Orson Scott Card, "Hamlet's Ghost"

I was suckered into reading "Hamlet's Ghost" by the controversy surrounding it, which started when Rain Taxi Review got its hands on a special edition of the story, published by Subterranean Press, and panned it completely for being a homophobic mess. Other writers spoke out and eventually the whole thing made it into the papers.

I love trainwrecks and was curious to see how bad "Hamlet's Ghost" would be, and it turns out that the original story is available in a Kindle collection (don't worry about buying it, Tanith Lee's in there, too). For those who don't know (spoilers ahead): The big twist in "Hamlet's Ghost" is that Hamlet's uncle didn't kill Hamlet's father, it was really Horatio, who was fed up with King Hamlet raping him and decided to off the old man. Hamlet realizes his mistake, but it's too late and Hamlet dies and goes to rape hell. The end.

It's difficult to adapt Shakespeare, and Card isn't up to the task--the original Rain Taxi review links to an adaptation Card did of "Taming of the Shrew" which is even more ridiculous in some ways than "Hamlet's Ghost" (let's modernize the text but leave the iambic pentameter in! Genius!) At least the "Shrew" adaptation keeps some of the text, though. "Hamlet's Ghost" is pure prose, and it all goes down like a lead weight through Jello.

In this version of Hamlet, Hamlet is so self-absorbed that he never notices that his dad is raping all of his friends. This despite his friends constantly hanging out one-on-one with his dad, after which they return in floods of tears. Card's Hamlet makes Shakespeare's Hamlet look like a model of consideration for others--at one point Card's Hamlet flies into a snit because he's told that his before his father died the old man liked to garden, which meant that his father was edging or grafting roses instead of hanging out with him. Hamlet is able to slip out of his own thick head long enough to notice that King Hamlet is not a particularly good ruler, but he still spends the entire book wailing over his daddy not paying enough attention to him. This is supposed to make the ending ironic, because OMG HIS DAD WAS A PEDO and so on.

Every character in this novella is a self-absorbed idiot, with the possible exception of Ophelia, whose decision to kill herself seems perfectly sane in this context. Hamlet's mother is willing to threaten King Hamlet with a knife when she sees him feeling up his offspring (ugh), but she doesn't notice that her husband is using her son's training as an excuse to gather up a bunch of "beautiful" young lads who are just her son's age, or more likely she doesn't care. None of these boys tell their fathers or mothers, or the fathers and mothers don't care, either. It's not as surprising that they don't tell Hamlet about the abuse, because Hamlet is thick and also it would spoil the "surprise ending," but none of them seem particularly angry at Hamlet, even when he's constantly driveling on about his father. You'd think one of them would snap and throttle the moron.

This all leads up to a hilarious ending where everybody dies screaming about man-boy love, and Hamlet slips off to hell. It turns out that his ghost dad totally messed with Hamlet's head so they could have sex in hell forever! This is supposed to be creepy, but since King Hamlet and Prince Hamlet are the awfulest people in a sea of lazy jerks, they really do deserve each other--and it's not like what they're doing is really wrong, because they're already in hell, right? At least Hamlet will be forced to find something to do other than whine about his father not loving him enough. Maybe that is the true punishment.

It's easy not to take "Hamlet's Ghost" seriously, because it's just so terrible. But it's hard to read it only as a direct denunciation of homosexuality--not because Card isn't a homophobe (he is) but because the story doesn't seem connected to any sort of realistic adult sexuality. In the world of "Hamlet's Ghost," the only real sexual option seems to be homosexual pedophilia. Every other sexual predilection is either a only vague possibility or explained away as a nasty side effect of homosexual pedophilia. Yes, post-gay therapy and other such nonsense tend to "explain" homosexuality as the result of molestation, but usually they at least attempt to portray heterosexuality as normal or at least common. In "Hamlet's Ghost," there are no heterosexual adults. Everyone's sexuality is either very, very latent or fixed by an incident that took place well before puberty.

It's too odd, and I've been reading more Card to see what textual path eventually led up to the whole Vortex to NAMBLA Hell ending. More on that later.

"Wildfire," Sarah Micklem

This is going to be a long slog, but I have to work out my feelings about this book. I picked up "Firethorn," the first book in Micklem's series, by chance--it was a free copy. And I loved the hell out of that book! It had everything--a vision quest! A believable pseudo-medieval universe! A religion that didn't merely involve people saying "Gods!" instead of "God!"

A sequel was promised. I was stoked for years for this book, people. I snapped it up right away. And I was disappointed. Everything in "Wildfire" was amped up to epic fantasy levels. What I had loved about "Firethorn" was the smallness of it--there might be kings and queens off fighting somewhere, but what was most important were the conflicts in the heroine's life. Now I had to care about royalty and intrigues and magic again. Plus, there were all the epic fantasy cliches I had grown to hate so well.

