Lost: The Search for Meaning

May 25, 2010 at 3:58 am | Posted in Television | 1 Comment

LostLost ended yesterday after six seasons. It was a popular television show with good ratings, but at one point it was a phenomenon with amazing ratings. As a result, there are more people who gave up on Lost at one point or another than people like myself who stuck with the show. I get asked a lot, “So is it worth going back to?”

That’s hard to answer. It depends on what you want the show to be. The best I can do is say that if you gave up on the show in its narrative doldrums in the middle of the second or third seasons, it might be worth trying again. Towards the end of the third season, the quality picks up dramatically leading into, in my view, the show’s best years in seasons four and five. For such a popular show, Lost actually took a lot of risks throughout its run. Because of this it’s not actually quite as much of a crowd-pleaser as you’d expect, and I can’t really predict whether it’s worth your time. It just depends on your preferences.

I’m more interested in addressing those of us who have seen the whole show. What are we to make of it? From here on out, I will not be shy about spoilers so be warned.

What was Lost about?

You wouldn’t think this would be a complicated question, but it turns out to be rather controversial. On one hand, you have the famously obsessive fans who pore over every detail. For them, the show is about a mysterious island. On the other, you have a somewhat less vocal but possibly larger group who appreciate the show as a character-driven drama and shift uncomfortably in their seats when ghosts and time travel threaten to drag the show completely into genre territory.

It’s possible to appeal to authorial intent on this question. The showrunners mostly come down on the side of the latter group, and over the years became increasingly vocal about their belief that Lost was ultimately a character-driven show. For most of the show’s run, I thought they were simply saying what critics want to hear. When Battlestar Galactica earned mainstream critical acceptance, many prominent writers made sure to explain this was possible because it wasn’t really science fiction. Watching Lost in season 5, when it was devoting considerable energy explaining to its mainstream audience time travel concepts that were sophisticated even by SF standards, I didn’t see any room for debate. When your characters spend more time discussing causality than themselves or each other, it’s not really a character show. Yet for all their discursions through fantasy and science fiction, the sixth season and particularly the finale make it clear that the show’s writers felt they were writing a character show and needed to end it like one.

This raises the question: if this show really is about the characters, why did so many people (myself included) think otherwise?

One explanation is simply that it really was a mystery show until the last season, when the writers had a conversion experience to the character side. Looking back, there was definitely one point where the show was purely a mystery show: the pilot. The pitch for Lost didn’t sound like, “So an alcoholic doctor and a con man with a heart of gold both fall in love with a beautiful girl who murdered her stepfather.” While that much is obvious, it’s fortunate the development of the pilot has been so extensively documented, for we can actually be precise. The original concept was simply a bunch of people stranded on an island. JJ Abrams added the word “mysterious” in front of “island” and Lost was greenlit practically on that alone. Since ABC was in such a hurry, there was no time for the standard development process, so for the most part the producers hired actors they liked and then made up characters for them on the fly. The cast was so big that the pilot barely had room to explain who they all were.

On the other hand, the pilot spent quite a bit of time on the unseen monster, the polar bear, and the French woman’s transmission. Charlie’s “Guys, where are we?” serves as the pilot’s punchline. It’s the pilot’s central question.

So it’s understandable that many people got the impression this was a show about a mysterious island. But somewhere in between the pilot and the rest of the first season, the show changed course dramatically and never looked back. While it was still a mystery show, instead of concentrating on the island’s many mysteries as fans expected, the show spent most of its time on the mysteries of the characters. Each character had at least one surprising element to their past that cast them in a new light: Kate was the criminal, Sawyer was the victim of a con man, Hurley was a lottery winner, and so on.

This was clearly a brilliant move by the writers. While the island mysteries of the pilot brought people to the show, I think it was the character mysteries that kept them watching and propelled the show to stratospheric ratings. Most Lost fans still cite the first season as their favorite, and when asked why they gave up the show most former viewers say it changed too much from the first season.

