long before I would first encounter Link’s “The Faery Handbag”) I marveled at how the story seemed to flow more like a dream than reality. I had absolutely no ability to predict what would happen, since events didn’t seem to proceed according to the usual rules. Yet in spite of it all, I felt sure that there were indeed rules. The story was not intrinsically surreal, it merely seemed so because I didn’t properly understand the story and its world. If I just studied it carefully enough, it would all make sense. It’s obvious I’m not the only one who feels this way, for over the years hundreds or even thousands of people have tried to piece together Wolfe’s puzzles, coming up with such elaborate theories and explanatory systems that the Wolfe mailing list sometimes seems more like the Talmud than a group of fans talking about a favorite author. But many others who encounter Wolfe’s work seem to miss the undercurrents entirely, and accuse the “scholars” of projecting on to a hopelessly vague text.

Reading “The Faery Handbag” for the first time I was in the latter camp. The story seemed like a series of strange facts without any satisfying logic to connect them. When I came to “Magic For Beginners”, I felt the same way, but this time I was particularly frustrated, because even a superficial reading of the story finds so many fascinating details that I desperately wanted to believe there was a secret knowledge that would illuminate them. Still, after my first reading, I wrote it off. I couldn’t figure out what the story meant, so there was no meaning. Maybe hipsters like this sort of thing, I thought, but I want stories to make sense.

Rereading those stories while reading the collection, as well as reading the collection’s other stories for the first time, I now think there is indeed plenty of meaning to be found in Links stories–if the reader is willing to search for it. Link’s puzzles are of a different nature than Wolfe’s, but they are indeed puzzles with solutions and not just exercises in style. Unfortunately, perhaps because other people have similar reactions to my initial one, there isn’t a lot of analysis of Link’s stories online. Writing about “Magic For Beginners” in 2006, Abigail Nussbaum wrote that she couldn’t explain the story, but believed an explanation existed and even asked, “Would somebody smarter than I am please start writing about these stories?” I’m definitely not smarter than she is, and I’ve spent a good part of this review confessing my faults as a reader, but since the intervening four years have gone by without a lot of analysis, I’m going to take a shot at it.

But before I get into that, this is still technically a review of the collection. If you can’t tell, I really like this collection. If you haven’t read it, I absolutely recommend you do so at the earliest opportunity. If you have read it, then stick around and I’ll try not to embarrass myself too much while reviewing and interpreting the individual stories. I should mention I haven’t even read Stranger Things Happen so I’m particularly unqualified to understand Link’s work, but this is a blog and not a dissertation, so I’m not letting that stop me. In any case, I certainly don’t claim to understand everything about these stories. In fact, having only read a few of them once, I’m confident that right now I don’t understand anything about those yet. But I’m going to reread them one at a time and then do the best I can to understand them. Still, even if I end up more confused than when I started, it’s an excuse to spend more time with some of the best short stories I’ve ever read, so I figure I’ll still come out ahead.

Individual story posts:

• “The Faery Handbag”
• “The Hortlak”
• “The Cannon”
• “Stone Animals”
• “Catskin”
• “Some Zombie Contingency Plans”
• “The Great Divorce”
• “Magic For Beginners”
• “Lull”

Although Dunnett is nothing if not a plot-heavy writer, ultimately her books are centered on characters. Fortunately her writing is up to the task in this respect, too. The characters are very finely drawn, very real, not just the protagonist but also the wide array of supporting characters that orbit Nicholas’ life. Like all great fiction this is ultimately about more than who wins or loses…it takes a while for the themes to manifest but ultimately Dunnett explores just what responsibility man has to family, friends, and society…especially a man of such great talents as Nicholas. If you are at all interested in historical fiction you must try Dunnett. Most (including Dunnett herself before she died) recommend starting with the Lymond Chronicles and I agree. I think the Niccolo books are superior and normally I say start with the best, but in this case an exception must be made for the Niccolo books are so overwhelming in scope it is best to start with the more manageable series. Note, there are some connections between the two series, but there is absolutely no harm done to either narrative if you read one or the other first.

Why is Watchmen so good? It’s unbelievably smart…maybe too smart for its own good. The discussion of it that prompted the reread was on whether it could be considered “fascist” or not, whatever that might mean. The people arguing about it couldn’t even decide which characters were supposed to be considered heroes. This could be considered a weakness, but I view it as a sort of objectivity. Moore lays out the options and lets the reader choose, and the choice he gives is not an easy one.

I don’t have the time to write a spoiler discussion of it, but I suppose I should mention just what Watchmen is about. It’s an attack–I hesitate to use a term I despise, deconstruction–on the superhero myth. The story is set in a sort of alternate history where the first superhero comics in the early part of the century actually convinced certain people to take up “customed vigilantism”. From there, Moore takes a brutal look at the effects of unchecked power on those who wield it and the world they create. I gave it five stars because it is not just full of very smart thinking on these issues, but also very well executed in terms of both dialogue and what passes in the graphic novel format for direction. Recommended without reservations.