I'm concentrating on the cliches that apply to female characters, because in the first book Firethorn was so kickass that I have to mourn what I wanted her to become. I could go on and discuss all the other things that irk me about epic fantasy, but then this post would probably span across ALL SPACE AND TIME (no, things are really not that bad between epic fantasy and me. Really).

First off:

1. The Magical Hooker

Why, oh why, does the magical hooker character exist? I'm not discussing prostitute characters in general, I'm talking about women who are Top Hooker--beautiful, cultured, the favorite of every man (and quite possibly the target of every woman). Think Inara in "Firefly"--the dominant feature of the character is that she's very good at pleasing other people.

In "Wildfire," Firethorn is sent to a courtesan's house to learn the art of being a "whore-celebrant." However, Firethorn is written as stubborn and a bit introverted. In the first book, she reacts to a traumatic experience by running off into the woods, and she finds camp life hard to adjust to because of the lack of privacy. Firethorn does work as a healer, which is a "people" sort of job, but it's obvious that she's not just a passive magic-worker--she prescribes treatments to her patients, and if they're not obeying her good advice, she'll lay down the law. A job that involves being pleasant to a bunch of strangers, who have a total command over her body and time, would tire her out pretty quickly.

Plus, by the time she arrives at Courtesan Boot Camp, she's not in the best physical shape--she has cataracts in one eye, a bunch of scars on her back, and partial paralysis on one side of her face. This wouldn't be so much of a problem for the time period except that the society she's in at the time puts an emphasis on physical perfection.

Micklem overcomes these handicaps by suddenly gifting Firethorn with the power to learn a new language in a few months, to the point where she can spout off her own original poetry--all because she knew a few words of this language as a very young child. Like I said, magical hooker.

I liked Firethorn better when she was just a horny witch doctor. There aren't enough female characters who both like sex and know about things other than sex (unless they are ridiculously evil sexy sorceresses).

2. The Love Triangle

Oh, love triangle, plot device which pops up everywhere. I understand why: it's a very useful device in a genre which demands at least a trilogy out of every storyline. The author can work in one lover per book, then pit them against each other in the third and final volume. Unfortunately, it only works when the protagonist has two decent prospects to choose between.

The main plot of the first book kicks off when Firethorn falls in love with a knight and follows him off to war as his camp follower or "sheath." Her warrior, Galan, is part of the class of men who conquered her country, and she's part of the native or "mud" class, so she's socially inferior and he does treat her like it. At one point he even whips her for some minor transgression, and she takes it in her stride. At the end of "Firethorn," when Galan offers Firethorn a cottage and a small piece of land, he's being amazingly generous--foolhardy, according to the men in his social class. Part of the dramatic tension of "Firethorn" comes from watching Firethorn try to protect herself as best she can, while keeping Galan's image of her as a sweet, innocent mudwoman intact.

However, even if Galan is a problematic love interest, it's easy to see why Firethorn wants to be with him. He's sexy, daring, and important in his clan, which reflects well on Firethorn and also means that she doesn't have to worry about being forced to sleep with her man's masters. As a camp follower, Firethorn can also follow him to places she wouldn't have access to on her own, with some level of protection. It's a good arrangement all round, as good goes by the standards of Firethorn's universe.

Prince Whatever-His-Face pushes Firethorn through the mountains while she's manacled and freezing, then spends the rest of his time sulking over his lost wife and kingdom. He intends to get his kingdom back through some hare-brained scheme that involves training Firethorn as a courtesan, then ritually tattooing her and sending her to his usurping brother as a "princess" to marry, after which Firethorn will spy on the brother, or kill him, or something or other. His other main characteristic is that he's celibate. That's it. It's like watching a romantic epic where the hero transforms from Viggo Mortenson into David Miliband.

This wouldn't be so much of a problem if the prince was just a plot device to send Firethorn off on another adventure, but Firethorn falls deeply in love with the prince, mainly because he treats her badly and won't sleep with her. At this point, she is no longer a rather defenseless camp follower but a successful courtesan, so the "I love you despite your treatment of me" storyline seems sour instead of natural to the situation. Firethorn can have her pick of rich, successful men, so why fall in love with the dullest of the bunch?

3. Pregnancy

Fantasy authors writing from a female character's perspective usually have to find a way for their heroines to have tons of sex and never, never, never have babies. This phenomenon is usually explained by some form of contraceptive, magical or otherwise (unless you're George R.R. Martin and don't understand the differences between contraceptives and abortifacients, but THAT is a topic for another time). Firethorn takes some berries to keep herself from getting pregnant when she first meets Galan, which I was willing to believe as a possibility.