Unfortunately, as successful as it was, this strategy proved to be something of a time bomb. As the audience learned more and more about the characters, it became harder and harder to make interesting episodes about their pasts. Anticipating this, the writers introduced fresh characters, but the audience was too invested in the characters they had already. The solution to the problem, going to the future instead of the past, came too late to preserve Lost‘s once-incredible ratings, but drastically improved the show in the fourth and fifth seasons.

So Lost wasn’t about the island at all, but just about some characters?

Well, not quite. Seinfeld was just about some characters. As a narrative show Lost explored themes and ideas. In fact, unlike its frayed and disheveled mythology, Lost has been thematically consistent from the beginning.

Well, almost from the beginning. I have to preface all this by saying none of it is present in the pilot. I think it’s safe to say no one had any time in that rushed development process to think very much about themes. This becomes obvious when considering the answers to the pilot’s minor questions. Why is a polar bear on a tropical island? Some researchers brought some polar bears there. Why was the repeating distress call never heard by the outside world? Someone is jamming transmissions from the island. While these do lead into more minor questions (Who are these researchers? Who is jamming the transmissions?) that the show tinkers around with for a while, the fact is these are fairly prosaic.

Going into season one, the writers apparently realized prosaic wasn’t going to cut it. In the second episode of the season proper, “Walkabout”, Locke is discovered to have been miraculously healed. He encounters the monster, and how does he describe it in the next episode, “White Rabbit”? After the pilot you would be forgiven for thinking that he might have said, “I saw the monster and it was a dinosaur!” Or perhaps, “It turns out it’s a giant robot!” Instead, Locke says, he “looked into the eye of the island and it was beautiful.” In that same episode, Jack sees his dead father. And while that might be explained away as a hallucination, what are we to make of the way the body has disappeared from the coffin?

These mysteries make the polar bear and the transmission seem completely humdrum. Seeing a polar bear in the tropics is unusual. Paralysis being healed by a plane crash is miraculous. Even at this very early point, the island had been reimagined. It was no longer just a weird island. It was a place to encounter the numinous.

Before going on, I want to also point out than none of these things I’ve mentioned from these two episodes were ever properly explained. Locke was healed because, well, Jacob felt like it. The monster looked beautiful because, er, actually it never demonstrated this capability ever again. And the body was missing from the coffin because the smoke monster was using it to impersonate Jack’s father–no, wait, it definitely was impersonating Yemi and his body was still there. So…no idea. I’ll come back to Lost and “answers” in a moment but first let’s keep thinking about why these elements were introduced in the first place.

Earlier I said that “Guys, where are we?” is the central question of the pilot, but that it was abandoned. From the “Walkabout” through to the finale, the show consistently asked a different question. Locke asks it out loud in “White Rabbit”: “What if everything that happened here, happened for a reason?”

The main thread of the rest of the show examines this question from every possible angle. I’m sure you can follow it yourself, but I’m going to go through it for three characters anyway because these are my favorite parts of the show:

Locke, by virtue of being on the receiving end of the most beneficial of the island’s miracles, is a strong believer from the start. Yet his simple faith is tested by Boone’s death. Locke is forced to construct a theology to explain this (“Boone was a sacrifice the island demanded”) but there is no revelation in his religion. He has simply invented explanations to fit the events that happen to him, and as a result is thoroughly wrong. For a while he thinks maintaining the Swan hatch is his purpose, but then angrily rejects his faith and causes the Swan implosion. Afterward, he is chastened, and once more becomes a zealot of a religion he has made up out of almost whole cloth. Though well-intentioned, his belief is so strong he is willing to murder Naomi. Still searching for his destiny, he tries to become the leader of the Others, only to find himself yanked through time, and finally proves a failure as an evangelist to the Oceanic Six. He dies in despair, having never found the meaning he sought in his life.