So why is it that I would not only like a two book sequence that explores what it means to be a knight and the code of chivalry, but consider it one of my favorite books? For starters, it’s written by Gene Wolfe. Those who have read his work will know his authorship means a book will not only be well-written but will have a few unforgettable moments and incredible ideas. Then there’s the borrowing of Norse theology. I’m something of a sucker for Norse mythology. However, upon reflection, although it seems to play a huge role, it is really the names, faces, and places of Norse myth without the ideas, and in truth it is the ideas I find so interesting. Odin is not interesting because he is blind in one eye and the father of Thor, but because he knows he will die at Valhalla but continues to prepare and try to win. However, ultimately Norse mythology has more influence on Lord of the Rings than it does on The Wizard Knight.

This is not Wolfe’s best book from a technical standpoint. The narrative has a peculiar lack of focus, even by his standards. Characters drift in and out and emotional setups seem to often go without payoff. However, lest you think Wolfe is asleep at the wheel, the intricate plot fits together perfectly. For a Wolfe book this is a pretty accessible story, but it wouldn’t be a Wolfe book if the reader could understand everything after a single read through. As in the past, Wolfe creates a world too complex for his narrator, or the reader on the first try at the very least, to truly understand, but he always leaves the firm conviction it is understandable and there are hidden rules governing it. And while this may not be Wolfe’s objectively best book, it at least for the moment is my favorite of his, and therefore one of my favorite by any author.

Recommended for everyone.

I’ve only read a few of them but I suspect all of Wolfe’s books are puzzles. Fifth Head of Cerebrus is like a mystery novel, the sort where the careful reader can solve the mystery on their own, except the final chapter has been removed, so instead of being told they are right, the reader must piece it together themselves. Whether to not this is a “good” literary style is debatable. Ultimately it comes down to whether the book rewards the effort it demands. Fifth Head of Cerebrus is a great book and it is very rewarding.

December 2004 reread update: This time I felt I understood the book the entire way through. I know that the second and third novellas are sort of tough going the first time through, but I am perplexed that people whose opinions I respect (like Stephen Wu, who calls second and third sections “mediocre” and “terrible” respectively) don’t appreciate it. If you have read this once and didn’t like the second two novellas and can stomach another attempt I strongly encourage it. This isn’t massively cryptic; the suspicions one has at the end of the first read-through are almost certainly the correct ones unless you were skimming, and on the second read-through you will see how it all comes together so beautifully. At least, I hope so, because I love this book. There’s so little genuinely great work out there that it’s a shame when it goes unappreciated. I don’t have anything much to add to my review above…when I universally love a book (as I love just about every Wolfe book I have read) there’s little for me to say besides recommend it fervently.

With so many religious elements and a complicated cast, most authors would make a real mess of this. Zalazny not only vividly draws the characters but does an absolute bang-up job with the religious aspects. Admittedly I am a westerner and have little direct experience with either of the two Eastern religions featured, but everything was really well-written. Very strongly recommended.

A book with the precise opposite feel from what I was reading before. Where the Miles books are light and fun, Wolfe has written a dark and brooding book. It is pretty much the opposite of a procedural narrative in that vast amounts of the narrative…both the details of the world and actual events in the story…are presented through insinuation instead of through explanation. Wolfe, on purpose I’m sure, presents a constricted and hazy view of a vast world. After spending the first third of the book fumbling around trying to build a Grand Unified Theory of what was going on I finally just learned to sit back and let Wolfe handle it as he wished. That’s not to say it is Pynchon…somehow the characters and their motivations remain crystal clear amidst the blurry setting. I know I’m making it sound very odd, but it’s an odd book, and it’s one that works. The world, though hard to see, is fascinating, the characters are well-written, and then there is the matter of some underlying meaning…like reading Banks in his weirder moments, the reader can choose between letting the book carry them along for a ride or diving down and reading dialogue and stranger moments carefully in search of meaning. Either path is rewarding.

Reread Update (7/31/05) — Having reread the trilogy, I want to write a more expansive review. As the original paragraph I wrote a year and a half ago makes clear, I really love this trilogy and recommend it without reservation. If you think your taste is remotely like mine, go read it. Then come back and read this if you are interested, because I am not going to de-spoilerify this. Again, spoiler warning. I guess I’ll put in a little space, too.

Still with me? I’ve seen these books impugned in certain quarters because they see it, in essence, as a procedural. I want to make a few observations regarding this charge. First, there’s nothing wrong with procedurals, other than a ton of people are writing them so the standard is high. In other reviews on this site I will say a book is a “mere procedural” but that’s mainly because the bookstore is drowning in mere procedurals. If it’s done amazingly well, as it is in the Farseer Trilogy, then it’s still worth reading, but statistically speaking a procedural is not likely to be worth your time. I’m not going to set out my whole critical theory (or at least, what it is this week) here, but suffice to say I see three areas for a story to excel: procedure, character, and ideas. This is not a complete, unified theory because books I rate highly due to their style (Snow Crash, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell) kind of slip through the cracks, but it is close enough. Although I would recommend a book that excels in just one of the three categories, I feel that the Farseer books are superlative in two: procedure and character.