At the end of the first book, Firethorn runs out of the berries. She mentions that her periods have stopped and that she might be pregnant. (She's mentioned wanting Galan's child before.) I wanted to see this happen. Would she have to end the pregnancy? If she didn't, how would she manage childbirth in camp, and how would she deal with a baby? How would she and Galan function as a family, or would they split up? Usually childbirth and kids mark the end of a female character's story arc, and it would be great to follow a character dealing with children while existing in her own right. I wanted my barefoot and pregnant protagonist, dammit!

And of course, it didn't happen. It turns out that Firethorn is not pregnant--she's temporarily barren because of some sex voodoo that some mean priestesses laid down on her. This is discovered (and reversed!) while she's working as a courtesan. (Why you'd want to reverse the process while you're working as a courtesan is beyond me, but it happens.)

Sexual magic is generally a boondoggle in the first book--Firethorn's friend and fellow camp follower, Mai, sells love potions and brings Firethorn into her business. At one point, Firethorn, jealous of Galan and frightened by his interest in a noble lady, begs Mai for a charm to keep Galan's attention, and Mai gives in. When the charm "works," Mai tells Firethorn that the charm didn't have any power--the point was to reassure Firethorn and keep her belief alive, and hopefully that would do the rest.

In the second book, sex magic is real. Maybe not the stuff that Mai does, but ladies who are classier than Mai can really do magic. Oh, there's a knot in Firethorn's uterus that was put there by sex priestesses? All right, then.

Authors--if you have to bend the rules of your own universe to preserve your protagonist's infertility, you might want to come up with another explanation.

Oh, goodness, that was insanely long.

More Books I Have Not Read

I like reading bad fantasy books. I enjoyed reading that Terry Goodkind books, with the speeches and the evil birds, because it was so laughably bad. So I started on one of the David Weber books, intending to experience the same sort of fun. But I couldn't get through the first few pages, because those first few pages were taken up with explaining how our heroine was overwhelmed by her emotions, as she had just rescued an entire prison planet and realized that the guy she worked with had a crush on her. Now, this would be all well and good to set up the plot, except that this wave of emotions was explained not as a human reaction, but as the byproduct of some sort of weird bond with her magic cat.

After that, I was done. I just can't get through a book that treats the emotions that any normal person (normal super-heroine?) would feel as if they are super-awesome telepathic magic skills that can only be obtained through talking to genetically manipulated animals in your head. I understand that these books are not aimed towards the same audience that reads, I don't know, Barbara Pym, but damn! How autistic can you be?

"The Privilege of the Sword," Ellen Kushner

A sequel to "Swordspoint" - Alec Tremontaine, the mad student, has grown up into the Mad Duke of Riverside and sends for his teenaged niece, Katherine, to make her into a swordswoman. Katherine gets involved in various intrigues and duels.

Katherine is a great heroine - unlike your typical fantasy heroine, she doesn't particularly want to pursue masculine interests at the beginning of the novel, yet she comes to appreciate the new freedom and power that her knowledge of the sword gives her. Also, the characters are allowed the loose sexual definitions of the first book, which makes for a nice, angst-free atmosphere (at least on that point - I remember reading Mercedes Lackey novels in which it seemed as if everyone was quite tolerant of whatever sexuality you were, until it became convenient for the plot for someone to pop up and start bothering the poor protagonist so they could be very sad and attempt to off themselves. Why are fantasy protagonists always so oppressed in such teenage ways? I mean, durr, the audience and all, but still.)

The one thing that bothered me was the re-use of Richard St. Vier and Alec - they're such outsize characters that I really just wanted to leave them be after "Swordspoint." While Alec's character development makes sense, he's still not as much glorious fun as his younger (older?) version. St. Vier becomes a sort of bland mentor figure, which also makes sense due to his part in the plot, but come on, where's the St. Vier who would take the life from every inch of a man's body? Alas.

"The Turkish Gambit," Boris Akunin

The second Akunin I've read, and not as enjoyable as "Winter Queen," mainly because Fandorin is off-screen (off-page?) for most of the narrative. Instead, everything is seen through the eyes of Varya, who turns out not to be the burning revolutionary I expected her to be but more of a well-intentioned flirt who has bumbled her way into a Russian army camp in search of her boyfriend. So while Varya is wondering which handsome soldier is attempting to win her heart, I'm wondering what exactly Fandorin is up to and what exactly the mystery is. Perhaps if I knew more about the 19th century conflicts between Turkey and Russia, I could imagine the dashing officers and courageous war correspondents in more detail, and fall in love along with Varya, but since I don't it's all a bunch of names that Fandorin strings together so that he can make a big "I have solved everything!" speech at the end. Perhaps I'm just not interested in war fiction pastiche? "Murder on the Leviathan" is next, regardless.