Jack becomes the de facto leader of the survivors due to his authority as a doctor, but despite the competence he projects he proves ineffective. In his pre-island life his marriage failed and he was unable to escape his father’s shadow in his career. On the island, his denunciations of Locke’s mysticism seem more and more implausible as bizarre phenomena pile up and his “leadership” proves incapable of providing any lasting improvement on the survivors’ situation. Ultimately he gives up, and when opportunities come to escape, he tries to take them. Eventually he and the other Oceanic Six do escape, but having gotten off the island his life becomes even worse and he is wracked with guilt over leaving the others behind. After Locke’s death he converts to Locke’s view of destiny, and tries to live up to Locke’s sainted memory (it’s easy to forget that St. Locke, right up until he died, was considered to be a violent extremist by the show’s two unquestionably good characters, Hurley and Rose). Back on the island, he finally finds a task worthy of his great desire to “fix” things when he gives his life to fix the island.

Ben, meanwhile, was told for almost all his life that he was special. He successfully deposed Widmore on the grounds that Widmore was insufficiently devoted to the island and led Jacob’s people for years. There’s no sign that Ben was ever anything less than totally committed to Jacob and protecting the island. Yet Jacob never spoke with him directly, instead using Richard as an intermediary. When Jacob allowed him to get cancer, Ben’s authority was called into question. Presumably this was Jacob’s typically obscure way of trying to get Ben’s group to unite with the survivors, but instead Ben tried to manipulate Jack into doing the surgery. The fighting between Ben’s group and the survivors served to further erode his authority, and finally even Richard began maneuvering Locke into position to replace Ben. When Widmore’s mercenaries kill his adopted daughter, the one person on the island he genuinely loved, he angrily allows himself to be exiled and does his best to damage Widmore’s interests off the island. When Locke reveals there is a way back to the island, Ben learns it, then murders Locke to prevent him from competing with Ben for leadership. But when they return, Locke appears to be alive again and far more capable than before, propelling Ben towards a confrontation with the weaver of the island’s destinies, Jacob. When Ben demands to know why he has had to suffer and Jacob has no adequate response, he kills the object of his devotion. He immediately learns that he has been used by a close approximation of the devil, but ultimately he achieves some measure of redemption by helping Jack win, and then finally gets the role he always wanted with Jacob’s eventual replacement Hurley.

One of the common criticisms of Lost is that, summarized, it becomes apparent that it is absurd. The show itself referenced this when Hurley tried to explain what had happened to him on the island to his mother. But the stories of Locke, Jack, and Ben are not ridiculous when summarized. Neither are those of the characters with more conventional stories about separated love: Sun and Jin, Desmond and Penny, Rose and Bernard, and even Sawyer and Juiliet.

Kate’s story is pretty ridiculous at length or in summary, but really, the less said about it the better.

The reason these stories work well is they are the ones the show was built to tell. It was not, ultimately, a show about a mysterious island. It was about people searching for meaning in their lives.

So again, why did so many people think the show was about a mysterious island?

The easy answer is the writers tried to have it both ways. You get higher ratings by pleasing all of the people some of the time than if you please some of the people all the time, so they tried to generate appeal both as a story of characters searching for meaning and as a mystery show. So we got plenty of details about the Dharma Initiative, the Others, and a lot of handwaving about electromagnetism.

But I think there’s a deeper reason for the widespread fan engagement with the show’s mystery. I think for many fans, they couldn’t help but live vicariously through the characters, and feel as though they were on the cusp of the numinous themselves. All the things that couldn’t be explained would be unlocked by the secret knowledge revealed at the end of the show, the grand unified theory that would turn the vast mythology into a single coherent whole. If enlightenment proves nearly impossible to acquire in real life, then we should at least be able to achieve it within the scope of a television show.

The fans search for answers was, in fact, exactly what Locke, Jack, and Ben were also searching for. I doubt the writers intended this from the beginning, but surely they were conscious of it by the second season. Just as many fans angrily declared there was no rhyme or reason to the what happened on the show, characters at various points (most notably the unnamed antagonist, talking to Sawyer in the cave) rejected the possibility that there was any sort of destiny or purpose to their lives.