I can understand people who criticize it on the ideas front. There’s nothing new, nothing at all. Hobb takes a bunch of fantasy conventions from dragons to animal bonding to addictive magic and makes them all sparkle. I don’t think that a lack of innovation in the props is a fatal flaw, or else there would be no great literature from mainstream fiction. Some might feel the books lack the outright erudition you get from people like Wolfe or Swanwick. And that’s true, the narrative is told so simply they could, at least considering readability alone, be stuck in the young adult section. There aren’t any elaborate references or metaphorical sequences. Again, though, if these are required for greatness, then we are left with a narrow set of books indeed, at least when it comes to speculative fiction. The final criticism I’ve encountered is that the characters, especially the antagonists, are caricatures. Regal is too evil, Verity is too noble, etc. I’ll discuss this in a moment.

Having set these criticisms on the table, why do I think this is a great trilogy? I have asserted that a truly great book needs more than just great procedure or great character, and this book illustrates why. In Farseer they feed off each other. The plot builds up the characters and then chops them down. Jonathan Carroll is a master, in my opinion, of character and in particular dialogue, but his vague and airy plots never have the sort of urgency that makes the actions of his characters important. Hobb’s characters are in the midst of a brutal crisis and are forced to triage what’s important to them, even triage themselves. Their mistakes and weaknesses have profound consequences on themselves and the people around them. And they have profound weaknesses.

It’s easy to overlook the failings of the characters because the main characters are such good people and the narrator, Fitz, likes them so much. Rereading this, I was struck by how the main characters…Fitz, Verity, the Fool, Chade…all have unexpected failings. Fitz, despite being an assassin and soldier, is almost a coward at times and never able to face up to the problems in his life. His acts of apparent heroism generally come in an unthinking rage (i.e. his fighting in Royal Assassin). When thinking in cold blood, for instance on the road with the minstrel family, he can barely bring himself to fight. Throughout his life he has a pattern of taking what is given to him and enduring cognitive dissonance without facing his difficulty. He can’t stop using the Wit but also doesn’t want to jeopardize his relationship with Burrich, so he tries to hide it and tells himself in the face of all evidence he won’t bond when he adopts Nighteyes. He sleeps with Molly even though he knows how much he endangers her by doing so and further cannot bring himself to be honest with her. Finally, faced with many seperate friends who could use his help (Burrich, Chade, Verity) at the beginning of Assassin’s Quest he helps none of them by choosing instead what is really an elaborate suicide attempt. As for Verity, he is willing to sacrifice himself for his country, but he has no emotional understanding of his wife, Regal, or his people. Hobb hints that his “sacrifice” of sitting in the tower all summer is made possible not by a selfless spirit but by Skill addiction. The Fool, although probably the least flawed character, ultimately puts his love for King Shrewd ahead of his high-minded quest to save the world (he also admirably illustrates how the other main characters are made too uncomfortable by Shrewd’s condition to exercise any compassion for him). Chade is the opposite of the Fool, a ruthless politician who puts his monarch, and the preservation of the monarchy, above friendship and ethics.

The story has two antagonists: Regal and the Red-Ship Raiders. If either were not completely amoral, both would be dealt with without too much difficulty. I can understand why they seem one dimensional, because in truth, for most of the trilogy they are. In the last book, Hobb belatedly provides us a window into both. We discover Regal’s upbringing gave him an inferiority complex, a love for the inland Duchies, and a desperation to rule. At the very end comes the biggest surprise of the book: the oh-so-noble Skill dragons led by Verity and the Fool, though they can physically kill, principally operate by forging their enemies and the Red Ship raiders were avenging the results of King Wisdom’s attack. Unfortunately, not a lot of time is spent on the shades of gray that these revelations (particularly the second) cast over the narrative because the narrator, Fitz, is understandably not in the mood to feel understanding of the people who cost him everything he ever loved. From a narrative perspective, however, the enemies in the story must be completely ruthless because otherwise the main characters’ tendancy toward the status quo would result in nothing happening. Only Chade is a strong enough person to stand firm in the face of anything but the most absolute enemy, and his morality is so skewed he would serve Regal were he legitimate. Unfortunately, I don’t feel like these unreasonable enemies cause any problems with the books’ realistic tone. The twentieth century provides us plenty of Regal analogues, and today’s Islamic terrorists with their impossible demands are a close if thankfully massively weaker version of the Red Ship raiders.

The Farseer Trilogy is a story of good people in extraordinary peril trying to draw the line between duty and self-destruction. Each character draws it in a different place and then has to live with the consequences. This is the background to a lot of fantasy and science fiction, and it may not be perfect, but in my opinion Hobb’s honesty, consistency, and writing ability make it into great fiction.