"Addition," Toni Jordan

Bought this as an airport read and didn't regret it. Chick-lit meets OCD - I swear this is better than I'm making it sound. The heroine, Grace, has to count everything she sees because of a Problem in Her Past, as happens to these sort of women in these sorts of books. Yet usually these sorts of books do not involve erotic fantasies starring Nikola Tesla. In an Aztec temple, no less. It's really a pity more chick-lit heroines aren't openly mentally ill, because the genre needs more weird sexual fantasies and less nonsense about buying shoes. Maybe I'm alone in my pervert opinion, though.

Jordan manages to make her heroine angry and unhappy without making her unsympathetic - in fact, Grace's misanthropy is funny enough that I could sort of see what the romcom boyfriend saw in her (if you want an example of how not to write an unhappy woman, read Jennifer Weiner's Good in Bed). Bonus points for making her horny as well - well, to put it less bluntly, bonus points for writing a relationship in which sexual attraction is a good thing and not a sign of future disaster (if you want an example of how to write an romantic "happy ending" where it's easier to imagine the "lovers" clipping each others' toenails than ever having sex, again - Good in Bed is for you. God, that book annoyed me.)

"Naked Empire," Terry Goodkind

I have had many a chat (don't ask me why) which centered on whether it was appropriate for other people to read Terry Goodkind novels, so I decided to read one myself so I could give my definitive judgment from upon high. I picked this particular one because it had a goofy picture of a statue on the front. It's midway through the series, but I really don't think I missed anything by skipping five or six or seven books.

Goodkind is notorious for his objectivist rants translated extremely poorly into a fantasy setting. Personally I enjoyed those parts the most, if enjoyed is the word. At least I felt some sort of response, even if that response was "Wow, that's a really stupid straw man argument" or "Wow, our hero Richard Rahl is certainly a bagful of Summer's Eve." Ayn Rand would come back from the dead and slap Goodkind for some of the crap he pulls in her name (and I'm certainly no fan of Rand) - I mean, there's an argument against pacifism that involves the nature of cheesemaking. It's really all very bizarre, and pretty funny in its way.

However, when Goodkind isn't going on about the principle of life, his writing actually drops in quality, as he feels the need to add tons of exposition to make sure that the reader gets that Rahl is the smartest smarty who ever clevered upon the face of the earth. Example: The first chapter is taken up by our heroes wandering through the desert, panicking because some big black birds are on their trail. Now it's obvious that the birds are following them for a reason, but Goodkind hammers this message home to the reader by describing the birds (they're big, and black - Goodkind is not exactly a master of poetic description), then having Rahl comment on the birds and their possible relationship to falcons, then having everyone else worry about the birds, then finally giving Rahl the last word, in which he reveals that yeah, those birds are big and bad and they are following us!

There's also a lot of rape and torture, which is par for the course in this sort of fantasy novel, as it allows the "good guys" to kill pretty much anyone they like and still come out looking morally decent, as at least they've kept it in their collective pants.

Anyway, Terry Goodkind. Very bad and very long. Avoid.

The lowdown on the Goodkind universe. His sword is powered by rage!

"Amsterdam," Ian McEwan

I fully expected to hate this book, and I'm pretty sure that my not hating it is contingent on reading it after finishing a third-rate thriller. Still, I didn't hate it. In fact, there were several points where I laughed out loud.

Then again, I was reading it not as Great Prize-Winning Literature but as a thriller, or a parody of a thriller. I wonder if the book was written as a piss-take of the format. Or just as a piss-take in general. I mean, come on, who the hell writes something like:

'I can never remember sex,' he said after a pause. 'I'm sure it was brilliant. But I do remember her teaching me all about porcini, picking them, cooking them.'

with totally serious intent? There are also gloriously long passages on how to write a symphony, which must be the museum member's equivalent of those passages in Tom Clancy books about ships and guns, and since it's a McEwan novel of course there's sexual violence. Everything is in this novel, except a realistic description of how anything worked in the existing world, ever. Maybe that's why I liked it.

A few years later McEwan would use the exact same silly bourgeois stereotypes in "Saturday," only now they were bulwarks of Western civilization and also they had magic powers (don't tell me that fending off muggers and robbers with poetry alone isn't magic). Maybe "Saturday" is McEwan's high fantasy novel!