Even the ultimate conclusion within the show mirrored that outside it. In the show, though Jacob manipulates events to bring about a certain result, he turns out to be rather less than divine. They are not living in the best of all possible worlds. The monster and all the suffering it causes is the result of Jacob’s mistake, and it’s not at all clear that the monster’s escape or the island’s destruction would have anything like the apocalyptic consequences Jacob claims. The penultimate episode’s title is “What They Died For” rather than “Why They Had to Die” because the answer to the latter question is a little too awkward: they had to die because Jacob wasn’t good enough at playing god to come up with a way to defeat his brother that didn’t involve thousands of needless deaths.

Likewise, Lost the show turns out to have had a purpose and meaning, but ultimately it’s a human creation and very imperfect. Part of it has to be that the writers simply could have done a better job. But the constraints of television are enormous: actors decide to leave, the network insists on changes, fan reactions are unexpected, writers go on strike…the fact is television is not a medium that is suited for producing perfect plots. Even the collaborative nature of television writing conspires against it. When it takes six years to tell a story, you can’t blame the writers for changing their minds about some things halfway through. Even less so when many of the writers aren’t even the same as the ones who started. Lost‘s plot looks a lot like the first draft of a novel, but the medium simply doesn’t allow for revision.

Lost was a very good show, but unfortunately one that many (including myself at times) were unable to entirely accept on its own terms because we were continually frustrated by its inconsistencies. The only compensation is that by engaging with the show’s mythology, and the consequent doubts, the interested viewer was in a way participating interactively in the show’s exploration of meaning. That may not be what they were hoping to get out of the show, but it’s not what we necessarily hope to get out of life either, and yet here we are.


Warbreaker by Brandon Sanderson

May 23, 2010 at 11:31 pm | Posted in 4 stars, Book Reviews, Fantasy | Leave a comment

WarbreakerSince reading Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn trilogy I’ve paid close attention to his career. The Mistborn books were uneven, but their particular strength, the way revelations about the world fed back into the narrative, was one that really appealed to me. Since then Sanderson has mostly been sucked into working on big series, from a trilogy to finish Jordan’s Wheel of Time to a ten book series (sigh) of his own. I’m not as resistant to reading unfinished series as I used to be (I never read Wheel of Time for that reason, or Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire) but I still prefer complete stories. So I was very happy when Sanderson, who apart from any other virtues may be the most prolific author working today, somehow squeezed a standalone novel, Warbreaker, into his schedule.

First and foremost, Warbreaker shares the rigourous approach to its backstory that I was so impressed by in the Mistborn books. The magic system is laid out clearly and functions according to rules, but the characters don’t know all of them. In this respect, Sanderson’s fantasies have a very modern attitude, for some (though not all, or even most) of his characters take a scientific approach to magic, studying it to unlock the mechanisms by which it works. Throughout the novel the reader (along with some characters) learns more about the magic system, and each new revelation fits in marvelously both with what had come before as well as the dramatic demands of the narrative.

Another trait, less positive in my view, it shares with Mistborn is a capacity for introducing interesting sociological structures but not following through on them. Most of Warbreaker takes place in a city ruled by a council of “gods” who turn out to be humans (sort of) with special powers. Some characters like this approach to government and others despise it, but while they each get chances to (briefly) state their reasoning, the question is never explored in depth. Both here and in Mistborn, the narrative ultimately takes what I would call a pre-modern view of governance: different nations have different political systems, but what matters is the people in charge. If these are good people, then all will be well. If they are bad people, then the nation will decline. The ultimate goal of the characters, then, is to replace the bad people in charge with good people, and if changing the system of governance is necessary to make this happen then so be it, but otherwise sticking to tradition is probably best. At least in Mistborn this was fleshed out a little bit by the fact that once in power, the good people found it was harder than they expected to achieve good outcomes, but Warbreaker doesn’t even resolve its most basic question: is a monarchy preferable to a pseudo-theocracy?

Finally, I should mention that I found the characters in Warbreaker to be considerably more appealing than those in Mistborn, but this was counterbalanced somewhat by the way the final third of the book seemed rushed. There are two characters in particular with concealed histories who suffer from the inadequate amount of time between the revelation of who they really are and the conclusion of the book. As a semi-twist revelation, it’s fine, but as is so often the case with such maneuvers, in concealing the twist the narrative also obscures their true motivations and feelings, and they end up being ciphers. In any case, although Sanderson had elegant resolutions to the stories of the many viewpoint characters, it felt like none of them quite got the time they deserved. I’m not sure if this is a genuine failing in the story or if my “story sense” is simply calibrated for trilogies due to how common they are in fantasy, but I can only report the impression.

I can’t help but wonder if another revision might have improved the final result had Sanderson not been so busy with other matters, but Warbreaker is still a very enjoyable book and recommended for fantasy readers interested in rigorous magic systems and careful plotting.

“Some Zombie Contingency Plans” by Kelly Link

May 18, 2010 at 1:43 am | Posted in Short Stories | 8 Comments

Back to my series on stories from Kelly Link’s Magic For Beginners. I haven’t graphed it but I suspect the time between these posts is rising exponentially. All I can say in my defense is these are hard stories to write about. If I’d known how hard it would be I wouldn’t have committed to it, but I’m glad I did. I’m learning a lot, and hopefully other people will find it helpful too.

If you haven’t read the story, it’s available online on Kelly Link’s web site. As usual, spoilers ahead.

There’s not a lot of discussion of this story online, and a lot of what is out there isn’t really about the story at all.  In his New York Times review of Magic For Beginners, Michael Knight questioned whether the zombies in “Some Zombie Contingency Plans” were supposed to be a metaphor. In a blog posting I can’t find any more, Scott Westerfeld jumped all over this, denouncing the tendancy for mainstream reviews to insist on metaphorical readings for science fiction and fantasy at the expense of literal interpretations. Quite a lot of discussion resulted in the genre community, mostly approving expansions of Westerfeld’s argument.

Looking back on it all five years later I’m a little perplexed. Don’t get me wrong, I agree with the general point Westerfeld apparently made (I hesitate to say definitely because, like a scholar studying a lost work of antiquity, I can only read Westerfeld’s original article in the quotations that others made in surviving texts): mainstream authors and critics alike too often think fiction is only relevant if it is directly, immediately applicable to the present moment. Apart from what Tolkien said about it, is Lord of the Rings really improved by reading the One Ring as a metaphor for nuclear weapons? Surely the answer is no, and an alternate version of the text that fit this reading better would be far poorer than the real one.

Unfortunately, however, Westerfeld wasn’t talking about Lord of the Rings, he was talking about “Some Zombie Contingency Plans” and as a very few people in the comments from the discussions I linked noted, there really aren’t any zombies in it. Insomuch as there are any, I agree with the New York Times reviewer that they can best be understood metaphorically. Like most of Kelly Link’s stories there is a single fantastic departure from the real world, but it’s not zombies at all, but rather a small, unassuming painting that the main character finds in a dark museum room.

The bane of modern literary discussion is that hardly anyone has read the same stuff, and I assume that most people commenting in those discussions hadn’t actually read the story, so I can understand the mistake. But anyone who had read any Kelly Link story probably should have known better. After all, even if the reviewer’s reading wasn’t really correct, feeling confused by a Kelly Link story isn’t a crime, is it? I hope not, because I am invariably confused after reading one of her stories for the first time. Multiple readings don’t always dispel it, either, and this story is a good example.

Maybe confusion is part of the intended effect. Perhaps that sounds like a desperate move for me to make, and it is, but give it a chance. The story is, after all, an examination of the fluidity of identity. In a story whose main character shifts to match his surroundings, should we be surprised the story itself veers from mundane to horror by way of surrealism? The first line sets out to tell the reader what the story is about: “This is a story about being lost in the woods.” If we are taking everything in the story literally, this is a shocking announcement to find on a second read-through, because no one is lost in the woods in the main narrative. No one is in the woods at all, actually.

But reading the story a second time reveals plenty of reasons to think the story is playing games with meaning. Early on, for example, there is an extended discussion of the main character’s views on art. The first time through, these are mildly amusing, but nothing more. Reading it a second time, however, familiar with the later revelation of the main character’s real name, Arthur (“but everybody called him Art. Ha ha.”), the whole section takes on an ingenious double meaning:

  • “Art was why Soap was in prison.”
  • “Soap still didn’t know much about art.”
  • “Great art came out of great suffering. Soap had gone through a lot of shit because of art.”

There’s plenty more where that came from, I didn’t make an exhaustive list. The climax of this section comes when art and soap are actually compared: “There was a difference between art, which you just looked at, and things like soap, which you used. […] A lot of people said things like “That’s not art” when whatever they were talking about could clearly not have been anything else except art.”

Now try not to cringe as I point out that Soap’s mysterious painting is…a piece of art. He can slide from identity to identity, but the painting stays with him. The fact that the zombie-infested woods of the scanty alternate narrative seems to be what Soap sees in the painting reinforces the idea that it’s mirroring his subconsciousness (his friend Mike sees his own obsession, icebergs, instead).

In a previous post I noted that while reading the collection I noticed several pairs of stories that seemed to cover similar themes. I see this story and “Catskin” as a pair about identity. “Catskin”, in my view, focused on how changes to the appearance of characters did not alter their essence. I think “Some Zombie Contingency Plans” seems to argue that while you can fool people about who you are, your actions still have consequences.

Unlike in “Catskin” there’s no fantastic element to the shifts of identity. Even aside from the main character’s direct shifts, it happens constantly: Mike and Art pretending to be legitimate guests at museum parties, Carly pretending to be the friend of the girl whose parents own the house, and even Art giving his mother a urinal cake as if it were soap. Yet Mike and Art still went to prison for their role in the museum theft. Carly’s pretense that it’s someone else’s house being ruined by the party will eventually be ended by her parents’ return. And while we don’t know the outcome of Soap’s escapade at the end of the story, nothing before it in the story implies these flimsy constructions are stable, and therefore it seems likely that he’ll be charged with theft and perhaps kidnapping when it’s all over.

One final similarity with “Catskin” is that while Soap/Art’s ability to present different faces to the world seems clever, it hasn’t brought him any happiness. He’s conscious of how people don’t see the real him, and even though he can exploit this, he finds it frustrating and tiresome. This seems to be the root of his attraction to thinking about zombies. One of the reasons he likes zombies, we’re told in the early wordplay section, is that they “don’t care about art.” Later, when he considers his place in the world, he comes back to the zombies: “Nobody really knows him. If they did, they wouldn’t like him…He tells himself everything will be different when the zombies show up.” Although this sounds a bit like wish-fulfillment, the way Carly dreams of being president and loved by everyone, I suspect that Soap isn’t wishing for a world where his contingency plans will mark him as a visionary, he’s wishing for a world where it’s just him and the zombies. Zombies don’t misrepresent themselves, and they treat everyone the same (“Zombies don’t discriminate”…note also that everyone at the house party is described solely in racial terms). He knows how zombies will act towards him and he knows how he’d need to act with zombies.

Seen this way, a world overrun zombies is in a way less fantastic than the real one, a world far more ordered and therefore more manageable. It’s not necessarily a healthy viewpoint…Soap in general doesn’t seem like he’s in great shape, psychologically…but it represents a somewhat counter-intuitive view of fantasy in general. Supposedly fantasy is a genre with far more possibilities than boring old real life, yet it’s so often the case that fantasy settings are actually gravely simplified affairs far less frustratingly complex than the real world. I don’t know how confident I am that this reading is really what Kelly Link intended, but how great is it that a story that five years ago was assumed to be a champion of genre fantasy might actually be a criticism of it? If so, Kelly Link’s work points to ways in which the fantastic really can be used to broaden perspectives rather than narrow them.

The Sorcerer’s House by Gene Wolfe

May 14, 2010 at 1:00 am | Posted in 4 stars, Fantasy | 1 Comment

This book is about a man who unexpectedly comes into possession of a house. This house is at the center of a lot of colorful folklore, the least of which is that it is haunted. Strange things happen to the man in the house, very strange things. Yet the man himself is strange, just out of prison, in fact, but also the holder of many advanced degrees. He also has a twin brother who is comparatively normal, with a wife and a good job. But things are about to get really weird…

When people study Gene Wolfe’s work in the future, and, yes, I believe people will, they will feel very comfortable classifying Sorcerer’s House as a novel of his late period. If you haven’t read much of Wolfe, this will mean nothing to you, but if you haven’t read much of Wolfe, you should give Book of the New Sun or Fifth Head of Cerberus a try instead of starting here.

Nevertheless, I will try to explain what I mean. First, there’s no question this is a Gene Wolfe book. Early or late, I see Wolfe’s fiction as being notable for at least two peculiarities: he always makes the narrative voice relevant to the story, and he always conceals large parts of the story, forcing the reader to piece it together later, theoretically after finishing the book but generally on subsequent readings. These aspects wax and wane in importance but they are always present in his novels. Sorcerer’s House has an unusual approach to narrative voice: it’s a collection of letters, most of which in combination present a first person narrative from the main character, but scattered throughout are letters other characters have written to him. It’s not the only epistolary novel I’ve read, but it’s got to be the only one where the letter format proved important to the story itself. As to his other main attribute, just how much of the story is concealed is a matter of debate, but rest assured there are many questions that will only be answered with very close scrutiny and at least one further reading.

So it’s certainly of a piece with the rest of Wolfe’s novels. I also call it “late Wolfe” because like many of his recent books, it’s short and written in simple language, making for a deceptively easy read. Though none of his late work is set in the early twentieth century (Sorcerer’s House seems to be set in the modern day), much of the dialogue has the feel of that time period. Finally, lately Wolfe has become enraptured with the device of having his narrator make some sort of very tricky logical leap, announce the conclusion, and then (sometimes, if Wolfe’s feeling generous) explain how he or she got there. Wolfe’s always used this device now and then, but sometimes in this, as with his other recent books, it feels like there are stretches where the dialogue is almost entirely discussing the character’s inferences. Sorcerer’s House even takes the perhaps unfair step of sometimes concealing the clues that the narrator used to deduce his conclusion and either supplying them after the fact or expecting the reader to infer them. The result of all this is a novel that’s a quick read without being very accessible. The writing feels strange and affected. It’s not as off-putting as Evil Guest was but it can’t be ignored.

It should also be said that Sorcerer’s House is probably one of Wolfe’s more difficult books. People often talk of Wolfe’s narrators (especially Severian) as being unreliable, but in fact this is rarely a major feature of his books. Not so in Sorcerer’s House, whose narration (in my estimation, at least) is less reliable than any other Wolfe novel. And as is almost always the case with Wolfe, only by paying very close attention will the reader find the threads of the real story through the layers of misdirection and mirage.

However, I should also say that there’s a lot to like here. Wolfe is nothing if not imaginative, and like another fantasy writer I’ve been reading lately, Kelly Link, he’s very good at generating genuinely strange phenomena. Unlike Kelly Link, who deals in evocation and suggestion, at the end of Sorcerer’s House most of the phenomena will have been given satisfactory explanations. Not in terms of masks and stunt men, this is still a fantasy novel, but what initially seems flatly inexplicable eventually coheres into a comprehensible structure. This being Wolfe, this structure is embedded in another, greater structure that must be inferred, but even with a single reading there’s plenty to appreciate.

It’s not a masterpiece, and not a return to the form of his great work, but ultimately it comes down to this: if you like Wolfe, I think you’ll like this book.

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